The Columbia Sourcebook of Literary Taiwan 9780231537544

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The Columbia Sourcebook of Literary Taiwan

The Columbia Sourcebook of Literary Taiwan

Edited by Sung-sheng Yvonne Chang Michelle Yeh Ming-ju Fan

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columbia university press new york

Columbia University Press wishes to express its appreciation for assistance given by the Taiwan Ministry of Education in the preparation of this volume. Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York

Chichester, West Sussex

Copyright © 2014 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The Columbia sourcebook of literary Taiwan / edited by Sung-sheng Yvonne Chang, Michelle Yeh, Ming-ju Fan. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-231-16576-1 (cloth : acid-free paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-53754-4 (ebook) 1. Chinese literature—Taiwan—History and criticism—Sources. 2. Literature and society—Taiwan. 3. Chinese literature—20th century—History and criticism. 4. Chinese literature—21st century—History and criticism. I. Chang, Sung-sheng, 1951– II. Yeh, Michelle Mi-Hsi. III. Fan, Ming-ju, 1964– PL3031.T3L5726 2014 895.109'951249—dc23 2013040914 Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. This book is printed on paper with recycled content. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Cover design: Archie Ferguson References to Internet Web sites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction: Literary Taiwan—An East Asian Contextual Perspective

1 part i The Beginnings and Entry Into Modernity Through Colonial Mediation (1728–1948) 37 1. Preface to Volume 1 of Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea (1728) Xia Zhifang

39 2. Preface to Collection of Coral Branches (Eighteenth Century) Zhang Mei

40 3. Preface Number 5 (by the Author) (1816) Zhang Fu

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4. Ars Poetica (Mid-nineteenth Century) Lin Zhanmei

42 5. Elucidating the Meaning of Literature Xie Xueyu

42 6. Congratulations on the Founding of the Taiwan Literary Society Wei Qingde

44 7. On the New Mission to Promote Vernacular Writing Huang Chengcong

45 8. On Reforming Classical Chinese Huang Chaoqin

48 9. A Letter to the Youth of Taiwan Zhang Wojun

50 10. The Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan Zhang Wojun

51 11. On Reading “A Comparison of Old and New Literature” in the Taiwan Daily News Lan Yun

54 12. Diary Liu Na’ou

56 13. Advance Lan Yun

57 14. The Solitary Spirits League and the Anarchist Theater Movement Zhang Qishi

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15. Why Not Promote Nativist Literature? Huang Shihui

63 16. Annotation on Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette Xin An

66 17. A Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing Guo Qiusheng

67 18. On Reforming the Taiwanese Vernacular Huang Chunqing

70 19. The Prospect of Popular Literature Qi

72 20. A Giant Bomb on the Old Poetry Scene Chen Fengyuan

73 21. Elegant Words Lian Yatang

74 22. Absolute Objection to Nativist Literature Written in the Taiwanese Vernacular Lai Minghong

76 23. On Taiwan’s Nativist Literature Wu Kunhuang

79 24. Burning Hair—the Rites of Poetry Shui Yinping

80 25. Writing on the Wall Guo Shuitan

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26. Manifesto Jie Zhou

83 27. Foreword: Understanding Folk Literature Huang Deshi

85 28. Art Belongs to the People Yang Kui

87 29. The Historical Mission of Taiwan Literary Arts Zhang Shenqie

89 30. Miscellaneous Thoughts on Literature—Two Types of Atmosphere Lü Heruo

94 31. Poetry Snippets: On Highbrow Weng Nao

96 32. Preface to Mountain Spirit Hu Feng

97 33. Youth and Taiwan (II): Ideal and Reality of the New Drama Movement Shima Rikuhei

98 34. A Chat with the Governor-General About Discontinuing Chinese Columns in Daily Newspapers Anonymous

103 35. Why Can’t Taiwan’s Art Scene Advance? Old Xu

105 36. Criticism and Guidance Welcomed Mansha

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37. On the Future of Taiwanese Literature Zhang Wenhuan

108 38. The Prospect of Taiwanese Literature Long Yingzong

109 39. The Past, Present, and Future of Taiwanese Literature Shimada Kinji

111 40. On Building a Literary Scene in Taiwan Huang Deshi

117 41. Diary (1942–1944) Lü Heruo

121 42. Responsibility of the Literati on the Island Yu Wen

124 43. Taiwanese Theater in the Current Stage of Development Takita Teiji

126 44. A Conversation on Taiwanese Culture Nakamura Akira and Long Yingzong

129 45. A Commentary on Current Literature Nishikawa Mitsuru

134 46. Kuso Realism and Pseudo-Romanticism Shiwai Min

135 47. An Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai Min Ye Shitao

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48. Good Writing, Bad Writing Wu Xinrong

139 49. In Defense of Kuso Realism Yidong Liang

141 50. The Thorny Road Continues Zhang Wenhuan

143 51. Our Propositions Nagasaki Hiroshi, et al.

144 52. The Path of Bridge—Report on the Second Writers’ Gathering Ge Lei

150 53. Questions and Answers Concerning Taiwanese Literature Yang Kui

156 part ii Wading Through the Cold War Under Martial Law (1949–1987) 159 1. Inaugural Preface to Literary Creation Zhang Daofan

161 2. Declaration Ji Xian

163 3. Inaugural Preface to Military Literature: Establishing a Modernized, Populist, Revolutionary, and Combative National Literature Editors

164 4. Poetry Is Poetry; Song Is Song; We Do Not Say “Poem-Song” Ji Xian

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5. Explicating the Tenets of the Modernist School Ji Xian

167 6. To the Reader Xia Ji’an

169 7. A Critique of Peng Ge’s Setting Moon and a Discussion of the Modern Novel Xia Ji’an

171 8. Newsletter of Literary Friends: Correspondence Between Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe

174 9. Notes from the Editors of Epoch Poetry Quarterly Zhang Mo

178 10. On Symbolist Poetry and Chinese New Poetry: A Rejoinder to Professor Su Xuelin Qin Zihao

179 11. Five Years Later Editors

184 12. To the Poet Ya Xian Shang Qin

185 13. Random Talk on New Poetry No. 4: Whither It Goes? Yan Xi

186 14. Taiwanese Writers Whose Works Burst with Local Color Wang Dingjun

188 15. Notes of a Poet Ya Xian

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16. Introduction to Modern Literature Editors

191 17. One Year of Modern Literature Editors

193 18. Preface to Selected Poems of the 1960s Zhang Mo, Luo Fu, and Ya Xian

195 19. On Yu Guangzhong’s Sirius the Dog Star Luo Fu

198 20. Goodbye, Nihilism! Yu Guangzhong

199 21. Preface to the Japanese Edition of The Orphan of Asia Wu Zhuoliu

202 22. An Open Letter to Guo Lianghui Xie Bingying

204 23. An Announcement from the Chinese Writers Association

206 24. I Do Not Value The Locked Heart and Membership in the Writers Association Guo Lianghui

208 25. Cutting Off the Prose Braids Yu Guangzhong

211 26. Lower the Flag to Half-Mast for May Fourth! Yu Guangzhong

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27. Message from the Editors Lin Hengtai

217 28. Postscript to Carefree Wandering Yu Guangzhong

219 29. Toward a New Departure in Modernism: Thoughts on the Recent Production of Waiting for Godot Chen Yingzhen

220 30. The Girl with Long Black Hair: The Author’s Preface Ouyang Zi

222 31. The Evolution of Modern Poetry in Taiwan Huan Fu

224 32. Epigraph to the Inaugural Issue Chen Fangming

226 33. On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets Guan Jieming

226 34. On the Special Issue of Retrospect Ye Shan

229 35. Not Our Paradise Tang Wenbiao

231 36. Benchmarks in Fiction Criticism: Reading Tang Jisong’s “Autumn Leaves by Ouyang Zi” Bai Xianyong

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37. Qideng Sheng’s “Polio” Style Liu Shaoming

240 38. Take Pains to Read, Take Care to Evaluate Family Catastrophe Yan Yuanshu

242 39. Looking Forward to a New Kind of Literature Yan Yuanshu

247 40. Two Kinds of Spirit in Taiwanese Literature: A Comparison of Yang Kui and Zhong Lihe Lin Zaijue

248 41. Author’s Preface Huang Chunming

253 42. She Is a True Student of China: On Reading Zhang Ailing on Reading Zhu Xining

254 43. Should the Ban on May Fourth and 1930s Writings Be Lifted? Zhu Xining

255 44. Grassroots Manifesto Luo Qing and Li Nan

259 45. The Past Decade of Taiwanese Literature (1965–1975)—with Remarks on Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe Liu Shaoming

262 46. The Pursuit and Disappearance of Utopia Bai Xianyong

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47. Random Thoughts: Author’s Preface Chen Ruoxi

271 48. Starting from the Flaws of Taipei People: On the Method and Practice of Literary Criticism Ouyang Zi

272 49. Looking Back Bai Xianyong

275 50. Preface to Three-Three Journal Zhu Tianwen

279 51. It is Realist Literature, Not Nativist Literature— A Historical Analysis of Nativist Literature Wang Tuo

280 52. Introduction to the History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan Ye Shitao

284 53. The Blind Spot of Nativist Literature Xu Nancun

289 54. Where Is Literature Without Human Nature? Peng Ge

293 55. Xiangtu Wenxue: Its Merits and Demerits Wang Wenxing

297 56. Impressions Gleaned from the Conference on Literary Arts Organized by the Armed Forces: The Bugle of Unity Zeng Xiangduo

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57. Notes on the Publication of Essays on Nativist Literature Yu Tiancong

307 58. Two Types of Literary Mind: On Two Short Stories That Won the United Daily Fiction Contest Zhan Hongzhi

310 59. Ten Years of Flowing River Lin Haiyin

314 60. Foreword to Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay Yang Mu

320 61. Preface to Thirty Eventful Years: The Predicament Facing the Newspaper Literary Supplement in Taiwan at Present and a Way Out Ya Xian

322 62. Looking Back at the Chinese Literary Arts Association Yin Xueman

327 63. Taiwan Consciousness of the Taiwanese People Zhan Hongzhi

329 64. Influence and Response! From Concern, Engagement, and Action to “We Have Only One Earth” Han Han and Ma Yigong

331 65. Footprints, Sort Of: Superfluous Words on the Launch of the Newsletter of Literary Friends Zhong Zhaozheng

333 66. Eternal Quest (in Lieu of a Preface) Wang Zhenhe

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67. The Question of Nativization in Taiwanese Literature at the Present Stage Song Dongyang

343 68. House of Salt—by Way of Introduction Shi Shu

346 69. Flaws and Mercy—Preface to The Mulberry Sea Yuan Qiongqiong

350 70. The Translingual Generation of Poets: Beginning with the Silver Bell Society Lin Hengtai

352 71. Heralding a Taiwanese Dawn: Introducing Lin Shuangbu, Novelist of the New Generation, and Appraising Taiwan’s Enfeebled Fiction Song Zelai

354 72. Sacrificing a Life to Literature Is Nothing to Boast About Zhong Zhaozheng

359 73. A Painful Confession Ye Shitao

362 74. Something Out of Nothing: On Improvisation and Theater Lai Shengchuan

368 part iii The Era of Democracy and Globalization (1987–2005) 375 1. Preface to Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers: Replies to Inquiries Guo Feng

377

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2. Coming Together for a Long Journey Ahead: Celebrating the Birth of the Taipei Theater Fellowship Zhong Mingde

379 3. Preface to Heteroglossia Wang Dewei

381 4. Writing a Literature with a Nationality Peng Ruijin

382 5. Recovering Our Names Monaneng

384 6. Preface to Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers Zhong Zhaozheng

385 7. If the Poets Don’t Die, the Thieves Won’t Quit: The Predicament of Taiwan’s Poetry Scene and How to Resolve It Lin Yaode

388 8. She Waves the Flag: Preface to Ping Lu’s New Collection Who Killed XXX? Zhang Xiguo

391 9. Diary Qiu Miaojin

393 10. Literature of the Military Family Village: The Inheritance and Abandonment of Homesickness Qi Bangyuan

395 11. Discovering a New Taiwan: On Wang Qimei’s Collage Jiao Tong

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12. Inaugural Editorial of the Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly

402 13. The World of Mountains and Seas: Preface to the Inaugural Issue of the Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly Sun Dachuan

403 14. Who Is Going to Wear My Beautiful Knit Dress? Ligelale Awu

404 15. Summer Mist Zhu Tianxin

406 16. Postscript to On the Island’s Edge Chen Li

408 17. On Ku’er: Reflections on Ku’er and Ku’er Literature in Contemporary Taiwan Ji Dawei

409 18. Preface: Just Who Is the Devil with a Chastity Belt? Li Ang

412 19. Wandering in Gods’ Garden (in Lieu of a Preface) Wang Dingjun

414 20. Saving a Boatload of Starlight: The Story of How Mr. Wang Tiwu Gave Financial Assistance to Young Writers Jiang Zhongming

417 21. The Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily Li Ruiteng

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22. Newspaper Literary Supplements and the Nobel Prize in Literature: A Personal Reflection Zheng Shusen

422 23. On Bai Zhang Dachun

425 24. Retrospect on Thirty Years of Taiwan Literary Arts Zhong Zhaozheng

427 25. Foreword II: On Taiwan’s Literary Canon Chen Yizhi

431 26. To the Reader: Preface to the Unitas Edition of Complete Works of Luo Zhicheng Luo Zhicheng

433 27. Broken Chinese and Good Work Huang Jinshu

434 28. Like a Road Sign That Looks Ahead and Behind: Introduction to Compendium of Taiwanese-Language Literature Lin Yangmin

436 29. The Brave New World of the Mother Tongue: Taiwanese-language Literature Under Construction Xiang Yang

440 30. A Flower Recalls Its Previous Incarnation: Remembering Zhang Ailing and Hu Lancheng Zhu Tianwen

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31. The Mysterious Revelations of Nature Writing Wu Mingyi

446 32. Building a Bridge for Taiwanese Literature: Foreword to the Newsletter of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature Lin Ruiming

448 33. A Perspective on Prose Liu Kexiang

450 34. My Story of the Chinese Language—Roaming Li Yongping

450 35. A First Step out of “Migration Literature” Nanfang Shuo

457 36. Hakka Literature, Literary Hakka Li Qiao

460 37. The End of the Military Family Village Su Weizhen

462 38. Interview with Wu He Zhu Tianxin

463 39. Zhang Xiaofeng on Prose Zhang Xiaofeng

473 40. Preface to the New Edition of Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign Luo Yijun

475

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41. Ocean Tide Loves Me Best: A Dialogue Between Sun Dachuan and Xiaman Lanpoan

476 Glossary 483 Selected Bibliography 509 Notes on the Translators 519 Notes on the Authors 527 Index 541

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or scholars and general readers alike, this sourcebook offers, in part or in entirety, more than one hundred sixty historical documents—manifestos, editorials, polemical essays, memoirs, diaries, and interviews—that delineate the trajectory of Taiwan’s literary development from the Qing dynasty to the contemporary period. The wide array of themes, movements, and issues represented herein not only provides a better understanding of Taiwan but also facilitates comparative perspectives with regard to the Sinosphere and other Asian countries, as well as the world as a whole. This multiple-year project was completed with the support and assistance of many institutions and people. Above all, the Ministry of Education (MOE) in Taiwan provided generous funding, for which we are extremely grateful. In particular, we wish to thank Professors Huang Kuanzhong, Chen Fangming, and Chen Dongsheng, as well as the staff of the MOE Advisory Office—Liu Wenhui, Li Peilin, and Chen Jingyao—for their unflagging support and expert advice. We also express our heartfelt appreciation to National Chengchi University (NCCU) for administering the MOE grant, especially to Wu Huiling for her patient guidance throughout. The following young scholars have served as research assistants at various stages of the project: Lü Kunlin, Zhuang Shiyu, and Wang Wanting at the NCCU Graduate Institute of Taiwan Literature; and Professor Peilin Liang at the National University of Singapore and Lorin Lee at the University of Texas, Austin. Their dedication is greatly appreciated.

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For a project of this scope, we have consulted a large number of scholars both in and outside Taiwan. While it is impossible to list them all, we would be remiss if we did not mention the following: Professors Huang Mei’e and Mei Jialing of National Taiwan University, Xu Junya of National Taiwan Normal University, Ying Fenghuang of Taipei Education University, Chen Fangming of NCCU, Liu Naici of National Cheng Kung University, and David Der-wei Wang of Harvard University. Their suggestions and advice were invaluable; any limitations of the sourcebook are the sole responsibility of the editors. Last but not least, our gratitude goes to all the writers (and their families or publishers) for granting us permissions, and to all the translators for their contributions and cooperation.

The Columbia Sourcebook of Literary Taiwan

Introduction Literary Taiwan—An East Asian Contextual Perspective sung-s he ng yvonne chang

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ver the last fifteen years or so, editors of this volume have been approached by colleagues in various disciplines—literature, history, anthropology, and film, cultural, and media studies—seeking background information as they try to incorporate Taiwanese literature into their college-level courses. There are, moreover, unmistakable signs of growing recognition in the field of East Asian studies of the interconnectedness of cultural developments across the region and of important issues that have not been adequately addressed by existing scholarship, which tends to focus on national cultures and, in most cases, specifically on the cultural traditions of the more powerful political entities, such as China and Japan. This sourcebook has been compiled largely in order to meet these emerging pedagogical needs and new research imperatives in Englishspeaking academia. This introduction aims to present some preliminary observations on the prominent features of Taiwan’s literary history that, in my view, can benefit as well as profit from studies from a comparative perspective of cultural processes in modern East Asia. Different parts of East Asia first encountered modernity under pressure from Western imperial powers via similar trajectories, and the ways in which Western cultural categories simultaneously served as models for emulation as well as targets of denouncement in these societies also resonate strongly with one another. Moreover, specific cultural influences from the West were often routed from one place to another. For instance, as a result of its successful

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westernization efforts in the Meiji period (1868–1912), Japan has long served as an intermediary for the transmission and ramifications of Western ideas and trends throughout the region. Although intraregional cultural exchanges were weakened considerably during the Cold War, they have regained vitality with a vengeance since, as evidenced by the exponential growth of cultural crosscurrents in different parts of East Asia in recent years. It is therefore high time to explore the multiple variants of literary trajectories within the East Asian region that share certain common elements and are bound to be mutually illuminative. Because an individual society’s selection or rejection, assimilation or denouncement, and transplantation or transcendence of particular strands of the Western-originated “institution of modern literature” are always complexly circumscribed by locally present historical factors, the construction of elaborate taxonomies of these trajectories is an important first step toward a more thorough understanding of modern East Asian cultural processes and the exact nature of the “repetitions and differences” found therein. Taiwan’s research value lies precisely in its tremendous potential for enriching the scope and enhancing the sophistication of this critical paradigm. Whereas Taiwan shares with other East Asian societies most macrolevel historical contexts, as a site of geopolitical strategic interests in the region it has undergone multiple changes in political sovereignty and has been extensively exposed to multiple intersecting cultural orbs since the dawn of modern East Asia. Its convoluted literary history is therefore a product of the clashes and convergences of diverse cultural matrixes and contains elements that either mirror and magnify or confound and contradict common patterns found elsewhere in the region. The tripartite division of this sourcebook corresponds roughly to Taiwan’s three historical eras of conflicting political and cultural identities: the Japanese colonial period (1895–1945) and the immediate postwar years (1945–1949);1 the martial law period under the Chinese Nationalist regime (1949–1987); and the contemporary period, during which a two-party democracy has been consolidated since the lifting of martial law in 1987. The first section of this introduction on historical trajectories provides a cursory sketch of Taiwan’s truncated modern history for the benefit of readers unfamiliar with this background. The remaining sections identify four scenarios in which courses of cultural development in Taiwan simultaneously exemplify a general regional pattern and deviate from it, hence revealing some hidden dimensions of the issues at stake. These scenarios are as follows: (1) the coping strategies adopted by those who participate in literature under authoritarian regimes of different generic characters; (2) the special types of public spheres that developed around literary debates, which are closely tied to the literary media’s shifting role from “public forum” to a component of the culture industry; (3) the vernacular movement that marked a common struggle within the East Asian Sinosphere upon its entrance into modernity; and (4) the Cold War divide along the ideological lines of leftist–socialist versus liberal–bourgeois.

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In terms of theoretical framework, discussions here are primarily concerned with the agents, vehicles, routes, and mechanisms by which literary norms and assumptions are transmitted rather than with the unraveling of the nuanced details of asymmetric power relations and political maneuvers that attended the East–West modern cultural encounter, which tends to be a central focus of earlier postcolonial studies. One must also keep in mind that the materials collected in the sourcebook are primary documentations of public and private literary discourses. As such, they are not blessed with the benefit of hindsight and often bear the imprint of either externally imposed or unwittingly internalized ideological constraints. Aside from serving as testimonials to the shaping power of contextual elements, they should also be read as evidence of the innocent desires and arduous endeavors that Taiwanese authors and publishers embraced and assimilated with the aesthetic resources they were able to access at any given point in time, which constituted a supreme value valorized by circumstantial forces. Admittedly, productive circumstances in modern Taiwan’s literary history were often by-products of violent and unjust political arrangements: old and neocolonialisms; Japanese, American, and Chinese imperialist projects; emergency or expedient programs in support of hot or cold wars; government policies in capitulation to neoliberalist globalization and geopolitical power alignments; and so forth. Readers of the sourcebook can easily infer the erased historical “downside” of the hailed cultural hybridity, which is ofttimes the outcome of complicit measures dictated by the ruling class’s interest in domination. At the same time, the genuine feelings and admirable commitment threading through the majority of personal writings in this volume ought to be taken seriously as a reminder of the inadequacy of either the singularly stigmatizing or uncritically celebratory views that many scholars adopt in accordance with their own cognitive mappings.

HISTORICAL TRAJECTORY This section contains a broad-strokes sketch of the historical journey the society of Taiwan has taken from colonial rule, to authoritarian governance, to today’s electoral democracy. It may not be an exaggeration to say that struggles over the definition of “Chinese” are the crux of all cultural reorientations taking place during era transitions in modern Taiwan. Ethnically speaking, the majority of Taiwan’s population is Han Chinese and has been so ever since settlers from the southeastern coastal provinces of the Chinese mainland began to arrive on the island in large waves in the seventeenth century. In the last 120 or so years, the Chinese identity has been alternately suppressed (by Japanese colonizers), resurrected (by the Nationalist government), and problematized and contested from time to time. In the post–martial law period, however, the residents’ self-identification as “Taiwanese”—either exclusively or as part of

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a multiple identity—has grown steadily; now that the government no longer monopolizes historical narratives, new circumstances, to be discussed shortly, compel a continual process of reinventing the Taiwanese identity in fresh and creative ways.

“Becoming J apanese” Historic circumstances and hegemonic cultural practices in the Japanese colonial period have left indelible marks on the identity issue. Before Taiwan was ceded to Japan by the Qing court in 1895, the cultural life of the majority of the island’s elite and folk sectors did not differ significantly from that of the Chinese living in southern Fujian across the strait. This was altered by the incremental assimilation endeavors by the Japanese colonial government in the ensuing fifty years. Popular education was established around 1918–1919 as an important step toward modernizing Taiwan. Although Japanese and Taiwanese students were segregated, Japanese was the primary language of instruction in both elementary school systems. At the same time, the traditional-style tutorial classes (sishu or shufang), the prime vehicle for the early learning experiences of gentry-class Han Chinese offspring, gradually disappeared. Print media was mostly bilingual in the early colonial period, but that came to an end in 1937 when Chinese language columns in newspapers were officially banned (see reading 34 in part I; subsequent references to reading numbers will be by part and number, in this case, I34). Nevertheless, throughout the colonial period, older members of the literati continued to compose poems in classical Chinese, and traditional-style poetry societies mushroomed. The fact that colonial Taiwan boasted the highest number per capita of shishe (poetry societies) compared with regions in mainland China is often cited to demonstrate how various civilian organizations functioned as an outlet for indigenous cultural sentiment as well as passive resistance to the colonial rule.2 Coming to realize the futility of armed resistance that sporadically marked the first phase of Japanese colonialism, the intelligentsia formed the Taiwan Culture Association in 1921 as a channel for enlightening the masses and negotiating with the colonial regime for greater autonomy. The modern literature movement that began in the mid-1920s, following the debate on “New and Old Literature,” was among the most far-reaching enterprises launched by this organization. Participants in the literary movement comprised a generation of Taiwanese intellectuals who had acquired a classical Chinese education during their childhood and whose motivations in promoting vernacular literature closely echoed those of the May Fourth advocates on mainland China: to modernize and rejuvenate the society of Taiwan through facilitating mass literacy and revolutionizing the obsolete and corrupt feudalist cultural orders. Toward the end of the decade, however, the association was beleaguered by friction and

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strife between its liberal and left-wing members. This eventually resulted in a split shortly before the colonial government cracked down on Communists in 1931, although the leftist intellectual ferment persisted as a potent impetus behind literary activities throughout the prewar period—like everywhere else in East Asia.3 In the 1930s Taiwan saw a marked improvement in social stability, modernized material conditions, and a transformed urban landscape. In the meantime, as Japan-educated Taiwanese elites assumed leadership positions, society as a whole became more deeply entrenched in the Japanese cultural sphere. The relative rise and decline of the value of Japanese and Chinese cultural capitals became saliently visible in this decade. Latent tension between the colonizer and the colonized, however, eventually surfaced with a vengeance in the early 1940s under strained wartime conditions. Coercive mobilization of Taiwanese writers was exacerbated by Japan’s intensifying war efforts. The kominka campaign, purporting to “transform Taiwanese into the imperial subjects,” lured converts with material and symbolic incentives. Propaganda rhetoric justified the enlistment of “volunteer soldiers” to fight in the South Pacific front lines as granting the Taiwanese a privilege to pay “blood-tax.” Sourcebook entries from these few years conjure up a complex picture that epitomizes the colonial literary field at its most dissonant moment. It is noteworthy that, by this time, the most active Taiwanese writers were from the age cohort born around 1905–1915 and had received formal education entirely within the colonial system. Many had studied in Japan, and even those who did not go abroad were likewise nourished by aesthetic resources made available locally by the colonizers. Several Japanese literary men, such as Shimada Kinji (I39), Nishikawa Mitsuru (I45), Takita Teiji (I43), and Kudo Yoshimi (I30), assumed prominent roles in the literary scene, whereas the first generation of Taiwan-born Japanese (wansheng) also came of age. Despite the fact that all groups publicly celebrated the Japanese war effort and endorsed the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere vision with highly eulogistic rhetoric, subtle differences between the colonizers and the colonized were discernible. The debate on “kuso realism” (I45–I47, I49), in which two literary magazines Literary Taiwan and Taiwan Literature—the former dominated by Japanese and the latter by Taiwanese—bitterly confronted each other, represented an eruption of hidden rancor. Ostensibly prompted by differences in aesthetic judgments, this internecine dispute nonetheless pointed to a host of complex issues within the colonial order, in particular the ingrained discrimination compounded by divergent self-positioning along racial, generational, and ideological lines.

“C hinese Rebor n ” A dramatic reversal in government-ordained national identification came after the end of World War II, when Taiwan was retroceded to the Republic of

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China (ROC) by Japan. In its effort to re-sinicize Taiwan’s residents, the ROC’s Nationalist regime condemned the Japanese colonizer for “turning Taiwanese into slaves” and sweepingly stigmatized all cultural remnants from the colonial period. Initially, Taiwanese intellectuals, cognizant of their own Chinese ancestry, were willing to comply, as evidenced by the transcripts of a roundtable organized in 1948 by Bridge, a cultural supplement of the New Life Daily (I52), and the essay by the leading writer-critic Yang Kui (I53). Yet in the end, the prospect of a genuinely coauthored cultural reorientation, which for a brief moment seemed almost within reach, failed to materialize. A well-known reason was the deep acrimony left behind by the February 28 Incident that took place a year before the roundtable. Yet perhaps more significantly, in 1949, just a couple of years later, the sudden, unforeseen mass retreat of two million people—one-third of Taiwan’s local population at the time—from mainland China to the island following the Nationalists’ defeat in the civil war with the Communists abruptly ushered Taiwan into a set of new sociopolitical cultural orders. Taiwan’s post-1949 era featured a peculiar form of minority rule, with the top echelon of the Nationalist governing body principally composed of waishengren, the mainland émigrés who followed Chiang Kai-shek to Taiwan around 1949. The ratio of waishengren to the native Taiwanese (benshengren), comprising earlier Han settlers and a small percentage of aborigines, was on average about one to four over the next few decades. The uneven distribution of political power and cultural resources between the two population groups was backed by the Nationalists’ authoritarian regime during the prolonged martial law period (1948–1987). Moreover, friction rose as a result of differences in lifestyle, dialect, regional custom, and, above all else, personal historical memories. This last factor is best illustrated by the conspicuous disparity in the two groups’ attitudes toward the Japanese: for the mainland émigrés, the Japanese were erstwhile invaders who had committed horrendous war crimes against their country and people; the sentiments of the Taiwanese toward their former colonizers, however, were far more ambivalent—some even favored the era of Japanese rule over the present situation, in which they felt they were treated like second-class citizens by those of the same race. Several other factors during this era transition were instrumental in effecting drastic changes in Taiwan’s cultural arena. One that has caught the widest attention from scholars is the replacement in 1948 of Japanese with Mandarin Chinese as the official language, which resulted in a collective exodus of middleaged Taiwanese writers from the literary field. Even more far-reaching was the Nationalist government’s conscious transplantation to Taiwan of cultural institutions and symbolic systems from its reign on the Chinese mainland during the Republican era (1911–1949), an act that clearly served the regime’s interest of domination and nearly wiped out all traces of Taiwan’s colonial past in mainstream cultural representations.

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In the late 1950s and early 1960s, in a relatively liberal intellectual climate and as a result of avid assimilation of Western (chiefly American) influences, a new cultural identity began to emerge that was closely associated with the modernist vogue in the creative practices. Granted, this generation of Taiwanese writers by and large situated their own literary enterprise within the Chinese New Literature tradition, yet they were clearly embarking on a path with distinctive traits of its own. A more self-conscious advocacy for a Taiwan-based identity arose in the 1970s, following the ROC’s withdrawal from the United Nations in 1971 and amid the vibrant counterhegemonic nativist literary movement, which was intermingled with a heavy dose of a socialistic agenda that criticized the social ills arising from Taiwan’s rapid course of modernization.4 Attention also must be paid to a demographic change—participants in the modernist and nativist movements alike included both waisheng and bensheng writers who had received a complete formal education under the Nationalists, which suggested a possible coauthorship of cultural production and reproduction in Taiwan in the years to come. Because Chinese nationalism remained officially sanctioned and firmly embedded in the cultural infrastructures, nativist assertions in the 1970s and early 1980s coexisted alongside the government-endorsed Sinocentric agenda, with glaring ambiguities and downright contradictions in public discourse. It was not until the late 1980s, when an ascending Taiwanese nationalism evoked the cultural memory of pre-1949 Taiwan, that Sinocentrism was seriously and extensively challenged in conjunction with efforts to reverse the cultural hierarchy that the Nationalists had imposed.5 In retrospect, Sinocentrism served not only to guard the Nationalist regime’s domestic domination, it was also a by-product of the early part of the Cold War, when most of the world recognized the ROC’s now defunct position as “the sole legitimate government of the entire ‘China.’” Although the international community gradually discarded this preposterous position, the lingering effects of Sinocentrism contributed to an oddly bifurcated Taiwanese cultural arena in the next decade and a half leading to the lifting of martial law. On the one hand, overall sociopolitical liberalization and the rising middle class nourished a thriving mainstream culture and maintained its basic commitment to Sinocentric cultural assumptions, as evidenced by the institution of fukan (literary supplements to newspapers). On the other hand, the surge of localist narratives went hand-in-hand with the growth of Taiwanese nationalism and oppositional political forces, which culminated in the founding of the home-grown Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) in 1986. Shortly after the watershed event of the lifting of martial law in 1987, latent discordance in the cultural field under the authoritarian Nationalist rule quickly surfaced as acrimonious confrontation in the public sphere. The enabling condition, to be sure, was Taiwan’s maturing democracy and, in particular, the liberalized media and increasing freedom of speech.

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I dentit y as a S ite of Rein v en tion The lifting of the four-decades-long martial law certainly had momentous implications, as Taiwan was transformed almost overnight into an “open society.” In particular, the removal of stringent information control, the freedom to travel abroad, and the resumption of communication with mainland China resulted in a sharpened awareness of the fact that the world at large recognized only citizens of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) as “authentic” Chinese.6 This discovery gave rise to faith-shaking reexaminations of the sacrosanct self-identification that the Nationalist government had instilled in its people. A large part of the 1990s was consumed by the relentless struggle between the Sinocentric narrative tied to the founding ideology of the Nationalist Party, with its roots traceable back to the 1911 Republican Revolution on the Chinese mainland, and its localist challenger, the DPP, which espoused a Taiwanese cultural nationalism resurrected from the Japanese colonial period. This historically grounded split in identity continues to plague Taiwan’s sociopolitical order to this day.7 However, what we have seen in the documentation in this sourcebook is a picture that is a great deal more nuanced and complex than a simple confrontation between Sinocentrism and localism (or Taiwanese nationalism). The majority of the entries represent serious attempts at rewriting the monolithic Sinocentric narrative, clearly motivated by desires to ease the tension of social schism and ultimately to reinvigorate the crumbling affective economy that had bred and sustained many of the dominant values during Taiwan’s lengthy martial law period.8 Memoirs of veteran Taiwanese writers on how localist literature was repressed during the White Terror period carry a conciliatory overtone, with the intent of transcending history-inflicted personal wounds (II65, II72, II73, III6, III10). Essays on various subcultures—juancun or military housing compounds (III10, III37), aboriginal (III5, III13, III14, III41), Hakka (III36), and queer (III9, III17)—that assert the pluralistic nature of Taiwan’s social fabric are clearly conceived with a constructive spirit. Particularly noteworthy in Taiwan’s newly democratized, economically affluent, nonauthoritarian society is that writers were quick to assimilate various globally circulating intellectual discourses in reprogramming Taiwan’s existing dominant culture. Radical postmodern culturalism, feminism and sexual liberation, minority rights and gay and lesbian discourses, indigenous revivalism, and environmentalist conservationism (III31, III33) have served as new anchors of meaning and brought literary projects into closer connection with other types of grassroots activism in the society at large.9 While perennially subjected to co-optation by and assimilation into new forms of dominant culture, such progressive ethos—well adapted to Taiwan’s indigenous locale—provides a basis for healthy resistance to the various forms of repressive relationships of domination ubiquitous in an advanced capitalist society. In particular, such ethos serves as a positive counterforce to mainstream

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intellectuals’ dystopian mood and feelings of impotence in a society in which a sensation-driven and poorly disciplined media often unabashedly puts itself at the service of brash commercialism and vociferous partisanship. Overall, pluralism is a notion that has served positive purposes at a time when Taiwanese society is moving away from the conservative dominant culture of the previous era and has opened up multiple possibilities for more creative and flexible identity construction. Sociopolitical realities of the new millennium, including the flagrant exploitation of personal identifications in election campaigns, have further reinforced the perception that the so-called rentong (identity or identification) is fundamentally fluid and multifarious and morphs as circumstances change. Practically speaking, whether or not one embraces a “Chinese” identity has no relation to one’s citizenship, and even those who reject it cannot deny their ethnic and cultural heritages. Precisely because the divisive “ethnic conflicts” in Taiwan are the result of historical rather than racial or religious differences, marks of ethnic distinctions are steadily fading as time passes. Today, for Taiwan’s largely local-born population, identification with Taiwan—especially in a nonexclusive sense—has virtually become a matter of fact rather than a choice. Undoubtedly, DPP governance in 2000–2008 further undermined the powerful Sinocentric core of Taiwan’s dominant culture, but the closer ties—economic and otherwise—with Chinese on the mainland have provided an even stronger impetus for Taiwanese intellectuals’ continual investment of energies in identity construction. As hundreds of thousands of Taiwanese are now longterm sojourners on the mainland and as mainland Chinese tourists crowd the island’s scenic sites on a daily basis, the psychological distance between Taiwan and China has paradoxically increased. Contemporary residents of Taiwan find the structure of feelings harbored by the PRC citizens—with the ideological remnants of the socialist era, holdovers from (or revival of) Mao worship, and memories of the founding of the Communist regime—incommensurable with their own formative experience. Moreover, despite—or perhaps because of—their close interconnectedness, the basic political and economic interests of the mainland and Taiwan are divergent and even contradictory, and it is naturally difficult for residents of the two places to empathize with the other side’s compelling social problems. It may not be far-fetched to say that the PRC’s profoundly alien history, more than its military threats and territorial claims, have contributed to the shaping of the direction of Taiwan’s dynamic identity quest. One official version of the quest is the adoption of the terms huaren (person of Chinese descent) and huayu (language of the Chinese)—the latter a term that has been nicely merging with the “Sinophone” discourse in American academia—by the Taiwan government, which has the advantage of confirming the Chinese identity yet simultaneously differentiating it from that of the PRC. However, the fluid nature of Taiwanese identity could certainly stimulate one’s imagination in more unorthodox ways. A proposed conference theme for the 2012 convention of the North American Association of Taiwan Studies, a

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U.S.-based graduate student organization, features Taiwan as a “node, gateway, and liminal space.” Capitalizing on Taiwan’s pivotal role in the global circuits of commodities, technologies, and ideas, this theme captures one’s attention, because it situates Taiwan within a geocultural space that both is separate from and encompasses China. Resonating with newly emerging modes of positive self-particularization within Taiwan, such a theme assures us that identity as a site of dynamic reinvention continues to be a source of attraction as well as productive of cultural energies for younger generations of Taiwanese intellectuals.

CONSEQUENCES OF “COMPRESSED MODERNITY”: C U LT U R A L D Y N A M I C S O F T H E E A S T A S I A N AU T H O R I TA R I A N R E G I M E In recent years, a number of scholars have observed the generally positive impact of Taiwan’s cultural hybridization, brilliantly showcased in the diverse topoi and rich textures of the products of its dynamic creative industry, making the island nation a visible node in the global and intraregional circulations of images and symbolic goods in the new millennium. Viewed from a different angle, however, cultural hybridization more often than not takes place involuntarily, under government coercion and within the framework of asymmetric relations among real and symbolic powers. In particular, consecutive era transitions taking place within a brief span of time tend to intensify and further complicate this process—a phenomenon patently evidenced in public and private literary discourses documented in this sourcebook. With each new era, a different set of historical narratives, symbolic systems, and institutional structures are introduced. Whether forcibly imposed or not, the new cultural order often exhibits a hegemonic character, is supported by the all-encompassing and deeply penetrating state apparatus, and implies an explicit or implicit rejection of key elements from the dominant culture of the previous era. Most crucial to our concerns is that such abrupt transitions inevitably cut short and redirect cultural processes on an extensive scale. In some particular sense, the tortuous political history of modern Taiwan, characterized by drastic cultural reorientations following each era transition, throws into sharp relief a dismal truth about the “compressed modernity” of East Asia as a whole: the ubiquitous phenomenon of frequent ruptures in the evolutionary cycle of literary institutions necessarily carries negative implications. Consider the radical disruptions encountered by East Asian literary systems across the region in the mid-twentieth century. With the founding of Communist regimes, entire cultural fields on the Chinese mainland and in North Korea were forcibly restructured into a state-monitored socialist system featuring emphatically different aesthetic assumptions, evaluative criteria, and productive and distributive apparatuses from the preceding era. The East Asian societies

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that maintained the capitalist bourgeois mode of cultural production—Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, and Hong Kong—also experienced profound changes, as all had barely emerged from wartime upheavals before finding themselves inexorably engulfed in Cold War political and ideological maneuvers. Granted, the years following World War II were a time when sea changes took place in cultural arenas everywhere across the globe, but the situation in East Asia was compounded by the effects of the region’s ongoing and compressed modernization process after the Western model. Rather than dwell on relations between the fundamentally incommensurable indigenous and alien literary traditions, this introduction foregrounds the fact that structural-level ruptures and atrophied evolutionary cycles have constituted a shared basic condition for the evolution of literature as an institution in East Asia since the region’s initial encounter with the modern West a century earlier. Such disruptions are caused by historical factors that vary from one society to another, and they also do not occur with the same frequency or degree of severity. Therefore, the extent to which people who participate in literature in a particular society manage within the limits of their circumstances to contain and overcome the negative consequences of historical caprices and to retain and maximize the benefits ironically bestowed on them becomes crucially relevant in any evaluation of their accomplishments. Gauged by this yardstick, writers and artists from modern Taiwan have done exceptionally well. However, beyond simply acknowledging their laudable achievements, the editors of this sourcebook are also interested in better understanding the generalizable elements of Taiwan’s specific circumstances—the conditions under which cultural activities withered or flourished and writers and artists kept silent or charged forth.

I n te l le c tual Par adig ms for Under sta nding th e Pa st The ending of martial law marked a momentous turning point in Taiwan’s recent history, as it officially removed many constraints that stood in the way of Taiwan’s march toward an open society. A collective identity reinvention ensued, which above all involves the coming to terms with the community’s historical past. Literary scholars, as brokers of symbolic capital, have played critical roles in this process, as they were instrumental in articulating and re-interpreting the relevance of Taiwanese literary history to contemporary sociopolitical struggles. Given the many divisive historical factors that had separated the two main population groups, the cultural field in the immediate post–martial law era was simultaneously energized and relentlessly factionalized. As a matter of course, the Taiwancentered imperative prevailed for the majority of Taiwan residents, and by the turn of the twenty-first century, the study of “Taiwanese literature,” a category formerly held suspect by the government for its alleged separatist implications, was finally admitted into academia. Since then, ideological affiliations have been increasingly

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subjected to professional discipline and containment, and the last decade has seen robust growth in the newly institutionalized scholarly field. Viewed from the standpoint of the scholarly disciplines, Taiwanese literary studies, as a late starter, enjoys certain unique benefits, which include a relatively professionalized academic environment and a vibrant intellectual climate that values theoretical sophistication. Comparative literature and cultural studies, in particular, have supplied this burgeoning field with critical conceptions and interpretive frames, as well as up-to-date academic lingo. Overall, these are positive influences, as they drive scholars in this young field—the majority of whom were trained in Taiwan’s highly conventional Chinese literature departments—to venture beyond the time-honored empiricist tradition. However, to effectively adapt the critical insights imported from the First World to studies of Taiwan literature is no easy task. Less seasoned scholars often find their subjects of inquiry being prescribed for them and the very courses of argument unwittingly shaped by preconceived value judgments. A good case in point is the immense popularity among Taiwanese literary scholars of the postcolonial–postmodernist theoretical formulations, which often bear traces of the specific historical experiences of countries formerly colonized by the West that are incongruous to Taiwan’s historical reality. For instance, in his new book, Taipei: City of Displacements, Joseph Allen insightfully points out that “‘raciality’ during Japanese colonialism in Taiwan was used in ways quite different from its use by European colonialists”—the latter is famously depicted in Homi Bhabha’s essay “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,” for which skin color functions as a key index10—whereas “Japan claimed affinity with, as well as difference from, the colonized people.”11 One may argue that an even more crucial distinguishing factor is the particular temporal frame in which East Asia came to experience the modern, including the modern form of colonialism. With the term “contra-modernity,” Bhabha argues that the regions colonized by Western imperial powers in fact constituted the “underside” of European modernity because of the role they played during the historical period of these Western powers’ advancement to modernity through the Enlightenment ideology.12 By the mid-nineteenth century, when East Asia “belatedly” entered modernity, however, the world map had already been drawn and its territories parceled out to competing Western imperial powers. The East Asian countries’ attempts to join the game through emulation of existing models—Japan modeling itself after Germany’s militarist state and Western imperialism in general, China’s adoption of Communism as inspired by the Bolshevik revolution in Russia, and the various fascist/ Leninist authoritarian regimes that followed the wars and revolutions of the mid-twentieth century—were in a sense reactionary and ultimately short-lived failures. Before seriously taking on any version of “alternative” modernity with self-assertive undertones, it seems advisable to first come to terms with modern East Asia’s contested membership in the community of the “modernized” by

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noting the manifest symptoms in the region’s cultural processes that directly reflect thwarted endeavors at establishing modern institutions—political, economic, legal, and cultural—within a compressed timetable. This sourcebook facilitates the use of modern Taiwan as a case study to discuss a phenomenon commonly found in the “abridged” modern experiences of the East Asian region. That is, under various brands of authoritarian government in twentieth-century East Asia, literary agents’ (broadly defined) tension-ridden and ambivalent relationships with hegemonic cultural formations coercively enforced by state apparatuses are sometimes paradoxically productive. Such special types of cultural dynamics generated in the politically subjugated fields in the region deserve closer, more nuanced, and differentiated analysis.

Under the Watchful Eyes of th e State: To Sur vive Is to Th r i v e Drastic cultural reorientations with the advent of each new era in Taiwan in the last century were often accompanied by pervasive symbolic violence, as they inevitably impinged on people’s internalized values, belief systems, and social imaginaries, all of which were rooted in the dominant culture of the previous era. As a rule of thumb, dissenting voices may not be adequately preserved in written records, as they are subject to different forms of suppression—not least those based on prudence and self-censorship. Recent scholarship in our field on topics of “history, memory, and trauma” finds excellent materials for case studies from Taiwan’s modern literature, especially those related to the February 28 Incident in 1947 and the White Terror of the 1950s (Braester 2003; Berry 2008; Lin 2007). However, published literary discourses from the periods of tumultuous transition—such as those collected in this sourcebook—provide a very different kind of record, as they tend to be discourses in compliance with the official narrative, at least in an ostensible sense. These documentations are valuable in that they bear witness to the complex workings of hegemony in the East Asian context, typically marked by a mixture of “consensus” and “coercion.” Two examples from the early martial law period serve as excellent illustrations. The first is an informal literary newsletter, Newsletters of Literary Friends (II8, II65), founded in 1957 by Zhong Zhaozheng with six other aspiring Taiwanese writers. Born in the Japanese colonial period and faced with definitive disadvantages in the mainlander-dominated literary field of the early martial law period, these writers conceived a pragmatic objective: to practice writing in Mandarin Chinese in order to enhance their chance of being accepted in mainstream literary media. The second case is Wu Zhuoliu, a veteran fiction writer and journalist from the colonial period, who launched the literary journal Taiwan Literary Arts in 1964 with donations and his own pension (II72, III24). The journal functioned as a publishing organ for marginalized

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localist literary writings long before localism became the dominant trend. Both were landmarks in the early evolution of the sociopolitically constituted localist artistic position in contemporary Taiwan’s literary field. At the time, Zhong and Wu decidedly opted to play the game by its rules, and their self-identification as Han Chinese contributed to their positive responses to interpellations, a la Althusser, from the Sinocentric dominant culture. For most of his career, Zhong functioned as a mediator between the Nationalist literary bureaucrats and the localist-minded Taiwanese writers. Wu’s hidden discontent and real motives were only made known a decade after his death, through the posthumous publication of his memoir Taiwan Forsythia (II72, III24).13 Resilience and compliance are undoubtedly the most common survival strategies under authoritarian governments’ arbitrary—and often unfair— distribution of resources in the cultural realm. In the main, the value of cultural capital is contingent upon the government-endorsed symbolic system that patently serves its interest of domination. Mainlanders in the early martial law period naturally fared better than Zhong and Wu. Nonetheless, everyone was subjected to overt and covert forms of coercion via surveillance by bureaucratic institutions and hegemonic cultural controls and needed to be constantly vigilant and observant of the parameters set by the authorities. Ultimately, to remain active participants in the cultural field, one important psychological mechanism was to selectively identify with elements in the dominant culture, albeit with varying degrees of self-persuasion and disguise.14 In the last two decades, a number of scholarly attempts have gone beyond the repression–resistance model to probe the particular cultural mechanisms at work in modern East Asian societies during periods of control by authoritarian regimes and times of upheaval. Examples include studies on the following: the “permissible scope” that writers internalized in socialist China (Perry Link); the conservative, conformist, and neotraditionalist dominant culture in postwar Taiwan and Japan (Sung-sheng Y. Chang; Margaret Hillenbrand); the centrality of mass mobilization in the literary culture of the early Mao period and the Cultural Revolution (Charles Laughlin; Cai Xiang; Ban Wang); the collectivist paradigm and paramilitary mobilization of writers developed during the War of Resistance, whose legacy was shown in the “literature of assent” in the PRC (Charles Laughlin); and the aesthetics of fascism in Japan (Alan Tansman). Different segments of modern Taiwan’s literary history provide a wealth of materials for comparative studies in this type of research. One may, however, continue to question why literary accomplishments in modern Taiwan have excelled in artistic quality under prolonged coercive hegemony. A significant contributing factor may be the ready accessibility of aesthetic resources from different origins within an intellectual climate conducive to quests in high-culture art. Ironically, this often went hand in hand with undesirable historical circumstances. Despite the oppressive colonial rule and its hypocritical concealments of unjust power relations, Tokyo served as a conduit for Taiwanese writers to access modernistic

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aesthetics, especially naturalism, French symbolism, and surrealism popular among Japanese writers in the early twentieth century. And despite the Nationalists’ forcibly imposed Sinocentric ideology and the White Terror during the early Cold War period, the traditionalist educational focus on classical Chinese heritage and American propaganda vehicles such as the U.S. Informational Service played a crucial role in nourishing literary talents from Taiwan’s postwar generation. Discussion of the deeper implications of this paradoxical phenomenon will be resumed in the last section of this introduction.

LITERARY MEDIA: FROM PUBLIC FORUM T O V E H I C L E F O R G L O B A L C O M M E R C I A L I Z AT I O N As new types of public spheres are emerging via various social networking platforms on the Internet, it is high time to look back at the shifting relationships among literature, literary discourse, and the public sphere prior to the arrival of the digital age. Even a cursory look assures us of the extraordinary prominence that lunzhan (debate) occupies in our sourcebook selections. The majority of these debates are much more than polemics over aesthetic matters that only concern writers and critics; they are also indicators of momentous sociopolitical trends and serve as vital engines steering the course of cultural developments in new directions. Indeed, the great prevalence and high visibility of literary debates serving as public forums are quite notable in the history of modern East Asia. This phenomenon can be partially explained by certain shared epochal imperatives that accentuated literature’s civilizational mission. Accelerated economic development and globalization, however, have created drastic changes in the perceptions and practices of legitimate cultures in the region since the late twentieth century. Further shifting of the literary media from public forum to a vehicle for global commercialization and corporatization is no doubt merely part of the big picture.

L i ter ary Debat es and t he Public Sph er e This sourcebook documents a wide range of debates, and all would be familiar items on an East Asian lunzhan template—if such a template were ever to be constructed. During the Japanese period, three interrelated debates in the mid1920s through the mid-1930s —the “New and Old Literature” debate (I9, I10, I11, I20), the (first) nativist literature debate (I15, I22, I23), and the Taiwanese vernacular-script debate (I17, I18, I22)—were variants of the vernacular movement that marked the entrance into modernity for all East Asian societies in the Sinosphere, or—as some scholars are calling it—the Chinese-character (hanzi, kangji) cultural sphere. What motivated this language reform, of course, was the urgency in modernizing a society that was still steeped in the feudalist order.

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The 1943 debate on kuso realism (I45–I47, I49) between a Japanese-dominated and a Taiwanese-dominated literary magazine, then, was driven by classic issues found in all societies in which discriminatory practices and two-tier citizenship are formally institutionalized. The first significant debate in Taiwan’s post-1949 era, the “Chinese versus Western Cultural Debate” that broke out in the Literary Star in 1961–1962, was one more instance of the chronically recurring East versus West public polemics and ought to be considered alongside the Chinese May Fourth movement, the Japanese wartime and postwar debates on how to “Overcome the Modern,” and the PRC’s phenomenon of culture fever/cultural reflection in the 1980s.15 The 1963 diatribe against the female writer Guo Lianghui for the allegedly “immoral-pornographic” depictions in her novel Locked Heart and Guo’s subsequent expulsion from the Chinese Writers’ Association exemplified the close partnership between conservative ideologies and the challenges that the dominant culture faced from rising popular culture (II22–II24).16 Ample space in this sourcebook is devoted to the (second) nativist literary movement of the 1970s, whose counterhegemonic character made it a landmark in the history of Taiwan’s democratization. At the same time, the movement’s criticism of social inequality incurred during Taiwan’s rapid economic development and the nativist camp’s harsh condemnation of Western-inspired modernist literature are fraught with echoes of prewar left versus right contentions, posing such timeworn questions as how to treat the West in one’s own course of modernization—as a model for emulation or as a source of imperialist invasion and thereby an object of resistance—and which paradigm of modernity—socialist or capitalist—one should follow. The more recent literary debates that occurred in the post–martial law period may be appropriately seen as offshoots of the overriding social ferment of contemporary Taiwan: the battles between competing Chinese and Taiwanese nationalisms.17 However, as important as these literary debates were, it is nonetheless clear that they were subordinate and contributing to, rather than spearheading, cultural changes, given the conspicuous surge and proliferation of other types of public forums in the rapidly democratizing society. The sheer quantity and variety of debates that have punctuated modern Taiwan’s literary history and borne cross-references to events elsewhere in the region make them excellent material for the study of East Asian literary public sphere prototypes, a project that is obviously immensely complex and challenging. It is, of course, not necessarily the opinions expressed in the debates that matter most; rather, it is the problems that generate the debates—of which they are “symptoms”—that deserve to be the focus of our attention.18 In his book Institution of Criticism, Peter Uwe Hohendahl traces the origin of the Western liberal public sphere to the practice of literary criticism in eighteenth-century Europe. As freedom, equality, and rationalist discourses were basic features of the liberal public sphere, its rise represented efforts by the bourgeois class

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to curb the absolutist state’s arbitrary powers. What, then, may be said to be the historical driving forces of the eminently symptomatic literary debates in twentieth-century East Asian societies? How did aesthetics, ideology, and politics intertwine in a characteristically East Asian way? What are the institutional frameworks within which these debates occurred? Many entries in this sourcebook, other than those documenting the debates themselves, may also be examined for essential clues providing answers to the above questions and thereby more clearly delineating the contours of modern East Asia’s literary processes. In particular, these entries are ideal sites for fathoming what the institution of art (including literature)—or in Peter Bürger’s words, “the ideas about art that prevail at a time and that determine the reception of works”—entails in modern East Asia because, when a cultural fault line like Taiwan is involved, core elements constituting the regional “differences and repetitions” tend to be foregrounded.19 For instance, in the early years of the East Asian modern age, the prevailing conceptions about literature appeared to be a mélange of the Arnoldian conception that regarded it as an index of civilizational attainments and the Confucian dictum “wen yi zai dao,” or “literature as a vehicle of the Dao” (here Dao can be understood as the cosmic laws in the Daoist sense or moral teaching in the Confucian sense). This high-culture presumption about literature virtually permeated all discourses collected in the sourcebook from the Japanese colonial period, which constantly invoke literature’s power of spiritual rejuvenation in order to achieve the twin objective of societal modernization and “national” strengthening. At the same time, the ostensibly ambivalent reference to “national community,” particularly in the 1920s and 1930s when first-generation colonial Taiwanese intellectuals were reluctantly transitioning from the Chinese to the Japanese cultural identity, reaffirms the truism that discourses of literature never seamlessly correspond to either creative practices or political realities. Nonetheless, as long as the same set of epochal concerns and regional imperatives persists as the core thematic thrust in literary discourses, we can surmise that the prevailing assumptions about the basic nature and function of literature have retained their potency. These assumptions, in turn, can be considered an index for the overall structural stability of the cultural environment in which literature debates are intimately wedded to public expressions of sociopolitical opinions. Given the firm beliefs in literature’s ability to fulfill civilizational missions, it was no surprise that it was always the young cultural elites who established the first platform for a literary public sphere in different modern periods. We may include on the list such epochal events as the founding of the New Youth in 1917 in Peking, the Taiwanese People’s Newspaper in 1923–1924 in Tokyo,20 and Modern Literature in 1960 in Taipei (II16). However, as leftist thinkers like Bertolt Brecht trenchantly observe, producers of culture do not possess the means of production in a capitalist society, which was apparently true even where the capitalist social organization was at a nascent stage or had been incompletely

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instituted. Although prototypes of literary public spheres in modern China and Taiwan were launched through coterie journals and voluntary literary societies, the continual growth of these prototypes was dependent on the use of platforms provided by larger, commercially oriented cultural institutions, in particular newspapers (especially the fukan) and the publishing industry, which in turn were subjected to invasive measures of control by the state. Therefore, the most prevalent mode of existence for the Chinese literary public sphere in the last century has been, in a sense, one that was visibly constrained by the dual forces of market demand and state intervention, as exemplified by the quasi-autonomous literary culture found in the Republican period, martial-law Taiwan, and China’s reform era. At times, the pendulum swung to the extreme. For instance, in periods of war and revolution—during, for example, the SinoJapanese War and the civil war on mainland China, the last years of the Pacific War and the initial phase of the martial law era in Taiwan, and the Cultural Revolution in the PRC—cultural production was subjected to much greater state control in a top-down fashion. These types of literary public sphere inevitably departed from Western liberal models in significant ways. It is extremely challenging trying to accurately gauge the liberating potential literary media possessed within these cultural fields and to effectively generalize the dynamics of change. On the one hand, the internal dynamics within the cultural field of the bourgeois-capitalist model tended to drive its development toward greater autonomy, albeit always in relative terms.21 On the other hand, these fields were undoubtedly subjected to political subjugation to varying degrees. Literary debates often served as a trigger or pretext for discussions of sensitive, tabooed sociopolitical issues and, as such, functioned as important public forums for cultural elites to voice nonconforming or dissenting views against government surveillance, despite that government interference often ultimately proved to be unavoidable. Entries in this sourcebook record the twists and turns of such a trajectory in concrete form while providing documentation of how different types of cultural production coexisted and intermixed. For example, ostensibly following a bourgeois-capitalist model, the Nationalist-controlled cultural production in 1950s Taiwan retained many practices inherited from the paramilitary mobilization that had developed during the Sino-Japanese War and the civil war on the Chinese mainland. These legacies offer keys to a better understanding of the type of state-administered literary public sphere in both the early years of post-1949 Taiwan and the first three decades of the PRC, which may then be examined against incipient leftist visions of egalitarian public spheres in the West.22 To be sure, the socialist paradigm instituted in Communist countries followed a special logic and is often dismissed by Western scholars because of those governments’ totalitarian control. Yet, the actual practices merit much greater scholarly attention for their sheer centrality in people’s cultural life during those historical periods and also because of their sporadic shadowy existence in modern Taiwan.23

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Jour ney of the Lit er a ry Medi a This sourcebook also contains materials that facilitate efforts at tracking the long-term evolution of literary media’s social roles through the interactions of micro- and macrolevels of historical contexts. This can be valuable in determining the implications for East Asian literary history of more general milestone changes in bourgeois-capitalist cultural development, such as the bifurcation of tastes between the cultural elites and the general reading public that Peter Uwe Hohendahl notes as first occurring in the West in the late eighteenth century, mainly as a result of the bourgeoisie’s promotion of the spread of education that led to an expansion in the number of readers.24 The rise of modern forms of popular culture in Taiwan in the 1930s may be attributed to similar sociological reasons. Despite the fervent debates among intellectuals motivated by the shifting values of Chinese, Japanese, and Taiwanese cultural capitals, it was the expansion of middle-class readership that prompted the emergence of such magazines as the Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette (II6) and Moonlit Wind (I35, I36), which catered to growing popular demand for leisure reading. However, further examination of the concrete examples found in this sourcebook allows us to note that these commercial enterprises also became a repository of remnant gentryclass writing practices, featuring contributions from members of the traditional literati. This, in fact, epitomizes a common phenomenon in the early stages of East Asian modernity: as westernized “new intellectuals” monopolized the power to define legitimate literary discourse, new alliances were often formed among three entities—members of the traditional literati now of diminished status in the cultural hierarchy, the “old” genres of writing that were unclassifiable according to newly imported critical schemes, and the ascending entertainment press that appealed to the residual pre-modern cultural outlook of general readers. Whereas the era transitions in Taiwan may be principally instrumental in overdetermining the realignments of players in the cultural and political power fields at the microlevel, the paths of global economic, sociological, and technological developments in the modern epoch have an equally important bearing on such proper literary issues as the shifting of genre hierarchy, changes in basic ideas about the value and function of literature, and the fundamental restructuring of the cultural market. An illustrative example is the way a blossoming fukan literary culture in the 1970s through the 1980s exemplified literary media’s brokerage role in the market transition of the entire cultural field that led up to the arrival of the consumer age in the last decade of the twentieth century. A major sponsor, consecrating agent, and trendsetter for the creative works of Taiwan’s baby-boom generation, fukan simultaneously appropriated the Nationalist-sponsored dominant cultural ideology, negotiated the highculture aspirations of writers with mass-appealing middlebrow literary taste, and explored and expanded middle-class—especially female—readership.25

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Yet the macrolevel historical forces proved to be formidable. In the wake of the lifting of martial law, the trend of commercialization underwent a quantum leap, which unexpectedly rendered the literary fukan’s formerly advantageous in-between position in the cultural hierarchy a major liability of sorts. Fukan’s steady decline since then has been both the result of a more sophisticated calculation and manipulation of the culture industry as well as the state-shepherded decentralization of cultural production and consecration to the county level.26 The fact that cultural centers and literary contests at the county level replaced the fukan of the mainstream media as the new leaders of literary consecration can of course be seen as a by-product of the “localization” trend, but it certainly carries abundant implications that may be tied to the productive power of globalization in generating the “local” as its mirror image. Despite political liberalization, cultural hegemony undeniably does not disappear, but its impact on literary production in contemporary Taiwan now takes subtler and more indirect forms. As the cultural market becomes increasingly segregated, a natural result is that the consumption of serious literature in Taiwan is increasingly confined to a smaller group of cultural elite, with its members internalizing the notion of literature’s lack of social efficacy. A notable feature of entries collected in part III is the presence of a number of essays devoted to specialized literary interests.27 These are written by practicing writers and can be easily clustered under generic labels: poetry, fiction, drama, and prose. Moreover, their contents are characteristically explicatory, rational, specialized, and professional, exhibiting considerable influence from academia, with no visible interest in cultivating general appeal. As such new cultural dynamics take shape, the days of an elite-based public sphere featuring literary debates over issues of epochal magnitude may be gone forever. The diminished public role of the literary media is of course part of a larger picture. Since the late twentieth century, the postmodern ethos of what Andreas Huyssen terms “After the Great Divide,” riding on the tidal waves of the globalizing commercialization, reached broader territories in East Asia.28 The sweeping trend has gripped East Asian cultural fields one after another: first Japan, then Hong Kong, Taiwan, and South Korea, before finally spreading to mainland China in the fin de siècle. In Taiwan, the set of epochal ideology regional imperatives that bastioned literature’s privileged social status survived the traumatic era transition from the Japanese colonial period to the era of martial law—was sustained, even while being tamed, by the Nationalist regime’s nationalistic, conservative, and neotraditionalist dominant culture—but is now being fundamentally revised. In fact, throughout the region, as the image and quality of popular cultural genres are substantially elevated, watershed changes in the established practices of legitimate cultures have been patently manifest and exhibit similar patterns of transformation. In view of East Asian societies’ shared premodern cultural roots that in a sense served as common points of

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departure for the development of their modern institutions of literature, comparative studies of their trajectories can be enlightening.

FROM VERNACULAR MOVEMENT TO C U LT U R A L N AT I O N A L I S M It would be particularly instructive to deliberate on the broader implications of certain cultural developments in modern Taiwan that exemplify yet at the same time must be differentiated from prevailing trends in East Asia’s modern epoch, developments that thereby defy facile generalizations based on larger cultural entities. An illustrative example is the peculiar ways in which the vernacular movement metamorphosed in Taiwan’s colonial period. The transition from classical Chinese to the vernacular took place in the broader East Asian Sinosphere as the societies passed through the threshold of modernity. It was often facilitated by language reform programs that upheld the principle of genbun i’chi, which literally means “spoken and written language conformity.” A number of entries in part I are centered on vernacular reform in colonial Taiwan, a special variant of the genbun i’chi trend. Given that this movement occurred at an awkward point in time when Taiwan was caught in the transition from the Chinese to the Japanese political-cultural compasses, the course it took was naturally both similar to and different from its counterparts in other East Asian societies. As such, it provides a prime opportunity for us to take a deeper look into some latent assumptions, practical obstacles, and conflicting and competing driving forces of this epochal regional phenomenon. The indisputably archaic and elitist nature of the classical Chinese language still in use in various parts of East Asia when it entered modernity made language reform a task of supreme urgency, as it was immediately tied to the issue of mass literacy, a prerequisite for modern nation-building. Such a reform apparently embodied the democratizing spirit of the modern age, for it attempted to discard the ornate rhetorical style that privileged the elite and to replace it with an expressive tool closer to the “living speech” of the ordinary people. Nationalistic desire for cultural autonomy also featured as a critical factor in the cases of Japan and Korea, as reforms there were geared toward drastic reduction and even abolition of the Chinese characters that had been used in these countries’ official writing systems for centuries during the premodern period. Language reform in colonial Taiwan was launched by the New and Old Literature debate in 1924. This debate was not only inspired by the May Fourth vernacular movement in Republican China, but it also replicated the latter in its professed goals, cited justifications, and advocated action. What foregrounded Taiwan’s historical specificity, however, was the fact that this movement was followed by a Taiwanese vernacular-script initiative that purported to establish a new writing system based on spoken Hoklo Taiwanese, originally a dialect

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from Southern Fujian Province. This movement was motivated not just by the fact that considerable disparity existed between the standard Chinese vernacular and Hoklo and Hakka, the two major spoken languages in Taiwan. The truth is, mutually unintelligible regional dialects were also used in different parts of mainland China for daily communication. However, as Taiwan had already been politically separated from China for over two decades, its people had many fewer channels for learning the standard Chinese vernacular through public institutions such as an education system, publications, or a state bureaucracy. The convoluted trajectory that the Taiwanese vernacular-script movement has subsequently traveled helps to bring to the foreground some intriguing issues about politics and aesthetics. There existed, as a matter of fact, an additional layer of complexity. While language reformers of colonial Taiwan shared similar goals and passions with their counterparts in other East Asian societies, they nonetheless encountered an unusual problem: which nation would eventually lay claim to the “properly educated modern citizens” that their reform programs purported to produce? Theoretically speaking, their deliberations over which particular “modern vernacular” to promote ought to take as a premise the answer to this question, which was apparently not the case. True enough, by this time Taiwan was already entering the third decade of Japanese colonization and thereby was in the process of being pulled away from the Chinese cultural sphere and propelled toward Japan, yet there was clearly a gap between the colonial government’s administrative timetable and the islanders’ ingrained community identifications. This resulted in the mind-boggling irony made evident by the sourcebook entries: all the energies the Taiwanese intelligentsia invested in meticulous research and contentious debates over the pros and cons of adopting the Chinese vernacular or devising a new writing system based on spoken Taiwanese were of no avail (I17, I18, I22, I23). In the end, it was Japanese that prevailed as the privileged language used in official documents and the public space. In February 1937, five months before the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War, the colonial government announced an official ban on Chinese language columns in newspapers (I34), nearly two decades after the establishment of Japanese public education in Taiwan. Although it is difficult to miss the bitter mockery of this turn of events, for our purpose it is even more important to observe these debates’ enduring legacies. Whereas the Taiwanese vernacular-script movement failed as a language reform program, it nonetheless paved the way for a new breed of cultural nationalism. Ever since Taiwanese intellectuals collectively pursued the Enlightenment project in a self-help fashion under the umbrella organization of the Taiwan Culture Association, a multifarious cultural nationalism began to take shape. The regrouping of the cultural elites along the intersecting left–right axes in the late 1920s and the 1931 crackdown on leftist groups and increased economic stability in the ensuing decade inevitably eroded the

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basis for progressive ideology. The community as a whole, however, never gave up localist concerns and continually negotiated for increased space for autonomous cultural development within the colony. Significantly, these were ideals shared by both advocates for the Taiwanese vernacular-script and their opponents, who favored using the Chinese vernacular. In their essays collected in this sourcebook, both groups expressed apprehensions about the disappearance of the indigenous cultural heritage and a pragmatic concern over the poorly implemented language education (including Japanese language education) in Taiwanese primary schools. The difference in their solutions was also dominated by pragmatic goals, albeit differently perceived. Those advocating for the Taiwanese vernacular were eager to enhance the written language’s accessibility to an uneducated populace, whereas those who favored the Chinese vernacular cherished the value of the cultural capital that the Chinese literary tradition could offer.29 Ultimately, it all boiled down to a matter of prioritization. Arguably, by engaging different intellectual groups and by attributing specific iconic values to language and literature, these debates helped to articulate a localist cultural vision that may or may not be immediately tied to desires for independent political sovereignty. In a practical sense, the elaborate blueprint postulated in Guo Qiusheng’s essay “A Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing” (I17) and the Taiwanese dialect dictionary compiled by Lian Yatang (I21) were both harbingers of later linguistic devices in the new writing system. This localist vision, combined with the diffuse yet potent ideological effect of nativism, already proposed by Huang Shihui before the Taiwanese vernacular-script came into focus (I15), as well as the later “invention” of the “folk” category as the pristine holder of cultural essence(I27), all contributed to the types of Taiwanese cultural nationalism manifested in works by second-generation colonial writers in Taiwan, which included celebrated and artistically accomplished writers such as Yang Kui (I28, I49, I53), Zhang Wenhuan (I37, I50), Lü Heruo (I30, I41), and Long Yingzong (I38). The timing of the ban on Chinese language columns in newspapers coincided with the coming of age of second-generation colonial writers in Taiwan, who were born between 1905 and 1915 and had received a complete education in the Japanese system.30 Writers of this age cohort not only wrote their work in the colonizer’s language, but they had also obtained essential literary orientation either in Japan or through the cultural channels made available by the colonial regime. Although identifying themselves as Japanese, many of them eventually were compelled to come to terms with the inherently discriminatory system in the colony. This drives home the point that an iconic view of nationalistic language and literature cannot be sustained without inadvertently denying some key elements of its original rationale. The memorable qualities of works by this group of writers are inseparable from their depictions of the local customs and physical settings to indirectly register their colonial discontent: the reinvention

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of the “folk” is undoubtedly a “strategic essentialism” often deployed by cultural nationalists to achieve their counterhegemonic objectives. But at the same time, their ability to artistically formulate these impulses and sentiments was the result of aesthetic resources they had procured through the Japanese, who had been vigorously assimilating Western influences since the late 19th century. Viewed from a broader perspective, perhaps the most crucial factor that defines the distinctive characteristics of Taiwanese literary history is the brief time span covered by each political era and the subsequent compression of the evolutionary cycle of cultural-literary institutions. An anecdote involving Lai He (I11, I13)—who is often dubbed the “Father of modern Taiwanese literature” and in 1925 was the first to write fiction in baihua (the Chinese vernacular promulgated by the May Fourth movement)—illustrates well the disconcerting effects of an overhasty progression of new literary experiments. Lai allegedly tried his hand at composing short stories using the Taiwanese vernacular, but he was so frustrated that he later reverted to composing classical Chinese poetry, in which he had been immersed during childhood. Lai He’s literary trajectory places him in the same company as Lu Xun, Yu Dafu, Natsume Soseki, and Mori Ogai, who were all caught in the transition between two different writing systems and their associated worldviews and found it impossible to escape from the demands of either. The classical Chinese literary tradition supplied Lai He with a rich aesthetic resource that writers such as Lü Heruo, Zhang Wenhuan, and Yang Kui obtained through modern Japan, a fact that ought to refute the view designating the privileged capacity to embody the nationalist essence to only one specific language. Furthermore, the notable disjuncture between the first and second generations of Taiwanese colonial writers, who composed literary works using different linguistic media and within widely divergent literary traditions, in fact pales in comparison with the more drastic rupture that the end of colonial rule in 1945 brought to the locally based literary institution, when the promising literary careers of such brilliant writers as Lü, Zhang, and Long were forced into a premature demise.

“SOCIALIST VERSUS BOURGEOIS” AND THE I N S T I T U T I O N O F M O D E R N L I T E R AT U R E Discussions of cultural transmission from the West to East Asia were previously concerned with battling the negative connotations of “derivative,” which define cultural products on the receiving end as “copies” of the “originals” and thus relegate them to an inferior status. Scholarly works in the postcolonialist vein have contributed significantly to rectifying this bias. There is, however, another problematic dimension to this process that Anthony Giddens’ notion of “reflexivity,” seen as a distinctive feature of modernity in general, might help to illuminate. Giddens points out that the reflective knowledge gained from certain types of

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collective social behaviors in the modern age is often incorporated into popular discourses, which are subsequently circulated and turned into forces shaping people’s perceptions and future behaviors. In a way, this presumed “reflexivity” may be seen as underlying the phenomenon in which the “belated” modernizers of East Asia incorporated intellectual discourses on modern experiences in the West—rationality, scientism, enlightenment, Marxism, democracy, and so on— as guiding visions for their pursuit of modernity. And yet, trajectories of such transmission, carried out across hugely disparate cultural spaces, were typically characterized by problems of a special kind. Emptied of their historical contents and the protean realities of blood and flesh from which they had been generated, these intellectual discourses, while still retaining formidable power from their reflexive nature and promise, become unduly prescriptive and even dogmatic, as they usually carry preconceived verdicts on a specific course of modernization. The highly ideological narratives on modernity that have informed literary discourses split along the left versus right dividing line aptly reflect the vacuity of the alienated discourses. While the left versus right strife featured prominently in every East Asian cultural field before World War II, the socialist versus bourgeois aesthetic debate in contemporary East Asian societies has not attracted extensive scholarly attention. The phenomenon appears easy to comprehend. As part of the ideological polarization in the Cold War, rigid versions of the socialist and bourgeois cultural paradigms were officially sanctioned in the Communist and capitalist blocs, respectively. Intellectual debates on aesthetic issues in the prime years of the Cold War were either patently instrumentalized by the party machine under the Communist regime or subjected to different degrees of government surveillance in the “free world.” Since the end of the Cold War, the situation has changed considerably. Liberalization of the public sphere in Taiwan and South Korea has allowed previously tabooed leftist public discourses to reappear, albeit still in a rather peripheral sense. In China, contention between the New Left and neoliberalism began to attract public attention in the late 1990s and has been gathering steam in the last few years. Although some old issues related to the socialist versus bourgeois aesthetic debate—such as the advocates’ alignments with polarized stances toward the West—have regained relevance for literary scholars, one can nonetheless discern some distinctive features that mark a departure from their pre–World War II predecessors. First, set against the backdrop of neoliberalist capitalist expansion, the ideological split and attendant aesthetic debates are more confined within the intellectual circle, with limited or rather oblique repercussions in the society at large. Second, one unfailingly notes the presence of the ambiguously positioned pro-modernization government in such debates as a powerful third player. It is perhaps time to start charting the terrain of a scholarly inquiry that comparatively studies the characteristics, genealogies, and sociohistorical circumstances of the rise of progressive intellectual trends in contemporary East Asian societies—Japan,

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Hong Kong, South Korea, Taiwan, and, more recently, China—where different varieties of state capitalism have been forged. The current reopening of a space for a socialist versus bourgeois aesthetic debate, however tentative, invites us to reconsider the broader implications of such a movement as Taiwan’s nativist literary movement in the 1970s. Taking place at the height of the Cold War, in hindsight it nonetheless registered influences from the progressive trends that swept over large terrains around the globe in 1968 and emphatically foregrounded the modernist versus realist literary polemics. Part II contains essays written by such key players of the nativist campaign as Chen Yingzhen (II29, II53), Yu Tiancong (II57), Tang Wenbiao (II35), and Wang Tuo (II51); by their modernist opponents Bai Xianyong (II36) and Wang Wenxing (II55); and two pieces—by Peng Ge (II54) and Zeng Xiangduo (II56)—representing the stance of the Nationalist government. These are valuable documentation for anyone interested in exploring issues such as the following: how the participants in the debate perceive the relationship between aesthetics and societal modernization; the complex cross-alliance between writers and government agencies; and, more importantly, how the interpositional struggles within a more complexly structured cultural field of production are shaped to a far greater extent by a capitalist mode of socioeconomic organization than in the early twentieth century. A research question closely linked to the above is this: How have literary developments in East Asia in the last fifty years reflected the socialist versus bourgeois divide? The literary history of contemporary Taiwan possesses unique research value in this regard. Because of its special historical circumstances, post-1949 Taiwan provided fertile ground for Taiwanese writers and artists to pursue bourgeois aesthetic ideals with full force and to succeed in bringing these ideals to a higher level of maturation. Here, I follow Peter Bürger’s theoretical formulation of the “institution of the art” and consider its core spirit of “aesthetic autonomy” as a product of the history of Western bourgeois society since the early eighteenth century.31 In a general sense, this was the category of literature that was introduced to East Asia in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century and dominated the mainstream Chinese literary scene during the Republican era. A formidable challenge came from the Communists between the late 1940s and late 1970s. During this period—before its re-adoption of a capitalist mode of production in the reform era—the party-state in China played up the “Western bourgeois” nature of this literary institution as the enemy and vehemently denounced its artistic norms and assumptions as well as the production and distributive modes associated with it, while launching vigorous attempts at instating a “socialist” model of cultural production. In a peculiar way, therefore, the Chinese assimilation of a bourgeois form of literary production was extended in Taiwan after it was interrupted on mainland China. The exiled Nationalist government transplanted to Taiwan many cultural institutions from the Republican era, for pragmatic

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political reasons and also because of its dependence on a narrative of cultural continuity in asserting its raison d’être as the legitimate government of “China.” Shortly after the Nationalist retreat to Taiwan, the Cold War standoff began, and the Nationalist regime shifted into survival mode protected by treaties signed with the United States after the Korean War. In the following decades, within an artificially maintained stability, a general climate of normalcy, and a prospering economy, cultural activities in Taiwan thrived with remarkable vivacity. It may not be an exaggeration to say that the vision of participating in the enterprise of developing legitimate “modern Chinese literature” provided an important impetus for post-1949 writers in Taiwan. Within the Cold War ideology, the pursuit of the “road not taken”—understood as “opportunities lost”—by their “fellow Chinese” writers on the mainland was a lofty cause that inspired the most serious kind of literary endeavors. Viewed from today’s vantage point, this narrative was clearly self-serving and even preposterous, especially in light of its subjective dismissal of the colossal socialist experiment undertaken in mainland China. But before new narratives emerged in the 1980s that effectively discredited Sinocentrism, the narrative was a broadly pervasive discourse of empowerment, and postwar writers from both waisheng and bensheng origins were subjected to its influence. In the barren years of the early martial law period, the accessibility of both Western modernist and classical Chinese literary traditions—enhanced by the Cold War alliance with the United States and the Nationalist government’s “cultural renaissance” programs—nourished a vibrant literary culture and serious endeavors at synthesizing these rich aesthetic resources. One should note that the very script that ascribed ultimate value to “synthesizing Chinese and western” was carried over from the Republican era and in fact informed the visions of artists and critics alike for an extended period of time. The opening section of part II presents a bizarre picture of the politically precarious environment during the early martial law period, when flagrant antiCommunist and “combat” literature campaigns (II1, II3, II62) were juxtaposed with avant-garde literary manifestos and polemics (II2, II4–II5, II9–II11, II13– II15, II18–II20).32 Parallel to many other parts of the non-Western world in the mid-twentieth century, a vigorous artistic trend arose in Taiwan that professed to emulate the aesthetically radical, thematically transgressive Anglo-European “literary modernism,” which had just been canonized as legitimate culture in the West. The modernist literary movement was of momentous significance for contemporary Taiwan’s artistic development as a whole. It is important to note that, in its initial phase, assimilation of the modernist aesthetics took place within the framework of “modern Chinese literature” as defined by the May Fourth generation. As self-appointed successors, Taiwan’s postwar generation of modernists were unabashed in declaring their youthful ambition to surpass the literary achievements of their Chinese predecessors. Essays like Liu Shaoming’s preface to Modern Literature (II16) and Yu Guangzhong’s “Lower the Flag

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to Half-Mast for May Fourth!” (II26) as well as critical writings on Bai Xianyong’s Tales of Taipei Characters (II48) and Wang Wenxing’s iconoclastic Family Catastrophe (II38, II45) make it evident that these writers conceived of their literary enterprise largely in terms of thematic issues and aesthetic problems inherited from the Republican era. Despite the nativists’ public denouncement of the modernists for their elitism and voluntary succumbing to Western cultural imperialism in the 1970s and the continual stigmatization of modernist works from the localization standpoint since the 1980s, the more sophisticated artistic doctrines they helped to promulgate never ceased to enjoy prestige and attract followers.33 Entries in part II include rival views on literary techniques, forms, and social functions as well as literature’s relationship with class, nation, and modernity, and they provide excellent data for scholars to track the trajectory of the highly contested reception of the “institution of modern literature.”34 More importantly, even after the modernist trend subsided as a whole, individual writers’ active assimilation of bourgeois aesthetics has not only continued but also has exhibited exceptional vigor. Selections in part III include several examples: Li Yongping (III34), Xia Yu,35 and Wu He (III38). Their artistic convictions—in particular their sincere and thorough adherence to the concept of “aesthetic autonomy,” the core principle of the institution of modern literature—provide testimonials to mature literary development clearly fostered by the Western bourgeois aesthetic tradition, and the level of sophistication they have reached is unmatched in modern literature written in Chinese. While modernist writers have responded to new trends of identity construction in various ways, their inherently elitist dedication to the refinement of the linguistic medium of the literary art is unmistakably informed by assumptions about “aesthetic autonomy.” On the one hand, their beliefs in certain notions— for example, that literary works of art are made of artistically reformulated experiences; that they are self-sustaining, self-referential verbal edifices; and that they are constructed with multiple layers of meaning—are highly reminiscent of their primary source of influence, the Anglo-American strand of “high modernism” or “aesthetic modernism” of the interwar years. The fact that the Anglo-American models were enthusiastically emulated in Taiwan, facilitated by the Cold War establishment of “cultural exchange” networks, explains the especially favorable conditions for Taiwanese writers’ assimilation of modernist aesthetics with a high degree of fidelity. On the other hand, these writers’ highly original, enchanting experiments with the classical Chinese language and premodern literary conventions were facilitated by—even while containing strong rebellious elements—the neotraditionalist component of the Nationalist-endorsed dominant culture. The relatively long cycle of evolution, the climate of cultural stratification, and the more advanced structure of the cultural field were all factors that contributed to these writers’ lifelong devotion

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to the artistic exploration of two exceptionally rich literary traditions for aesthetic resources. It is certainly regrettable that in today’s digital age, the market share for literature has dwindled, and, moreover, that contemporary Taiwanese writers’ most impressive achievement—innovative modernistic experiments with language— is not widely translated. The recognition that Taiwanese literature has received abroad pales in comparison with that given to other cultural genres, such as art cinema, modern dance, and avant-garde theater. Yet writers have always been forerunners in each “high-culture” wave in Taiwan’s modern history, and scholarly investigation of the specific issues they are concerned with provides important keys to an understanding of why Taiwan in the new millennium has carved such a distinct image for itself, specifically in the realm of refined, highculture art.36 Their brilliant achievements in synthesizing modernist aesthetics and classical Chinese styles and sensibilities may be studied fruitfully from another angle as one successful rendition and concretization of the productive potentials of the Western-originated “institution of modern literature.” This may be corroborated by certain insights of Karatani Kōjin, a Japanese philosopher and literary theorist whose writings from the 1970s, collected in Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, tackled the thorny issues pertaining to negotiations between traditional/Eastern and modern/Western cultural forms. Through his emphasis on the various epistemological “inversions” that accompanied the “birth” of modern Japanese literature in the 1890s, Karatani alerts us to the fact that the historicity of this event was erased and forgotten after the imported category of “modern literature” became embedded within Japan’s own historical context. The main thrusts of his argument are: First of all, concepts associated with a particular version of the “institution of modern literature,” supported by the hegemonic Western knowledge system, assumed a privileged status as norms and standards, against which merits of local literary output were gauged.37 Second, this turn of events had a great deal to do with the triumph of other modern institutions—including the political constitution—that Japan transplanted from the hegemonic West in the late nineteenth century, and once the new epoch began, the malleability and various possibilities available to modern Japanese literature at its inception—that is, during the second decade of the Meiji period—were no longer present. Karatani particularly laments the fact that the choices of literary development are inevitably reduced once the imported category “literature” becomes embedded in the local institutional framework, along with other modern institutions, as part of the indigenous tradition. Along this path of reasoning, it follows that a sensible way to study modern East Asian literatures would be precisely to examine the multiple trajectories through which the hegemonic category of literature—one originally conceived in the West— has been transmitted, altered, and rescripted, as well as denounced, in different geopolitical sites. Indeed, the taxonomy built for this inquiry should include

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different varieties of avid assimilation and aspiring transcendence, as well as vehement denouncement or systematic exclusion.38 Methodologically sound, ideological inclusive comparative studies of East Asian literatures promise to elucidate the real nature of the socialist versus bourgeois aesthetic contentions, expose the faulty assumptions of the derivative narrative, challenge the classificatory schemes based solely on boundaries prescribed by nation-states, and redress the inadequacy of theoretical frameworks derived from non–East Asian traditions (including some derived from postcolonialist discourses). The editors of this sourcebook would take great satisfaction in scholars’ making use of the materials collected here to enrich the taxonomy of modern East Asian literary traditions, a foundation for studying the underexplored component of world literature.39

notes 1.

To give the reader a sense of change and continuity between the modern and the traditional, we have included six pieces of representative literary discourse from the premodern period, four of which were written prior to 1895.

2.

The sixth entry of part I, “Congratulations on the Founding of the Taiwan Literary Society” by Wei Qingde, is a celebration of the founding, in 1919, of the Taiwan Literary Society (Taiwan wenshe), one of the earliest and most influential poetry societies in colonial Taiwan.

3.

For more explicit references to leftist ideology, see Zhang Qishi’s “The Solitary Spirits League and the Anarchist Theater Movement” (I14); Huang Shihui’s “Why Not Promote Nativist Literature?” (I15); Yang Kui’s “Art Belongs to the People” (I28); and Zhang Shenqie’s “The Historical Mission of Taiwan Literary Arts” (I29).

4.

Key essays from the polemics surrounding the nativist literary movement include the following: Chen Yingzhen, “Toward a New Departure in Modernism: Thoughts on the Recent Production of Waiting for Godot” (II29); Guan Jieming, “On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets” (II33); Tang Wenbiao, “Not Our Paradise” (II35); Bai Xianyong, “Benchmarks in Fiction Criticism: Reading Tang Jisong’s ‘“Autumn Leaves” by Ouyang Zi’” (II36); as well as entries from II51 to II57: Wang Tuo, “It’s Realist Literature, Not Nativist Literature: A Historical Analysis of Nativist Literature”; Ye Shitao, “Introduction to History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan”; Xu Nancun, “The Blind Spot of Nativist Literature”; Peng Ge, “Where Is Literature Without Human Nature?”; Wang Wenxing, “Xiangtu Wenxue: Its Merits and Demerits”; Zeng Xiangduo, “Impressions Gleaned from the Conference on Literary Arts Organized by the Armed Forces: The Bugle of Unity”; and Yu Tiancong, “Notes on the Publication of Essays on Nativist Literature”.

5.

The hierarchy that relegated Taiwanese culture and language to an inferior “regional” status was reinforced by such policies as those that prohibited students from speaking the Taiwanese “dialect” at school or reserved prime-time television broadcasting for Mandarin-language programs.

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31

Well-known writer Li Ang was among the first to publicly voice her shock after attending a literary conference in Germany to which a group of contemporary Chinese writers had also been invited.

7.

The shifting but constant bipartite split has been the norm: nonmainstream versus mainstream, waishengren versus benshengren, and Pan-Blue versus Pan-Green Coalitions.

8.

Since the late 1980s, discourses claiming that Taiwan had always been a multiethnic and multilingual society gained currency. This was appropriated by politicians, as in Frank Hsieh and President Li Teng-hui’s shengming gongtongti (interdependent life community) and the designation of “four major ethnic groups.”

9.

Since the break around the turn of the 1990s from the previous era was not as drastic as that in the late 1940s, the result is a greater diversity and coexistence of writers from different age cohorts and aesthetic-ideological orientations. At the same time, they do not seem to form significant schools or endorse groundbreaking artistic directions, and one is hardly aware of any highly publicized debates and polemics among literary groups. This situation is aptly captured by the popular term heteroglossia, or multivocal enunciations (III3). There are, of course, trends and subtrends, and critics and reviewers continue to label groups of writers. But the fact that the prefixes “post” and “neo” are so often used suggests the absence of definitive, commonly agreed-upon benchmarks. On the one hand, there seems to be a high degree of enthusiasm on the part of both writers and critics for paying attention to such topical issues as identity formation, national imaginary, urban space, environmentalist spirit, etc., which is aptly reflected in this collection. On the other hand, there paradoxically seems to be a noticeable disingenuousness and desire to escape facile and predictable categorizations. All these seem to be pointing to a new literary culture, one that more closely approaches that of the more culturally stratified, advanced capitalist society, in which writers are equipped with a higher professional degree of self-consciousness and a greater concern for the craftsmanship of their creative works.

10.

See chapter 4 in Homi K. Bhabha’s The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 85–92.

11.

Other parts of Joseph Allen’s arguments are also relevant: “I would like to note what might be distinctive and significant in Japanese colonialism in Taiwan as it relates to the materials studied here. I recognize four interrelated issues: (1) along with Germany, whom it emulated, Japan entered the colonialist community late and was very self-conscious about its position therein; (2) there were cultural materials, especially associated with the literary worlds, shared between the Japanese and the colonized Han elite; (3) “raciality” was used in ways quite different from its use by European colonialists, for example, Japan claimed affinity with, as well as difference from, the colonized people; and (4) the indigenous peoples of Taiwan formed a ‘third class’ of colonized subjects, which not only affected their status but also that of the ‘second class’ Han population” (Taipei: City of Displacements [Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2012], 195).

12.

See chapter 9, “The Postcolonial and the Postmodern: The Question of Agency,” in Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 171–75.

32 13.

in t roduction This is the second, and more direct version, of Wu’s recollection of the February 28 Incident. During his lifetime, Wu entrusted the manuscript to Zhong Zhaozheng and instructed him to publish it a decade after his death.

14.

I have discussed more thoroughly elsewhere the overall effects of such hegemonic control on the general cultural ambience—the fostering of a neotraditionalist, conformist, and conservative literary culture in Taiwan’s martial law period, which was symbiotic with middle-class taste.

15.

This high-profile “Chinese versus Western cultural debate” paved the way for the flourishing of literary modernism in 1960s Taiwan. Though not directly documented in this sourcebook, its main thrust can be seen in essays by Yu Guangzhong published in the Literary Star (II25, II26).

16.

The title of the novel in question is Xinsuo [The locked heart]. Xie Bingying, who unleashed harsh criticism of Guo, was a veteran mainland writer from the Republican period best known for her autobiographical work Nübing zizhuan [Biography of a female soldier].

17.

The earlier “China complex” versus “Taiwanese consciousness” debate in 1981–1984 (II58, II63) may be seen as a precursor of this type of literary debate. Notable post–martial law incidences include a debate on postmodernism and postcolonialism in relation to Taiwan literature between 1992 and 1996. The debate took place in the leading scholarly journal Chung-wai Literary Monthly, and participants were literature professors from prestigious universities: Qiu Guifen, Liao Chaoyang, Chen Zhaoying, Chen Fangming, Zhang Guoqing, and Liao Xianhao (http://taiwanpedia.culture.tw/web/content?ID=4633 [in Chinese]). Another well-known debate was between Chen Fangming and Chen Yingzhen, which took place in Unitas, a literary monthly between 1999 and 2001 and featured issues related to Taiwanese literary history, Marxism, Modernism, and contentions between Taiwanese and Chinese nationalisms (http://taiwanpedia.culture.tw/web/content?ID=2335 [in Chinese]).

18.

In discussing some key literary debates in early modern Japanese literary history, Karatani Kōjin makes this point clear: “In examining a debate it is my aim not to point out problems that require solutions, but to decipher the ‘problem,’ commonly perceived to be an opposition between the two parties, as a particular symptom” (Origins of Modern Japanese Literature [Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993], 155).

19.

See Peter Bürger’s definition of the institution of art in The Institutions of Art (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992). In more abstract terms, Bürger also defines it as “the epochal functional determinants of art within the bounds of society” (4–5).

20. Two authors in the sourcebook selections, Huang Chaoqin (I8) and Chen Fengyuan (I20), were among the founders of the Taiwanese People’s Newspaper while they were studying in Tokyo. 21.

See arguments put forth in my book Literary Culture in Taiwan: Martial Law to Market Law (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004).

22. In his account of the Western liberal public sphere, Hohendahl mentions how leftist discourses in the Marxist vein are keen to point out the inaccuracies of the commonly held assumption: from the outset, the liberal public sphere was not as egalitarian as it claimed; rather, participation was confined to propertied citizens, largely excluding the masses.

int roduc t ion

33

23. Chinese-Canadian scholar Shuyu Kong’s account of literary culture’s transition from socialist to postsocialist China in Consuming Literature: Best Sellers and the Commercialization of Literary Production in Contemporary China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2005) offers a nice glimpse into the functional transformation of the literary public sphere. In the Mao era, according to Kong, “Literary journals, which constitute the main official outlet for writers, played a vital journalist and public media role,” and “political leaders sometimes used literary outlets to broach purely political moves.” In contrast, literary journals in the mid-1980s “often became a contested public sphere, one in which writers, readers, critics, and political authorities voiced their contrasting opinions about social and political issues” (147). 24. See chapter 1, “Literary Criticism and the Public Sphere,” in Peter Uwe Hohendahl’s The Institution of Criticism (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1982), 44–82. In particular: “But by the end of the eighteenth century the assumption that the literary public consisted of a homogeneous circle of informed laymen was being exposed as fiction” (53). “The bourgeoisie, in contrast to the aristocracy, promoted the spread of education, so that in the course of the eighteenth century, in England as well as on the Continent, there was a steady growth in the number of readers (that is to say, the potential audience for literature). This expansion led to a loosening of the bond between the leading intelligentsia and the broad reading public” (54). 25. This sourcebook has collected writings from the important fukan editor Lin Haiyin (II29), senior writer Zhu Xining (II42, II43), and such representative writers of the baby-boom generation as Yuan Qiongqiong (II69), Li Ang (III18), Zhang Dachun (III23), Zhu Tianwen (III30), and Zhu Tianxin (III15). In part III, a number of writings are devoted to reflections on the glorious days of Lianfu, or fukan pages of the United Daily News (III19– III22). Chen Yizhi’s opening remarks for the 1999 media event “Selection of Taiwan Literary Classics” (III25), in fact marked the imminent decline of fukan as a leading sponsor of literary production in Taiwan. 26. See Fan Ming-ju, “Dangdai Taiwan xiaoshuo de nanbu shuxie” [Writing the “South” in contemporary Taiwanese fiction,” in Wenxue dili: Taiwan xiaoshuo de kongjian yuedu [Literary geography: spatial reading of Taiwanese fiction] (Taipei: Rye Field Publications, 2008), 213–50. The fact that the National Museum of Taiwan Literature was built in the southern city of Tainan could be viewed as part of the same “decentralizing” trend. See “Building a Bridge for Taiwan Literature: Foreword to the National Museum of Taiwan Literature Newsletter” by Lin Ruiming (III32). 27.

Fiction: Zhang Xiguo on Ping Lu (III8); Zhu Tianxin (III15); Li Ang (III18); Zhang Dachun (III23); Huang Jinshu (III27); Li Yongping (III34); Zhu Tianxin and Wu He (III38); Nanfang Shuo on Shi Shuqing (III35). Poetry: Lin Yaode (III7); Chen Li (III16); Luo Zhicheng (III26). Prose: Liu Kexiang (III33); Zhang Xiaofeng (III39). Theater: Zhong Mingde (III2); Jiao Tong on Wang Qimei (III11).

28. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986). 29. In a sense, the dilemma and rationale held by each side continued to be relevant as Taiwan entered newer political eras. By and large, in addition to explicit nationalistic justifications,

34

in t roduc tion those who promoted a new “Taiwanese language” chose to stress the expressive vividness, democratic potentials, and iconic power of the “living speech by the people,” while those who preferred to use the dominant language opted to downplay the stigma of the “language of the oppressor” (which may refer to either Japanese or Mandarin) and instead placed greater weight on the aesthetic resources and cultural capital that that language carried. A recent polemic involving Huang Chunming, a Nativist writer well known for his work in the 1960s and 1970s, and Jiang Weiwen, an activist and linguistics professor (May 24, 2011) is a good example. The initial incident took place on May 24, 2011, when Jiang accused Huang of writing fiction in the “Beijing dialect” instead of using the “Taiwanese language,” thus forfeiting his responsibility as a Taiwanese writer. During the martial law period, the Taiwanese vernacular-script movement was forbidden under Sinocentric policies, and it developed mostly overseas. Its recent resurgence in Taiwan is evidently tied to the rising Taiwanese nationalism endorsed by the DPP and Pan-Green political factions. The constructive spirit that typically underscores cultural nationalism is seen in essays collected in the sourcebook: Lin Yangmin, “Like a Road Sign That Looks Ahead and Behind: Introduction to Compendium of Taiwanese-language Literature” (III28); Xiang Yang, “The Brave New World of the Mother Tongue: Taiwanese-language Literature Under Construction” (III29).

30. As mentioned earlier, popular primary school education was established throughout the island around 1918–1919. 31.

Peter Bürger, The Institutions of Art (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992).

32. Despite high-handed mobilization and ruthless surveillance, cultural agents succeeded in procuring a space for artistic free play. Then, with the end of the Korean War and a relative relaxation of cultural policies, a vibrant Modernist literary trend attracted many young talents from the postwar generation in the 1960s. 33.

After the localization trend swelled dramatically in Taiwan in the last years of the martial law period, it culminated in another tidal wave of cultural reorientation in the 1990s and onward. In the literary realm, this reorientation was accompanied by some notable twists and turns. For instance, whereas the earlier nativist agenda contributed significantly to the reawakening of “Taiwanese consciousness,” which in due course fueled the rise of Taiwanese cultural nationalism, the 1990s movement’s early advocate, Chen Yingzhen, openly aired his staunch socialist beliefs and Chinese nationalism and thus parted ways with his former compatriots, leaving some of his onetime admirers—such as Zhan Hongzhi—caught in contentious feuds over Sinocentrism and Taiwanese consciousness (II63, II67).

34. Aside from manifestos and polemics among poets, described earlier in this section, and entries involved in the Nativist polemics in note 1, other essays that explicitly propound Modernist literary views include the following: Yu Guangzhong, “Postscript to Carefree Wandering” (II28); Ouyang Zi, “The Girl with Long Black Hair: The Author’s Preface” (II30); Ye Shan, “On the Special Issue of Retrospect” (II34); Liu Shaoming (Joseph S.M. Lau), “Qideng Sheng’s ‘Polio’ Style” (II37); Yan Yuanshu, “Take Pains to Read, Take Care to Evaluate Family Catastrophe” (II38); Liu Shaoming, “The Past Decade of Taiwan Literature (1965–1975): On Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe” (II45); Bai Xianyong, “The

int roduc t ion

35

Pursuit and Disappearance of Utopia” (II46); Ouyang Zi, “Starting from the Flaws of Taipei Characters: On the Method and Practice of Literary Criticism” (II48); Wang Zhenhe, “Eternal Quest (in Lieu of a Preface)” (II66). 35.

Unfortunately, we were not able to obtain permission to translate Xia Yu’s essay.

36. In the new millennium, several individuals from Taiwan (e.g., Hou Hsiao-hsien, Tsai Ming-liang, Yo-Yo Ma, and Ang Lee) have entered the pantheon of world-class artists, and these are coupled with rising international recognition of specific achievements of the Taiwan New Cinema, Cloud Gate Dance Troupe, Little Theater, and so forth. These ought to be studied side by side with the accomplishments of a century-long “high-culture quest” in East Asia and the earnest aspirations and serious endeavors in the realm of legitimate culture that it has nourished. 37.

The notion that the Western-imported category of “modern literature” functions as an institution is most clearly articulated in chapter 6 of Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, “On the Power to Construct” (136–72).

38. In this sense, recent scholarship that treats literature from the first three decades of the Communist reign in China in a more theoretically sophisticated manner fills an important gap in this systematic approach and makes it even more compelling to consider post1949 Taiwan literature’s significance within a broader context. 39. In the last two decades, scholars in Taiwan associated with cultural studies in the postcolonial–postmodernist vein have been actively engaged in promoting studies that integrate different parts of the East Asian region and that adopt a non-Western-centric perspective. There has been, however, a dearth of scholarly inquiries that give adequate consideration to aesthetic issues. Materials in the sourcebook make it possible to fill in this gap.

works cited Allen, Joseph. Taipei: City of Displacements. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2012. Berry, Michael. A History of Pain: Trauma in Modern Chinese Literature and Film. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Bourdieu, Pierre. The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993. Braester, Yomi. Witness Against History: Literature, Film, and Public Discourse in TwentiethCentury China. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2003. Buden, Boris. “Cultural Translation: Why It Is Important and Where to Start with It.” 2006. http://eipcp.net/transversal/0606/buden/en Bürger, Peter. The Institutions of Art. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1992. ——. Theory of the Avant-Garde. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984. Cai, Xiang. Geming/xushu: Zhongguo shehui zhuyi wenxue—wenhua xiangxiang (1949–1966) [Revolution/narration: Chinese socialist literature—cultural imagination (1949–1966)]. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2010.

36

in t roduction

Chang, Sung-sheng Yvonne. “Beyond Cultural and National Identities: Current Re-evaluation of the Kominka Literature from Taiwan’s Japanese Period.” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 1, no. 1 (July 1997): 75–107. ——. Literary Culture in Taiwan: Martial Law to Market Law. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004. ——. Modernism and the Nativist Resistance: Contemporary Chinese Fiction from Taiwan. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993. ——. “Taiwanese New Literature and the Colonial Context: A Historical Survey.” In Taiwan: A New History, ed. Murray Rubinstein, 261–74. Armonk, N.Y.: M.E. Sharpe, 1999. Giddens, Anthony. The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge, U.K.: Polity, 1991. Fan, Ming-ju. “Dangdai Taiwan xiaoshuo de nanbu shuxie” [Writing the “South” in contemporary Taiwanese fiction]. In Wenxue dili: Taiwan xiaoshuo de kongjian yuedu [Literary geography: spatial reading of Taiwanese fiction]. Taipei: Rye Field, 2008. 213–50. Hillenbrand, Margaret. Literature, Modernity, and the Practice of Resistance: Japanese and Taiwanese Fiction, 1960–1990. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Hohendahl, Peter Uwe. Building a National Literature: The Case of Germany 1830–1870. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989. ——. The Institution of Criticism. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1982. Huyssen, Andreas. After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986. Karatani, Kōjin. Origins of Modern Japanese Literature. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993. Kong, Shuyu. Consuming Literature: Best Sellers and the Commercialization of Literary Production in Contemporary China. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2005. Laughlin, Charles A. “The Battlefield of Cultural Production: Chinese Literary Mobilization During the War Years.” Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese 2, no. 1 (July 1998): 83–103. Lin, Sylvia Li-chun. Representing Atrocity in Taiwan: the 2/28 Incident and White Terror in Fiction and Film. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Link, Perry. The Uses of Literature: Life in the Socialist Chinese Literary System. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000. Tansman, Alan. The Aesthetics of Japanese Fascism. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. Wang, Ban. The Sublime Figure of History: Aesthetics and Politics in Twentieth-Century China. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1997.

part i The Beginnings and Entry Into Modernity Through Colonial Mediation (1728–1948)

T

he first four entries in this section represent the earliest discourse on literature in Taiwan in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In language, form, and literary convention, they embodied a continuation of the classical Chinese tradition, which would be carried into the twentieth century, when a clash with the emergent modern literature was inevitable. The majority of entries in this section come from the period of Japanese colonization (1895–1945). In the mid-1920s, a vigorous modern literary movement was launched, which initially emphasized replacing classical Chinese with the modern vernacular, either Mandarin or Taiwanese (Hoklo). By the latter half of the 1930s, however, the main linguistic medium employed by Taiwanese authors was Japanese—the colonizer’s language. The inherent tension between linguistic assimilation and cultural resistance created an identitarian complex that not only did not go away but was exacerbated when Taiwan was reunited with China in 1945.

1. Preface to Volume 1 of Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea xi a z hifa ng

. . . Taiwan is a beautiful place where mountains and oceans meet. An island of singular peaks in the midst of a vast ocean, it is permeated with an air of profundity and magnificence. Where there is a concentration of divine spirituality, there are bound to be men of elegance and refinement. Besides, in recent years [Taiwan] has benefited from the imperial policy of peace and edification; through ever-deeper immersion, it has been transformed by the Way. Every household is versed in music and poetry; people elevate themselves and contribute to the flourishing of literature and arts. Of the four social classes, scholars are the leaders; their integrity or depravity determines the moral climate. Now that culture is flourishing in the prefecture of Taiwan, why worry about a lack of talent? If talent is not fully developed, it is flawed by impurity and inferiority. Confucius once said: “Scholars must first develop moral character and foresight before they engage in literature and arts.” If a scholar is immoral but world famous for his literary embellishments, not only is it not beneficial, but it is in fact detrimental, to the people. When the prefecture of Taiwan was first established, preliminary civil service exams had to rely on such interior prefectures as Zhangzhou and Quanzhou. Recently, the emperor issued a decree that the practice be abolished and only those born in Taiwan be enrolled in schools in this land. This indicates the sincere intention of the Illustrious Court to develop the frontier. Men of the Taiwan Prefecture, whose refinement has come from the beautiful

40

t h e b e gin ning s a nd e ntry into m odernit y

mountains and seas, should feel encouraged and not exclude themselves from the recruitment of talent so as to repay the emperor’s grace. Liu Zongyuan [773–819] said: “It is only through fine writing that one repays the country.” Born into a time of prosperity and justice, scholars should engage in learning and moral cultivation, so they produce writings that are useful and valuable. Moreover, they should educate students and enlighten village folks with poetry and music, so the air of harmony and goodness fills the vast sky and the green mountains. Rising upward, it promotes peace and excellence; downward, it transforms societal customs. Such is the earnest hope of the officials. Taking the responsibility of observing and edifying societal customs is how they repay the emperor. Now that the exams have concluded, I select writings of exceptional elegance and publish them in this volume. I make this proclamation not only to present the writings but also to inform the people of Taiwan. Newly Compiled Archives of Taiwan Prefecture (Record of Literature and Arts), ed. Fan Qian and Liushiqi, annotated by Chen Weizhi (Taipei: Yuanliu Publishing, 2005), 834, translated by Michelle Yeh.

2. Preface to Collection of Coral Branches z ha ng me i

W

hat is Collection of Coral Branches? It is the name for the literary writings by men from east of the ocean. What are coral branches? They are branches of coral reef. The ocean is so vast that it contains everything; the rarest treasures in the world are all found within. Why coral? Did not Du Fu say: “On the wind the Royal Attendant rides / Literary brilliance like a coral branch”? To compare literature to coral is to confer high value on it and at the same time to suggest its difficulty. Difficulty lies in the [harvesting of coral] branches. What about them? It is said: “Coral branches live at the bottom of the sea. They turn yellow when they are one year old, red when they are three. To harvest them, fishermen must use iron nets. They cannot be harvested before their time, and they rot when the time is past.” Therefore, coral harvesting, like literature, is considered a difficult task. Taiwan is an island surrounded by the ocean and isolated from the world. For sixty years, it has been basking in the glory of divine edification; dimness has given way to light. Many men in the marine territory display fine literary talent. In earlier times, there were no writings to collect, because the coral reef

40

t h e b e gin ning s a nd e ntry into m odernit y

mountains and seas, should feel encouraged and not exclude themselves from the recruitment of talent so as to repay the emperor’s grace. Liu Zongyuan [773–819] said: “It is only through fine writing that one repays the country.” Born into a time of prosperity and justice, scholars should engage in learning and moral cultivation, so they produce writings that are useful and valuable. Moreover, they should educate students and enlighten village folks with poetry and music, so the air of harmony and goodness fills the vast sky and the green mountains. Rising upward, it promotes peace and excellence; downward, it transforms societal customs. Such is the earnest hope of the officials. Taking the responsibility of observing and edifying societal customs is how they repay the emperor. Now that the exams have concluded, I select writings of exceptional elegance and publish them in this volume. I make this proclamation not only to present the writings but also to inform the people of Taiwan. Newly Compiled Archives of Taiwan Prefecture (Record of Literature and Arts), ed. Fan Qian and Liushiqi, annotated by Chen Weizhi (Taipei: Yuanliu Publishing, 2005), 834, translated by Michelle Yeh.

2. Preface to Collection of Coral Branches z ha ng me i

W

hat is Collection of Coral Branches? It is the name for the literary writings by men from east of the ocean. What are coral branches? They are branches of coral reef. The ocean is so vast that it contains everything; the rarest treasures in the world are all found within. Why coral? Did not Du Fu say: “On the wind the Royal Attendant rides / Literary brilliance like a coral branch”? To compare literature to coral is to confer high value on it and at the same time to suggest its difficulty. Difficulty lies in the [harvesting of coral] branches. What about them? It is said: “Coral branches live at the bottom of the sea. They turn yellow when they are one year old, red when they are three. To harvest them, fishermen must use iron nets. They cannot be harvested before their time, and they rot when the time is past.” Therefore, coral harvesting, like literature, is considered a difficult task. Taiwan is an island surrounded by the ocean and isolated from the world. For sixty years, it has been basking in the glory of divine edification; dimness has given way to light. Many men in the marine territory display fine literary talent. In earlier times, there were no writings to collect, because the coral reef

t h e b e g inning s a nd ent ry into modernit y

41

had yet to put forth branches. If I don’t collect them now, I am afraid I will miss the time for harvesting them. However, does this mean that no one has collected writings [in Taiwan] thus far? The answer is no. In the sixth year of the Yongzheng reign [1728], Royal Attendant Xia Yunzhuang [a.k.a. Zhifang] of Gaoyou collected them under the title Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea. “Jade ruler” means that Yunzhuang is excellent in assessing talent. Following in his footsteps, I have tried my best, even though I may not be up to the task. Although I dare not call myself a ruler, I consider myself a net that gathers talents. I am pleased to present these pieces of precious jade for the world to share. In compiling this collection, I am also realizing Yunzhuang’s wish. Therefore, I pen this preface. Newly Compiled Archives of Taiwan Prefecture (Record of Literature and Arts), ed. Fan Qian and Liushiqi, annotated by Chen Weizhi (Taipei: Yuanliu Publishing, 2005), 834, translated by Michelle Yeh.

3. Preface Number 5 (by the Author) z ha ng fu

P

oetry arises from emotion. In my youth, I was enamored of poetry; in adulthood, I wrote poems on many topics; now in old age, I have not stopped chanting poetry. I have no idea why I have sustained the passion for six decades. I used to think my life would be complete if I could travel around the country and express my feelings along the way like the poet Mr. Huang Wuye [1524– 1590]. It is a pity, however, that I always threw up when I was aboard a ship. After exhausting myself by embarking on three voyages to take the civil service examinations [on the mainland], I never traveled west again. I was thirty-two years old then. Now in my old age, I regret that I have never traveled beyond central Fujian. I have allowed all my expressions of feelings and descriptions of scenes to go to waste. It was only when my students raised the concern that my poems would all be lost that they began to select some from my extant writings. They compiled them in a collection and asked me to name it before it went to the press. I only express what I feel at any given moment; it is as spontaneous as an insect chirping in autumn or a bird singing in spring. How can I call that poetry and what should I name the collection? The only reason to publish these shallow words of mine is to recover my true self. My style name is Half Pine; this is what I will call the collection. Readers to come will know that there was someone on

t h e b e g inning s a nd ent ry into modernit y

41

had yet to put forth branches. If I don’t collect them now, I am afraid I will miss the time for harvesting them. However, does this mean that no one has collected writings [in Taiwan] thus far? The answer is no. In the sixth year of the Yongzheng reign [1728], Royal Attendant Xia Yunzhuang [a.k.a. Zhifang] of Gaoyou collected them under the title Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea. “Jade ruler” means that Yunzhuang is excellent in assessing talent. Following in his footsteps, I have tried my best, even though I may not be up to the task. Although I dare not call myself a ruler, I consider myself a net that gathers talents. I am pleased to present these pieces of precious jade for the world to share. In compiling this collection, I am also realizing Yunzhuang’s wish. Therefore, I pen this preface. Newly Compiled Archives of Taiwan Prefecture (Record of Literature and Arts), ed. Fan Qian and Liushiqi, annotated by Chen Weizhi (Taipei: Yuanliu Publishing, 2005), 834, translated by Michelle Yeh.

3. Preface Number 5 (by the Author) z ha ng fu

P

oetry arises from emotion. In my youth, I was enamored of poetry; in adulthood, I wrote poems on many topics; now in old age, I have not stopped chanting poetry. I have no idea why I have sustained the passion for six decades. I used to think my life would be complete if I could travel around the country and express my feelings along the way like the poet Mr. Huang Wuye [1524– 1590]. It is a pity, however, that I always threw up when I was aboard a ship. After exhausting myself by embarking on three voyages to take the civil service examinations [on the mainland], I never traveled west again. I was thirty-two years old then. Now in my old age, I regret that I have never traveled beyond central Fujian. I have allowed all my expressions of feelings and descriptions of scenes to go to waste. It was only when my students raised the concern that my poems would all be lost that they began to select some from my extant writings. They compiled them in a collection and asked me to name it before it went to the press. I only express what I feel at any given moment; it is as spontaneous as an insect chirping in autumn or a bird singing in spring. How can I call that poetry and what should I name the collection? The only reason to publish these shallow words of mine is to recover my true self. My style name is Half Pine; this is what I will call the collection. Readers to come will know that there was someone on

42

t he b e gin ning s a nd e ntry into m odernit y

the east of the coast of Fujian who expressed his heart and soul in poetry, even though he knew not why he was so enamored of it. Recorded by Zhang Fu of Shenyou on the Sixteenth Day of the Third Month in the Twenty-First Year of the Jiaqing Reign [1816] A Short Compilation of Half-Pine Collection (Nantou: Archives Committee of Taiwan Province, 1997), 11, translated by Michelle Yeh.

4. Ars Poetica lin z ha nme i Is there no poetry besides that of Du Fu and Su Dongpo? It is self-deception to draw a line between the Song and the Tang. Why bother looking for immortals on the Isles of the Blessed? One finds a teacher whenever one meets compatible temperament. Complete Poems of Taiwan, 7 vols., ed. Shi Yilin (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 2008), 213, translated by Michelle Yeh.

5. Elucidating the Meaning of Literature xi e xue yu

W

hen it comes to the meaning of literature, views differ, and there has been no consensus in China since antiquity. In Japan or Western countries, it has a variety of meanings too. Literary language in my country has a long history. The word “literary” (wen) contrasts with “martial” (wu); it is also the collective term for learning, as seen in this statement by Emperor Wen [187–226] of the Wei dynasty: “Literary writing is a grand enterprise of governing the world and a noble endeavor of lasting value.” To give a recent example, in Japan before 1885, the educational structure of the Imperial University offered “literary disciplines,” which included law, economics, and political science. This shows how “literature” was defined then.

42

t he b e gin ning s a nd e ntry into m odernit y

the east of the coast of Fujian who expressed his heart and soul in poetry, even though he knew not why he was so enamored of it. Recorded by Zhang Fu of Shenyou on the Sixteenth Day of the Third Month in the Twenty-First Year of the Jiaqing Reign [1816] A Short Compilation of Half-Pine Collection (Nantou: Archives Committee of Taiwan Province, 1997), 11, translated by Michelle Yeh.

4. Ars Poetica lin z ha nme i Is there no poetry besides that of Du Fu and Su Dongpo? It is self-deception to draw a line between the Song and the Tang. Why bother looking for immortals on the Isles of the Blessed? One finds a teacher whenever one meets compatible temperament. Complete Poems of Taiwan, 7 vols., ed. Shi Yilin (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 2008), 213, translated by Michelle Yeh.

5. Elucidating the Meaning of Literature xi e xue yu

W

hen it comes to the meaning of literature, views differ, and there has been no consensus in China since antiquity. In Japan or Western countries, it has a variety of meanings too. Literary language in my country has a long history. The word “literary” (wen) contrasts with “martial” (wu); it is also the collective term for learning, as seen in this statement by Emperor Wen [187–226] of the Wei dynasty: “Literary writing is a grand enterprise of governing the world and a noble endeavor of lasting value.” To give a recent example, in Japan before 1885, the educational structure of the Imperial University offered “literary disciplines,” which included law, economics, and political science. This shows how “literature” was defined then.

42

t he b e gin ning s a nd e ntry into m odernit y

the east of the coast of Fujian who expressed his heart and soul in poetry, even though he knew not why he was so enamored of it. Recorded by Zhang Fu of Shenyou on the Sixteenth Day of the Third Month in the Twenty-First Year of the Jiaqing Reign [1816] A Short Compilation of Half-Pine Collection (Nantou: Archives Committee of Taiwan Province, 1997), 11, translated by Michelle Yeh.

4. Ars Poetica lin z ha nme i Is there no poetry besides that of Du Fu and Su Dongpo? It is self-deception to draw a line between the Song and the Tang. Why bother looking for immortals on the Isles of the Blessed? One finds a teacher whenever one meets compatible temperament. Complete Poems of Taiwan, 7 vols., ed. Shi Yilin (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 2008), 213, translated by Michelle Yeh.

5. Elucidating the Meaning of Literature xi e xue yu

W

hen it comes to the meaning of literature, views differ, and there has been no consensus in China since antiquity. In Japan or Western countries, it has a variety of meanings too. Literary language in my country has a long history. The word “literary” (wen) contrasts with “martial” (wu); it is also the collective term for learning, as seen in this statement by Emperor Wen [187–226] of the Wei dynasty: “Literary writing is a grand enterprise of governing the world and a noble endeavor of lasting value.” To give a recent example, in Japan before 1885, the educational structure of the Imperial University offered “literary disciplines,” which included law, economics, and political science. This shows how “literature” was defined then.

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It goes without saying that language is different from literature; the same applies to books, which are different from literature. By the same token, mathematics is different from literature, so is politics. The differences are obvious. Yes, since antiquity literature has often been confused with language. Everything in writing may be treated as literature. Webster’s Dictionary defines literature in the broadest sense to encompass everything that is based on observation, intellect, and imagination, and is preserved in writing, including all books in print. The only exception is publications of experimental science. Sometimes, the word refers to a branch of literature. Belles lettres refers to graceful and zesty writing or writing rich in feeling—such as poetry—which is distinguished from historiography and the like. In addition, abstract expositions and scholarly treaties are excluded. These definitions, however, are passive and far from complete. Perhaps it is appropriate to define literature more narrowly. In his introduction to A History of European Literature, Dr. Morell defines literature as all writings, except those related to particular sciences and technologies.1 Although this definition is more precise, it is still possible to mistake interesting diaries and records for literature. . . . Needless to say, statistical tables, legal documents, mathematical formulas, and so on cannot be called literature, but what the world commonly views as literature, such as historical biographies and critical studies, cannot be regarded as literature either. Keiro Shingu says that writing can be divided into the scientific and the poetic. But the so-called scientific writing and poetic writing are differentiated based on content, not on form. Poetic writing appeals to the imagination, whereas scientific writing appeals to the intellect. This is the basic distinction. Poetic writing appeals to the imagination and moves people through emotion, whereas scientific writing appeals to the intellect and induces people to evaluate their theses. What Shingu calls poetic writing is equivalent to literature and is still applicable today. This definition is based on an extreme comparison, for example, comparing poetry with mathematics. Although their difference is clear, there is still room for ambiguity. Thus, when it comes to the definition of literature, there is always confusion. When it comes to defining the boundary of literature, it is always difficult. Narrowly defined, literature is that which appeals to human emotions, expresses the beauty of human thought, and instills in humans universal feelings and ideas. It may also be called pure literature to distinguish it from literature in the broader sense. The latter includes biography, philosophy, and literary criticism. . . . Narrowly defined literature is poetry, which includes narrative poetry, lyric poetry, and poetic drama. In terms of form, poetry can be divided into prose poetry and rhymed poetry. In terms of substance, literature can be divided into hard and soft, pure and popular. Philosophy, biography, criticism, and the like are hard literature. Soft literature can also be called light literature. Taiwan Daily News (Chinese edition), iss. 2847 (October 28, 1907), translated by Michelle Yeh.

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note 1.

J. R. Morell, A History of European Literature (London: T. J. Allman, 1874).

6. Congratulations on the Founding of the Taiwan Literary Society we i qingde

T

hat which one intends to articulate and comes forth from the mouth are spoken words. However, spoken words are inadequate for reaching into the past and the present and illuminating both. That is why writing comes into being. Writing replaces the mouth with the brush as the vehicle; it replaces the listening ear with the observing eye. Thus, spoken and written words complement one another and expand the horizon of world literature. . . . Every time I read the history of evolution, I cannot help sighing over the fact that writing is a powerful pioneer. When it comes to writing, unity and lucidity are important so as to illuminate all without any regret. East Asian cultures are largely unified by the Chinese script, but there are diverse spoken languages, which are narrowly confined and mutually unintelligible. To abolish the Chinese script is to abandon East Asian thought. Buddhism states that one cannot be liberated when the true self is hidden. Barbaric peoples did not lack spoken languages, but their writing systems were incomplete, and as a result they could not spread their cultures, living forever in the dark without a dawn. However, the Chinese script is not perfect either; compared with European languages, it is less precise and cannot elucidate all things. If we add scientific terms from abroad and translate them into Chinese, we will succeed in introducing modern culture with all of its minutiae. The function of writing is twofold. One is practical writing; the other is belles lettres. Practical writing is for everyday use and for introducing science; it is important to be concise and clear. When one comes across a complicated or subtle point, one should go to great length to clarify it, for meticulousness is better than murkiness. If one cannot make it crystal clear, civilizations will stagnate. Belles lettres refers to songs, poetry, lyrics, and rhymed prose. They guide people toward the spiritual world with words that move them to sing, rejoice, weep, and be inspired. To inscribe, one does not shy away from reconditeness. To describe, one does not shy away from hyperbole. To pay tribute, one does not shy away from solemnity. To castigate, one does not shy away from forcefulness. To express grievances, one does not shy away from sorrow. To convey beauty, one does not shy away from

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note 1.

J. R. Morell, A History of European Literature (London: T. J. Allman, 1874).

6. Congratulations on the Founding of the Taiwan Literary Society we i qingde

T

hat which one intends to articulate and comes forth from the mouth are spoken words. However, spoken words are inadequate for reaching into the past and the present and illuminating both. That is why writing comes into being. Writing replaces the mouth with the brush as the vehicle; it replaces the listening ear with the observing eye. Thus, spoken and written words complement one another and expand the horizon of world literature. . . . Every time I read the history of evolution, I cannot help sighing over the fact that writing is a powerful pioneer. When it comes to writing, unity and lucidity are important so as to illuminate all without any regret. East Asian cultures are largely unified by the Chinese script, but there are diverse spoken languages, which are narrowly confined and mutually unintelligible. To abolish the Chinese script is to abandon East Asian thought. Buddhism states that one cannot be liberated when the true self is hidden. Barbaric peoples did not lack spoken languages, but their writing systems were incomplete, and as a result they could not spread their cultures, living forever in the dark without a dawn. However, the Chinese script is not perfect either; compared with European languages, it is less precise and cannot elucidate all things. If we add scientific terms from abroad and translate them into Chinese, we will succeed in introducing modern culture with all of its minutiae. The function of writing is twofold. One is practical writing; the other is belles lettres. Practical writing is for everyday use and for introducing science; it is important to be concise and clear. When one comes across a complicated or subtle point, one should go to great length to clarify it, for meticulousness is better than murkiness. If one cannot make it crystal clear, civilizations will stagnate. Belles lettres refers to songs, poetry, lyrics, and rhymed prose. They guide people toward the spiritual world with words that move them to sing, rejoice, weep, and be inspired. To inscribe, one does not shy away from reconditeness. To describe, one does not shy away from hyperbole. To pay tribute, one does not shy away from solemnity. To castigate, one does not shy away from forcefulness. To express grievances, one does not shy away from sorrow. To convey beauty, one does not shy away from

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grace. To renounce, one does not shy away from Daoism and Buddhism. To be original, one does not shy away from eccentricity. All of these situations are distinguished from daily use and are the undertakings of the specialist. Today, the Taiwan Literary Society is founded in response to the expectations of our time. It espouses lofty aspirations. In my delight, I risk being presumptuous and express my humble views here, both as a way to celebrate its founding and to seek corrections from masters in the literary world. Taiwan Literary Gazette 1 (January 1, 1919): 9–10, translated by Michelle Yeh.

7. On the New Mission to Promote Vernacular Writing hua ng che ngcong 1. I N T R O D U C T I O N The fact that I promote vernacular writing does not mean I have conducted excellent studies on it; I have never done any at all. But I felt the urgency and, with this clumsy article of mine, want to call your attention to the matter. I hope that you will be motivated to engage in the research and promotion [of vernacular writing] in order to advance our culture. I went to China in June earlier this year and witnessed the popularization of the vernacular and its great benefits. It made me more convinced that it was necessary to promote vernacular writing. The Republican government has adopted the vernacular as the national language; nationwide, schools are using textbooks written in the vernacular as a way of promoting it among the general population. Newspapers, magazines, monographs, and translations are mostly written in the vernacular as well. In other words, the vernacular is not a novelty for the curious few, but it has spread across the country and found a stronghold in society. Classical-style discourse continues to decline precisely because it does not speak to the practical needs of our society today. . . . Reflecting on the cultural condition of Taiwan, we do not see any activity or signs of progress. What is the reason for this? My reply is, it is because our society lacks a vernacular language, which would make it easier for people to read newspapers and books and to write letters and books. As a result, people do not know much about current events in the world; society remains unenlightened, and people have become ignorant. This is why our society is stagnant and makes little progress. Therefore, I think it is most urgent for our people to work hard to promote the vernacular and treat this work as our new calling. In the old days, only the select few—not the masses—in China and Taiwan could study classical

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grace. To renounce, one does not shy away from Daoism and Buddhism. To be original, one does not shy away from eccentricity. All of these situations are distinguished from daily use and are the undertakings of the specialist. Today, the Taiwan Literary Society is founded in response to the expectations of our time. It espouses lofty aspirations. In my delight, I risk being presumptuous and express my humble views here, both as a way to celebrate its founding and to seek corrections from masters in the literary world. Taiwan Literary Gazette 1 (January 1, 1919): 9–10, translated by Michelle Yeh.

7. On the New Mission to Promote Vernacular Writing hua ng che ngcong 1. I N T R O D U C T I O N The fact that I promote vernacular writing does not mean I have conducted excellent studies on it; I have never done any at all. But I felt the urgency and, with this clumsy article of mine, want to call your attention to the matter. I hope that you will be motivated to engage in the research and promotion [of vernacular writing] in order to advance our culture. I went to China in June earlier this year and witnessed the popularization of the vernacular and its great benefits. It made me more convinced that it was necessary to promote vernacular writing. The Republican government has adopted the vernacular as the national language; nationwide, schools are using textbooks written in the vernacular as a way of promoting it among the general population. Newspapers, magazines, monographs, and translations are mostly written in the vernacular as well. In other words, the vernacular is not a novelty for the curious few, but it has spread across the country and found a stronghold in society. Classical-style discourse continues to decline precisely because it does not speak to the practical needs of our society today. . . . Reflecting on the cultural condition of Taiwan, we do not see any activity or signs of progress. What is the reason for this? My reply is, it is because our society lacks a vernacular language, which would make it easier for people to read newspapers and books and to write letters and books. As a result, people do not know much about current events in the world; society remains unenlightened, and people have become ignorant. This is why our society is stagnant and makes little progress. Therefore, I think it is most urgent for our people to work hard to promote the vernacular and treat this work as our new calling. In the old days, only the select few—not the masses—in China and Taiwan could study classical

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Chinese. . . . The difficulty of classical Chinese demanded more than a decade of study before one could write a composition in it. Most people, even after studying it for four or five years, still could not use it with ease. . . . Because of our tendency to emulate antiquity and reject novelty, we think it is best to revere and copy tradition, while renouncing our own individuality, without realizing that we, too, have the ability to create and the talent to contribute to the progress of society. Little do we know that classical writing belongs to the classical era. Times change, and each era has its unique way of living and its unique customs. All things—from ethical values and economic structures to social systems and political ideals—have their unique historical contexts. When it comes to modern ideas, they are bound to depart from antiquity. Everything in the universe evolves and is the product of evolution; nothing stays unchanged. By the same token, human society moves forward ceaselessly. For that reason, we must adapt to the progress in our time and reform from time to time that which fails to correspond with our reality. What is most important is to maximize the result with minimum effort, thereby avoiding impeding the progress of the universe. Therefore, so long as an idea or a piece of writing benefits modern life, regardless of its time period or author, we should receive it without contempt. If it is not beneficial, we should be willing to let it go. In the following, I will explain the importance of promoting the vernacular in greater detail.

2. A H I S T O R I C A L O V E R V I E W O F VERNACULAR WRITING I am not an expert on the history of vernacular writing, and I have not had the time to study it. However, I will give a brief introduction based on the research of Professor Hu Shi [1891–1962] at Peking University. Every dynasty since the Tang produced vernacular literature, to say nothing of the Zen discourses and philosophical conversations from the Song and Ming dynasties. There are many vernacular poems in the Tang; their numbers grew even greater in the late Tang. Almost all the poems by Han Shan and Shi De are written in the vernacular, and there exist a great number of song lyrics in the vernacular, beginning in the Five Dynasties. The great lyrics by Li Yu [937–78] are mostly in the vernacular, and more vernacular poetry exists in the Song. Neo-Confucian philosophers Shao Yong [1011–77] and Zhang Zai [1020–77] wrote their works entirely in the vernacular; the vernacular poems of Lu You [1125–1210] and Yang Wanli [1127–1206] have great literary value. As the song lyric of the Song evolved into the dramatic aria of the Yuan, the vernacular played an increasingly important role. While vernacular fiction from the Song, such as Anecdotes from the Xuanhe Reign, was in its infancy, it came of age during the Yuan and the Ming. The Water Margin, Journey to the West, and The Three Kingdoms represent the maturity of vernacular fiction.

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Since then, vernacular literature has become the dominant form in China, and it serves two important functions. 1. It turns spoken words into written words. Without it, it would not be possible for vernacular Chinese to replace classical Chinese. 2. Vernacular literature is well received in southeastern provinces; it has reached places where the spoken vernacular cannot, thus expanding the territory of the local speech. . . .

5. T H E N E W C U LT U R A L M I S S I O N O F POPULARIZING VERNACULAR WRITING . . . My advocacy of vernacular writing is not just a whim of mine. All so-called modern people in China recognize the necessity of such. Even such classical scholars as Liang Qichao [1873–1929] and Zhang Binglin [1869–1936]—leading writers of Chinese literature—acknowledge this fact; many of their recent publications are written in the vernacular. Four or five years ago, when Professor Hu Shi advocated vernacular writing, a group of traditional scholars stood against him. It was only when general readers embraced vernacular writing that the scholars’ protests quieted down. Right now, Peking University is the center of the vernacular movement; professors promote vernacular writing with enthusiasm, and they are harvesting what they have sown. No one dares to discredit or disparage it. The situation will awaken people in Taiwan and encourage us to catch up with them. Come quickly to learn vernacular writing! When our compatriots become familiar with vernacular writing, they can then purchase books, newspapers, and magazines from China as a way of enlightening our stagnant, muddled society. To awaken our compatriots from their dreams—this is our new mission of reforming Taiwan! For our society is no different from Chinese society. What China aims to reform, so will we, and the hopes of the modern people in China are undoubtedly ours too! Some may say that the Chinese vernacular is different from the Taiwanese vernacular. Would it be better to create a special kind of vernacular by writing our spoken language in Chinese? I do not disagree, but the vernacular we have inherited is only used in such regions as Taiwan, Amoy, Quanzhou, and Zhangzhou. People outside Taiwan will want to use their own vernaculars too. How can we establish our vernacular independently on this small island? Taiwan is not an independent country. Without a powerful written language behind us to help us preserve our language, soon it will be destroyed by powerful languages from other places, just as a minority society would be overcome by a majority society unless we had a high level of culture. Therefore, we should apply ourselves to the study of the Chinese vernacular. Gradually, Taiwanese will get closer and

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closer to Chinese, until they become one and the same. As a result, not only will our sphere of influence be expanded to include China, but it will be convenient for us to work in any field in China. If we accept this way of thinking, although Taiwan is an isolated island, it will be as grand as the mainland. . . . In short, vernacular writing is the pioneer of cultural popularization. From now on, it is an efficient vehicle through which to understand where we are and what we should do to better our society. It is not a difficult task, because many of us have studied Chinese and enjoy reading vernacular Chinese fiction. Once we apply the same spirit to the newly published books of modern sciences and thought in China, we will expand our horizons. Taiwan 4, no. 1 (January 1, 1923): 12–25; reprinted in New Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Occupation, 5 vols., ed. Li Nanheng (Taipei: Mingtan Publishing, 1979), 5: 6–19, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

8. On Reforming Classical Chinese hua ng chaoqin ...

4. L E A R N I N G I S N O T T H E M O N O P O LY OF THE MINORITY “Hey Chaoqin! The vernacular writing you advocate is too plain, too simple. It lacks authority and has no artistic value whatsoever.” Sir, what you say about vernacular writing being “too plain, too simple” is undeniably the case, but I find it hard to agree with you that it “lacks authority” and has “no artistic value.” Yes, classical Chinese is truly elegant and artistic, but it cannot reach people from all classes and is only for experts. Living in modern times, we cannot perpetuate [the status quo]. Regardless of nationality, language must not be the private possession of the select few. It must belong to the general public. When it comes to Chinese, it should not be food for only the elite; the general public cannot do without it, just as one cannot preserve life without rice. Therefore, we must devote half our energy and time to turning the difficult Chinese into a large food pile and invite all our fellow citizens, without discrimination, to partake of it. To share a blessing leads to peace on Earth. An old saying goes: “No need for a

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closer to Chinese, until they become one and the same. As a result, not only will our sphere of influence be expanded to include China, but it will be convenient for us to work in any field in China. If we accept this way of thinking, although Taiwan is an isolated island, it will be as grand as the mainland. . . . In short, vernacular writing is the pioneer of cultural popularization. From now on, it is an efficient vehicle through which to understand where we are and what we should do to better our society. It is not a difficult task, because many of us have studied Chinese and enjoy reading vernacular Chinese fiction. Once we apply the same spirit to the newly published books of modern sciences and thought in China, we will expand our horizons. Taiwan 4, no. 1 (January 1, 1923): 12–25; reprinted in New Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Occupation, 5 vols., ed. Li Nanheng (Taipei: Mingtan Publishing, 1979), 5: 6–19, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

8. On Reforming Classical Chinese hua ng chaoqin ...

4. L E A R N I N G I S N O T T H E M O N O P O LY OF THE MINORITY “Hey Chaoqin! The vernacular writing you advocate is too plain, too simple. It lacks authority and has no artistic value whatsoever.” Sir, what you say about vernacular writing being “too plain, too simple” is undeniably the case, but I find it hard to agree with you that it “lacks authority” and has “no artistic value.” Yes, classical Chinese is truly elegant and artistic, but it cannot reach people from all classes and is only for experts. Living in modern times, we cannot perpetuate [the status quo]. Regardless of nationality, language must not be the private possession of the select few. It must belong to the general public. When it comes to Chinese, it should not be food for only the elite; the general public cannot do without it, just as one cannot preserve life without rice. Therefore, we must devote half our energy and time to turning the difficult Chinese into a large food pile and invite all our fellow citizens, without discrimination, to partake of it. To share a blessing leads to peace on Earth. An old saying goes: “No need for a

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village to raise a saint.” All can be accomplished under heaven when people are educated. How true!

5. WHY ISN’T CHINA PROSPEROUS AND STRONG? Among world civilizations, China has a great history of four thousand years. Why has it not made progress? A main reason is that its culture does not reach the general public. Why do I say that? Before I explain myself, I would like to mention what I heard recently from two foreigners. When I reflected on it, I realized the true meaning of the proverb “The outsider has a clearer view.” The first foreigner is the blind Russian poet Vasilij Eroŝenko [1890–1952], who was deported by the Japanese authorities for advocating Socialism in Tokyo. When he gave a speech on “The Mission of the Intellectuals” at Beijing Normal College, he began by asking: “Why is there only an extremely small number of people who enjoy literature in China, a country of forty millions?” This is incredible but not incomprehensible. Laborers do not have time to study, let alone research arcane Chinese characters that do not serve them in any way. There are no other countries in the world like China where, unfortunately, literature is completely separated from the general public. It is not that workers have no interest in literature; many of them do. But because they have to work all day long, there is no way for them to ever overcome the difficulty of reading such arcane literature. China suffers from the barrier of illiteracy. Intellectuals are isolated not only from Westerners but also from their own people. This barrier is more enduring than the Great Wall, more dangerous than barbarous tyrants. The other foreigner is the renowned American educator Paul Monroe [1869–1947]. He says that written language is an instrument for learning and literature is a means and a journey of acquiring knowledge. Literature is hard, acquiring knowledge even harder. In education, we use words economically, so students can acquire the maximum amount of useful knowledge in the minimum amount of time. To achieve this goal, however, the first thing to do must be simplify the written language. As far as I am concerned, the language being taught in Chinese elementary schools is exceedingly difficult. If we do not reform it quickly, our children will not be able to use the language fluently, even after several years of study, let alone make progress in learning. Therefore, how to simplify the language is an urgent issue in China today. In my view, so long as this issue remains unresolved, popularizing education will be impeded. . . .

7. P O P U L A R I Z I N G N E W V E R N A C U L A R W R I T I N G Classical Chinese is the most complex language in the world. Normally I would lavish praise on it for its capacity for suggestive metaphors. However, the

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numerous strokes of some characters do not make it easy on people who are less learned. In ancient times, when people regarded the civil service examination as their lifelong goal, it was natural for them to study the classical language. As civilization develops and science advances beyond our imagination, how can everyone be devoted to such learning? We may specialize in engineering, business, or agriculture. In order to study the sciences, we must learn foreign languages. Given the limit of one’s energy, how can one study the difficult [classical] language? If one does not have the time, yet society insists on using the language, not only is there no help for the uneducated, but even the educated cannot fully meet the challenge. This explains why we are seeing more and more advocates of language reform as the days go by. . . . Taiwan 4, no. 1 (January 1, 1923): 25–31, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

9. A Letter to the Youth of Taiwan z ha ng wojun April 6, 1924 MY DEAREST YOUNG FRIENDS: I have been toiling overseas these past few years and have not had the chance to work alongside you, or even to speak with you. What a shame! For a long time now, I have wanted to say a few—in my view, very important—words to you, but I have not found a suitable occasion. I have remained quiet until now, but my silence has become too much to bear. Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to talk with you. The chaos in the world has bankrupted the old civilizations, but new morals, new schools of thought, and new political systems have emerged. Working with the principle of racial self-determination, many of you have engaged in new movements and making new demands in the hope of reforming Taiwanese society. . . . Yet, my friends, except for the few people who are still petitioning feebly for the institutionalization of a parliament, we have seen not only no sign of social reform but also the wrong path down which some individuals are headed. Many of you seem to think that since there is no hope of establishing a parliament, there is no reforming society. This assumption has led you to abandon your principles and stop supporting your courageous brothers. Or, you have even moved in an opposite direction, mocking your brothers

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numerous strokes of some characters do not make it easy on people who are less learned. In ancient times, when people regarded the civil service examination as their lifelong goal, it was natural for them to study the classical language. As civilization develops and science advances beyond our imagination, how can everyone be devoted to such learning? We may specialize in engineering, business, or agriculture. In order to study the sciences, we must learn foreign languages. Given the limit of one’s energy, how can one study the difficult [classical] language? If one does not have the time, yet society insists on using the language, not only is there no help for the uneducated, but even the educated cannot fully meet the challenge. This explains why we are seeing more and more advocates of language reform as the days go by. . . . Taiwan 4, no. 1 (January 1, 1923): 25–31, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

9. A Letter to the Youth of Taiwan z ha ng wojun April 6, 1924 MY DEAREST YOUNG FRIENDS: I have been toiling overseas these past few years and have not had the chance to work alongside you, or even to speak with you. What a shame! For a long time now, I have wanted to say a few—in my view, very important—words to you, but I have not found a suitable occasion. I have remained quiet until now, but my silence has become too much to bear. Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to talk with you. The chaos in the world has bankrupted the old civilizations, but new morals, new schools of thought, and new political systems have emerged. Working with the principle of racial self-determination, many of you have engaged in new movements and making new demands in the hope of reforming Taiwanese society. . . . Yet, my friends, except for the few people who are still petitioning feebly for the institutionalization of a parliament, we have seen not only no sign of social reform but also the wrong path down which some individuals are headed. Many of you seem to think that since there is no hope of establishing a parliament, there is no reforming society. This assumption has led you to abandon your principles and stop supporting your courageous brothers. Or, you have even moved in an opposite direction, mocking your brothers

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from a distance. Some, motivated by greed, stand ready to betray them. My young friends, do you mean to tell me that you are satisfied with the status quo? Are you ready to throw in the towel in despair, because you have lost the will to resist and are too tired to fight against the ills of society? Or are you a follower of hermits like Tao Yuanming [365–427], whose philosophy is to accept fate and be happy? Or do you identify with Tolstoy’s philosophy of nonresistance? Otherwise, why don’t you read some useful books and apply what you learn to address practical issues in society? Instead, you do nothing but write meaningless poems all day, allow yourselves to be enslaved by prosody, or talk about some formulaic, rule-bound essays to preserve the stinking relics of our forebears. (Poetry and prose in Taiwan have no real literary value, as they have not gone through reform. They wallow in human feces; even if they could last thousands of years, they would not be anything but stinking excrement.) Vying to be in the spotlight, those self-proclaimed “venerated poets” and “senior poets” engage in endless squabbles. What does this tell us? To be honest, if you continue down this path, even when an opportunity comes along or a sense of righteousness strikes you, you will not be able to rise to the challenge and collectively make our society better. If you do not prepare yourselves, you will be clueless when called to arms. Therefore, I sincerely hope that you will, first of all, build your strength and never give up the ideal of social reform. Moreover, you must cultivate the three qualities that I mentioned earlier—unity, tenacity, and self-sacrifice. Then, even if we may not be able to make much progress today, at least our society will not collapse, and eventually we will reach our goal of freedom and happiness. Please forgive me for being so outspoken. I wish all of you continued success. Taiwan People’s Journal 2, no. 7 (April 21, 1924): 2–3; reprinted in Collected Works of Zhang Wojun, ed. Zhang Guangzheng (Taipei: Renjian Publishing, 2002), 2–3, translated by Hsiu-Chuang Deppman.

10. The Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan z ha ng wojun

T

he literary scene of Taiwan has come alive in recent years! Its liveliness is unprecedented in history. Look around: poetry clubs and poetry gurus are ubiquitous. Even the general public is enthusiastically engaged with literature. This indeed is a phenomenon worthy of envy and celebration. It goes without

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from a distance. Some, motivated by greed, stand ready to betray them. My young friends, do you mean to tell me that you are satisfied with the status quo? Are you ready to throw in the towel in despair, because you have lost the will to resist and are too tired to fight against the ills of society? Or are you a follower of hermits like Tao Yuanming [365–427], whose philosophy is to accept fate and be happy? Or do you identify with Tolstoy’s philosophy of nonresistance? Otherwise, why don’t you read some useful books and apply what you learn to address practical issues in society? Instead, you do nothing but write meaningless poems all day, allow yourselves to be enslaved by prosody, or talk about some formulaic, rule-bound essays to preserve the stinking relics of our forebears. (Poetry and prose in Taiwan have no real literary value, as they have not gone through reform. They wallow in human feces; even if they could last thousands of years, they would not be anything but stinking excrement.) Vying to be in the spotlight, those self-proclaimed “venerated poets” and “senior poets” engage in endless squabbles. What does this tell us? To be honest, if you continue down this path, even when an opportunity comes along or a sense of righteousness strikes you, you will not be able to rise to the challenge and collectively make our society better. If you do not prepare yourselves, you will be clueless when called to arms. Therefore, I sincerely hope that you will, first of all, build your strength and never give up the ideal of social reform. Moreover, you must cultivate the three qualities that I mentioned earlier—unity, tenacity, and self-sacrifice. Then, even if we may not be able to make much progress today, at least our society will not collapse, and eventually we will reach our goal of freedom and happiness. Please forgive me for being so outspoken. I wish all of you continued success. Taiwan People’s Journal 2, no. 7 (April 21, 1924): 2–3; reprinted in Collected Works of Zhang Wojun, ed. Zhang Guangzheng (Taipei: Renjian Publishing, 2002), 2–3, translated by Hsiu-Chuang Deppman.

10. The Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan z ha ng wojun

T

he literary scene of Taiwan has come alive in recent years! Its liveliness is unprecedented in history. Look around: poetry clubs and poetry gurus are ubiquitous. Even the general public is enthusiastically engaged with literature. This indeed is a phenomenon worthy of envy and celebration. It goes without

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saying that we should expect to see many excellent works to come. Seizing this opportunity, we ought to cultivate a few shining stars to illuminate the literary circle, so as not to waste such a grand scene and dash our high hopes. Perhaps in doing so, we may cast a shaft of light on our dimly lit literary history. Yet, despite the founding of poetry clubs, the creative output of poets, and the enthusiasm of the general public for literature, no satisfactory works have been produced. On the contrary, they have emitted an odorous toxic air, which not only brings shame to the literati but also buries many promising talents and lively youths. This is why we cannot help coming out to make some noise. Since the Renaissance in fifteenth-century Europe, Western literature has been reborn and surpassed its predecessors. From classicism to romanticism, from romanticism to naturalism, it has now moved beyond naturalism. Neo-idealism and neorealism have spread across the world’s literary arena. Even in culturally backward Japan, since the Meiji Restoration [1868], there has been a literary renaissance on the heels of political reform. On the literary scene of the Meiji and Taishō periods, numerous warriors arose and, through their endeavor, awoke the sleepy world of letters. The fruit of their labor is so abundant that it compares favorably with European and American literature. Even China has been reborn after its baptism of social and political turmoils to produce a new literature of considerable accomplishment. In short, in this day and age, we must adopt the world standard as our standard, be it in politics, diplomacy, or economy. Literature is no exception. This is why all modern literature tends to develop in one direction, leading to a world literature that is taking shape before our eyes. However, the literature of Taiwan is still snoring in deep slumber and will be forever excluded from the world’s literary scene. The literati here are still enamored of skeletons buried in dust and, like watch dogs, willingly guarding the ancient tomb of classicism. The childish literary circle on this tiny island may not have the self-awareness to reform; but neither the sonorous battle cries in the Japanese literary scene over the past few decades nor the roars of Chinese literary warriors in the past seven or eight years have been able to stimulate this island situated in between. What a shame to see such indifference! Many of us in Taiwan are conversant in the languages of Japan and China. Furthermore, these two countries provide the nearest exemplars that could revive our trite and degenerate literary world. Yet such is not the case. Our genteel literati continue to hold onto their old dreams and show not the slightest interest in reform. As a result, our literary world remains overcast with dark clouds, like nights filled with the howling of ghosts. There is not a trace of life, as though we lived in a realm different from the modern literature of the world. What sadness! . . . Not only are [the literati] unable to shake off their infatuation with old literature and take the path toward New Literature, but it is even impossible to find one among them that understands literature. (It then makes sense that they stubbornly hold onto classicism. Frankly, I think they may not be aware of what

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they are doing.) If we ask them: Why do you write poetry, and what is poetry? It would be like asking the mute to speak. (I use poetry as an example, because from the past to the present, the literature of Taiwan consists only of poetry. Other genres are virtually nonexistent. I have never seen novels or plays. That is why in Taiwan, poetry is equal to literature, and literature is equal to poetry. . . .) They either treat literature as a game or use it like a utensil. Acting like literati from the old dynasty, many senior poets throw tantrums or flaunt a few verses that have the form but not the substance. They cheer up when Governor [Izawa] pays them any attention. What is even more abominable is how they reduce the sacred art to a practical object or a means to seek fame and curry favor with the authorities, all the time presenting themselves as genteel and elegant. What difference is there between gaining fame through literature and buying fame with money? These literati are actually more despicable than simple folks who use money as the means to achieve fame. The greatest pity is that our vivacious youths have got into the bad habit of chasing fame without hard work. They mistakenly think that writing poetry will lead them to fame (what kind of fame is this anyway?) without exertion (writing poetry is, in truth, not as easy as they think). From time to time the governor gives them tea and requests their poems; from time to time poetry clubs invite them to drink wine and write poems. In order to see their names printed in the newspapers and to receive gifts from the authorities, they cast aside all scruples and throw themselves into poetry writing (a silly game really). They have not digested even half of Tang poetry; they search in vain in their dried-up brains and regurgitate what they have read. Having exhausted their energy and wasted their time, they may gain fame or notoriety. Several years go by, they still fail to compose even half of a quality verse. But they have a bellyful of complaints and a mouthful of bookish stench, churning out trite words like: “[I am the] talented Wang Can who goes unrecognized” or “[I am] wandering with a sword and books.” What decency is this? No such literati should ever be admitted into the sanctuary of literature. Enough is enough. I have written an article full of dull, unsavory words. My head aches, my hand is numb, even my eyes are blurry! All in all, the literature of Taiwan is like a person standing in a quagmire. The more he struggles, the deeper he sinks, until he drowns in the stinking mud! My friends and brothers, let us come to his rescue and save him from the muddy pit! The sanctuary of New Literature is waiting for us to move in! Finally, two pieces of advice for those who are interested in literature: 1. Read as many books on literary theory and literary history as possible. 2. Read as many excellent literary works (poetry, drama, fiction, etc.) as possible from China and around the globe.

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The former will give you an understanding of what literature is and prevent you from treading on a path away from literature. With knowledge of literary trends, you will be open to reform without adhering to mummified corpses. The latter will enrich your thoughts and sharpen your techniques of expression. Being expressive may not be the most important thing in literature. However, deep passion and rich ideas must be conveyed through expression. If you do not know how to express them or do not express them aptly, you cannot produce great works. Taiwan People’s Journal 2, no. 24 (November 21, 1924); reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wojun, ed. Zhang Guangzheng (Taipei: Renjian Publishing, 2002), 2–3, translated by Peilin Liang.

11. On Reading “A Comparison of Old and New Literature” in the Taiwan Daily News l a n yun ... 1. The New Literature movement is triggered by the influence of Western learning. Therefore, there is no denying that it is westernized. However, it is also true that it has limited immersion in the times and has yet to achieve its objective, which is the unity of the tongue and the tip of the pen. . . . 2. The tools of the old literature were incomplete from the start. Moreover, its readers were the elites—the so-called literati—and they disdained any connections with the illiterate masses. Therefore, [the old literature] could only be concise, and it valued conciseness and elegance. Although the tools of New Literature are incomplete too, it has at its disposal more tools. Besides, it aims at the masses and therefore must be detailed and clear. Naturally, in the eyes of old literature, it seems wordy . . . and too foreign. This is just a neurotic response on the part of those who do not know that the trend of New Literature is to use the vernacular in writing, with a little embellishment, to achieve artistic beauty. If this is considered foreign, then it reflects the bankruptcy of the Han culture and the degeneration of the Han people, and they should not complain. As to replacing Chinese characters with A-BC, that is entirely up to individual authors, based on habit or convenience. It has nothing to do with substance and therefore cannot be used as a criterion for evaluation. . . .

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The former will give you an understanding of what literature is and prevent you from treading on a path away from literature. With knowledge of literary trends, you will be open to reform without adhering to mummified corpses. The latter will enrich your thoughts and sharpen your techniques of expression. Being expressive may not be the most important thing in literature. However, deep passion and rich ideas must be conveyed through expression. If you do not know how to express them or do not express them aptly, you cannot produce great works. Taiwan People’s Journal 2, no. 24 (November 21, 1924); reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wojun, ed. Zhang Guangzheng (Taipei: Renjian Publishing, 2002), 2–3, translated by Peilin Liang.

11. On Reading “A Comparison of Old and New Literature” in the Taiwan Daily News l a n yun ... 1. The New Literature movement is triggered by the influence of Western learning. Therefore, there is no denying that it is westernized. However, it is also true that it has limited immersion in the times and has yet to achieve its objective, which is the unity of the tongue and the tip of the pen. . . . 2. The tools of the old literature were incomplete from the start. Moreover, its readers were the elites—the so-called literati—and they disdained any connections with the illiterate masses. Therefore, [the old literature] could only be concise, and it valued conciseness and elegance. Although the tools of New Literature are incomplete too, it has at its disposal more tools. Besides, it aims at the masses and therefore must be detailed and clear. Naturally, in the eyes of old literature, it seems wordy . . . and too foreign. This is just a neurotic response on the part of those who do not know that the trend of New Literature is to use the vernacular in writing, with a little embellishment, to achieve artistic beauty. If this is considered foreign, then it reflects the bankruptcy of the Han culture and the degeneration of the Han people, and they should not complain. As to replacing Chinese characters with A-BC, that is entirely up to individual authors, based on habit or convenience. It has nothing to do with substance and therefore cannot be used as a criterion for evaluation. . . .

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3. Old literature from the past has its own value and is not considered here. In terms of current literature (in Taiwan), how much of it can convey selfknowledge and self-expression, or can connect with the masses? Needless to say, most of it is pulp, realist, mysterious, or romantic. .  .  .To put it bluntly, it is but a spittoon. Literature has always been a microcosm of society. Remarkable writers of the New Literature ought to “master” social issues that are most urgent and need resolving. In society, only writers of the old literature can live contentedly and leisurely, whistling among blue mountains and green waters, tipsy and singing under the bright moon and amid fragrant flowers. Alas, they are happy indeed, enviable indeed! As to the quality of description, it is up to the artistic skills of individual writers and has nothing to do with being new or old. As long as it is mature and fully developed, I am positive that new, refreshing works are more universal, more moving, and better able to accomplish the mission of literature. . . . 4. The New Literature of Taiwan may not be original, but it is imported in broad daylight and not stolen. The glory [of being native] is the exclusive prerogative of masters of the old literature. Because of their labor, they have created the putrid traditional culture today and cultivated the unique virtue of submissiveness in the masses. What is most curious is that among Taiwan’s writers of the New Literature few can read foreign languages, but their works stink of butter and toast. Damn it! Besides, they are young and uncultivated; they should not call people names any time they want. . . . The New Literature is a newly discovered world, open to all who are capable to cultivate freely. It is wide open and lends itself to universalism. Such is the great commonwealth. But when one runs into a barren land overgrown with brambles, one must work hard to get rid of them. . . . 6–7. These two points have nothing to do with comparison and need not be raised. But I must say one thing: literature has its own value and mission; we cannot limit it and criticize it based on moral principles. For literature, in the final analysis, is not a vehicle of the Way. (It can be used as a tool of propaganda, but doing so deprives it of its value.) As the New Literature and the old literature exist side by side, who knows which one will influence the other? Even though at the moment darkness reigns in Taiwan, there is a visible ray of light. As to the old China of rituals and cultural relics, that decrepit temple was blasted into pieces by Chen Duxiu’s [1879–1942] cannon a long time ago. January 9, 1926 Taiwan People’s Journal 89 (January 24, 1926); reprinted in Complete Works of Lai He, 6 vols., ed. Lin Ruiming (Taipei: Avant-Garde, 2000), 3: 87–91, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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12. Diary li u na’ou May 8th (Sunday) The rain never let up, so I stayed upstairs and went on reading Takasu Yoshijiro’s [1880–1948] Sixteen Lectures on Literature of the East [1926]. There was nothing original in it, just the sort of ordinary lectures on the history of Chinese literature for beginners, and I finished it by noon. In the afternoon, I read the copy of Popular Historical Romance of the Twentyfour Histories that I found at the bottom of the bookcase. It was compiled by Lü Fu1 (a.k.a. Lü Anshi) of Xinchang, Zhejiang Province, and proofed by his three sons. The book is too crude and shallow to be any good, most of it taken from the twenty-four dynastic histories. But there are a number of passages on the ways that historical rulers and rebellious bandits inflicted punishments on people that make for good material on abnormal sexual desire. The scene of Zhang Xianzhong’s massacre in Sichuan really contains some unexpected aspects, and I think the topic of “sexual desire and Chinese literature” is definitely intriguing. May 9th (Monday) All day spent upstairs reading. I’m taking a complete set of five issues of the Creation Monthly and reading each author separately. Today I read just Yu Dafu’s fiction and essays, all material about his personal life. “The Past” is the best piece, about two modern “new girls.” Although there are some places where the language is hard to follow, the style is polished and he is an extremely poetic writer of fiction. July 1st (Friday) I organized my notes on Aoki Masaru’s [1887–1964] Collected Comments on [Chinese] Literature [1927]. The second issue of Fiction Monthly arrived, and it is just awful. Chinese writers are on the verge of extinction. Whether there is something wrong with their brains or they are just lazy, I cannot tell. The criticism in the literary supplement Study Lamp got it right: our elders and betters have taken to extending their wives’ smelly foot-binding cloth. Who knows how long it will take for them to get back on the right track for literature? Next to them, the things in the Creation Monthly are far better, like Zhang Ziping’s “Taili,” Yu Dafu’s “The Past,” and the like. Read E. Lucas’s Zigzags in France. Have not read English in a long time. Is that why each word looks confusing? November 1st (Tuesday) Someone named Zhang published an article in the Beijing Morning Post on “Exaggeration in Chinese Literature,” which really caught my eye. Since I came to China, this is a topic on which I have been wanting to write. In the current

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literature of China—if there is literature in China currently—there is really a “whining over nothing” that tops Hu Shi’s “whining over nothing” when he warned against it. In my view, young writers in China practically take adjectives for literature; they cannot live without adjectives. Adjectives = literature. It is truly bizarre. String together some adjectives, and it makes a poem. But Zhang got it wrong. There is nothing wrong with quoting theories of sincerity and insincerity and ancient literary criticism to discuss things in Chinese literature. But when he uses classic examples like “ten thousand yards of white hair” [Li Bai, 701–62], “harder than ascending to heaven” [Li Bai], and “the boat can hardly hold so many sorrows” [Li Qingzhao, 1084–1155], you realize Zhang is discussing hyperbole for the sake of hyperbole, not writing about hyperbole for the sake of literature. These lines are the poets’ true feelings, so if Zhang is going to call that exaggeration, then literature is something dispensable, and he may as well study science. He does not argue from fundamentals but just talks about incidentals. Complete Work of Liu Na’ou: Diaries, 2 vols., ed. Kang Laixin (Tainan: Tainan Bureau of Culture, 2001), 2: 302–4, 424, 684, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

note 1.

Lü Fu: Probably a typo, as Liu Na’ou identified the author as Gao Fu when the name should read Lü Fu, better known as Lü Anshi, of the early Qing dynasty.

13. Advance l a n yun

O

ne very dark night, the sky was so profoundly black that it prevented the starlight from filtering down to Earth. The gloom was deeper even than what one may find many meters underground. The terrifying dark was unprecedented. On Earth blanketed by the dark, two children were abandoned by their mother. The children’s history was unclear; it was not known whether they had left home looking for their mother who had disappeared, or whether they were stepsons who had been chased away by their stepmother because of disobedience. They knew neither the place where they were nor what direction to take. Whether the place where they stood was solid ground or the surroundings dangerous was also unclear. The pitch-black on all sides made their eyes useless. Their memories were blank, but they felt no fear, nor did they expect comfort from anyone. They were governed only by an instinct, which was to advance!

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literature of China—if there is literature in China currently—there is really a “whining over nothing” that tops Hu Shi’s “whining over nothing” when he warned against it. In my view, young writers in China practically take adjectives for literature; they cannot live without adjectives. Adjectives = literature. It is truly bizarre. String together some adjectives, and it makes a poem. But Zhang got it wrong. There is nothing wrong with quoting theories of sincerity and insincerity and ancient literary criticism to discuss things in Chinese literature. But when he uses classic examples like “ten thousand yards of white hair” [Li Bai, 701–62], “harder than ascending to heaven” [Li Bai], and “the boat can hardly hold so many sorrows” [Li Qingzhao, 1084–1155], you realize Zhang is discussing hyperbole for the sake of hyperbole, not writing about hyperbole for the sake of literature. These lines are the poets’ true feelings, so if Zhang is going to call that exaggeration, then literature is something dispensable, and he may as well study science. He does not argue from fundamentals but just talks about incidentals. Complete Work of Liu Na’ou: Diaries, 2 vols., ed. Kang Laixin (Tainan: Tainan Bureau of Culture, 2001), 2: 302–4, 424, 684, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

note 1.

Lü Fu: Probably a typo, as Liu Na’ou identified the author as Gao Fu when the name should read Lü Fu, better known as Lü Anshi, of the early Qing dynasty.

13. Advance l a n yun

O

ne very dark night, the sky was so profoundly black that it prevented the starlight from filtering down to Earth. The gloom was deeper even than what one may find many meters underground. The terrifying dark was unprecedented. On Earth blanketed by the dark, two children were abandoned by their mother. The children’s history was unclear; it was not known whether they had left home looking for their mother who had disappeared, or whether they were stepsons who had been chased away by their stepmother because of disobedience. They knew neither the place where they were nor what direction to take. Whether the place where they stood was solid ground or the surroundings dangerous was also unclear. The pitch-black on all sides made their eyes useless. Their memories were blank, but they felt no fear, nor did they expect comfort from anyone. They were governed only by an instinct, which was to advance!

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They sensed a force that forbade them from standing forever rooted to the same spot. So each took hold of the other’s hand and firmly and fearlessly stepped forward. Relying on instinct, they faced toward the front not knowing where the future lay. Advance! Blindly advance toward the unknown goal! Understandably, they had little idea about the distance involved in their journey. It was merely a matter of going forward, relying on each other, holding each other’s hands and advancing for the sake of advancing. Their intention was not to seek a route to glory nor to go down a path toward freedom. They merely moved forward facing the same direction. There were stones that obstructed them, thorns that pricked their feet, a muddy marsh that sucked them down, and a watery pit in which one could easily drown. But under the rule of the dark, all obstacles and dangers posed by the advance were swallowed up by the pitch-black. Numb to the obstructions, harboring no fear of the dangers, and blind to each other in the dark, the two of them advanced forward. As a result of merely moving forward into the dark, they encountered no obstacles and no danger but merely advanced onward. With their face to the road before them and with the end point unknown, they ceaselessly walked on. . . . The two were not prophets, nor did they have much use for eyes. The strength of their will carried them onto a bridge, although they were not aware of it and only deemed it part of the advance. From the outset, they stayed at each other’s side, even with the option of a road, land, and bridge over the stream. As it was only a matter of advancing, they were unconcerned with whether the bridge was broken or whether the pilings were tilted and did not tremble with fear or feel afraid. They only advanced unperturbed, holding each other’s hands, and finally crossed over to the other side. Advance! Advance! They refused to rest, even though their bodies, which were still developing, had little strength. Today’s human species is pathetically weak and willpower can do little to overcome physical frailties. They were tired, and their thoughts were confused. Their muscles and bones no longer took orders from their brains. Their upper bodies could no longer hold up and fell forward from the weight. This happened despite their advance along the road to the dreamland. Just then, the wind and the rain let off playing the duet of the march. Darkness deepened and buried them under the terrible black. Because of the dark, time seemed to move more slowly. Only after a long time did they see light and did day seem to break. One of the two, either the older or the younger, was taller, but his muscles were weaker, and it seemed that he had endured more than the other. He wished on this journey to the dreamland to acquire stimulation and to gain strength that they both could use. He returned to the real world and opened wide his eyes. When eyes that are long accustomed to darkness and are about to lose their sight are abruptly exposed to light, they become blinded and quickly close again. After a while, they felt that the scenery had changed. They saw the horizon and could distinguish the light on the water that whirled and flowed about them. They also saw the jagged

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forests that resembled thick black ink. But what made them dance for joy was the road that appeared indistinctly ahead of them. Without being aware of it, he walked forward energetically, leaving his companion behind. He passed down a section of the road, but because his feet were tired and the surface of the road uneven, he stumbled and nearly fell. Only then did he become aware that he was alone. Having lost the companion who had always been by his side, he looked back wistfully. Spying his shadow on the ground, he mistook it for his companion following along behind and called out in delight. Quick! There is light up ahead. Hurry! The shouts shattered the deathly quiet and the wavering sound shot over the horizon and shook the dark. Once again, the wind and the rain harmonized and struck up their solemn march. His companion remained immersed in happy thoughts of the dreamland and let him continue on down the road alone. Quickened by the rhythm of the wind, the dark once again closed around him. The dazzling thread of light was snuffed out, and everything returned to the pitch-black as before. Ominously, there were signs that it was deepening. The one who had lost his companion continued forward alone in the dark. Advance along the road that leads to an unknown place. . . Taiwan People’s Times 1 (May 7, 1928); reprinted in Complete Works of Lai He, 6 vols., ed. Lin Ruiming (Taipei: Avant-Garde, 2000), 2: 249–53, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

14. The Solitary Spirits League and the Anarchist Theater Movement z ha ng qis hi 1. T H E S O L I TA R Y S P I R I T S L E A G U E After the Black Youth League was reported to the authorities, it appeared as though the activities of Taiwan’s anarchists had been overwhelmed and clearly weakened by Communism. Yet notably there were still organizations such as the Solitary Spirits League and anarchists such as Zhang Qishi (Beggar Zhang) that formed the New Theater movement. The Solitary Spirits League was the name of an anarchist study group. It was initiated by the anarchist Inagaki Toubei, who ran the Inae Private School for the poor. A consistent advocate of local education, he united the anarchists in Taiwan to form the group. . . .

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forests that resembled thick black ink. But what made them dance for joy was the road that appeared indistinctly ahead of them. Without being aware of it, he walked forward energetically, leaving his companion behind. He passed down a section of the road, but because his feet were tired and the surface of the road uneven, he stumbled and nearly fell. Only then did he become aware that he was alone. Having lost the companion who had always been by his side, he looked back wistfully. Spying his shadow on the ground, he mistook it for his companion following along behind and called out in delight. Quick! There is light up ahead. Hurry! The shouts shattered the deathly quiet and the wavering sound shot over the horizon and shook the dark. Once again, the wind and the rain harmonized and struck up their solemn march. His companion remained immersed in happy thoughts of the dreamland and let him continue on down the road alone. Quickened by the rhythm of the wind, the dark once again closed around him. The dazzling thread of light was snuffed out, and everything returned to the pitch-black as before. Ominously, there were signs that it was deepening. The one who had lost his companion continued forward alone in the dark. Advance along the road that leads to an unknown place. . . Taiwan People’s Times 1 (May 7, 1928); reprinted in Complete Works of Lai He, 6 vols., ed. Lin Ruiming (Taipei: Avant-Garde, 2000), 2: 249–53, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

14. The Solitary Spirits League and the Anarchist Theater Movement z ha ng qis hi 1. T H E S O L I TA R Y S P I R I T S L E A G U E After the Black Youth League was reported to the authorities, it appeared as though the activities of Taiwan’s anarchists had been overwhelmed and clearly weakened by Communism. Yet notably there were still organizations such as the Solitary Spirits League and anarchists such as Zhang Qishi (Beggar Zhang) that formed the New Theater movement. The Solitary Spirits League was the name of an anarchist study group. It was initiated by the anarchist Inagaki Toubei, who ran the Inae Private School for the poor. A consistent advocate of local education, he united the anarchists in Taiwan to form the group. . . .

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2. T H E T H E AT E R M O V E M E N T O F T H E A N A R C H I S T S The S tar light Theat er Resea r c h Soc i ety Zhang Weixian (alias Beggar Zhang) was from the Rixin district of Taipei. After graduating from Soto Sect Middle School in the East Gate district, he left for the South Pacific in search of work. At the end of 1924, he returned to Taipei without finding employment and began to associate with members of the Cultural Association and the Taipei Youth Proletariat. This sparked his interest in the New Theater movement planned by these two groups. Around October 1925, Zhang began consulting with his friends Fan Xinchuan, Chen Mingdong, and others to promote the New Theater movement. This culminated in the establishment of the Taiwan Art Research Society by bringing in Wang Wande [1903–1985], Pan Qinxin, Chen Zong, Chen Qimian, Weng Baoshu, Wang Jingquan, and Pan Xinchuan and the trial performances of the works of Hu Shi. However, due to differences of opinion with Wang Wande, Pan Qinxin, and Chen Zong at a review meeting, the group split. Beggar Zhang then invited Yang Muyuan, Lai Lishui, Yang Xu, Cai Jianxing, Tang Jinfu, and Yu Yuhuo, along with several members of the original group—Chen Mingdong, Wang Jingquan, Chen Qimian, Weng Baoshu, and Fan Xinchuan—to found the Starlight Theater Research Society. The Starlight Theater Research Society proclaimed as goals that they would smash old practices, reform customs, and enlighten society through the use of theater. Without a doubt, the society intended to use theater to expand their ideological influence. The group put on performances, in Yongle Theater and as far as Yilan, of Marriage (questioning the taboo on same-surname marriages), The Dark Registry of Plaintive Souls (cautioning against the use of opium), and Clumsy Mother, Clumsy Daughter (chastising vanity). However, few members showed enthusiasm for the development and management of the society. By 1927, funds had dried up and the society naturally fizzled out.

The Yil an C itizen’s Beacon D r a ma Trou pe In Yilan, Huang Tianhai long identified with anarchism. Stimulated by the New Theater movement, Huang wanted to befriend Beggar Zhang and seek his guidance to carry out a study of ideology while planning to promote a theater movement. In 1928, Huang collaborated with Han Defa of the Yilan Credit Cooperative and on December 6—under Zhang’s guidance—gathered twelve comrades for the inaugural meeting of the Yilan Citizen’s Beacon Drama Troupe. Subsequently, Huang worked diligently to adapt and rehearse such plays as Ozaki Kōyō’s [1868–1903] The Golden Yaksha1 and Tolstoy’s The Living Corpse. Due to lack of enthusiasm on the part of the members, as well as lack

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of operating funds, the troupe made a limited run in conjunction with the All Night Youth Association movie circuit and was barely able to pay back the loan. At Zhang’s suggestion, the troupe disbanded on February 3, 1929.

The Ci tizen’s Beacon Theat er Resea r c h Soc i ety Although the Starlight Theater Research Society and the Yilan Citizen’s Beacon Drama Troupe had both failed, Beggar Zhang was increasingly committed to the New Theater movement. In May 1928, he went to Tokyo to conduct research on theater. While in Tokyo, he devoted himself to studying anarchism, at the same time trying to establish contacts among anarchists between Taiwan and Tokyo (and other locales). He returned to Taiwan in 1930. After his return, Zhang provided guidance to anarchists in Taipei and Zhanghua, particularly to the recently established Taiwan Labor Mutual Assistance Society. At the same time, he planned to propagandize anarchism and revive the New Theater movement, for which he wrote a charter and a manifesto and devoted himself to recruiting members.

Manifesto of the C itizen’ s Beac on Theater Resear ch Soc i ety Our ancestors lived in the past, but we live in the present and must continue to live in the future. From the past to the present, we have endured hypocrisy and deceit, and are currently being trampled on and verbally abused. Yet we must sustain our efforts and continue to struggle, in order to realize a true “human life” as soon as possible. Art is a product born of this process. Education is the conceptual synthesis of rising and implicit desires; it prepares a new order to replace the old, set ways bequeathed to us. This is one aspect of the synthesis of concept and will. To awaken the society’s collective feeling and to unite and harmonize the society, art is the only way. Art unites the thought and emotion of the masses. It elevates them and seeks to socialize them. Its mission is to create a world of new life. Therefore, art and science are not diametrically opposed. Rather, they are like brothers who complement each other. They share the goal of helping people to see connections among interesting things in life and pointing out to us how to live. Please consider the true artists and thinkers of the past. Which of them did not desire to dissolve the social attributes and habits that we have inherited, to eradicate slavish adherence to convention and establish an ideal, rational, selfgoverning, and self-determined social life? Is our current art true art? Our current art has lost its true nature and become a monstrosity. It not only is bound to form and becomes a toy that panders to the privileged class, but it also plays

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a reactionary role, deceiving the masses and forever subordinating them to their masters. Please look—all literature, theater, music, and art, which of these is not a reactionary product that panders and deceives? What is the truth of so much of the so-called people’s art or mass art today? Most of those who care about issues in life know the dirt about contemporary art. There is no need to say more about it. Members of our group cannot tolerate the so-called contemporary art, and we are making a loud appeal. Those comrades who truly live an artistic life, come join this group quickly, and together we will strive to reach art’s true mission! This is our manifesto. April 12, 1930 ....

3. Z H A N G H U A N E W T R I P O D T H E AT E R T R O U P E In order to improve the current state of Taiwan’s theater and to promote anarchist thought, in January 1925, Chen Kan, Zhou Tianqi, Xie Tu, Yang Songmao, and Lin Chaohui of the Proletariat Youth sect of Zhanghua’s anarchist group organized the New Tripod Theater Troupe. Members Lai Tongyao, Wu Cangzhou, Lin Qingchi, Zhuang Jiaen, Du Youde, Wen Longde, and Wu Shenrun performed the eight-act play Conscientious Love in Yuanlin, Zhanghua. The troupe divided into two camps. One camp believed the troupe should focus on improving the theater without necessarily highlighting propaganda. The other camp advocated ideological enlightenment through the means of theater performance. It resulted in the departure of the latter group to form the League of Taiwan Student Comrades, which included Lai Tongyao and [ten others]. Consequently, the league and the New Tripod stood in opposition and engaged in the theater based on different ideas. But because of their overt ideological bent, the performances produced by the league were banned, while the New Tripod was unable to function due to shortage of staff. In the summer of 1926, upon returning from traveling in China, Chen Kan became aware of the situation and planned to rejoin the two groups. He reorganized them into the Zhanghua Theater Society, with the goals of reforming local customs, stamping out superstition, and satirizing the relations between labor and capital. They made a circuit around the island, performing in Taipei, Xinzhu, Yuanli, Yilan, Zhanghua, Yuanlin, Taizhong, Beigang, and Dalin. When they were performing in Yilan, Xie Youding, who played the role of a peasant, was charged with advocating unionization of the peasants. In protest, the troupe held a meeting to criticize the way the authority handled the matter. As a result, more members were reported. Though the group continued to perform around the island after the incident, they had to disband in the summer of 1928 due to financial difficulties.

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4. FILM SCREENINGS BY CHEN KAN AND OTHERS In 1928, Chen Kan, Zhou Tianqi, and Chen Huangui planned to promote ideology through film screenings. Chen Kan contributed 1,800 yen, Chen Huangui 1,400 yen, and Zhou Tianqi 1,000 yen. They organized a film circuit that was called the Sunrise Rain Society. After the group was founded Zhou developed some friction with Chen Huangui and dropped out. Soon after, Chen Huangui also left, because of extravagant use of funds during the tour. This left Chen Kan to manage the group alone, with Guo Xuyi continuing to perform as narrator. History of Social Movements in Taiwan (1913–1936), 5 vols., translated from the Japanese (Taipei: Creation, 1989), 4: 22–28, translated by Marshall McArthur.

note 1.

The original article in Chinese mistakenly attributed The Golden Yaksha to Tolstoy.

15. Why Not Promote Nativist Literature? hua ng shi hui 1 You are a Taiwanese standing under Taiwanese sky and on Taiwanese earth. Your eyes witness Taiwanese things and your ears hear Taiwanese news. You experience Taiwanese time and speak the Taiwanese tongue. Therefore, your pen of sharp articulation, your pen of colorful creation, should write Taiwanese literature. How does one write Taiwanese literature? By using the Taiwanese vernacular in essays, poems, fiction, and songs to describe Taiwanese things. This is nothing strange, but why have we not done so? “It is crude. It is vulgar,” some hardheaded classicists argue. But how does one define elegance and vulgarity? In fact, there are no fixed definitions; elegance and vulgarity are merely based on people’s perceptions. By way of example: more than a decade ago, when we saw a barefooted young lady, we would laugh and call her a “hired girl.” Only those with bound feet—extremely tiny ones—were considered beautiful. Times have changed; a young lady with bound feet today would most definitely be ridiculed as “unenlightened.” When the Chinese literary revolution took place [in 1917],

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4. FILM SCREENINGS BY CHEN KAN AND OTHERS In 1928, Chen Kan, Zhou Tianqi, and Chen Huangui planned to promote ideology through film screenings. Chen Kan contributed 1,800 yen, Chen Huangui 1,400 yen, and Zhou Tianqi 1,000 yen. They organized a film circuit that was called the Sunrise Rain Society. After the group was founded Zhou developed some friction with Chen Huangui and dropped out. Soon after, Chen Huangui also left, because of extravagant use of funds during the tour. This left Chen Kan to manage the group alone, with Guo Xuyi continuing to perform as narrator. History of Social Movements in Taiwan (1913–1936), 5 vols., translated from the Japanese (Taipei: Creation, 1989), 4: 22–28, translated by Marshall McArthur.

note 1.

The original article in Chinese mistakenly attributed The Golden Yaksha to Tolstoy.

15. Why Not Promote Nativist Literature? hua ng shi hui 1 You are a Taiwanese standing under Taiwanese sky and on Taiwanese earth. Your eyes witness Taiwanese things and your ears hear Taiwanese news. You experience Taiwanese time and speak the Taiwanese tongue. Therefore, your pen of sharp articulation, your pen of colorful creation, should write Taiwanese literature. How does one write Taiwanese literature? By using the Taiwanese vernacular in essays, poems, fiction, and songs to describe Taiwanese things. This is nothing strange, but why have we not done so? “It is crude. It is vulgar,” some hardheaded classicists argue. But how does one define elegance and vulgarity? In fact, there are no fixed definitions; elegance and vulgarity are merely based on people’s perceptions. By way of example: more than a decade ago, when we saw a barefooted young lady, we would laugh and call her a “hired girl.” Only those with bound feet—extremely tiny ones—were considered beautiful. Times have changed; a young lady with bound feet today would most definitely be ridiculed as “unenlightened.” When the Chinese literary revolution took place [in 1917],

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didn’t a group of headstrong dotards also consider the Chinese vernacular vulgar? But nowadays all the classicist jargon has become vulgar cliché. We must recognize that so-called elegance or vulgarity is based on general perceptions and changes from one era to another. Because perceptions don’t stay the same, we don’t need to pay them any attention. Besides, when we advocate a literature for the masses, we must not attend to such trifles. I recall Zhang Wojun, who dropped the bomb of revolution on the field of Taiwanese literature. He too was against nativist literature, against literature written in the Taiwanese vernacular. He believed that the use of the Taiwanese vernacular was limited and had no literary value. He was wrong. All languages have literary value. Even those used by aborigines have literary value; it is a pity that they do not have their own written languages to create their own literature. Besides, although Taiwanese is used only in Taiwan, it is in fact connected to all of China. It is true that people from other provinces may not understand our spoken language, but if we write it down, it is intelligible to them. No matter how many words they may not understand, it is in no degree different from the Taiwanese not understanding Mandarin. How is that a problem? Besides, our prose and poetry are written for Taiwanese readers, especially for the hardworking masses with little education. Consequently, our literature aims at being plain and simple, so it is easy for the masses to understand. The rest is not our concern. Granted, we should not confine ourselves to the lower class, but if we could produce literary works that are easily accessible to them, surely the educated would have no problems understanding them. In fact, it would be easier for them. Therefore, we must target the masses who are closest to us as our readers. There is no doubt about this.

2 In the literary field of Taiwan today, a group of outdated classicists focus exclusively on ancient writers. They only address fellow classicists (people of similar knowledge and interests) to show off their “broad learning in antiquity”—useless dregs from ancient writers—and turn their back on the masses. In their view, the masses are despicable and unworthy of communication. These classicists are incurable in their addiction, and we have to leave them alone for now. What concerns us here is literature written in the vernacular language. Vernacular literature refers to works written in vernacular Mandarin. Although it is more readable in comparison with classical literature, it is still partially incomprehensible. Much of it can be understood by reading but not by hearing. If works are written in the Taiwanese vernacular, then our eyes can read, our mouths can pronounce, and others can listen without lengthy explications. When it comes to public speech, it will be easy to understand.

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As we know, everyone can read and understand One Thousand Pieces of Gold. As we know, only learned storytellers can speak fluently about such vernacular Chinese fiction as Cases by Justice Peng, Cases by Justice Shi, and Seven Swords and Thirteen Swordsmen. Others can read them but cannot read them out loud. We also know that modern fiction and modern poetry [in Chinese] are written for readers with similar educational backgrounds. It is actually harder to find truly populist works in modern literature than in traditional fiction. In this sense, how can we condemn “elitist” literature? All of our New Literature is elitist. As far as the Chinese literary revolution is concerned, we can see it as a normal transition from the old to the new. What is so significant about a mere change of form? Now let us take a step back. Currently, New Literature can be characterized as popular literature in China, but not in Taiwan. In Taiwan, access requires an interest in New Literature. The vast working masses without extensive learning have no connection with it. Therefore, I say, if we do not advocate the popularization of literature, that is one thing. But if we are to popularize literature, we must have in mind the masses as our readers. It is completely wrong to look for the masses in a distant land but leave behind those that are near us. What we need to do now is to promote Taiwanese nativist literature.

3 Here I raise a question. Do you want to produce works that move and inspire the vast majority? Do you want them to empathize with you? If the answer is no, then I have nothing else to say. If the answer is yes, then you must always write with the laboring masses in mind whether you are a defender of the ruling class or a leader of the masses. Writing with the laboring masses in mind should lead to the promotion and construction of nativist literature. We should never harbor an anachronistic and unrealistic attitude. Well, are there any practical ways? Needless to say, there is still room for discussion in terms of the construction [of nativist literature]. For an outline, I will offer three points of view. 1. Use the Taiwanese vernacular to write literature in all genres 2. Increase Taiwanese pronunciations 3. Write about Taiwanese things and experiences. . . .

Regarding the promotion of nativist literature in Taiwan, Mr. Zheng Kunwu is considered the first pioneer. He edited and published Taiwanese Folk Songs, which, to his surprise, attracted much attention; conservatives characterized it as coarse. But when Mr. Zheng edited the folk songs, he did not have a certain social class in mind. What he had in mind was only that Taiwanese folk songs were as valuable as those in The Book of Songs. We may set aside the issue

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of value. Nonetheless, his understanding, regardless of whether it is right or wrong, will guarantee him a place in the literary history of Taiwan The publication of Taiwanese Folk Songs alarmed a bunch of antiquated classicists, but it did not have much impact. No one followed suit and went on to promote nativist literature. But we can no longer be quiet. Now that we know its value and necessity, we must rise to promote and construct nativist literature. Five People News, August 16–September 1, 1930; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate over Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshiwo (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 7–52, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

16. Annotation on Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette xin a n

W

hy do we call this periodical “little gazette” instead of “big gazette”? The reason is none other than this. On Taiwan’s intellectual scene today, besides three daily newspapers, there are monthly, ten-day, and weekly newspapers. There are quite a few large news corporations. When we look at the contents of these newspapers, they are all grand discourses written in a grand style. Such is the company in which this gazette finds itself. Newly born, it may be small in organization, and its language may not be embellished. Truly, facing the giants, this small potato is distressed. Therefore, we do not model after those arrogant people but, rather, distinguish ourselves with smallness, and we devote ourselves to expressing meanings with witty words, and satires with outlandish words. In Hoklo pronunciations, “word” means the same as “wildness.” Readers are free to dismiss them as trivial craft or as frivolous words. Why not? As to “three-six-nine,” it refers clearly to the days of publication: on the third, sixth, and ninth of each month, a total of nine issues. Nine is the highest number, and three plus six equals nine as well. The ancients loved to use the number nine, such as “nine ceremonial vessels,” “nine ministers,” “nine classics,” “nine methods of governance,” “nine principles,” and “nine layers of heaven.” Terms using the number nine are too many to mention. As to personal names, the number is also favored, such as the Tang poet Zhang Jiuling [678–740], the Tang ministers Zhang Jiuzong [8th century] and Qian Jiulong [573–645], the Song scholars Zhang Jiucheng [1092–1159] and Lu Jiusi [1128–1205]. In Hoklo, “nine” is homonymous with “dog,” so some people try to imitate [the ancients] by coining such terms as “dog excrement,” “mother dog,” and “dog longevity.” However, these are poor imitations, as they are too base. The Book of Changes

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of value. Nonetheless, his understanding, regardless of whether it is right or wrong, will guarantee him a place in the literary history of Taiwan The publication of Taiwanese Folk Songs alarmed a bunch of antiquated classicists, but it did not have much impact. No one followed suit and went on to promote nativist literature. But we can no longer be quiet. Now that we know its value and necessity, we must rise to promote and construct nativist literature. Five People News, August 16–September 1, 1930; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate over Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshiwo (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 7–52, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

16. Annotation on Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette xin a n

W

hy do we call this periodical “little gazette” instead of “big gazette”? The reason is none other than this. On Taiwan’s intellectual scene today, besides three daily newspapers, there are monthly, ten-day, and weekly newspapers. There are quite a few large news corporations. When we look at the contents of these newspapers, they are all grand discourses written in a grand style. Such is the company in which this gazette finds itself. Newly born, it may be small in organization, and its language may not be embellished. Truly, facing the giants, this small potato is distressed. Therefore, we do not model after those arrogant people but, rather, distinguish ourselves with smallness, and we devote ourselves to expressing meanings with witty words, and satires with outlandish words. In Hoklo pronunciations, “word” means the same as “wildness.” Readers are free to dismiss them as trivial craft or as frivolous words. Why not? As to “three-six-nine,” it refers clearly to the days of publication: on the third, sixth, and ninth of each month, a total of nine issues. Nine is the highest number, and three plus six equals nine as well. The ancients loved to use the number nine, such as “nine ceremonial vessels,” “nine ministers,” “nine classics,” “nine methods of governance,” “nine principles,” and “nine layers of heaven.” Terms using the number nine are too many to mention. As to personal names, the number is also favored, such as the Tang poet Zhang Jiuling [678–740], the Tang ministers Zhang Jiuzong [8th century] and Qian Jiulong [573–645], the Song scholars Zhang Jiucheng [1092–1159] and Lu Jiusi [1128–1205]. In Hoklo, “nine” is homonymous with “dog,” so some people try to imitate [the ancients] by coining such terms as “dog excrement,” “mother dog,” and “dog longevity.” However, these are poor imitations, as they are too base. The Book of Changes

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says: “The ninth and the third lines of the Qian hexagram mean: The gentleman exerts himself with integrity and strength throughout the day; in the evening he engages in self-reflection and does not relax. This way, although his aspirations are lofty, he makes no mistakes.” It also says: “The sixth and the third lines of the Kun hexagram mean: Harboring literary beauty within, she is capable of a principled life. Yet she chooses to assist the king. Although she may not have success, there will be good result.” Three and nine are both yang numbers, while six is a yin number. Yin and yang complement and harmonize with each other. To apply these concepts to our periodical, we engage in the effort with focus during the day and, in the evening, reflect on what we have accomplished. It is by doing this that our periodical will produce good results. The merit of the name three-six-nine is illuminated, and the “ninth elder brother” will enjoy longevity. He will not keep company with intruding “dog brothers.” Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette, September 9, 1930, translated by Michelle Yeh.

17. A Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing gu o qi us he ng .... When it comes to treating Taiwanese people’s illiteracy, the Chinese vernacular and elementary classical Chinese are both ineffective. In light of this, what can we use to solve the problem? This is what I intend to address in my proposal. Spoken language requires written language. Written language is nothing but a direct record of spoken language. Why is Taiwanese an exception? Given that no written language exists [that corresponds to Taiwanese], we must not neglect certain aspects that constitute the core of the Taiwanese vernacular, which I discuss below. What is Taiwanese vernacular? Suffice it to say that it is the textualization of spoken Taiwanese. But how will this textualization treat Taiwanese people’s illiteracy? Simply observe the function of writing, and we will know the answer. Imagine this: if the words we speak and the characters we write match one another, then learners only need to recognize the sounds of the characters, and they can understand their meanings without painstaking work. Whenever we write, we only need to put our thoughts down on paper as they are. There is no need to search hard for perfect phrases to express indirectly. For our readers, we write what we say. They will understand us immediately and

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says: “The ninth and the third lines of the Qian hexagram mean: The gentleman exerts himself with integrity and strength throughout the day; in the evening he engages in self-reflection and does not relax. This way, although his aspirations are lofty, he makes no mistakes.” It also says: “The sixth and the third lines of the Kun hexagram mean: Harboring literary beauty within, she is capable of a principled life. Yet she chooses to assist the king. Although she may not have success, there will be good result.” Three and nine are both yang numbers, while six is a yin number. Yin and yang complement and harmonize with each other. To apply these concepts to our periodical, we engage in the effort with focus during the day and, in the evening, reflect on what we have accomplished. It is by doing this that our periodical will produce good results. The merit of the name three-six-nine is illuminated, and the “ninth elder brother” will enjoy longevity. He will not keep company with intruding “dog brothers.” Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette, September 9, 1930, translated by Michelle Yeh.

17. A Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing gu o qi us he ng .... When it comes to treating Taiwanese people’s illiteracy, the Chinese vernacular and elementary classical Chinese are both ineffective. In light of this, what can we use to solve the problem? This is what I intend to address in my proposal. Spoken language requires written language. Written language is nothing but a direct record of spoken language. Why is Taiwanese an exception? Given that no written language exists [that corresponds to Taiwanese], we must not neglect certain aspects that constitute the core of the Taiwanese vernacular, which I discuss below. What is Taiwanese vernacular? Suffice it to say that it is the textualization of spoken Taiwanese. But how will this textualization treat Taiwanese people’s illiteracy? Simply observe the function of writing, and we will know the answer. Imagine this: if the words we speak and the characters we write match one another, then learners only need to recognize the sounds of the characters, and they can understand their meanings without painstaking work. Whenever we write, we only need to put our thoughts down on paper as they are. There is no need to search hard for perfect phrases to express indirectly. For our readers, we write what we say. They will understand us immediately and

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completely without any second-guessing and without contemplating the hidden meaning behind written words. In summary, the points are as follows. 1. Learning. It is easy to learn, because we do not waste time on deciphering how characters are used and what they mean. 2. We can instantaneously write down our spoken words with corresponding characters. Unlike the classical language, it is not necessary to first recognize the character and then understand its meaning and usage before any composition is possible. 3. The more we read and get entrenched in classical writing, the more we become fixated on indirect expressions of speech with written words, and the more limited readers become in understanding. If we could use characters that correspond to spoken Taiwanese, we would have no problems removing the constraints. 4. Characteristically, indirect expressions of speech through writing convey 70% meaning and 30% style. As a result, readers have different understandings of the writers’ true feelings. With the unification of spoken and written words, this can be avoided. 5. Each generation has its own characteristics. If we do not have a written language that corresponds directly to our spoken language, we cannot satisfactorily express ourselves.

Based on the above considerations, I think it is possible to solve the problem of Taiwanese illiteracy with my proposal. But what symbols are we to use for Taiwanese? As a matter of fact, symbols of language require no particular forms. For instance, the Japanese language employs Chinese characters as symbols very effectively. Another example is the romanization of the Taiwanese vernacular, which has a broad base as a starting point for those who are concerned about Taiwanese. Many churches use roman characters to transcribe the spoken language, and not too long ago, Mr. Cai Peihuo [1889–1983] also advocated the romanization of the Taiwanese vernacular. The former only helps with church work, and the latter violated the policy of the colonial government and was banned. I recently heard that Mr. Cai Peihuo is working even harder to promote the romanization of Taiwanese. But whether it is romanization or other ways of transcribing the Taiwanese vernacular, we need to seriously consider its practicality for the general audience, especially because Taiwanese people are already using Chinese characters. Although characters seem to lack vitality, they are still the representative of Han Chinese, and they are still symbols of the Han Chinese language. Theoretically, we may replace difficult Chinese characters with alphabets that are simple to write, but this, I am afraid, is not an easy task in reality. This is why I urge that we do not abandon the existing Chinese characters; rather, we must use them to transform the Taiwanese vernacular into Taiwanese writing.

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Are the Chinese characters we use now that different from the ones used by our predecessors? Even as spoken Taiwanese evolves, there is still much that corresponds to Chinese characters. However, tangible language is not easily altered by the environment, but intangible language evolves ceaselessly with the times and the environment, and it is affected constantly by linguistic exchanges. Because of this, there is a discrepancy between tangible language and intangible language. The part of language that does not change stays the same as the tangible characters while the other part continues to evolve regardless. This is why some Taiwanese words have no corresponding characters. However, when the changeable part of Taiwanese fails to correspond with existing characters, why should we insist on Chinese characters and use them to satisfactorily transcribe spoken Taiwanese? This may seem like an iceberg, but in fact, it is not that difficult if we give it more thought. Let’s look at the studies done by Mr. Lian Yatang [Lian Heng, 1876–1936], then we will know that it is possible to find the origins of Taiwanese words that have changed over time. If we could trace their origins, we would be free from the concern of not having corresponding characters. But even if Mr. Lian has traced the origins of Taiwanese words through his research, could it be applied to the Taiwanese vernacular that we use now? This, of course, still requires considerable discussion. As part of Taiwanese evolves to adapt to new surroundings and changing situations, even if we could locate the true origin of words, they do not necessarily correspond to modern-day usage. . . . To overcome these weaknesses, we must create new characters. But how? There are more than fifty-six thousand characters in Kangxi Dictionary. They represent the gradual evolution of the life of Han Chinese from simple and plain to complex and excellent over the course of five thousand years. Look at the six principles of Chinese characters. They evolved from xiangxing (pictographic), zhishi (indicative), and huiyi (associative) to xingsheng (picto-phonetic), zhuanzhu (notative), and jiajie (phonetic loans). This long process of refinement reveals all the lifestyles of Han Chinese and a written language that has the power to signify everything. However, given the situation of Taiwan today, we cannot depend solely on the existing characters to express spoken Taiwanese. Although they have the capacity to express all forms of Taiwanese life, they may be insufficient in transcribing spoken Taiwanese but more than sufficient in indirect expression. In this respect, it is necessary that we create new characters by understanding one constraint—new characters must be born of old characters. The fact is, the creation of new characters is no more than the transformation of old characters. The points are as follows. 1. Follow the pictographic principle and look for characters to transcribe Taiwanese sounds. Appropriate the radicals to characters based on the principles of xiangxing, zhishi, and huiyi to create new characters that tend to both meaning and sound.

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2. If there are no existing characters that can readily transcribe Taiwanese sounds, create a new character according to the huiyi principle by combining two or three characters. Indicate the meaning and pronunciation of the new character to help promote usage. 3. As far as transcribing non-Taiwanese languages, use existing characters as phonetic loans for foreign terms. . . .

With these three adaptations, the Taiwanese vernacular would have at its service transcriptions that stay comfortably within the parameters of Chinese characters. Although they are neither a dialect in classical Chinese, nor a dialect in modern Chinese, they would be a new written language in the Chinese writing system with distinct local color. They would not be difficult for people with training in classical Chinese to understand, to say nothing of people with only knowledge of the Chinese vernacular. Beginners would easily decipher the meanings of the characters from their sounds, and those experienced learners would naturally understand the sounds and meanings of the characters. These are the main points of my proposal. If I am not mistaken, this may become the cure for the illiteracy of Taiwanese people, or at least help demonstrate the local colors of the land, correct the passivity of Taiwanese people, and contribute to the ability of expressing the real Taiwan. I look forward to erudite responses from my fellow Taiwanese who devote themselves to the advancement of Taiwan. Taiwan News, July 5, 1931; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate over Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshiwo (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 7–52, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

18. On Reforming the Taiwanese Vernacular hua ng chunqing Use the Amoy dialect as the standard. Unify the spoken and the written languages. . . .

FOREWORD How are we to reform Taiwanese vernacular? The points are as follows. 1. Unification of speech and writing. 2. Standardization of pronunciation.

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2. If there are no existing characters that can readily transcribe Taiwanese sounds, create a new character according to the huiyi principle by combining two or three characters. Indicate the meaning and pronunciation of the new character to help promote usage. 3. As far as transcribing non-Taiwanese languages, use existing characters as phonetic loans for foreign terms. . . .

With these three adaptations, the Taiwanese vernacular would have at its service transcriptions that stay comfortably within the parameters of Chinese characters. Although they are neither a dialect in classical Chinese, nor a dialect in modern Chinese, they would be a new written language in the Chinese writing system with distinct local color. They would not be difficult for people with training in classical Chinese to understand, to say nothing of people with only knowledge of the Chinese vernacular. Beginners would easily decipher the meanings of the characters from their sounds, and those experienced learners would naturally understand the sounds and meanings of the characters. These are the main points of my proposal. If I am not mistaken, this may become the cure for the illiteracy of Taiwanese people, or at least help demonstrate the local colors of the land, correct the passivity of Taiwanese people, and contribute to the ability of expressing the real Taiwan. I look forward to erudite responses from my fellow Taiwanese who devote themselves to the advancement of Taiwan. Taiwan News, July 5, 1931; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate over Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshiwo (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 7–52, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

18. On Reforming the Taiwanese Vernacular hua ng chunqing Use the Amoy dialect as the standard. Unify the spoken and the written languages. . . .

FOREWORD How are we to reform Taiwanese vernacular? The points are as follows. 1. Unification of speech and writing. 2. Standardization of pronunciation.

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3. Attention to syntax. 4. Sorting out of vocabularies and phrases.

1. Unification of Speech a nd Wr i ting Among one hundred of our children, only thirty-five have the opportunity to go to primary school, and the remaining sixty-five are plagued with illiteracy. It is urgent for us to treat this disease of illiteracy. With that in mind, what medicine can we prescribe? Yes, indeed, mandatory education will treat the disease at its root, and the promotion of the vernacular will target its symptoms. Looking at the current situation of Taiwan, I think we have no choice but to treat the symptoms first, as in a case of emergency. I suggest that we expedite the unification of written and spoken Taiwanese. . . . The unification of the spoken and written languages has been in practice for a very long time in the West. How about the East? It has also been popularized in every part of Japan. Nowadays, China is seeing gradual implementation; before long it will become a reality there too. It is only in Taiwan where writing and speech go their separate ways. Are we not falling behind? Is it not causing inconvenience? If we recognize the utmost importance of the unification of speech and writing from now on, we should act immediately; it is still not too late. Yet, the unification of speech and writing may raise some concerns. If so, what are they? 1. The concern about keeping or abolishing Chinese writing. 2. The concern about emphasizing the sound or the meaning of Taiwanese. 3. The concern about its relation to the Chinese vernacular. . . .

6. Method of Implem en tation How are we to reform Taiwanese? We may organize a study group and engage in the following work. 1. Investigation 2. Research 3. Writing monographs 4. Promotion 5. Holding seminars 6. Communicating with those who work in journalism 7. Petitioning for the establishment of private schools 8. Petitioning for Taiwanese language courses to be offered at public primary schools

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The above are my views on the reform of the Taiwanese vernacular. Taiwan News, October 15–28, 1941, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

19. The Prospect of Popular Literature qi

T

oday, the so-called popular literature in Japan is works written for the common people who do not have a high level of education. This came about naturally based on the relation between literature and society—because literature is no longer the exclusive property of a special class. It would have no meaning if it did not express the hopes of society as a whole and of people’s lives. Therefore, literature must be close to the people, offering them entertainment and comfort, so they can realistically take stock of their nature, thought, and emotions. In order to cultivate the people’s interests and character and provide their lives with beauty, literature must be popularized. Right now, Taiwan has a shortage of literature, especially this kind of popular literature. The stories we heard from professional storytellers when we were young, such as Seven Heroes and Five Gallants, Cases of Judge Peng, and Meng Lijun, are still being repeated today, twenty years later. . . . The historical background of these old tales is so distant from ours that it is difficult for them to evoke our empathy. The new fiction is mostly vacuous fantasies. Although the author makes every effort to depict his personality and state of mind, he gives no thought to the reader’s interests. If we say that literary fiction and popular fiction cannot be mentioned in the same breath, we are truly disregarding the original intent of fiction. Besides, most of these works are by Chinese writers. Reader interest will definitely be brought to an end, given the fact that these works come from a different environment and with a vastly different mind-set. For many reasons, we must loudly appeal to the public and demand a popular literature of our own in Taiwan. We foresee the creation of a popular literature set in the locale, customs, and historical background of Taiwan that will be of interest and benefit to the people of the island. Fortunately, there is no end to the fine material provided by history, such as the stories of the Ming loyalist Zheng Chenggong [1624–1662] and his father in the early period; the rebellions of Zhu Yigui [1690–1722] and Lin Shuangwen [1756–1788] during the Qing dynasty; the administration and leadership of Liu Mingchuan [1836–1896] and Tang Jingson [1841–1903]; the heroic deeds of Ke Tiehu [1876–1900], Lin Shaomao [1865–1902], and others who were very active at the time as well; and

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The above are my views on the reform of the Taiwanese vernacular. Taiwan News, October 15–28, 1941, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

19. The Prospect of Popular Literature qi

T

oday, the so-called popular literature in Japan is works written for the common people who do not have a high level of education. This came about naturally based on the relation between literature and society—because literature is no longer the exclusive property of a special class. It would have no meaning if it did not express the hopes of society as a whole and of people’s lives. Therefore, literature must be close to the people, offering them entertainment and comfort, so they can realistically take stock of their nature, thought, and emotions. In order to cultivate the people’s interests and character and provide their lives with beauty, literature must be popularized. Right now, Taiwan has a shortage of literature, especially this kind of popular literature. The stories we heard from professional storytellers when we were young, such as Seven Heroes and Five Gallants, Cases of Judge Peng, and Meng Lijun, are still being repeated today, twenty years later. . . . The historical background of these old tales is so distant from ours that it is difficult for them to evoke our empathy. The new fiction is mostly vacuous fantasies. Although the author makes every effort to depict his personality and state of mind, he gives no thought to the reader’s interests. If we say that literary fiction and popular fiction cannot be mentioned in the same breath, we are truly disregarding the original intent of fiction. Besides, most of these works are by Chinese writers. Reader interest will definitely be brought to an end, given the fact that these works come from a different environment and with a vastly different mind-set. For many reasons, we must loudly appeal to the public and demand a popular literature of our own in Taiwan. We foresee the creation of a popular literature set in the locale, customs, and historical background of Taiwan that will be of interest and benefit to the people of the island. Fortunately, there is no end to the fine material provided by history, such as the stories of the Ming loyalist Zheng Chenggong [1624–1662] and his father in the early period; the rebellions of Zhu Yigui [1690–1722] and Lin Shuangwen [1756–1788] during the Qing dynasty; the administration and leadership of Liu Mingchuan [1836–1896] and Tang Jingson [1841–1903]; the heroic deeds of Ke Tiehu [1876–1900], Lin Shaomao [1865–1902], and others who were very active at the time as well; and

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the various incidents from the last thirty years. Why don’t new writers take up residence in this treasure-house? It is a rich legacy accumulated by our ancestors through their blood and tears! Southern Voice 1, no. 20 (January 17, 1932): 1–2; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate on Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshio (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 116–18, translated by Yingtsih Hwang.

20. A Giant Bomb on the Old Poetry Scene che n fe ngyuan 1. A N I N V E S T I G AT I O N O F T H E F O R E S T OF POETRY SOCIETIES It is worth our attention to note that numerous poets and poetry societies have arisen in Taiwan in the past two decades. I remember when I was young and learning how to write poetry, the most famous poetry societies were Li, South, Ying, Bamboo, and Mount Luo. There were few other than these. But since then, we have seen poetry societies popping up everywhere. The trend is truly surprising. On the island there are now around one thousand poets and fifty or so poetry societies. On the surface, the thriving of literature in Taiwan is unprecedented. Look at the three centuries of the Tang dynasty. According to Complete Tang Poems, there were some 2,200 poets and 48,900-plus poems. Even an era when poetry was part of the civil service examination system can hardly compare with the rapid growth in Taiwan. However, it is worth looking into what has led to this phenomenon. Allow me to express my view on this issue. Since 1895, traditional literati in Taiwan have had no political or economic outlet; they are mostly unemployed. Luckily, with their inheritances, they can more or less make a living. Having nothing to do, they chant poetry to comfort themselves, and their disenfranchisement finds expression in poetry, which naturally smacks of old loyalist sentiments. . . . Based on my experience and observation, the reason that poetry has been thriving in Taiwan for more than twenty years is that the literati have nothing better to do, given the above-mentioned historical background. Some of them escape into the ivory tower in pursuit of a life of indulgence. Some use poetry as an indispensable means of socialization or use it to cultivate the image of the refined man of letters and to satisfy their desire for success and fame. The last

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the various incidents from the last thirty years. Why don’t new writers take up residence in this treasure-house? It is a rich legacy accumulated by our ancestors through their blood and tears! Southern Voice 1, no. 20 (January 17, 1932): 1–2; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate on Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshio (Gaoxiong: Chunhui, 2003), 116–18, translated by Yingtsih Hwang.

20. A Giant Bomb on the Old Poetry Scene che n fe ngyuan 1. A N I N V E S T I G AT I O N O F T H E F O R E S T OF POETRY SOCIETIES It is worth our attention to note that numerous poets and poetry societies have arisen in Taiwan in the past two decades. I remember when I was young and learning how to write poetry, the most famous poetry societies were Li, South, Ying, Bamboo, and Mount Luo. There were few other than these. But since then, we have seen poetry societies popping up everywhere. The trend is truly surprising. On the island there are now around one thousand poets and fifty or so poetry societies. On the surface, the thriving of literature in Taiwan is unprecedented. Look at the three centuries of the Tang dynasty. According to Complete Tang Poems, there were some 2,200 poets and 48,900-plus poems. Even an era when poetry was part of the civil service examination system can hardly compare with the rapid growth in Taiwan. However, it is worth looking into what has led to this phenomenon. Allow me to express my view on this issue. Since 1895, traditional literati in Taiwan have had no political or economic outlet; they are mostly unemployed. Luckily, with their inheritances, they can more or less make a living. Having nothing to do, they chant poetry to comfort themselves, and their disenfranchisement finds expression in poetry, which naturally smacks of old loyalist sentiments. . . . Based on my experience and observation, the reason that poetry has been thriving in Taiwan for more than twenty years is that the literati have nothing better to do, given the above-mentioned historical background. Some of them escape into the ivory tower in pursuit of a life of indulgence. Some use poetry as an indispensable means of socialization or use it to cultivate the image of the refined man of letters and to satisfy their desire for success and fame. The last

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few points, in particular, are the psychology behind the founding of numerous poetry societies and the popularity of poetry recitation.

2. P O E T R Y S O C I E T I E S A R E O P I U M D E N S I don’t believe that religion is opium; however, the social impact of most established religions is similar to that of opium. Nor can I say that all societies are like opium dens; yet the social impact of most poetry societies in Taiwan is similar to that of opium dens. Let me explain why this is so. First, given the present conditions, it seems difficult for Taiwan’s poetry societies to produce poetry of artistic merit, because their main undertaking is either to play the game of Poetry Bell or to call for submissions on specific topics. These assigned topics usually have to do with chanting about objects, and the poems that get selected are usually written in a stiff language characterized by affectation and hackneyed sentiments. . . . Second, it is the intellectuals who join poetry societies; they are the equivalent of literati of the old days. This social class has been the vanguard in numerous reform movements in Chinese history; its traditional influence should not be underestimated. The most recent example is that many leaders of the Nationalist Party in China come from such a background. In contrast, these well-educated men in Taiwan devote their lives to meaningless undertakings. How we regret this situation! Moreover, they use poetry as a tool for socializing and flattery and have lost the loyalist integrity of their forebears. This phenomenon reminds me of what Hegel said about the dialectics of thesis–antithesis–synthesis. Southern Voice 1, no. 2 (January 17, 1932):1–3, translated by Michelle Yeh.

21. Elegant Words li a n yata ng 1

O

ver the course of this year, there have appeared advocates of nativist literature and proposals to reform the Taiwanese vernacular. It has always been my plan [to advocate the same], but it is easy to talk about yet difficult to put it into practice. How so? Those who can talk may not be able to do it;

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few points, in particular, are the psychology behind the founding of numerous poetry societies and the popularity of poetry recitation.

2. P O E T R Y S O C I E T I E S A R E O P I U M D E N S I don’t believe that religion is opium; however, the social impact of most established religions is similar to that of opium. Nor can I say that all societies are like opium dens; yet the social impact of most poetry societies in Taiwan is similar to that of opium dens. Let me explain why this is so. First, given the present conditions, it seems difficult for Taiwan’s poetry societies to produce poetry of artistic merit, because their main undertaking is either to play the game of Poetry Bell or to call for submissions on specific topics. These assigned topics usually have to do with chanting about objects, and the poems that get selected are usually written in a stiff language characterized by affectation and hackneyed sentiments. . . . Second, it is the intellectuals who join poetry societies; they are the equivalent of literati of the old days. This social class has been the vanguard in numerous reform movements in Chinese history; its traditional influence should not be underestimated. The most recent example is that many leaders of the Nationalist Party in China come from such a background. In contrast, these well-educated men in Taiwan devote their lives to meaningless undertakings. How we regret this situation! Moreover, they use poetry as a tool for socializing and flattery and have lost the loyalist integrity of their forebears. This phenomenon reminds me of what Hegel said about the dialectics of thesis–antithesis–synthesis. Southern Voice 1, no. 2 (January 17, 1932):1–3, translated by Michelle Yeh.

21. Elegant Words li a n yata ng 1

O

ver the course of this year, there have appeared advocates of nativist literature and proposals to reform the Taiwanese vernacular. It has always been my plan [to advocate the same], but it is easy to talk about yet difficult to put it into practice. How so? Those who can talk may not be able to do it;

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those who can do it may not want to do it. This is why Taiwanese literature has been in gradual decline. To advocate for nativist literature, we must sort out the native language first. As to how to sort it out, it is so complicated that one does not even know where to start, how to conduct research, and how to come to a decision. It absolutely requires profound erudition and a sharp mind, plus perseverance, so as not to quit in the middle. As a Taiwanese, I know how difficult it is, although I dare not say so. Therefore, since I returned to my hometown, I have shut myself up in the study and worked on the compilation of Dictionary of the Taiwanese Vernacular. For the sake of Taiwan’s future, I see it as my duty to engage in this project. When the dictionary is completed and circulated around the world, it will not only help preserve the Taiwanese vernacular but also make a small contribution to nativist literature. . . .

45 The chapter “The Man in Qi” from Mencius contains a short story. I have translated it into pure Taiwanese without any hindrance. Once, at a meeting in Taipei on the study of the Taiwanese vernacular, I alluded to Dr. Sun Yat-sen’s [1866– 1925] Three People’s Principles and asked a member to take notes. The phrases were fluent, the words precise. Taiwanese has its own grammar, with rules for [the use of ] nouns, verbs, prepositions, and adverbs. Those with a superficial understanding fail to recognize it and mistakenly think that there are only sounds but no written words [in Taiwanese]. Their writings are sloppy and inaccurate. When half of an essay is written incorrectly, the meaning of the Taiwanese vernacular is lost. Therefore, there is nothing wrong with writing fiction in Taiwanese, but one should not write essays that are neither horse nor donkey.

46 When it comes to the Suzhou dialect in Turtle with Nine Tails and Cantonese in the Guangdong News, natives of these places have no problem understanding them. It is understandable for the Taiwanese people to write fiction in Taiwanese, but I am afraid that it will not go very far. In my view, it is appropriate to write short pieces of prose in dialect; however, to impart scholarship or publish thoughts, we should use plain, succinct Chinese, so everyone can understand it and reap the benefit. The world is moving toward unity, and there are no borders in scholarship. At this juncture in literary development, it is fine to use our own Chinese, Japanese, English, French, Russian, or German. It is acceptable to write in romanized vernacular too. What is important is that we can communicate with one another—I would even learn Esperanto. Therefore, the people

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of Taiwan must preserve their mother tongue on the one hand, and learn the languages of other countries on the other. Then we will not be insulated and ill-informed. Three Six Nine Little Gazette, January 3, 1932; reprinted in Taiwan Archives No. 166 (Taipei: Taiwan Bank Economic Research Office, 1963), 19–21, translated by Michelle Yeh.

22. Absolute Objection to Nativist Literature Written in the Taiwanese Vernacular l ai minghong ...

O B J E C T I O N T O N AT I V I S T L I T E R AT U R E Let us first reconsider the notion of nativist literature. And before any theoretical discussions, it is necessary that I explain concisely the meaning of nativist literature. What was the initial incentive behind the promotion of nativist literature? By the end of the nineteenth century, urban literature naturally came into existence, as the city had become the center of cultural and political developments. The flourishing of urban literature coincided with the rapid growth of modern cities after the Industrial Revolution, and the middle class played a major role in it. As the cities developed in a concentrated manner, transportation and print technology advanced, and urban influence gradually spread to outlying and rural areas. At that time, not only did these areas receive such influences coming from the outside, but the transplant of modern capitalism furthered the cultural development of those areas. Nativist literature was the result of such growth. However, nativist literature is but a name for literature from rural areas; its characteristics are to preserve local colors and local flavors. It most certainly cannot represent the literature and culture of a country on the international stage. Both urban literature and nativist literature are expressions of class differences and do not contain examination of such differences. In addition, nativist literature cannot initiate any literary activities that promote justice. Based on this definition, it is easy for us to understand that nativist literature is a product of the class-based culture of capitalism. Moreover, it is

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of Taiwan must preserve their mother tongue on the one hand, and learn the languages of other countries on the other. Then we will not be insulated and ill-informed. Three Six Nine Little Gazette, January 3, 1932; reprinted in Taiwan Archives No. 166 (Taipei: Taiwan Bank Economic Research Office, 1963), 19–21, translated by Michelle Yeh.

22. Absolute Objection to Nativist Literature Written in the Taiwanese Vernacular l ai minghong ...

O B J E C T I O N T O N AT I V I S T L I T E R AT U R E Let us first reconsider the notion of nativist literature. And before any theoretical discussions, it is necessary that I explain concisely the meaning of nativist literature. What was the initial incentive behind the promotion of nativist literature? By the end of the nineteenth century, urban literature naturally came into existence, as the city had become the center of cultural and political developments. The flourishing of urban literature coincided with the rapid growth of modern cities after the Industrial Revolution, and the middle class played a major role in it. As the cities developed in a concentrated manner, transportation and print technology advanced, and urban influence gradually spread to outlying and rural areas. At that time, not only did these areas receive such influences coming from the outside, but the transplant of modern capitalism furthered the cultural development of those areas. Nativist literature was the result of such growth. However, nativist literature is but a name for literature from rural areas; its characteristics are to preserve local colors and local flavors. It most certainly cannot represent the literature and culture of a country on the international stage. Both urban literature and nativist literature are expressions of class differences and do not contain examination of such differences. In addition, nativist literature cannot initiate any literary activities that promote justice. Based on this definition, it is easy for us to understand that nativist literature is a product of the class-based culture of capitalism. Moreover, it is

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a derivative of the petite-bourgeoisie in rural areas. From a proletarian perspective, nativist literature stands against mass literature; it is reactionary literature. As proletarians, we find it absolutely disagreeable, and we must oppose it steadfastly! For nativist literature basically means a literature without any investigation of class. How can we call it our literature when it does not examine how class relates to society and economy? If someone argues that nativist literature encompasses proletarian literature and peasant literature, then he is totally wrong. Those who want to advocate for bourgeoisie literature should feel free to raise the banner for bourgeoisie literature. Those who want to advocate for proletarian literature should feel free to raise the banner for proletarian literature too. As to liberalism, art for art’s sake, pure literature, . . . they each have their own brand; there is no need to conflate themselves with the stiff corpse that is nativist literature. . . .

A G A I N S T TA I W A N E S E V E R N A C U L A R W R I T I N G . . . I would now like to briefly explain why I am against writing in the Taiwanese vernacular. I give two reasons in the following list. 1. Problems of semantics, neologism, and phonetics. a. The pronunciations of words and phrases used in different provinces, such as Guangdong, Fujian, Zhejiang, and Jiangsu, share little commonality. Yet the meaning of each word remains unchanged. If we are to follow those who wrongfully think of themselves as Dr. Hu Shi and suggest that we mix all homophones and use them interchangeably, we will be abusing the Chinese language. We will deracinate the original meanings of Chinese characters, which will undoubtedly bring chaos to the language. If we destroy the characters at will and deprive them of their original meanings, words in the Taiwanese vernacular will no longer be Chinese words, and writing will no longer be writing. . . . b. We must bear in mind that most Taiwanese sounds do not have corresponding characters. To write in pure Taiwanese thus requires the creation of new characters. More specifically, we may need to create a large number of new characters of odd shapes, which, I am afraid, will fill a piece of writing. In addition, people in Taiwan already have trouble recognizing the three thousand common characters; how could they have the time and energy to learn those strange-looking new characters? This obviously is impossible! Therefore, the Taiwanese vernacular is not any easier to understand and learn than the Chinese vernacular. On the contrary, it would muddle our memory and our consciousness when it comes to using common Chinese characters.

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c. The transliteration of new characters. Using Japanese hiragana to transliterate new characters does not necessarily lead to correct pronunciations. It would be more advantageous to use the roman alphabet. But doesn’t this mean asking people to learn the roman alphabet? It would only further complicate the issue.

No matter how we approach this, it is most important that we maintain an objective view of the current situation. As I mentioned earlier, a literature that does not address the relations between different socioeconomic classes is not our literature. Literature written in the Taiwanese vernacular should be no exception. One should not force the argument that such literature transcends class. The proposal seems to have ignored the importance of an objective investigation of the current situation of Taiwan. Is the panacea manufactured by our Dr. Hu Shi wannabes the right prescription for curing illiteracy in Taiwan? Can it really cure illiteracy? No, I absolutely believe that it will not work. Why do I say this? First, let me ask readers: What is the cause of illiteracy of Taiwanese people? Objectively, is it not caused by the political, economic, and educational situations in Taiwan? If the people are in control of politics, economy, and education, I don’t think we would contract the stubborn disease of illiteracy. We could even learn English, German, and French—languages that are distant from ours. Because the Japanese control all institutions, our time and freedom are naturally restricted. As the opportunity of learning our own Chinese language decreases, we become pitifully illiterate before we know it. By way of a simple example: the Japanese government has now closed down all Chinese private schools, and the Chinese language as a subject will soon be banned in all public schools. Even if we were to create the Taiwanese vernacular, it, too, would suffer the same fate of annihilation. In response to this inevitable cause of illiteracy, what great solutions can those Dr. Hu Shi wannabes provide? I dare say that the unification of the spoken and written languages, as well as the treatment of illiteracy, require more than the creation of a Taiwanese vernacular. To achieve a complete unification and cure illiteracy, we must be in charge of all the institutions of politics, economics, and education. Such is the impossibility of realizing the dream of Taiwanese vernacular writing. . . . Taiwan New People’s Daily, October 16, 18–21, 1933; reprinted in Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate on Nativist Literature in Taiwan, ed. Nakajima Toshio (Taipei: Chunhui, 2003), 383–94, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

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23. On Taiwan’s Nativist Literature wu kunhua ng . . . If a work of Taiwanese literature describes the life of the Taiwanese but lacks nationalistic tendencies or local color, it cannot be considered nativist literature as we are advocating it. Literature of all kinds will appear if the lives the Taiwanese lead are the subject dealt with from different points of view. This has been discussed above, and there is no need to repeat it. Regardless of how much Japanese education the Taiwanese people receive or how well they write in Japanese, they have been treated differently since childhood in all areas of life; in writing about their indignation honestly and concretely, their literary works are naturally distinct from those of Japan. Their works are surely filled with a melancholy quality, and the darkly tragic point of view naturally leads to a certain complexity. But the waves of nationalism still toss, forming a gulf that separates Taiwanese writers from Japanese writers. If they can maintain their authentic feelings, the moment they come in contact with international trends of thought, nationalistic love will inevitably develop into class struggle. Then what sort of literature marks this transitional period in this modern age, when the strong wave of changing values is stirring up the realm of literature? What sort of literature will announce the end of the old literature, winning the position of creator of the future? Proletarian literature is unlike any other school of writing, in that it has resolutely opposed the tradition of old literature and strives to establish a new culture directed against its class subject. I believe the following words of a comrade: “From the world view of proletarian literature—from the standpoint of dialectical materialism—we will expose the class nature and values of all sorts of literature that were once considered sacred. What will allow us to follow the inexorable path of history forward now is the proletariat, which alone can bid farewell to the prehistory of humankind. The consciousness of the proletariat is the only and final objective consciousness, on the basis of which a new culture can be established to serve as the crucial foundation for human culture tomorrow.” If we have to evaluate nativist literature from the standpoint of proletarian literature, it is nothing more than an archeological relic produced by history, the literature fostered by the old literary tradition. Nativist literature sprouted during the feudal age; so long as it still possesses remnants of the conservative thought of the ruling class, it is already out of touch with our life and society today. Its nationalistic formal feature is utilized as the cocaine with which to control proletarian culture; and, although it is only used selectively by the newly formed bourgeoisie, its ethical perspective and habitual content are distant from reality, making it of little value, but it is also denied and ignored. But nativist literature, full of feudal thinking, is the most potent cultural weapon for those

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who face imperialism in its current stage, and they plan to dig it up and make use of it. When all peoples have to rely on the protection of bourgeois order for their unity, then nativist literature is as filled with the content of the ruler as in feudal times. This is an indisputable fact. After the Great War, nativist literature flourished in some parts of Germany. At the same time—was it an intentional imitation?—nativist literature took shape and spread throughout Japan, as though it had some profound significance. But in fact, whether then or now, it is nothing new. It advocates the same old thing with the same old content and is tightly bound and held fast by feudalistic thinking: (1) the rebirth of character; (2) casting off the French influence; and (3) shifting importance from the metropolis to the countryside (Heimat). It is clearly a regressive literature, a reactionary literature that regurgitates the past. The pernicious influence of feudalism in Germany in western Europe remains unabated to this day. Reactionary scholars hide behind the ruling bourgeois landlords, who want to rule forever and exert their influence from there, but their foolish agitations and foul plots have no effect on the peasants who have lived through the storm of civilized attacks. The progressive peasants have long detected their intent. If they think that the peasants who suffered the severe economy of the Great War are still so stupid, they are sorely mistaken. The peasants have long since become crafty and smart, and the advanced peasants have joined hands with the workers to launch an opposition movement to defeat the reactionary scholars. As a result, the reactionary scholars bemoan the situation. Taking down the signboard for the revived nativist literature leaves the people overjoyed. It is not a good example, but it provides the best reference for those who promote nativist literature in Taiwan. . . . Formosa 2 (December 30, 1933): 8–19; reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 2006), 1: 75–86, translated by John Balcom.

24. Burning Hair—the Rites of Poetry shu i yinp ing

T

he burning flame has a brilliant intellect. The poetic atmosphere possessed by the burning flame becomes the world beloved by poets. Poets write their best poems in the midst of this fire. The fire of their contemplation occurs in the wilderness, where a sweet breeze blows and the yellow fruits of the sandalwood clack. Taiwan, where we live, is particularly

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who face imperialism in its current stage, and they plan to dig it up and make use of it. When all peoples have to rely on the protection of bourgeois order for their unity, then nativist literature is as filled with the content of the ruler as in feudal times. This is an indisputable fact. After the Great War, nativist literature flourished in some parts of Germany. At the same time—was it an intentional imitation?—nativist literature took shape and spread throughout Japan, as though it had some profound significance. But in fact, whether then or now, it is nothing new. It advocates the same old thing with the same old content and is tightly bound and held fast by feudalistic thinking: (1) the rebirth of character; (2) casting off the French influence; and (3) shifting importance from the metropolis to the countryside (Heimat). It is clearly a regressive literature, a reactionary literature that regurgitates the past. The pernicious influence of feudalism in Germany in western Europe remains unabated to this day. Reactionary scholars hide behind the ruling bourgeois landlords, who want to rule forever and exert their influence from there, but their foolish agitations and foul plots have no effect on the peasants who have lived through the storm of civilized attacks. The progressive peasants have long detected their intent. If they think that the peasants who suffered the severe economy of the Great War are still so stupid, they are sorely mistaken. The peasants have long since become crafty and smart, and the advanced peasants have joined hands with the workers to launch an opposition movement to defeat the reactionary scholars. As a result, the reactionary scholars bemoan the situation. Taking down the signboard for the revived nativist literature leaves the people overjoyed. It is not a good example, but it provides the best reference for those who promote nativist literature in Taiwan. . . . Formosa 2 (December 30, 1933): 8–19; reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 2006), 1: 75–86, translated by John Balcom.

24. Burning Hair—the Rites of Poetry shu i yinp ing

T

he burning flame has a brilliant intellect. The poetic atmosphere possessed by the burning flame becomes the world beloved by poets. Poets write their best poems in the midst of this fire. The fire of their contemplation occurs in the wilderness, where a sweet breeze blows and the yellow fruits of the sandalwood clack. Taiwan, where we live, is particularly

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favored by Nature to be the best place for this sort of poetic contemplation. The literature we create has the color of the banana, the music of the water buffalo, and the love songs of the native girls. The literature of the nineteenth century grew up in the thinness veiled in music, but the literature of the twentieth century demands strong colors and sharp angles. In this regard, Taiwan is a hotbed for literature, and poets work behind a transparent curtain. The laughter of the shepherd boy and the erotic desire of the native girl, I believe, will lead to a happy world of poetry. The fire in the open country will also become the poet’s fire. The offering for New Literature is always the flaming hair of youth, and new thought is the unrestrained bohemianism of the spirit. The aurora that rubs against the slope of reality is called poetry. (Poetry changes its color and angle based on the strength or weakness of the frictional force.) The sleep of the duck often with its eyes closed can light the lamp of a new myth. Poetry calls for fire, and poets create poetry. . . Outside my window is a glistening green field of tomatoes. The tropical colors and breeze of southern Formosa keep steaming up my pale forehead, my eyes, and my lips. I ponder over a transparent thought carried on the subtropical Formosan breeze. It is so easy for us to forget the transparency of the breeze of thought. Here, the poem created from transparent thought becomes opaque in meaning. This is something understandable for anyone who has had contact with the writings of all the new poets. As such, there is nothing to lament. In this modern age, we no longer seek meaning in writing. We believe it is enough that the unique transparency of this world must be realized in the form and thought of a work. This world of thought lies in “Burning Hair.” This world of thought will, in the end, become literature. All a literary work needs to do is to create “a world of thought in the mind.” What is poetry? . . . [This is such a difficult thing] because an object cannot simply become a poem the way “a green pea is a green pea.” How do we tailor an object and compose objects to form a poem? This is the spiritual secret of the poet, where poetry breathes like a storm. I believe that poetry is the parabolic curve drawn by a thrown object, but even so I often demand the incompleteness of its form. I believe that the form of poetry is the world of incomplete meaning walking toward that of complete meaning. This is the intrinsic nature of poetry. It is impossible for poetry, in its continuity, to ever reach the world of completeness. At the same time, a complete world is impossible. . . . The sparks from the burning eyes of the poet are the light of the poet’s spirit. “Burning Hair” becomes a rite of poetry. The poet roaming in the world of all musical instruments, as he clearly analyzes plants and the blood of the lamb. The world of thought.

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Consider this: thought is the same in fiction as in poetry. In the sky of the twentieth century, poetry emphasizes the “beauty of thought.” The shadow of the poetry of the past, characterized by the supremacy of bringing the beauty of music into poetry, has become paler and paler. Here and now, the beauty of thought is the skeleton, muscles, and the bodily proportions of modern poetry, . . . I believe that fatigue from thinking is fresh fatigue. At the moment, I take the water bottle from my desk, button up my white vest, and drink the water. In the space of “opaque lamplight” I feel the movement of weight becoming high-spirited strides, and the light of dawn becoming Pan’s laughter. The transparency of the naked beauty of Formosa comes from the white sea. For a surrealistic poetics. “There is something called surrealism in the rite of poetry. We perceive reality through surrealism,” grasping something more real than reality. It is the hand in a black glove. We can only touch surreal reality through surrealist works. I believe this is the key to new development, no, to advancing our understanding of all art that is ever-evolving art. Although it remains to be seen whether it can allow art to develop in a new direction, why can it not be seen as the key to deciphering the riddle of art? Standing on the basis of beauty, moving feeling, horror, etc. . . . I think these are inferior flames. I believe one offering to literature is the spiritual transformation of creating a “red balloon” with a snapped string, letting it rise from the ground. The outcome of autobiographic confession and simple romanticism is, in my view, due to the confusion of the work and reality. . . . Literature and thinking make people young. The world of emotion especially can refresh our thought. A poet’s thought becomes poetry. In “Burning Hair,” a tobacco pipe, a necklace, a rose are all poetic voices. Poetry breathes in the dream of mature thought. The world of the aborigine begins in sensation. Poetic thought possesses them all and turns into the transparency of literature. Poetry is the laughter of an aborigine. (Thus, aboriginal language is of interest to the poet.) Kicking a sweet melon out of a riverbed where the warm subtropical breeze blows, you can see a poem rise. I believe the Formosan poet wishes he were a tapir, or a shepherd whose burning hair flutters in the rosy dawn. Listening to the gems in the sand. . . . Spring morning tomorrow, poets on the island of Formosa, their burning hair fluttering, will stand up in the rite of poetry. . . . Windmill Poetry Journal 3 (March 1934); reprinted in Works of Shui Yinping, ed. Lü Xingchang (Tainan: Cultural Center of the City of Tainan, 1995), 127–33, translated by Yingtsih Hwang.

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25. Writing on the Wall gu o s hui ta n POETS OF ROSES Recently, on Taiwan’s literary scene (including cohort magazines and literary supplements to newspapers) one finds everywhere poems as beautiful as roses. To the small number of poets on the island, who are precious like jewels, we should respond with a lonely smile. As beautiful as a woman’s skin, soft and tender, [these poems] seem to bring a new poetic feeling to the island’s literary scene. Like a madman facing a woman dressed in translucent nylon, her breasts faintly visible, he writes an article to express how he feels, while casting a seductive look at these poets. Even though it is already mid-April, a shadow still lingers. What a narrow island! Ah, beautiful poets of roses and essayists who show off good taste, in the poetic world you rush to worship, one can hardly hear the voice or feel the pulse of our time. All you have given us are piled-up embellished words and decorative, illusory aesthetics. In other words, there is no palpable history, only detachment from living reality. Is poetry supposed to be like this, after all? Taiwan News literary supplement, April 21, 1934; reprinted in Collected Works of Guo Shuitan, ed. Yang Ziqiao (Tainan: Cultural Bureau of Tainan County, 1994), 160–51, translated by Michelle Yeh.

26. Manifesto ji e z hou

C

ulture is governed by cultural logic—it may be tense, slow, or stagnant. Cultural stagnation is without exception [the result of ] passivity in a dynamic era, which turns into a stage for the sad tune of degeneration and decadence. As a result, it paralyzes productive action and allows the conventional, received, escapist, skillful, and playful atmosphere to prevail in the social realm. However, culture, by logic, cannot stay stagnant forever. As the atmosphere of degradation and decadence develops on the other side, inevitably, dissatisfaction gives rise to critical consciousness, which, once awakened, will throw a napalm bomb of reform.

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25. Writing on the Wall gu o s hui ta n POETS OF ROSES Recently, on Taiwan’s literary scene (including cohort magazines and literary supplements to newspapers) one finds everywhere poems as beautiful as roses. To the small number of poets on the island, who are precious like jewels, we should respond with a lonely smile. As beautiful as a woman’s skin, soft and tender, [these poems] seem to bring a new poetic feeling to the island’s literary scene. Like a madman facing a woman dressed in translucent nylon, her breasts faintly visible, he writes an article to express how he feels, while casting a seductive look at these poets. Even though it is already mid-April, a shadow still lingers. What a narrow island! Ah, beautiful poets of roses and essayists who show off good taste, in the poetic world you rush to worship, one can hardly hear the voice or feel the pulse of our time. All you have given us are piled-up embellished words and decorative, illusory aesthetics. In other words, there is no palpable history, only detachment from living reality. Is poetry supposed to be like this, after all? Taiwan News literary supplement, April 21, 1934; reprinted in Collected Works of Guo Shuitan, ed. Yang Ziqiao (Tainan: Cultural Bureau of Tainan County, 1994), 160–51, translated by Michelle Yeh.

26. Manifesto ji e z hou

C

ulture is governed by cultural logic—it may be tense, slow, or stagnant. Cultural stagnation is without exception [the result of ] passivity in a dynamic era, which turns into a stage for the sad tune of degeneration and decadence. As a result, it paralyzes productive action and allows the conventional, received, escapist, skillful, and playful atmosphere to prevail in the social realm. However, culture, by logic, cannot stay stagnant forever. As the atmosphere of degradation and decadence develops on the other side, inevitably, dissatisfaction gives rise to critical consciousness, which, once awakened, will throw a napalm bomb of reform.

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That which can guide the masses to a reformist consciousness and accelerate the pace of social change in order to restore the lively flow of cultural activities is none other than the power of literature. Prominent examples are the men of foresight during the Renaissance, and those who came later, such as Rousseau and Ibsen. The literary bombs that they threw provided the opportunities for individual and social reform, or the underlying impetus for such. Their greatness is irrefutable. Art originates from the challenge and organization of life. It is neither a hobby for the leisurely nor entertainment in everyday life. Therefore, it does not inform us of human relationships during the Renaissance. Especially when an individual or society at large is bumping its head against the wall, the expectation of literature and arts to take on the responsibility of service is even greater. Only literature and art can be one step ahead of society in providing the vision of a new world and a new life. Our Taiwan, regardless of the arena—whether it is political, economic, social, or personal life—has its head pressed against the wall. The call for reform has been raging for a long time, and the expectation that literature should serve as a pioneer and leader of reform has been around for some time too. Unfortunately, however, Taiwan’s New Literature in its current state is still a desolate garden in which brambles grow. Far be it from us to talk about it living up to modern standards or meeting the expectations of the people and the time. Granted, there are a few patches of grass and flowers, some trees and grains; yet the future is still beyond our reach. When it comes to harmonizing monotonous human life, offering rest for weary travelers, and enriching meaningless lives, we have merely advanced one inch on a foot-long journey! One cannot help but sigh in despair over this state of affairs. However, the reason is neither that our land is so barren that it provides no nutrients for literature, nor that there is a lack of enthusiastic writers who abandon the garden by choice. There are many reasons. Unfocused action during the formative period may very well be one of them. Therefore, despite much effort in different directions, the garden remains stifled by brambles. Even if the cultivated patches bear fruit, we cannot see what dynamic progress it will make. Besides, our views are limited to individual worlds with little self-awareness. How can we anticipate harvesting “food for thought” that corresponds to our time? From unfocused to focused, from spontaneous action to construction of subjectivity—this is the natural path of progress and signals turning the corner on the challenging path of Taiwan’s New Literature. We believe that only action will usher in the development of new plans and the materialization of the New Literature movement that we anticipate in Taiwan. We are setting off. We should not lose our passion and belief in the face of the numerous obstacles along the road. We must spur ourselves on by identifying ourselves as an army of vanguards, and our mission as bravely striving

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toward the destination. We must advance beyond what we have cultivated and seek to enlarge the garden. We must work hard to eradicate all the brambles in anticipation of the wholesome prosperity and flourishing of Taiwan’s New Literature. Only thus will it meet the demands of our time and act as a pioneer and a force for life to come. Such is our aspiration, although we cannot help but feel lonely and powerless. We expect appropriate action while naturally aware that it won’t be easy. However, we know that in the world of the unknown, there are many recluses and pioneers, those who have been waiting for the right moment, and those who harbor high aspirations. Therefore, although our action is no different from a fine drizzle, it is bound to form an ocean beyond the horizon. This is why we have the courage to raise our feeble arms and follow the example of the man who calls to arms at night! Army of Vanguards, July 15, 1934, translated by Michelle Yeh.

27. Foreword: Understanding Folk Literature hua ng de s hi

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enerally speaking, folk literature—folk songs, folktales, and myths—has been produced for as long as human beings have existed. Primitive people composed folk songs to praise nature, and created tales and myths to explain nature. The former are related to their emotional life, the latter to their rational life. Japan’s Records of Ancient Affairs, China’s The Book of Songs, and the Greek myths are all expressions of primitive peoples’ views on art and philosophy, as well as on life and the universe. Their impact on future literature was great. Now let us single out Greek mythology for discussion. Greek mythology is one of the most important sources for European art. Many beautiful and profound poems use it for subject matter; many elegant paintings and magnificent sculptures portray mythic characters and plots. Everyone, ancient or modern, is drawn to those fascinating stories. Not only do adults perceive the good in the stories, but they also provide the material for children’s stories all over the world. From this, we can see how closely related ancient folk literature was to literature of later times. Europeans thoroughly understand folk literature; collection of and research on folk literature have a long history with remarkable results. In China, with the exception of “collecting folk songs as indicators of local culture,” there was

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toward the destination. We must advance beyond what we have cultivated and seek to enlarge the garden. We must work hard to eradicate all the brambles in anticipation of the wholesome prosperity and flourishing of Taiwan’s New Literature. Only thus will it meet the demands of our time and act as a pioneer and a force for life to come. Such is our aspiration, although we cannot help but feel lonely and powerless. We expect appropriate action while naturally aware that it won’t be easy. However, we know that in the world of the unknown, there are many recluses and pioneers, those who have been waiting for the right moment, and those who harbor high aspirations. Therefore, although our action is no different from a fine drizzle, it is bound to form an ocean beyond the horizon. This is why we have the courage to raise our feeble arms and follow the example of the man who calls to arms at night! Army of Vanguards, July 15, 1934, translated by Michelle Yeh.

27. Foreword: Understanding Folk Literature hua ng de s hi

G

enerally speaking, folk literature—folk songs, folktales, and myths—has been produced for as long as human beings have existed. Primitive people composed folk songs to praise nature, and created tales and myths to explain nature. The former are related to their emotional life, the latter to their rational life. Japan’s Records of Ancient Affairs, China’s The Book of Songs, and the Greek myths are all expressions of primitive peoples’ views on art and philosophy, as well as on life and the universe. Their impact on future literature was great. Now let us single out Greek mythology for discussion. Greek mythology is one of the most important sources for European art. Many beautiful and profound poems use it for subject matter; many elegant paintings and magnificent sculptures portray mythic characters and plots. Everyone, ancient or modern, is drawn to those fascinating stories. Not only do adults perceive the good in the stories, but they also provide the material for children’s stories all over the world. From this, we can see how closely related ancient folk literature was to literature of later times. Europeans thoroughly understand folk literature; collection of and research on folk literature have a long history with remarkable results. In China, with the exception of “collecting folk songs as indicators of local culture,” there was

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little concern for folk literature; what there was was usually motivated by didactic considerations: “Ancient kings used it to administer marriage, perfect filial piety, explain human relations, embellish teachings, and transform customs,” all of which is based on the intention of “advocating good and admonishing against evil.” It wasn’t until after the May Fourth movement that a vigorous folk literature movement based on the perspective of pure literature was launched. Quite a few books on this topic have been published over the years, attesting to an impressive accomplishment. What about Taiwan? There is no thorough understanding of folk literature in Taiwan. Some people even say Taiwan is an isolated island cut off by the sea and has no folk literature worth mentioning. This is just an excuse for laziness. Actually, the seed of folk literature was sown in the fields before our eyes a long time ago. We just do not want to open our eyes and harvest it. This attitude is not limited to folk literature, but also to other important topics worthy of research; we are willing to let others do it for us. Isn’t this a great humiliation? Today, we have become aware! The signal-fire of Taiwan studies has been lit by many people. But we regret that it came so late, especially in the case of folk literature. The reason is that folk literature has been handed down orally and has never appeared in written form. If we do not collect it and compile it as soon as possible, it will disappear, as Taiwan is in the midst of a transitional period, when new trends of thought are replacing the old. I remember when New People’s Gazette was still a weekly, it published close to a hundred folk songs. It also called for submissions of folktales; sadly, there were just a few submissions. Besides, Southern Voice and Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette also published works in these genres, but most of them were folk songs, and very few were folktales. This magazine has made an effort in this area, and we are publishing in this issue all the folktales we have found. As such, the folk song side of folk literature has done quite well, but folktales have not fared nearly so well. Our common goal from now on is to work harder to collect them. As to compilation and comparative study, these issues belong to a second phase. Most importantly, we must remember that our duty is to collect, compile, and research the folk literature our ancestors handed down to us. November 25, 1934 The Frontline (January 6, 1935): 1, translated by Yingtsih Hwang.

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28. Art Belongs to the People yang kui . . . A work of literature is, at root, the manifestation of the author’s thoughts and feelings. The only purpose of structure and description is to make as vivid and lively as possible the expression of these thoughts and feelings (the subject matter). Therefore, one should choose material on the basis of its effectiveness in bringing the subject matter to life. The structure of a story should serve to bring the subject matter to life. All description of the physical world and characters’ psychology should have a close connection to the subject matter too. We must be absolutely clear on this point: the subject is what we try to convey to the reader; the source material, the portrayal of characters, and description of scenery all serve to bring the subject to life. The works of pure literature that have flooded the market and that we have grown so sick of have lost their appeal, because the authors have forgotten the fundamental purpose of art. As the works themselves make plain, there is nothing in them that one can rightly call a subject, because the authors lack ideas and passion; they live insular lives and do not know how to find interesting material. So they put everything they have into the mastery of trivial techniques, falling so low as to become vulgar, petty hacks who write works of pseudonaturalism, with shallow psychological portraits, unscientific depiction of behavior, and unimaginative objective description. The current call by writers in the Art Group1 for an engaged, activist literature should be understood as a reaction to the situation I have described above. Progressive literature is, by definition, engaged and activist, and it is written in the realist mode. If engaged and activist literature is not built upon the foundation of realism, it all too easily can become fascist. Literature that is not firmly grounded in social reality is sham literature. There is no such thing as realism that is not engaged and activist. When it lacks these qualities, it is too focused on the here and now and blind to the future. This is not true realism, but rather vestigial naturalism. It goes without saying that in light of its historical mission, proletarian literature should be written for laborers, farmers, and the urban petty bourgeoisie. It should, of course, be primarily about the lives of laborers and farmers, but it need not be limited to this. From the standpoint and worldview of laborers, it should write penetratingly about the lives of their enemies, such as the intelligentsia, the middle class, and the capitalists and their allies. This worldview is not an abstract concept but is something an author must internalize completely so that it is tangible in everything he or she writes. This is the nature of authentically progressive, timeless literature; only it can touch our hearts, make our blood boil, and show us the correct way forward.

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While the Art Group has been active, the proletarian group has launched its own periodicals Bunka shūdan (Cultural Group, June 1933–February 1935) and Bungaku hyōron (Literary Criticism, 1934–1936). But it has almost ended up turning into the very thing it opposes, in that it fails to consider literature from the standpoint of class, and so becomes the prisoner of art for art’s sake. This is enough to make one weep. The difficult struggle to defend authentic literature waged by Tokunaga Sunao2 and a few others under these circumstances has been heroic and tragic (“Symposium on the New Talents in Bungaku hyōron” in the New Year’s edition, 1934). In the readers’ forum in Bungaku hyōron, a reader once said that literary criticism at present is written too much with the intelligentsia in mind and demanded that more criticism be written for laborers. I too believe this is the road proletarian literary criticism should take; moreover, it is only by choosing this path that we can reverse current trends. The reaction of readers to Quan Wulang’s [1934] proposal for “literary criticism written by representatives of the trades” is already evident in responses in Bungaku hyōron and in the “Bungei mailbox” column of Bungei (Literary Arts). This kind of response has proliferated. Even if editors think the idea is absurd, if it tells us what readers’ really think, then editors should embrace it and replace the literary criticism they currently publish. This would be the ideal outcome; it is the only way we can put an end to the practice in the literary field and return literature to the path of authentic art. Only if we take this route can art become art of the people, and only then will the people get involved in the art. If there is to be a literary renaissance, it will come about only when we take the steps outlined above. Without the participation of laborers and farmers, without works that can stir the heart, what literary renaissance is there to speak of? At present, the literary world in Taiwan is more closely connected to the literary world of Japan than it is to that of China. If we are to grasp what is going on in the literary world in Taiwan, we must begin by understanding the literary world of Japan; to find a way forward, we must observe trends in Japan. Of course, paying attention to Japanese literature does not mean we should blindly copy everything Japan does. Writers have been professionalized in Japan, and for this reason much goes on in the literary arena that has nothing to do with literature at all. Here, writing has not yet been turned into a commodity, so now is the moment for us to act on what we truly feel and build a foundation for our creative work. It is true that much that has happened in Taiwan’s literary arena also has nothing to do with literature. But relatively speaking, we are, in the main, left alone in our literary pursuits; we are not controlled by market demands, and our approach to writing is straightforward and sincere. If we can maintain this approach and adopt critically and selectively techniques from world literature, then in the not too distant future, we will witness on this island the steady production of masterworks that appeal to the hearts of thousands.

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My story “The Newspaper Boy” was very well received by readers. Three months later, the story “Oxcart” by Mr. Lü Heruo, published in the same journal, did even better.3 I hope writers who outshine me will continue to appear and publish work that is even more loved by readers than “The Newspaper Boy” and that moves them even more. This is the only way we can improve Taiwanese culture. “The real connoisseurs of art are the masses. Something that can be understood by only a minority is not art! True art is work that captures the feelings of the masses and stirs their hearts!” Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 2 (February 1935): 8–12; reprinted in Complete Works of Yang Kui, 14 vols., ed. Peng Xiaoyan (Tainan: Preparation Office, Research Center for the Preservation of National Cultural Resources, 1998), 9: 135–40, translated by Thomas Moran.

notes 1.

“Art Group,” literally “art faction” or “art school,” is perhaps a reference to the Japanese Shinkō Geijutsu-ha (Newly Risen Art Group), which was active in 1929–1930 and was in opposition to the “Proletarian Group” of Japanese writers and critics. Or it could be a reference to sympathizers of the Japanese group in Taiwan. “Art group” may, however, merely be Yang Kui’s catch-all term for those who advocate highbrow literature and art for art’s sake, which he rejected.

2.

Tokunaga Sunao (1899–1958) was a printer, member of the Japan Proletarian Writers’ League, and author of Taiyō no nai Machi (The Street Without Sunlight [1929]), based on a strike at a press where Tokunaga worked.

3.

Both stories were written and published in Japanese. The first half of Yang Kui’s “The Newspaper Boy” (“Shinbun haitatsufu”) was published in May 1932 in the Taiwan New People’s Journal, and the entire story was first published in October 1934 in Bungaku hyōron. Lü Heruo’s “Oxcart” (“Gyūsha”) was published in Bungaku hyōron (2, no. 1 [January 1935]).

29. The Historical Mission of Taiwan Literary Arts z ha ng she nqie 1 Since we launched Taiwan Literary Arts (1934–36), thanks to the help of all comrades, every issue has substantial content; and thanks to the difficult work done by the Jiayi branch, the efforts of the Tokyo branch, and the organizing done by the

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My story “The Newspaper Boy” was very well received by readers. Three months later, the story “Oxcart” by Mr. Lü Heruo, published in the same journal, did even better.3 I hope writers who outshine me will continue to appear and publish work that is even more loved by readers than “The Newspaper Boy” and that moves them even more. This is the only way we can improve Taiwanese culture. “The real connoisseurs of art are the masses. Something that can be understood by only a minority is not art! True art is work that captures the feelings of the masses and stirs their hearts!” Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 2 (February 1935): 8–12; reprinted in Complete Works of Yang Kui, 14 vols., ed. Peng Xiaoyan (Tainan: Preparation Office, Research Center for the Preservation of National Cultural Resources, 1998), 9: 135–40, translated by Thomas Moran.

notes 1.

“Art Group,” literally “art faction” or “art school,” is perhaps a reference to the Japanese Shinkō Geijutsu-ha (Newly Risen Art Group), which was active in 1929–1930 and was in opposition to the “Proletarian Group” of Japanese writers and critics. Or it could be a reference to sympathizers of the Japanese group in Taiwan. “Art group” may, however, merely be Yang Kui’s catch-all term for those who advocate highbrow literature and art for art’s sake, which he rejected.

2.

Tokunaga Sunao (1899–1958) was a printer, member of the Japan Proletarian Writers’ League, and author of Taiyō no nai Machi (The Street Without Sunlight [1929]), based on a strike at a press where Tokunaga worked.

3.

Both stories were written and published in Japanese. The first half of Yang Kui’s “The Newspaper Boy” (“Shinbun haitatsufu”) was published in May 1932 in the Taiwan New People’s Journal, and the entire story was first published in October 1934 in Bungaku hyōron. Lü Heruo’s “Oxcart” (“Gyūsha”) was published in Bungaku hyōron (2, no. 1 [January 1935]).

29. The Historical Mission of Taiwan Literary Arts z ha ng she nqie 1 Since we launched Taiwan Literary Arts (1934–36), thanks to the help of all comrades, every issue has substantial content; and thanks to the difficult work done by the Jiayi branch, the efforts of the Tokyo branch, and the organizing done by the

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Taipei branch, we have been able to steadily broaden the scope of our endeavor. Most recently, Shanghai has decided to organize a branch and has been very active, with Wang Baiyun, Zhang Qingzhang, and Zhang Fangzhou in the lead. Tainan has also begun to organize a branch, and several comrades have written from Xiamen asking us for permission to establish a branch there. By degrees, our work is developing from a literary movement into real action. Thanks to the collective wisdom and combined efforts of all comrades, Taiwan Literary Arts, which is the indisputable mouthpiece of the Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance, has been able step by step to work its way through difficulties and has achieved considerable success as a single, comprehensive outlet for all writers in Taiwan. To recap, we worked in concert with comrades in the interior [Japan] at the start, and now we have gained the understanding of the authorities [office of the governor-general of Taiwan]. Our hopes have been realized one by one, and our ranks have grown and strengthened. Our mission is nothing less than the important task of cultivating the wasteland that is Taiwanese literature, while at the same time uniting the Japanese and the Taiwanese in their hearts and minds, also a matter of extraordinary importance. Furthermore, we will serve as the intermediary for goodwill between China and Japan, do our share for peace in East Asia, and lend a hand to the effort to bring about world harmony. Literature is the most universal of things and knows no national boundaries. It exerts a tremendous influence but harbors no biases. Great literature is like water; nothing is more submissive and weak, but yet it excels in benefiting humanity and all lives. It acts but does not boast; it succeeds yet claims no merit. However, for attacking that which is hard and strong, nothing can surpass it, and it often serves as the fuse that touches off the transformation of a nation. Literature builds public opinion and so helps stop brutality and stamp out wrongs. It is dreaded by aggressors and feared by tyrants. History provides much evidence of the power of literature; there is no need to go into detail here. Literature has great power, but Taiwan’s literature lags. It cannot catch up to foreign literature in one great leap and march along with it side by side, especially given that Taiwanese literature has the singular historical mission of enlightening the people. We must not limit ourselves to the expression of our imaginations; we must simultaneously fulfill our obligation to guide the public. Our responsibility is heavy, and the road is long. We must set foot in the door before entering the hall, and embark on a journey of a thousand miles with our first step.

2 When we consider our work so far, it is probably fair to say it is mostly comrades showing off for one another or simply looking for a chance to see their names in

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print. We have neglected our intended audience—the masses—and as a result, our writing has been for the most part the product of acting smart among a group of friends. We have been unable to make headway with the average literate person, which is to be regretted. According to a survey, about 40 percent of the population of Taiwan is literate, which is about two million people, among whom about fifty thousand, or 1 percent of the population, can read well enough to read Romance of the Three Kingdoms. The circulation of any given newspaper in Taiwan is, however, only a little more than twenty thousand copies. The level of education in Taiwan may still be low; nevertheless, there are more than one hundred thousand people who read newspapers. Considering these facts, we still have a lot of room for growth, but at present the circulation of Taiwan Literary Arts is only one thousand copies, and every month there are a few dozen copies or so left over, which is painful to admit. Why has our art been unable to make any progress? The answer, when we get down to it, is we have not followed through on our efforts at publicizing the magazine, so the average person does not understand the value of the New Literature. It is as if there were a broad gully between the masses and the New Literature. If we do not immediately build a sturdy, majestic bridge that shows them the way across, they are unlikely to ask for directions and make their way over on their own. Consider the poetry societies active in Taiwan today. They number more than one hundred, and on average each society has about ten members, which adds up to one thousand people, more or less. But when we check the number of “poets of Chinese poetry” who subscribe to Taiwan Literary Arts, we count fewer than twenty, which is not even 2 percent of the total membership of the poetry societies. These figures give us a clue to the miserable state of things. We truly hope that comrades will double their efforts. We should not pick up our pens merely to satisfy our own artistic imaginations; it is most important that we target the masses and complete the work of enlightening them. This is the only way to reach the goal of making literature for the masses. Currently, the various literary factions are all calling with great sincerity for a literature of the masses. Proponents of pure literature, popular literature, detective fiction, and proletarian literature are all striving [toward the goal]. Creating a literature for the masses does not, in fact, imply that literature should be made easy enough for the illiterate; it means creating a literature of relatively universal appeal, that is all. No faction has any chance of getting people who cannot read to appreciate their writing.

3 At the current juncture, the majority of the people in Taiwan (here meaning the literate classes) like to read fantastic tales with many plot twists; the quality

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of the writing just does not seem to be something they care about. Our most pressing task, therefore, is to refashion the New Literature, and we must be absolutely sure that we do not copy the excessive emphasis on description found in Japanese literature. We should instead learn from China’s old literary forms and mix in the new Soviet Russian literary forms—there should be an equal emphasis on description and plot. Only this will do. The Japanese language is inherently cloying, and so literature written in Japanese is cloying. It is revolting, unless you have had so much of it that you become addicted to it. If you remove the beautiful language and flowery sentences from Japanese literature, you find there really is not much substance. Most troubling is that their authors like to put in all sorts of unnecessary detail that just gets in the way of the story. If we were to blindly imitate everything about Japanese literature, we would end up with a perverted Taiwanese literature. We must always remember that our target audience is the masses; we must create a literature that belongs to the people of Taiwan. Only by doing so can we avoid running straight into a brick wall. Only by doing so can Taiwanese literature make rapid progress and produce the results we are after. There are problems, however. First, the environment Taiwanese literature finds itself in is at the moment quite adverse; there are many obstacles to getting our work published. Second, there is the difficult question of what language to use. Example A: there is no unity of the spoken and the written languages; as a result, we do not have all the tools we need for writing literature. Example B: the people have yet to give any clear indication of what they like and what their standards are for the New Literature. Example C: the literate class is still small, the New Literature is still immature and as yet unable to awaken the masses or even get their attention. . . etc. Together, these problems comprise the potentially mortal wound from which Taiwanese literature is suffering. If we cannot overcome them, there is no future for Taiwanese literature whatsoever. As to the first problem, we must be steadfast in spirit as we work step by step to make the needed breakthroughs. As to the second problem, so long as we have a good understanding of the issues involved we can begin to bring about change at any time we wish. In regard to A: although there is yet no unity of the spoken and written languages, we can do our best to write in a way that unifies the two. For instance, in the main body of a work we can use a simple but elegant [Mandarin] vernacular, while for dialogues we can use Taiwanese to the extent possible (any Japanese can be translated to convey the feeling). If one encounters a word in the spoken [Taiwanese] language for which there is no character, the expedient thing to do is to use a character that is close in sound to the word. There would also be no harm in throwing in a word or two from the [Mandarin] vernacular. In regard to B: if we want to rouse the masses and win their attention, everyone with a passion for literature must mobilize to give frequent lectures, do propaganda work among the people, hold literary symposia, and find out what the people like to read. Once we know what the people like,

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we can use this knowledge to guide the people in the right direction. In regard to C: the literate class is still small, and our writings are still immature. Therefore we should not try to write novels but should instead write short stories about interesting topics. In my humble opinion, the people of Taiwan seem to love Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Water Margin, A History of the States of the Eastern Zhou, and similar works with many plot twists; they also love Investiture of the Gods, Strange Tales from the Leisure Studio, and anything that is fantastic or bizarre. In short, they like exciting fiction.

4 To draw a conclusion based on what I have written above, we of course should try to write work that is exciting, and we should at least try writing work based on the books mentioned above. . . . We can use the forms and techniques of modern literature to create new work that is based on the old stories. This is the only way we are going to rouse the interest of the majority of readers. This sort of exercise might go against the writer’s conscience, and perhaps some of us will disdain to do this, but it is our duty to do so. Unless we do so, the Taiwanese people will never come up to our cultural level and our literature will forever remain at a remove from the people. Even if Taiwan produced world-class literary giants, that would not benefit the Taiwanese people. After all, Taiwanese writers live on Taiwanese ground and eat Taiwanese grain, how can they have nothing to give back to Taiwan? Above I have discussed the question of rewriting old literature. We must also be extremely sensible in creating New Literature. For example, we should choose socially relevant topics, and our plots should be exciting (please see my “A Proposal for the Direction of New Taiwanese literature” in the February and April [1935] issues of this journal). We must give vent to the grievances of the people and give voice to their hopes. It is particularly important that we be resolute in carrying out a reform of vernacular poetry. To date, vernacular poetry has been crude in form and inferior in quality. Poetry is hardly distinguishable from prose, with nothing poetic about it when it is recited. It is no wonder that poets of the old style insist that the New Poetry is pure bullshit. This criticism no doubt goes a little too far, but it is probably true that the New Poetry cannot really be considered poetry. The language in which the New Poetry is written is still unrefined; there is neither meter nor rhyme. After you read a new poem, it is hard to remember anything about it, much less recite it. (I doubt that anybody can recite more than five vernacular poems from memory.) It is our responsibility to reform the New Poetry from this moment on. No! Starting today, Taiwan’s New Literature should make a completely new beginning. Starting today, we should set in motion a revolution of the entire New Literature.

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Our alliance was founded in response to a complex set of circumstances and events; its goal is to draw upon the collective wisdom, ideas, and strength of the group to get us past current challenges and develop the wasteland that is Taiwanese literature today. Taiwan Literary Arts is our mouthpiece and the weapon we need to do our work. I most sincerely hope that comrades understand the situation we are in and appreciate our weighty historical mission. I trust we will unite in good faith and put this weapon of ours to use. Together, we can build the pyramid of Taiwanese literature. This is what the alliance so earnestly awaits. April 5, 1935 Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 5 (May 5, 1935); reprinted in Sourcebook of Taiwan’s New Literature Under Japanese Occupation, 5 vols., ed. Li Nanheng (Taipei: Mingtan, 1979), 5: 194–99, translated by Thomas Moran.

30. Miscellaneous Thoughts on Literature—Two Types of Atmosphere lü her uo

S

omehow, over the past two or three years, Taiwan’s once-disorganized literary world has gradually begun to take shape, an example of which is the founding of the Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance and the publication of Taiwan Literary Arts, as well as the fact that ordinary citizens have also begun to care about these happenings. The significance of these events is, in my view, historic and shows great progress. The most concrete manifestation of this happy turn of events is that those who are intent on literary endeavors have taken a step forward out of this long-standing murky atmosphere. They have recognized their devotion to literature and, facing the direction they want to take from here on out, bravely advance as they cultivate an increasingly serious attitude. During the maturation process, artists all understand these opportunities and reveal (or gradually reveal) their true selves. This is most noteworthy. In other words, in the past, we seemed to be in a fog when it came to writers’ views on literature (or art in general) and their attitudes toward life. Yet today these things have risen to the surface one by one. When asked about their own literary consciousness, they have no place to hide. I have a limited social circle, but I have faithfully read all the records of discussions. To summarize their content, I think that literary attitudes come down to “two types of atmosphere.” Although this is my personal literary view,

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Our alliance was founded in response to a complex set of circumstances and events; its goal is to draw upon the collective wisdom, ideas, and strength of the group to get us past current challenges and develop the wasteland that is Taiwanese literature today. Taiwan Literary Arts is our mouthpiece and the weapon we need to do our work. I most sincerely hope that comrades understand the situation we are in and appreciate our weighty historical mission. I trust we will unite in good faith and put this weapon of ours to use. Together, we can build the pyramid of Taiwanese literature. This is what the alliance so earnestly awaits. April 5, 1935 Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 5 (May 5, 1935); reprinted in Sourcebook of Taiwan’s New Literature Under Japanese Occupation, 5 vols., ed. Li Nanheng (Taipei: Mingtan, 1979), 5: 194–99, translated by Thomas Moran.

30. Miscellaneous Thoughts on Literature—Two Types of Atmosphere lü her uo

S

omehow, over the past two or three years, Taiwan’s once-disorganized literary world has gradually begun to take shape, an example of which is the founding of the Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance and the publication of Taiwan Literary Arts, as well as the fact that ordinary citizens have also begun to care about these happenings. The significance of these events is, in my view, historic and shows great progress. The most concrete manifestation of this happy turn of events is that those who are intent on literary endeavors have taken a step forward out of this long-standing murky atmosphere. They have recognized their devotion to literature and, facing the direction they want to take from here on out, bravely advance as they cultivate an increasingly serious attitude. During the maturation process, artists all understand these opportunities and reveal (or gradually reveal) their true selves. This is most noteworthy. In other words, in the past, we seemed to be in a fog when it came to writers’ views on literature (or art in general) and their attitudes toward life. Yet today these things have risen to the surface one by one. When asked about their own literary consciousness, they have no place to hide. I have a limited social circle, but I have faithfully read all the records of discussions. To summarize their content, I think that literary attitudes come down to “two types of atmosphere.” Although this is my personal literary view,

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examining and summing up these two types of atmosphere will play an important role in Taiwanese literature’s future development. To impose the mechanical term “two types of atmosphere” may not be appropriate, but, in view of the overall picture, this way of thinking is not amiss either. To the point: in one atmosphere, one considers being a literary worker more important than literature itself, loses oneself in the atmosphere of being a “literary youth,” and is self-satisfied; in the other type of atmosphere, instead of fulfilling personal vanity, one displays a pure passion for literature itself as one engages in writing and studies literature diligently. To put it more bluntly, the former writer can be compared to a middle school student who deliberately rends his clothes, wears a scarf and wooden clogs, and puts on the air of “I am a writer” or “I am a poet.” Such posturing alone is enough for him to feel content; he views literature as mysterious and detached from everyday life. This type of writer deplores such questions as “For what does art exist?” Rather, he treats “art for art’s sake” as his magic potion; except liquor, coffee, and romantic love, nothing means anything to him. This type of atmosphere can be found all over, not just on Taiwan. At present, Taiwan’s literary world is in transition, a situation perhaps beyond its control. Comparatively speaking, the other type is more progressive. These writers seek to understand the essence of art and literature, and they observe reality with their own eyes. They think that the history of realist art or every artistic phenomenon is neither ordinary, existing beauty nor beauty descending from heaven. Therefore, they diligently pay attention to their own lives and make life their starting point. Which type should we support? Of course it is the latter. Although these matters are somewhat nebulous, I have long had some awareness of them. At the general meeting of the Literary League on August 11, I became acutely aware of it. During a branch report on “factions” and “differences in bloodlines,” someone (unfortunately, I don’t know his name) said something to the effect that “questions of factions and differences in blood lines are not within the scope of literature. Those who discuss these issues are ignorant of the art of literature.” I was shocked at this bold proclamation. He did not offer any basis for it, but as I listened, [I had the impression that] he thought he did not need any. He just spoke whatever was on his mind. Perhaps he believed: “It’s too much trouble [to cite evidence] when one speaks of sacred literature. To hell with it!” But isn’t this [an example of ] the first type? In comparison, the report by Mr. Wang Dengshan from the Jiali branch made a deep impression on me. He talked in general about his aspiration in life before he had come into contact with literature. I thought he did a wonderful job. I remember he said something like this: “We don’t want to mold a writer; we want to mold a ‘person’.” Since what we mean by “person” here also in the end concerns attitude toward life before contact with literature, it should refer to someone who has a firm grip on real life. As long as our colleagues from the Jiali branch embrace this belief, there will not be any “literary youth” or vagabonds in a decadent atmosphere. As this belief develops, we will enjoy a considerable yield in literary

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creation. The atmosphere that the Jiali branch has been nurturing is outstanding and worthy of our expectation. One may say that they will soon be able to grasp objective truth amid reality. Between these two types [of atmosphere], we hope to embrace the earnest attitude toward literary endeavors that members of the Jiali branch have initiated; rid ourselves of the former type of contented, infatuated attitude toward literature; and march forth toward the anticipated future. Shouldn’t the “two types of atmosphere” quickly converge into ”one type of atmosphere,” so we can set out steadfastly together? Taiwan Literary Arts 3, no. 6 (May 29, 1936): 44–45; reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2005), 2: 36–38, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

31. Poetry Snippets: On Highbrow we ng nao     

    

Ň 7KH H[SUHVVLRQ łKLJKEURZŃ ZDV ERUQ LQ WKH 8QLWHG 6WDWHV DQG UHDUHG LQ Britain. Will Irwin did the birthing, Norman Venner the mothering. Ň 7KHKLJKEURZLVDQDGYHQWXUHUDSLRQHHURIDUWLVWLFGHVLUH Ň 7KHWUXHKLJKEURZWDNHVJUHDWH[FHSWLRQWRWUDIILFNLQJLQWKHYXOJDU+HLV forever alone. Ň 2QFHDSRHWQDPHG6DWR+DUXRDXWKRURIVHYHUDOORYHO\SRHPVDGYLVHGKLV young companions: “Attain to be nobly alone!” Ň 7KHKLJKEURZŀVYHU\H[LVWHQFHLVOXGLFURXV+HSHUSHWXDOO\ZHQGVKLVFLUcuitous way through the dust of the mundane world, seeking that sliver of gold he can call his own. If that is not ludicrous, then what is? Ň 7KHORZEURZFKDUJHVKDVWLO\IRUZDUGbbLQWKHIRRWVWHSVRIWKHKLJKEURZ who has long since vanished into the distance. Ň 6DWLUHLVDIRUPRIKLJKFULWLFLVP/DFNLQJZLWVDWLUHLVPHUHPHWDSKRU Ň +HZKRZDONVWKLVSDWKEOLQNHUHGE\PHWDSKRULVDVHFRQGUDWHFRS\LVWDQG does not deserve our consideration. Ň $UURJDQWDQGVHOILVKKHPD\EHEXWRQO\WKHKLJKEURZVKDOOEHIRUHUHFHGing from sight, leave behind a shining beacon for humanity. Ň &KLOGOLNH DQG IRUHYHU DORQH 1HYHU UHFRQFLOHG WR WKH YXOJDU KH UHDGV obscure books, listens to exotic music, and loses himself in the work of unknown painters. He finds a secret home for his soul in Massenet’s Elegy

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creation. The atmosphere that the Jiali branch has been nurturing is outstanding and worthy of our expectation. One may say that they will soon be able to grasp objective truth amid reality. Between these two types [of atmosphere], we hope to embrace the earnest attitude toward literary endeavors that members of the Jiali branch have initiated; rid ourselves of the former type of contented, infatuated attitude toward literature; and march forth toward the anticipated future. Shouldn’t the “two types of atmosphere” quickly converge into ”one type of atmosphere,” so we can set out steadfastly together? Taiwan Literary Arts 3, no. 6 (May 29, 1936): 44–45; reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2005), 2: 36–38, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

31. Poetry Snippets: On Highbrow we ng nao     

    

Ň 7KH H[SUHVVLRQ łKLJKEURZŃ ZDV ERUQ LQ WKH 8QLWHG 6WDWHV DQG UHDUHG LQ Britain. Will Irwin did the birthing, Norman Venner the mothering. Ň 7KHKLJKEURZLVDQDGYHQWXUHUDSLRQHHURIDUWLVWLFGHVLUH Ň 7KHWUXHKLJKEURZWDNHVJUHDWH[FHSWLRQWRWUDIILFNLQJLQWKHYXOJDU+HLV forever alone. Ň 2QFHDSRHWQDPHG6DWR+DUXRDXWKRURIVHYHUDOORYHO\SRHPVDGYLVHGKLV young companions: “Attain to be nobly alone!” Ň 7KHKLJKEURZŀVYHU\H[LVWHQFHLVOXGLFURXV+HSHUSHWXDOO\ZHQGVKLVFLUcuitous way through the dust of the mundane world, seeking that sliver of gold he can call his own. If that is not ludicrous, then what is? Ň 7KHORZEURZFKDUJHVKDVWLO\IRUZDUGbbLQWKHIRRWVWHSVRIWKHKLJKEURZ who has long since vanished into the distance. Ň 6DWLUHLVDIRUPRIKLJKFULWLFLVP/DFNLQJZLWVDWLUHLVPHUHPHWDSKRU Ň +HZKRZDONVWKLVSDWKEOLQNHUHGE\PHWDSKRULVDVHFRQGUDWHFRS\LVWDQG does not deserve our consideration. Ň $UURJDQWDQGVHOILVKKHPD\EHEXWRQO\WKHKLJKEURZVKDOOEHIRUHUHFHGing from sight, leave behind a shining beacon for humanity. Ň &KLOGOLNH DQG IRUHYHU DORQH 1HYHU UHFRQFLOHG WR WKH YXOJDU KH UHDGV obscure books, listens to exotic music, and loses himself in the work of unknown painters. He finds a secret home for his soul in Massenet’s Elegy

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and Picasso’s The Poet. But when the song spills into the streets for the pleasure of the crowd, his soul shall, once again, flee to far quarters. 2EOLYLRXVWRIDPHWKHKLJKEURZGRHVQRWVHOISURPRWH 7KHXQFXOWXUHGEUDJJDUWLVQRPRUHWKDQDJRULOODLQDWRSKDW 7KH WUXH SRHW GRHV QRW EHFRPH D SRHW EHFDXVH KH ZDQWV WR EH RQH +LV every move, anywhere and anytime is, unassailably, poetic. Those who write poetry and proclaim “Poeta ego sum” are second-rate pretenders. 7R VKRXW UHGIDFHG DPRQJ WKH PDVVHV LV WKH LPSHWXRXV VHQWLPHQW RI WKH Philistine, of the lowbrow, of those whose rigid thinking lacks a rational system. %HUHIWRIVHQVLELOLWLHVWKHKLJKEURZGHVFHQGVWRWKHORZEURZ 7RVHHNWUXWKLQGUHDPVWRUHQHZUHDOLW\LQDQGWKURXJKWKHUHDOWRGHYHORS the singular creativity of the self—such is the path entrusted to devotees of the surreal.

Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 6 (June 10, 1935): 20–21; reprinted in Selected Works of Weng Nao, ed. Chen Zaoxiang and Xu Junya (Zhanghua: Zhanghua County Cultural Center, 1997), 197–200, translated by John A. Crespi.

32. Preface to Mountain Spirit hu fe ng

G

etting started on translating these works was something that happened by chance. Last year, when World Knowledge serialized translations of fiction from small and weak nations, I was reminded of Korea and Taiwan in the east, and thought that now would be the right time to introduce their literary works to readers. On account of that, I translated “The Newspaper Boy” [by Yang Kui] and sent in the manuscript. I never imagined how much it would move readers and delight friends. So I went ahead and translated “Mountain Spirit,” and at the same time got the idea to collect materials and compile a volume of translations. Judging from the introductions to Zhang Hezhou (Chang Hyok-chu [1905– 1997]) and Yang Kui, the New Literature movement in Korea started a decade before the one in Taiwan; it not only produced many new and veteran writers but also formed several different schools. Although the literary movement in Taiwan has been weaker and arrived later, there is no lack of writers publishing in vernacular Chinese and Japanese in the literary sections of newspapers and periodicals. But I regret that I cannot read Korean and have no access to materials in Taiwan, so I could only search through Japanese publications. The

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and Picasso’s The Poet. But when the song spills into the streets for the pleasure of the crowd, his soul shall, once again, flee to far quarters. 2EOLYLRXVWRIDPHWKHKLJKEURZGRHVQRWVHOISURPRWH 7KHXQFXOWXUHGEUDJJDUWLVQRPRUHWKDQDJRULOODLQDWRSKDW 7KH WUXH SRHW GRHV QRW EHFRPH D SRHW EHFDXVH KH ZDQWV WR EH RQH +LV every move, anywhere and anytime is, unassailably, poetic. Those who write poetry and proclaim “Poeta ego sum” are second-rate pretenders. 7R VKRXW UHGIDFHG DPRQJ WKH PDVVHV LV WKH LPSHWXRXV VHQWLPHQW RI WKH Philistine, of the lowbrow, of those whose rigid thinking lacks a rational system. %HUHIWRIVHQVLELOLWLHVWKHKLJKEURZGHVFHQGVWRWKHORZEURZ 7RVHHNWUXWKLQGUHDPVWRUHQHZUHDOLW\LQDQGWKURXJKWKHUHDOWRGHYHORS the singular creativity of the self—such is the path entrusted to devotees of the surreal.

Taiwan Literary Arts 2, no. 6 (June 10, 1935): 20–21; reprinted in Selected Works of Weng Nao, ed. Chen Zaoxiang and Xu Junya (Zhanghua: Zhanghua County Cultural Center, 1997), 197–200, translated by John A. Crespi.

32. Preface to Mountain Spirit hu fe ng

G

etting started on translating these works was something that happened by chance. Last year, when World Knowledge serialized translations of fiction from small and weak nations, I was reminded of Korea and Taiwan in the east, and thought that now would be the right time to introduce their literary works to readers. On account of that, I translated “The Newspaper Boy” [by Yang Kui] and sent in the manuscript. I never imagined how much it would move readers and delight friends. So I went ahead and translated “Mountain Spirit,” and at the same time got the idea to collect materials and compile a volume of translations. Judging from the introductions to Zhang Hezhou (Chang Hyok-chu [1905– 1997]) and Yang Kui, the New Literature movement in Korea started a decade before the one in Taiwan; it not only produced many new and veteran writers but also formed several different schools. Although the literary movement in Taiwan has been weaker and arrived later, there is no lack of writers publishing in vernacular Chinese and Japanese in the literary sections of newspapers and periodicals. But I regret that I cannot read Korean and have no access to materials in Taiwan, so I could only search through Japanese publications. The

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result is this harvest of pieces. It is obviously too inadequate an introduction to the literature of Korea and Taiwan. Still, considering that to this day we know next to nothing about the lives of the masses in these two territories, this book should have its significance for Chinese readers. I still recall that I did these translations almost entirely by making time for them late at night. In my quiet surroundings, the noise of the city receded into the distance, and I only occasionally heard the faint voices of hawkers selling snacks. Gradually I entered into the characters in a work, pinned beneath the giant, fiendish hand that they endure, felt their pain and shared their struggle, and sometimes even felt that the whole world seemed to fall away from around me. It was at times like these that I would read how the main characters in “First Combat” and “The Newspaper Boy” awaken, rise up, and go forward undefeated. The sense of gratitude I experienced is really hard to express. Somewhere in Japan there seems to be a proverb that goes something like this: If it is a neighbor’s business, do not get involved. So I call this a foreign story. Our circumstances are just the opposite. In the past several years, we as a nation have been headed day by day toward a turning point in our own life or death, survival or extinction. Now the period of fully implementing [the Japanese policy of ] “ensuring the peace of the East” is upon us. At times like these, we read “foreign” stories as our own business, and I am certain that readers will surely understand the reason. Written in Shanghai on the night of March 31, 1936 Mountain Spirit: Short Stories from Korea and Taiwan, trans. Hu Feng (Shanghai: Shanghai Cultural Life, 1936), translated by Edward M. Gunn.

33. Youth and Taiwan (II): Ideal and Reality of the New Drama Movement shima r i kuhei ...

THE BEGINNINGS OF THE NEW DRAMA MOVEMENT Although this is supposed to be my recollection of the New Drama movement in Taiwan, there had been new drama movements long before I was old enough

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result is this harvest of pieces. It is obviously too inadequate an introduction to the literature of Korea and Taiwan. Still, considering that to this day we know next to nothing about the lives of the masses in these two territories, this book should have its significance for Chinese readers. I still recall that I did these translations almost entirely by making time for them late at night. In my quiet surroundings, the noise of the city receded into the distance, and I only occasionally heard the faint voices of hawkers selling snacks. Gradually I entered into the characters in a work, pinned beneath the giant, fiendish hand that they endure, felt their pain and shared their struggle, and sometimes even felt that the whole world seemed to fall away from around me. It was at times like these that I would read how the main characters in “First Combat” and “The Newspaper Boy” awaken, rise up, and go forward undefeated. The sense of gratitude I experienced is really hard to express. Somewhere in Japan there seems to be a proverb that goes something like this: If it is a neighbor’s business, do not get involved. So I call this a foreign story. Our circumstances are just the opposite. In the past several years, we as a nation have been headed day by day toward a turning point in our own life or death, survival or extinction. Now the period of fully implementing [the Japanese policy of ] “ensuring the peace of the East” is upon us. At times like these, we read “foreign” stories as our own business, and I am certain that readers will surely understand the reason. Written in Shanghai on the night of March 31, 1936 Mountain Spirit: Short Stories from Korea and Taiwan, trans. Hu Feng (Shanghai: Shanghai Cultural Life, 1936), translated by Edward M. Gunn.

33. Youth and Taiwan (II): Ideal and Reality of the New Drama Movement shima r i kuhei ...

THE BEGINNINGS OF THE NEW DRAMA MOVEMENT Although this is supposed to be my recollection of the New Drama movement in Taiwan, there had been new drama movements long before I was old enough

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to have memory. I have asked people from that era a number of questions about those activities. They say the first new drama movement was launched at the beginning of 1925 in the prefecture of Taizhong, at a place called Wufeng (today’s Wufeng Village in Datun District), by several local people who formed an organization called the Yanfeng Drama Troupe to study modern drama. They say that what prompted them was that it was coming up on the second anniversary of the Tsukiji Little Theater, which had taken the audience by storm in Tokyo. Students from the island who were studying in Japan had their baptism in drama and, after they returned to their hometown in Wufeng, wanted to fulfill their wish to stage their own public performances. Their repertoire was composed entirely of scripts of Chinese plays, so even though their intentions were somewhat consistent with the new drama movement, it was regrettable that given their poor choices of plays and inferior staging techniques, they were only amateurs in their standards. However, about two months after the Yanfeng Drama Troupe’s performances, we saw performances in the capital Taipei that genuinely had the look of the new drama movement. It was also during a show at the old Railway Hotel that the Orion Troupe organized by local youths performed for the public for the first time. The playbill included Eugene O’Neill’s one-act Ile, Lord Dunsany’s The Glittering Gate, and other one-act plays in the expressionist style. The names Fujiwara Sensaburo, Yasui Kiyoshi, and Miyazaki Naosuke also appeared on the member list. At this time, Osanai Kaoru [1881–1928] and others of the Tsukiji Little Theater were celebrating its second anniversary in Tokyo by staging major dramatic works, like Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, and Gerhart Hauptmann’s Lonely Lives, stirring up a tide of innovation on the stages of Tokyo. It was through the Orion’s public performances that the younger generation in Taipei could come into contact with some small bits of the new drama that they had heard about for so long. For that reason, these performances received notably enthusiastic responses. As a student in middle school then, I still vaguely remember the critical review that Misugi Yoshizô published in the arts and literature section of the Taiwan Daily News. Unfortunately, once the Orion Troupe concluded their first performance, they disbanded for lack of funds. Soon after that, at the end of that year, Wang Wande and Pan Qinxin, who were arrested last year for being members of the Communist Party of Taiwan, together with Zhang Weixian, who later led the island’s extraordinary theater company, Citizen’s Beacon, induced the birth of the Starlight Theater Research Society. For their first performance, they staged the Chinese play Marriage [by Hu Shi]. The script deals with the prohibition of marriage between persons of the same surname, one of the undesirable customs on the island. It is evident that the association wanted to use drama as part of the enlightenment movement to destroy bad customs. The script also shows that the Starlight was ideological. It is said that the Taiwan Cultural Association, which was highly influential at the time, was the power behind the scenes. The

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Starlight sustained activities until 1933, when Zhang Weixian established the Citizen’s Beacon Drama Troupe; as a troupe, it aimed at a mass audience and was able to go on for a relatively long time. Although Starlight, and Yanfeng before it, used the local language for performances, we must acknowledge that as much as the Orion, they were both historic theater companies that devoted themselves to pioneering the new drama movement on the island. . . .

D R A M A N I G H T S C E L E B R AT I N G T H E A N N I V E R S A R Y O F T H E F O U N D I N G O F TA I P E I H I G H S C H O O L The new drama movement in Taiwan disappeared from public view after the Orion, which had been inspired by the Tokyo new drama movement led by the Tsukiji Little Theater, folded in 1925 immediately following its first performance. On the other hand, during 1926 and 1927 the new drama movement in Tokyo was flourishing day after day, and the new drama fever in Tokyo was soon reflected in Taiwan. The turning point was the drama nights during the celebration of the first anniversary of Taipei High School in 1928. Below is a quote from “History of the Tsukiji Theater” about the beginning of the theater’s third year. We can see what the Tokyo theater world was like in 1926: Stimulated and influenced by the launch and lively pace of the Tsukiji Little Theater, new drama in Tokyo found itself on the road to robust development as it greeted the first year of the Showa period. Although on the surface not as strikingly spectacular as in the early Taishō period, in all quarters the potential enthusiasm for new drama has surged from one height to another, and following the steady expansion of this force, writers across the literary field have been vying with each other to write stage plays since last year, while numerous magazines by unknown groups of aficionados have appeared, each issue filled with new play scripts, ushering in what is now called “the Age of Drama.” With this, performances by troupes have spread with great enthusiasm from the Tsukiji Little Theater to the Teikoku Hotel Hall of Performing Arts, the Dôshi Association, Sanrin Association, and other venues. According to the latest report in the Tokyo Asahi Shimbun, there are approximately one hundred fifty modern drama troupes nationwide. The unprecedented flourishing of the new drama movement across the nation is evident. The surge in this nationwide tide of new drama was bound to stimulate intellectuals on this island after two years of silence following the breakup of the Orion. Sure enough, not long after the high school was established, the young, energetic students seized the opportunity to take action. In November 1928, Taipei High School decided on a large-scale celebration of its first anniversary. An important item on the program of celebratory events was the drama nights staged by the students. On the evenings of the 26th and

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27th, they performed six plays in the Performing Arts Hall of the Railway Hotel. The performances on drama nights were by the most distinguished students in the school and, on account of that favorable condition, were welcomed with wild enthusiasm. Thereafter, drama nights were regularly put on and came to be regarded as one of the most important programs in anniversary celebrations. Every drama night staged an impressive program of plays to the cheers of the city residents, thus contributing substantially to constant stimulation of the new drama movement in Taiwan. . . .

BEFORE THE BIRTH OF THE TÔRÔZA What was the situation for the drama circle at the center at this time? At the end of 1928, with the death of Osanai Kaoru, the Tsukiji Little Theater lost its true leader and gradually was influenced by the thriving leftist ideology, which was then at its peak. Constant disputes broke out within the theater company, and finally in 1929, it split into the liberal-minded Tsukiji Little Theater and the New Tsukiji Theater, which was geared toward proletarian drama. However, support for performances remained quite strong among the general public, and they spread from the Tsukiji Little Theater in the past to several large theaters, such as the Honkyôza, the Hôgakuza, and the Teigeki. It was a spectacular achievement. However, at that time, there was only proletarian drama, which was connected with the Nippon Federation of Proletarian Artists. Theater companies devoted to aestheticism and liberalism had virtually disappeared. Theater circles at the center [Japan] merely kept on performing plays that were certain to meet the fate of being banned on the island of Taiwan, which was subject to its special conditions as a colony. Without daring people enterprising enough to get around local problems and exert influence at the center, plus the cancellation of celebration activities for the third anniversary of the high school, the nervous circle of Taiwan new drama appeared slightly deformed. That was the form that performance took in the program for Drama and Dance Night put on by the alumni associations of the two Japanese elementary schools, Kyoku Shôgakko and Ju Shôgakko. The people carrying out the actual task of these alumni associations were the students of the high school and other vocational schools, as well as students of the newly founded university. Among them were many people who had had direct contact with the high school productions over the past one or two years and developed a deep interest in theater. Despite the lack of money and ability to organize and produce a public performance, they made use of the large alumni associations’ events to find an outlet for their enthusiasm. The alumni association meeting for the Kyoku Shôgakko at the end of August 1930 proved to be just the right opportunity to make use of the summer

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vacation for the alumni to practice modern dance and at the same time to stage Synge’s Riders to the Sea and Osanai Kaoru’s An Old Watchman’s Son. Twenty days later the Ju Shôgakko association challenged it by producing adaptations of Kobayashi Takiji’s novella “The Crab Canning Boat” and Chekhov’s short story “The Lady with the Dog.” At these events, advance sales of tickets were strong, and the activities centers of the schools provided the venues for the performances, which went quite well. However, since they were produced through the alumni associations, they met with many restrictions and could not express as fully as they would have wished. As far as theater was concerned, they were failures. Also, with constraints on time and stage space, they could only put on one-act plays. Only “The Crab Canning Boat” was up to date, introducing a contemporary proletarian problem play to the island and attracting some attention for that. The technique and skill in performing were well below the level of the high school productions, and a lack of group spirit was an inevitable flaw. These performances were not the work of theater troupes devoted to the new drama movement, so it is questionable whether they could be seen as part of the movement. However, as events in the advancement of new drama into the streets under the influence of the high school productions, they are worth discussing. The members of the alumni associations that staged the plays could in no way be satisfied with such short-term productions as entertainment at alumni events. They held the common hope of finding a way to freely perform new drama on the streets and to establish a formal theater company. When they discovered that it was not merely the most determined among them within each group that had such a wish, the two troupes joined forces. Together with a few other intellectuals in the community who wanted to get involved in new drama, the interest to form a theater company was quickly realized. Soon an association took shape and was dubbed the Praying Mantis Theater. In this way the Praying Mantis came into being in October 1930 as the successor to the Orion in the amateur theater circle of Taipei. The young members of the company regularly met twice a week to continue studying performance. But there was no one in the company who had a genuine understanding of new drama and was capable of providing direction. The knowledge of the members went no further than their experience of watching the first or second high school performances. Thus, they never undertook any study of the theory and techniques of directing, acting, or stagecraft, but only read dramatic works together as a group. With completely uncritical recitations of scripts, they plunged boldly and ineptly into their first trial performance, and the result was inevitably disappointing. . . . Without performers or stage light projectors, one person on a dark stage read out an abominably interminable monologue. That was truly a ghastly trial performance.

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As mentioned above, the reasons for the failure were the absence of an attitude needed for study and a childishness driven by the desire to perform: “no matter what, just get on stage and do it quickly.” Once we know these factors, we may say that failure was altogether understandable. However, all in all, the trial performance of the Praying Mantis group established a precedent for the new drama movement in Taiwan and attracted considerable attention in society. Literary youth who in the past stayed in their studies tirelessly reading books on drama, together with deserters from Japan who had worked in theater companies there, now seized upon this stroke of luck. They flocked to apply for membership at the provisional office of that same Praying Mantis that had been hanging its head in shame over its failure. Moreover, beginning about the same time, people and groups emerged among the urban public that actively pushed ahead with the new drama movement by organizing drama troupes. This made it evident that, when viewed objectively in light of the trend of events in Taiwan, however bereft of any value the ill-conceived trial performance had been, the Praying Mantis had achieved a noble sacrifice and opened a bloody path for drama into the general public. Taiwan Times, April 1, 1936; reprinted in Critical Essays on Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Rule (Journals), 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 1: 468–79, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

34. A Chat with the Governor-General About Discontinuing Chinese Columns in Daily Newspapers a nonymous . . . Bearing in mind the principle behind my administration, making Taiwan more completely a part of Japan, I can barely contain my enthusiasm as I celebrate the move to broaden the use of the language and rhetoric of Japan proper for reporting and discontinue the Chinese, or more appropriately the Taiwanese, section of the newspaper, which in the past accounted for one-quarter or onehalf of it. It goes without saying that as Japanese imperial subjects we should make every effort to fulfill our duty as imperial children to both master and demonstrate the spirit of the empire. Now, when all is said and done, the Japanese language and Japanese rhetoric offers a shortcut to mastering and embodying the

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As mentioned above, the reasons for the failure were the absence of an attitude needed for study and a childishness driven by the desire to perform: “no matter what, just get on stage and do it quickly.” Once we know these factors, we may say that failure was altogether understandable. However, all in all, the trial performance of the Praying Mantis group established a precedent for the new drama movement in Taiwan and attracted considerable attention in society. Literary youth who in the past stayed in their studies tirelessly reading books on drama, together with deserters from Japan who had worked in theater companies there, now seized upon this stroke of luck. They flocked to apply for membership at the provisional office of that same Praying Mantis that had been hanging its head in shame over its failure. Moreover, beginning about the same time, people and groups emerged among the urban public that actively pushed ahead with the new drama movement by organizing drama troupes. This made it evident that, when viewed objectively in light of the trend of events in Taiwan, however bereft of any value the ill-conceived trial performance had been, the Praying Mantis had achieved a noble sacrifice and opened a bloody path for drama into the general public. Taiwan Times, April 1, 1936; reprinted in Critical Essays on Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Rule (Journals), 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 1: 468–79, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

34. A Chat with the Governor-General About Discontinuing Chinese Columns in Daily Newspapers a nonymous . . . Bearing in mind the principle behind my administration, making Taiwan more completely a part of Japan, I can barely contain my enthusiasm as I celebrate the move to broaden the use of the language and rhetoric of Japan proper for reporting and discontinue the Chinese, or more appropriately the Taiwanese, section of the newspaper, which in the past accounted for one-quarter or onehalf of it. It goes without saying that as Japanese imperial subjects we should make every effort to fulfill our duty as imperial children to both master and demonstrate the spirit of the empire. Now, when all is said and done, the Japanese language and Japanese rhetoric offers a shortcut to mastering and embodying the

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spirit of the empire, and failure to rely on the language gives rise to the feeling of “scratching an itch through your boots.” I felt this keenly when I was living abroad and explained the Japanese spirit to foreigners. Mastering the imperial spirit actually provides the foundation for assimilation, for by mastering it all the people come together in one grand spirit. It is for this reason that successive administrations have always striven to spread the national language and supported a thorough propagation of the imperial spirit. Yet, for the convenience of the reading public, it was not until today that we could completely do away with the Taiwanese language and its rhetoric in newspapers and other such publications. Nonetheless, since no one was opposed to the discontinuance, be it sooner or later, you might say that it was only a question of time. And seeing that the time was ripe, the elimination of Taiwanese has come to be. We should celebrate this and all that it means. Taiwan, a corner of Japan’s territory, is generally speaking inhabited by nearly five million people, and it seems natural that the majority of them speak Taiwanese; however, the language used in Japan proper and Taiwanese have different linguistic origins, and we cannot regard the difference as we do that between what is spoken in Edo and in Kashima. Furthermore, even in Japan proper a standardized language is now commonly in use: Hokkaidô and Kyushû use the same language. Moreover the population of all of Japan is now 100 million and of this number five million is a twentieth. If the people of this island remain attached to the local language forever, then in a gathering of one hundred Japanese persons, they will only be able to speak to five, making business negotiations impossible. There are no such inconveniences today with transportation and communications improving, as well as economic and political relations throughout the nation drawing closer. In short, propagating the national language and its rhetoric has traditionally been a policy, inasmuch as it leads to true assimilation, and implementing this policy, we are convinced, will lead to spiritual and material happiness for the local inhabitants of the island. And doing away with Chinese-character columns in newspapers will spur on the propagation of the Japanese national language and rhetoric. Finally, in order to emphasize the use of the national language, that of Japan proper, and its rhetoric in official as well public offices, the governor-general wishes to take this opportunity to appeal for public cooperation. Taiwan Times 120 (May 1, 1937), translated by Bert M. Scruggs and Kazuko Osada from the Japanese.

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35. Why Can’t Taiwan’s Art Scene Advance? old xu

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eviews of recent issues of Moonlit Wind have called the journal refreshing; some even call it the representative publication among Chinese-language journals in Taiwan. Facing this situation, I can only respond with a “You’re way too generous” and “Who are we to accept such high praise?” We do, however, have to acknowledge the barbs with the balm—please take a look at “Many Voices Speak as One in Praise of Moonlit,” assessing the progress made in the short period of four months since the overhaul of our publication. The substance of its content has not yet met the expectations of its members; for example, “The New Mother of Mencius,” is already in its eighth chapter but is still lagging and has not come close to the climax. As for the other articles and columns, even though the quantity is laudable, quality is lacking, like trying to find a bloom in the desert, rare and sandy to boot. Nonetheless, some have found good wine and others tasty tofu in these pages, and knowing full well that these comments were made by enthusiastic members at the start of their love affair with us, it is to them that we at Moonlit Wind would like to express our most fervent gratitude. To whom, then, does Moonlit Wind belong? Surely, it belongs to all of us and no one can lay claim to it. The old Moonlit Wind might be called a glamour magazine featuring photos of geishas and actresses. The new version is very different. It is a powerful literary journal. But in my opinion, Moonlit Wind’s content to date has reached no more than 1 percent of its potential. Whether we succeed in the end will depend on the generous help of its members across the island to make it brilliant and complex, detailed and strong, beautiful and polished, fluent and subtle, making sure it does not wind up as some neither fish nor fowl artsy rag. For Moonlit Wind is our garden; whether fallow or fair, it is our responsibility. Taiwan’s cultural scene has witnessed a rich display ever since the New Literature movement, as seen in the New Taiwan People’s Daily; before that, the weeklies New Youth and People’s Magazine; and more recently, Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance and New Taiwan Literature, encompassing a wide range of publications, highbrow and lowbrow, a myriad of new blooms in the morning sun, showing off their beauty for all to see. We could call this Taiwan’s golden age of literature, when Japanese and Chinese works vie to be published. Yet how much progress has Taiwanese literature made, in comparison with Korea? It still lags far behind Korea. Although a couple of works in Japanese [ from Taiwan] have won awards, their quality is still far below that of Korean literature. What is the reason for this situation? All those concerned with literature should give this serious thought. Is it not the responsibility of all the people? The art world of Taiwan has sunken into a state of misery. Look around you and see how 80 or 90 percent of our writers and artists are barely surviving. What is the reason for this tragedy? Again, is it not the responsibility of the

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people? People on this island have a curious habit: they would rather spend money on drinking and whoring, procuring more concubines, wasting their lives on such debased activities, than spend a cent on promoting the art and literature of Taiwan. Consider those literary journals in the past: their founders sacrificed all for them, but where are they now? Gone without a trace. Are their heads made of wood? Most of them have no idea what it means to read a newspaper, let alone pay for a subscription! They consider paying a few dollars a year for a newspaper subscription equivalent to cutting a pound of flesh from their own bodies! How can this kind of mentality breed progress in Taiwan’s art and culture? In Japan, hundreds of periodicals—be they cultural or family oriented—continue to grow; literature and art develop ever upward, and the number of publications increases by the day. No fewer than ten publishing houses have seen their capital grow from a thousand dollars to hundreds of thousands. Their writers are treasured and well paid for their labors; it follows, quite naturally, that literature and other arts flourish. You could say that our island is paved in gold and our population has grown to over six million strong. Then how is it we cannot support one or two cultural magazines? Are our interests limited to whoring, gambling, and drinking? Do we not have any artistic sensibilities? Dear sirs, I ask you, is this not a pitiful state of affairs? Moonlit Wind is a small journal that has survived through many a storm. Its continued survival will depend on the support of readers on this island, on their willingness to put out a millionth of 1 percent of effort. Alas, we have yet to hear back from the members of our journal, who have completely ignored repeated notices about sending in their dues. On the other hand, if an issue was ever held up, even by a few days, complaints would pour in like spit and catarrh! How is it that we have such a poor understanding of the concepts of rights and obligations? How did it get this bad? I am simply mystified. February 24, 1939 Moonlit Wind 59 (March 1, 1939): n.p., translated by Susan Dolling.

36. Criticism and Guidance Welcomed ma nsha

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rt and life are inextricably related. Without the harmony of art, life would be as empty and monotonous as a desert. Art is like fresh blooms in a desert. Every country has its unique art, recognized and valued by all societies in the world. How great a cultural product art is!

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people? People on this island have a curious habit: they would rather spend money on drinking and whoring, procuring more concubines, wasting their lives on such debased activities, than spend a cent on promoting the art and literature of Taiwan. Consider those literary journals in the past: their founders sacrificed all for them, but where are they now? Gone without a trace. Are their heads made of wood? Most of them have no idea what it means to read a newspaper, let alone pay for a subscription! They consider paying a few dollars a year for a newspaper subscription equivalent to cutting a pound of flesh from their own bodies! How can this kind of mentality breed progress in Taiwan’s art and culture? In Japan, hundreds of periodicals—be they cultural or family oriented—continue to grow; literature and art develop ever upward, and the number of publications increases by the day. No fewer than ten publishing houses have seen their capital grow from a thousand dollars to hundreds of thousands. Their writers are treasured and well paid for their labors; it follows, quite naturally, that literature and other arts flourish. You could say that our island is paved in gold and our population has grown to over six million strong. Then how is it we cannot support one or two cultural magazines? Are our interests limited to whoring, gambling, and drinking? Do we not have any artistic sensibilities? Dear sirs, I ask you, is this not a pitiful state of affairs? Moonlit Wind is a small journal that has survived through many a storm. Its continued survival will depend on the support of readers on this island, on their willingness to put out a millionth of 1 percent of effort. Alas, we have yet to hear back from the members of our journal, who have completely ignored repeated notices about sending in their dues. On the other hand, if an issue was ever held up, even by a few days, complaints would pour in like spit and catarrh! How is it that we have such a poor understanding of the concepts of rights and obligations? How did it get this bad? I am simply mystified. February 24, 1939 Moonlit Wind 59 (March 1, 1939): n.p., translated by Susan Dolling.

36. Criticism and Guidance Welcomed ma nsha

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rt and life are inextricably related. Without the harmony of art, life would be as empty and monotonous as a desert. Art is like fresh blooms in a desert. Every country has its unique art, recognized and valued by all societies in the world. How great a cultural product art is!

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East Asian art shines a long, glorious light upon the world and boasts of the supreme spirit of East Asian people. As East Asians born in our time, how can we not strive to support and develop our art? Japan, China, and Manchuria are on friendly terms with one another; the peoples of East Asia are united. The call for constructing a new East Asia is resounding all over the eastern half of the globe! Everyone has the responsibility to follow the national policy and meet the demands of the time by marching in unison toward the bright road of construction. Young people in Taiwan, who stand at the southern tip, have awakened. Although we cannot shoulder a hoe and go building on the mainland, we can pick up a pen and take the cultural path behind the frontline. To contribute with all our passion is to be true sons of the empire! Since the Japanese–Chinese Incident [of 1937], the literature and art on this island has been thriving like trees and grass bathing in the sun. This is worth celebrating and rejoicing in! We have said repeatedly that the art from the three countries, through the process of mutual introduction and cultural exchange, has converged to produce flowers of friendship and lay a solid foundation. Dear comrades in art, we must have open minds to encourage one another without jealousy and work hard together to cultivate this garden that has lain fallow! We are all brothers and gardeners who, with a hoe on the shoulder, will weed and till the land. This is our mission; we must not allow petty selfishness to give rise to brambles. Would that not be a great shame? Comrades, no hesitation. Let go of all the weaknesses and biases. Let us stand together on the pinnacle of art and sing a song of construction. Let our singing resound to all corners of the earth. How magnificent that will be! This should be the aspiration of all sons of East Asia. This journal has endured wind and rain and persevered in its struggle through raging tide. In the shaky phase, there were memorable events. Those events, too sad to remember, have given us a record we can take pride in! Although we may be so bold as to say that we have left the shaky phase behind us, we have deep dread and trepidation in our hearts. We are afraid of more incidents or unforeseen disasters. Perhaps I am worrying for no reason, but I hope all our members will put their heads together and work to protect this life, so it will grow forever on this island of eternal spring! We also want to make a plea to you all. We hope that you will offer forthright criticism and guidance, without any reservation, when it comes to the pieces published in this journal. In conclusion, let us practice what we print on the cover: “Cultivate the garden of pure art, promote the creation of modern literature.” Bring it up to the standard of art. That is our hope and request. Moonlit Wind 112 (1940): n.p., translated by Michelle Yeh.

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37. On the Future of Taiwanese Literature z ha ng we nhuan

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t is often said that literature is a hobby, but we must ask ourselves: Can literature as hobby exist after all? I don’t think so. It is impossible to experience life in literature, even though the spirit of literature does permeate our life. If this were not the case, literature would not have come into existence. This matter pertains more to writers from the periphery—especially writers from a special locale like Taiwan—than to those at the center. Despite painful fetal movements, the literary circle in Taiwan is yet to be born, because of internal problems and a lack of determination. In addition, the overall environment is discouraging. Tokyo is still the center of literary activity, and Taiwan even lags behind Kyushu. While Taiwan has its own local color, this is not necessarily a blessing for the literary community. Moreover, Taiwan, with its unique conditions, occupies a unique position. Another reason is probably that the Japanese in Taiwan do not engage in literature actively. It would be more appropriate for them to provide guidance or at least stimulation for the Taiwanese. However, it seems as if the literary scene at the center has also come to a standstill. This is why they are actively looking for things with local color. It is generally believed that this interest came into being at a juncture where people demanded literature for peasants. Another reason is that Japan is currently at war. In view of the ambitious project of bringing prosperity to Asia, the literary scene at the center can no longer maintain the limited scope it used to have. As it expands, it naturally wants to include writings from the periphery. In reality, nevertheless, inclusion has yet to begin, and we cannot say with certainty when it will. In any case, Taiwanese literature has been influenced by the ambiance of the central literary scene, and is starting to show some movement in the womb. This is something worth celebrating, and it may mark a turning point. With this background in mind, we are compelled to contemplate how we may bring literature into being. If Taiwanese writers catch up with those on the central literary scene in terms of quality, will the center embrace all of us? We will come back to this question later. What we must first consider is how to bring literature into being. For instance, when we say “she cries her eyes out” (彼女が泣き崩折れて in Japanese), Japanese people can get the sentence both faster and more accurately than Taiwanese people. This is the same with the word sakura (cherry blossom). Suppose we are learning French, “une femme” most certainly has a less immediate impact on us than the image and posture of the Chinese character nü (woman). In this sense we are at a disadvantage when it comes to literary composition [in Japanese]. We may use Japanese writings as references, but we must not imitate them.

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It is difficult for us to write with great passion [in Japanese]. We can only try our best to express our thoughts in writing. Experimental writing must come second, for until we can digest the language and make it our own we cannot write with a clear mind. If we try to instill great passion into our writing from the beginning, I am afraid that we will not make any headway. At any rate, before we gain a native command and a good sense of the language, it is better that we avoid dwelling on what is good or bad writing. When we write to the best of our ability, we will naturally realize these things. And while it is possible to remain optimistic, we will most likely be disappointed at setbacks. This is why we need to work many times harder than writers from Japan as far as our literary effort is concerned. It is a matter of techniques of expression. Besides that, we run into the problem of a publication outlet, which is comparable to the stage for writers. The question facing us is this: Should we depend on others, or should we build our own stage? If the former, will Taiwanese literature grow at all? At this juncture we need to reconsider the topic of literature and life. I believe that literature is what builds human spirit. He who possesses great literature is himself great. A person must first develop his character before engaging in literature. The clash between spirit and body will then give birth to literature, and the newborn literature will naturally continue to grow. People who have studied French literature know that French schools cultivate fine magazines published by groups or individuals. If we reach that level, then we can tend to the matter of cultural development. In this respect, what Taiwanese literature faces is only a question of determination and stamina. Taiwan Art, inaugural issue (March 1940): 10–12; reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wenhuan, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taizhong: Taizhong County Cultural Center, 2002), 6: 45–47, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

38. The Prospect of Taiwanese Literature long yingz ong . . . For Taiwanese culture, 1940 was a memorable year. In a retrospective I wrote for a journal, I said that 1940 was “a year when what went off track got back on track and in order, showing a semblance of literary expression.” Previously, writers carried on in their own way, like solitary walkers who roamed as they pleased. Now writers have suddenly become closer; united, they have formed an organization. By this I mean the launching of Literary Taiwan, which focuses on prose and poetry, and Taiwan, which is devoted to tanka poetry. When it comes to

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It is difficult for us to write with great passion [in Japanese]. We can only try our best to express our thoughts in writing. Experimental writing must come second, for until we can digest the language and make it our own we cannot write with a clear mind. If we try to instill great passion into our writing from the beginning, I am afraid that we will not make any headway. At any rate, before we gain a native command and a good sense of the language, it is better that we avoid dwelling on what is good or bad writing. When we write to the best of our ability, we will naturally realize these things. And while it is possible to remain optimistic, we will most likely be disappointed at setbacks. This is why we need to work many times harder than writers from Japan as far as our literary effort is concerned. It is a matter of techniques of expression. Besides that, we run into the problem of a publication outlet, which is comparable to the stage for writers. The question facing us is this: Should we depend on others, or should we build our own stage? If the former, will Taiwanese literature grow at all? At this juncture we need to reconsider the topic of literature and life. I believe that literature is what builds human spirit. He who possesses great literature is himself great. A person must first develop his character before engaging in literature. The clash between spirit and body will then give birth to literature, and the newborn literature will naturally continue to grow. People who have studied French literature know that French schools cultivate fine magazines published by groups or individuals. If we reach that level, then we can tend to the matter of cultural development. In this respect, what Taiwanese literature faces is only a question of determination and stamina. Taiwan Art, inaugural issue (March 1940): 10–12; reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wenhuan, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taizhong: Taizhong County Cultural Center, 2002), 6: 45–47, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

38. The Prospect of Taiwanese Literature long yingz ong . . . For Taiwanese culture, 1940 was a memorable year. In a retrospective I wrote for a journal, I said that 1940 was “a year when what went off track got back on track and in order, showing a semblance of literary expression.” Previously, writers carried on in their own way, like solitary walkers who roamed as they pleased. Now writers have suddenly become closer; united, they have formed an organization. By this I mean the launching of Literary Taiwan, which focuses on prose and poetry, and Taiwan, which is devoted to tanka poetry. When it comes to

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tanka, I am a layperson and cannot do justice to the accomplishment of Taiwan. All I can do here is pay tribute to its robust development. Around the same time, the island’s premier tanka poet Chen Qiyun passed away, which saddened us all. The journal Uncarved Jade has published a special issue to commemorate the poet; it is a beautiful example of harmony between Japanese and Taiwanese writers. Although the only expectation of literature produced outside Japan is its exotic tendency, I think that exoticism is not the primary characteristic but a secondary one. For example, when we read French or Russian literature, we think it is exotic. But for the French and the Russians, it is their national literature, and they probably do not see it as exotic. The feeling of exoticism belongs in the literature of travelers. Additionally, when the natives examine literature from another place, a psychological exchange takes place between the two peoples, allowing the natives to see what they normally do not see in terms of nature, society, lifestyle, and customs. For someone who lives for a long time in a completely different natural and social milieu, the notion of the exotic has undergone a fundamental change. This is particularly true for those born outside Japan who are unfamiliar with their native land. Not only do they not experience anything as exotic, they might even see their native land as exotic. Therefore, exoticism is not something desired by those living in the exotic; it is only the curiosity of those living outside an exotic place. For those living in an exotic land, they are completely unaware of the exotic qualities of their literature, whereas those who do not live in the exotic place naturally experience exoticism in the literature. We are not engaged in literature for exoticism’s sake. In summary, we are not engaged in literature in order to satisfy the curiosity of those living outside Taiwan. Our fundamental concern is to develop and elevate the culture of our homeland. What we need to be most concerned with is the diversity of life offered up by this land. The subjectivity of the so-called literature outside Japan is the literature of life: the exploration of the interrelations between the people and the natural environment outside Japan. This is a major topic. In comparison, it is natural that Taiwanese literature is more complex and novel, with exoticism being a secondary issue. Therefore, although it is an “outside culture,” the literature outside Japan does not aim at the Japanese literary scene but rather seeks to be closely attached to the local. This means neither to mimic Japanese literature nor to be limited to the emblematic exoticism of “outside literature.” The orientation of “outside literature” is neither nostalgic nor decadent, but rather a literature that is born in and buried in this land, loves this land, and elevates the culture of this land. It is not a consumer’s literature, but a producer’s literature. In this way, “outside literature” will be the literature of the most wholesome lives, just like Japanese literature. Only such an elegant literature will have a distinctive style and form a giant wing of Japanese culture; it will be integrated into Japanese culture,

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endowing it with diversity. Only in this way can the two cultures complement each other. Of late, everyone is advocating a renaissance of East Asian culture and touting the cultural distinctiveness of politics. I think this indicates the importance of culture in today’s society. From here on, cultural development should be a major goal in Taiwan. In short, “outside literature” does not reside in exoticism but lies in the literature of the living. For Taiwanese literature to look to the future, it must gradually cast aside what does not pertain to life and advance toward literature reflecting wholesome lives. This is our sincere hope. Osaka Morning News (Taiwan edition), February 2, 1941; reprinted in Complete Works of Long Yingzong, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Office, 2006), 5: 79–81, translated by Marshall McArthur.

39. The Past, Present, and Future of Taiwanese Literature shimada kinj i

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y country has occupied Taiwan for forty-six years now. Based on a survey of the literature produced during this time, I have reached the conclusion that it should be divided into three periods. My judgment is based on the following criteria: (1) the depth of Japan’s interest in Taiwan, (2) the educational level of people in Taiwan, (3) the general reader’s attitude toward things literary and artistic, (4) the platform for literary works and the caliber of readers, and (5) the qualities of the authors themselves. According to these criteria, the first period spans from Japanese occupation of Taiwan in 1895 to the end of the first decade following the Russo-Japanese War in 1915. Since this was the first time Meiji Japan owned foreign land, the Japanese people took an active and special interest in all things Taiwanese. On top of that, since Taiwan was to be our strategic base in the south as greater Japan made headway into the South Pacific, except for the setback during the Xiamen Incident in fall 1900, our countrymen took a keen interest in all aspects of the governance of Taiwan, responding with renewed concern over every piece of news there. Additionally, even though intellectuals at the time were generally inclined to follow Western trends, classical Chinese poetry was still at the heart of their cultural education, such that if one were not able to produce a seven-character quatrain on demand, one would not be counted among the elite. Consequently, whether one was a military or civil officer, or whether one was a high official or a member of the literati in Japan, everyone agreed that the ability to write classical Chinese poetry and read

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endowing it with diversity. Only in this way can the two cultures complement each other. Of late, everyone is advocating a renaissance of East Asian culture and touting the cultural distinctiveness of politics. I think this indicates the importance of culture in today’s society. From here on, cultural development should be a major goal in Taiwan. In short, “outside literature” does not reside in exoticism but lies in the literature of the living. For Taiwanese literature to look to the future, it must gradually cast aside what does not pertain to life and advance toward literature reflecting wholesome lives. This is our sincere hope. Osaka Morning News (Taiwan edition), February 2, 1941; reprinted in Complete Works of Long Yingzong, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Office, 2006), 5: 79–81, translated by Marshall McArthur.

39. The Past, Present, and Future of Taiwanese Literature shimada kinj i

M

y country has occupied Taiwan for forty-six years now. Based on a survey of the literature produced during this time, I have reached the conclusion that it should be divided into three periods. My judgment is based on the following criteria: (1) the depth of Japan’s interest in Taiwan, (2) the educational level of people in Taiwan, (3) the general reader’s attitude toward things literary and artistic, (4) the platform for literary works and the caliber of readers, and (5) the qualities of the authors themselves. According to these criteria, the first period spans from Japanese occupation of Taiwan in 1895 to the end of the first decade following the Russo-Japanese War in 1915. Since this was the first time Meiji Japan owned foreign land, the Japanese people took an active and special interest in all things Taiwanese. On top of that, since Taiwan was to be our strategic base in the south as greater Japan made headway into the South Pacific, except for the setback during the Xiamen Incident in fall 1900, our countrymen took a keen interest in all aspects of the governance of Taiwan, responding with renewed concern over every piece of news there. Additionally, even though intellectuals at the time were generally inclined to follow Western trends, classical Chinese poetry was still at the heart of their cultural education, such that if one were not able to produce a seven-character quatrain on demand, one would not be counted among the elite. Consequently, whether one was a military or civil officer, or whether one was a high official or a member of the literati in Japan, everyone agreed that the ability to write classical Chinese poetry and read

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classical Chinese formed the basis of literary art. On top of that, because the intellectuals in Taiwan were also literate in classical Chinese, it is fair to say that the peoples in Japan and Taiwan share a common literary foundation. The majority of classical poetry and prose were published in the New Taiwan Journal and other newspapers, as literary journals were not yet established, especially in the literary sections entitled “Lyric Forest” and “Literary Garden” of the New Taiwan Daily, which started publishing in May 1898. These publications are the precursors of today’s literary columns in journals and newspapers. From presidents and executives to the lowly general public, few would skip them. One would estimate the number of readers at two to three hundred. It could be said that Japanese literature in Taiwan began with the publication of the works of Dr. Mori Ogai, who came to the island as the chief of the Army Medical Department at Taiwan Governor-General’s Hall when the island was conquered in May 1895. Dr. Mori Ogai’s works, however, were limited in number and were all published as lyrical responses to another military doctor, Yokogawa Toyo. Moreover, these writers left Taiwan in fall 1895 and spring 1896, respectively. Soon afterward, in June 1896, came Mori Taijiro with Prime Minister Itō Shunho. It was Mori Taijiro who wrote the masterful classical poem, Survey of Taiwan in the Sixth Month of the Bing Shen Year. Upon his arrival, Taijiro immediately struck up a friendship with Civil Magistrate Mizuno Dairo and Postmaster General Doi Kokoku, both of the Governor-General’s Hall. As Dairo and Kokoku were both well-known poets in classical Chinese, either as a student of Shunto or a friend of Taijiro, there were numerous occasions for them to write verses in response to each other. For a taste of their work, one may read Taijiro Collection and Taiwan Conquest Collection. Literature coming out of Taiwan since 1899 has as its representative Momiyama Ishoo. Ishoo came to Taiwan as the editor of the Chinese literary column of the New Taiwan Daily and gained the appreciation and trust of then GovernorGeneral Kodama Gentaro. Subsequently, he took on what may be called the duties of cultural consultant to the governor-general and lived at Southern Vegetable Garden at the Governor-General’s villa. In this capacity, he was able to travel all over Taiwan and write about Taipei, its landscape and customs, in many descriptive essays and lyrical verses. Of these, his Miscellaneous Verses from Southern Vegetable Garden is especially expressive of the spirit and style of Ishoo the Parnassian and contains many poems suitable for recitation. Nonetheless, he was lonely and despondent, and left Taiwan at the age of fifty in 1914. He was succeeded by Obashi Hyoken, who was to become Professor Suzuki Torao, who held an honorary doctorate at the Imperial University in Kyoto. During the Russo-Japanese War, Hyoken, who was twenty-seven years old, sang of all aspects of Taiwan in a dignified, solemn tone. . . . During this period of time, Taiwanese poets who wrote poetry in classical Chinese included Wang Song, Wu Degong, Li Wangyang, and others. They all corresponded with Momiyama and others. Among them, Lin Chaosong

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of Wufeng left us his Poems from the Carefree Thatched Hut in five volumes. It attests to his peerless achievement among his contemporaries. The second period of Taiwanese literature began in 1905 and ended around 1930. After the Russo-Japanese War, with the occupation of Manchuria and Korea, our empire was well established and, as a matter of national policy, began to manage the mainland. As the citizens of Japan turned their gaze to the north, Taiwan, having undergone the formative and constructive period under Governors-General Kodama and Gotō, now took a new turn. In terms of its relation to Japan, I think it is a fact that Taiwan could no longer attract the kind of intense interest it once did before the Russo-Japanese War. Consequently, the Japanese view on Taiwan changed to a bias toward Taiwan as an offshore island. Surveying the period from the last years of Meiji to the first years of Taishō, one might conclude that the educational level had sunken low, especially in terms of the cultivation of Chinese literary arts. Taking its place was the New Literature movement under the influence of Western thinking. During this time, even though the government continued to encourage the use of Japanese, the effort had yet to reach fruition. Generally speaking, one could say that this was a time when the cultivation of classical Chinese prose and poetry gradually declined, while the appreciation of the subtleties of the Japanese language had not yet matured. By the mid–Taishō period, the people’s knowledge of Chinese deteriorated even further. In reaction, those who defended orthodoxy called for more focus on classical Chinese poetry and the publication of more literary journals. On the other hand, a new opportunity of emulating Chinese literature arose, and the vernacular literature movement flourished. Consequently, the common ground between those in Japan and those in Taiwan was lost. . . . Sato Haruo should not be overlooked among those who left behind works about Taiwan. Haruo spent four months in the summer of 1920 setting his lively stories in a beautiful and deserted corner of Anping, borrowing from the techniques of thrillers and detective stories in his Strange Tale of the Fan of Admonition for Women. Of course, as far back as the early Meiji years, we had essayists and other prose writers such as Hara Jyuchi, another doctor at the public hospital in Peach Garden, who made use of life in Taiwan as subject matter, but it took the skills of Sato Haruo to lift this kind of writing to the level of art. Perhaps he is the only Japanese writer using Taiwanese material and writing in prose who has left something worthwhile. Other than that, it should be noted that several publications of classical Chinese poetry also sprung up during the Taishō years. These are well documented in issue number 14 of the Bibliophilia. One could also consult the invaluable commentary in Taiwan Poetry: A Collection by Lian Yatang, author of A Comprehensive History of Taiwan. Then there is also Lin Jingren’s magnificent Grass of Eastern Peace, which he wrote after returning to Taiwan from his government post in Manchuria in 1923.

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As the vernacular literature movement gained momentum in mainland China, its influence spread to Taiwan. Especially during the early Taishō period, several magazines were published by organizations. There existed two schools of writers: one advocated writing vernacular literature in the dialect of Beijing; the other promoted the use of the Hoklo dialect [spoken in Taiwan]. However, for the most part, they remained in the stage of imitation; few works of high quality were written. This takes us to the third period of Taiwanese literature, which spans the decade after the Manchuria Incident. As our illustrious Japanese army overtook Canton, the people in Japan once again became aware of the importance of Taiwan as our outpost for the invasion of southern China and the South Pacific. This renewed interest in Taiwan reminded them of the concern they once had for Taiwan in the first period following 1895. Moreover, as cultural education steadily advanced over the years, thanks to the efforts of the ruling class to train imperial subjects, it is said that the Taiwanese began to grasp the national language and become more aware of its nuances. Perhaps because of this, although there have not appeared any outstanding Taiwanese writers to date in the genres of haiku and tanka, in which mastery in “things Japanese” takes a long time to develop, in modern poetry and modern fiction, in which the forms are looser and not as rooted in tradition, one notes several Taiwanese writers who have become famous even in Japan. Thus, it is in these new genres, just as it used to be in classical Chinese poetry and prose, that writers in Taiwan and those in Japan have found a new common ground. . . . This concludes my survey of the past and present of Japanese literature in Taiwan. I must repeat, purely from the point of view of art, the literary value of these works is not very high, no matter how partial one may be. Those of us who contemplate the future of Taiwanese literature and ask ourselves what direction we would like to see it take must bear this reality in mind. The intrinsic reason, in my view, is that Taiwan has not been able to give birth to and nurture literary talents. Yet I must go further and say that, among the literary works produced here, with the exception of fine works written by those who came to Taiwan already well developed as writers, they are written either by amateurs who use haiku and tanka to express their homesickness or for their entertainment, or by the not-so-talented youths who merely follow Tokyo’s lead in chasing literary fashions of the day, expressing themselves in all things great and small in the new forms of modern poetry and modern fiction; in retrospect, the latter group probably pursues and imitates Tokyo more intensely here than anywhere else in Japan. The fact is, the more distant the source of inspiration is, the more intense the idealization. When Parnassus is gilded in gold, the eyes of youth are ever more befuddled. . . . Another factor to consider is society’s aspirations. That is to say, [in Taiwan] literature is not recognized as having independent value. The situation might

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be slightly different during the first period, when classical Chinese literature was dominant and, in a time when utilitarian benefits were central, literary art was still understood differently from today, when literature is not considered on a par with such things as politics or business. When we reached the second period, the situation became worse. Literature was ignored while sugar, wheat, and camphor received bountiful support from the government. Of course, such policies are understandable, given the circumstances. From today’s point of view, we should even be grateful. The thinking behind those policies is not the issue here; the reality is that, in this society, government officials and businessmen enjoy a status far superior to that of scholars, writers, and artists. Without some small post in the government, one cannot make a living, not even be considered a human being of independent existence. Under these circumstances, how can art and literature expect any respect? How can fine works be produced in a place where they are not respected by society? . . . Where and how should Taiwanese literature be heading from here? The answer depends on who you ask. I myself was born and raised neither in Taiwan nor in Japan; I came here as a teenager. This reality inevitably informs my perspective. For the Taiwanese and the second-generation Japanese who were born and raised here, my opinion may have no more effect than scratching an itching foot from the outside of the shoe. Nevertheless, this fact should not prevent me from thinking about the future of Taiwanese literature, as it is up to those who live here to ponder the question and make this question their own. There is no other way. Going forward, for Taiwanese literature to be meaningful, it must be viewed as a branch of Japanese literature and as colonial literature of the south. Taiwan has its own customs, people, and society, which differ from those of Japan. It is precisely these differences that constitute the distinctive character of Taiwanese literature. We call literature that expresses such distinctiveness colonial literature. Colonial literature is a term that is gradually being adopted in the West. For Japan, the literatures of Taiwan, Korea, and so on are its colonial literature, with the first taking on the special meaning of Japanese colonial literature of the south. Of course, it is possible for those living here to write about so-called universal reality and psychology. At some level, one must give full consideration to them as well. However, if those subject matters are to be the focus, it is not necessary to live in Taiwan; many in Tokyo or other places want to write about these things too. My main point is how to develop the strength of those who live and write in Taiwan. This position is diametrically opposed to those who only emphasize the universality of literature but do not acknowledge the particularity of Taiwan—they are people who have no desire for Taiwanese literature to exist. I must affirm the unique significance of Taiwanese literature before we point to the implicit or explicit universality embedded in particularity. This is my position. As I see it, it is useless to argue with those who do not acknowledge this position. . . .

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Therefore, Taiwanese literature is not an imitation of the cosmopolitan literature of Paris or London. We must study other colonial literatures that share our situation. We must recognize their strengths and weaknesses; anything we can learn from them will serve as our reference in creating a unique literature—at least a significant model of modern literature and an unprecedented literature in the history of Japanese literature. This is what I believe. . . . Lastly, we must raise the issue of readers in Taiwan. Let us set aside the uneducated classes who are content with popular magazines alone. Surely there exists a literary elite. It is unclear as to its size, but when even they are influenced by journalism and the literary trends in Tokyo, chasing after fashions of the day, it is doubtful whether or not they will lend their support to the burgeoning Taiwanese literature. Even if a talented Taiwan writer appears and a brilliant critic recommends him, if this recommendation is only circulated within Taiwan, it will almost certainly not meet with any response. Consequently, it is unlikely that this writer’s work will sell well. Suppose a work takes Tokyo by storm and becomes known throughout Japan, surely it is owing to its artistic merit. But at present this sounds more like a miracle than reality. Of course, it is still possible for a writer to find a small niche. This is true of all colonial literatures. That is, a work is virtually unknown in its place of birth, but once it bursts onto the Tokyo literary scene and establishes itself there, it is then reintroduced to readers in the colony. To demonstrate it, we can cite the example of the literary magazine Goddess Mazu. To those dedicated to Taiwanese literature, let us consider early Irish literature and Provençal literature as references. We must clearly recognize and be psychologically prepared to accept the fact that only a few exceptionally discerning readers are able to appreciate this literature, and we therefore cannot expect anyone to make a living by writing alone. In other words, it does nobody any good to fool ourselves into believing that the literary enterprise in Taiwan can in any way be compared to that in Japan proper in terms of profitability. One must develop a career for earning a livelihood early on and engage in literary creation as a secondary career. At present, this is a must. It is neither shameful nor impossible, for literature is not the monopoly of professionals. So long as one has the passion and the talent, there is no reason why one cannot have a secondary career in literature. A good example is Lafcadio Hearn, who made his living as a poor reporter in New Orleans, and yet he was able to invent literature of “exoticism.” A path can be opened up in the literary world, so long as one has the will and the talent, plus some common knowledge. It is more challenging for amateurs than for more professional writers of comparable talent. To be sure, working diligently on literary creation in a world that does not recognize its value is certainly no easy task! Nonetheless, youth and talent will win out. As long as human nature stays the same, there will always be young people who long for the grandeur of literature and disregard the pursuit of wealth. Are we not a people with a glorious literary

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tradition? Moreover, as the holy war enters its fifth spring, Taiwan is recognized as a crucial strategic location in the development of our South Seas interests. Taiwan’s political, military, and economic importance are displayed in full before us. How can we afford to let our literature fall behind? We believe in the creative vitality of our people. Based on a tradition full of artistic intuition and penetrating observations, if we who live here cannot invent something new and unique, who can? We can surpass such Western writers as Jean Marquet and Maugham with their green eyes and red hair. Who else but the youth of Taiwan can boast a new colonial literature, which they cultivate alongside the Japanese! Literary Taiwan 2, no. 2 (May 20, 1941); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 3: 97–116, translated by Susan Dolling.

40. On Building a Literary Scene in Taiwan hua ng de s hi ...

2 In the past two or three years Taiwan’s literary scene has displayed a vitality rarely seen and has debunked the assumption that Taiwan is unable to develop literary journals. Beginning with Literary Taiwan, such journals as Taiwan, Taiwan Arts, Taiwan Literature, and Taiwan Folklore have emerged one by one, and each has done outstanding work. They have brought forth beautiful blooms in the arid land of Taiwan. Moreover, the intelligence department in the office of the governor-general has actively reached out to the cultural circles and solicited their assistance. For example, the Taiwan Times, a government-run journal, publishes a creative work each month. Much to their credit, this and other measures have resolutely parted ways with the official model of the past in terms of journal editing and responded nicely to the current situation. . . . By and large, those who engage in literature today can be divided into two types. The first includes those who want to get into the central literary scene [in Tokyo] and treat Taiwan as a stepping-stone. The other type includes those who

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tradition? Moreover, as the holy war enters its fifth spring, Taiwan is recognized as a crucial strategic location in the development of our South Seas interests. Taiwan’s political, military, and economic importance are displayed in full before us. How can we afford to let our literature fall behind? We believe in the creative vitality of our people. Based on a tradition full of artistic intuition and penetrating observations, if we who live here cannot invent something new and unique, who can? We can surpass such Western writers as Jean Marquet and Maugham with their green eyes and red hair. Who else but the youth of Taiwan can boast a new colonial literature, which they cultivate alongside the Japanese! Literary Taiwan 2, no. 2 (May 20, 1941); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 3: 97–116, translated by Susan Dolling.

40. On Building a Literary Scene in Taiwan hua ng de s hi ...

2 In the past two or three years Taiwan’s literary scene has displayed a vitality rarely seen and has debunked the assumption that Taiwan is unable to develop literary journals. Beginning with Literary Taiwan, such journals as Taiwan, Taiwan Arts, Taiwan Literature, and Taiwan Folklore have emerged one by one, and each has done outstanding work. They have brought forth beautiful blooms in the arid land of Taiwan. Moreover, the intelligence department in the office of the governor-general has actively reached out to the cultural circles and solicited their assistance. For example, the Taiwan Times, a government-run journal, publishes a creative work each month. Much to their credit, this and other measures have resolutely parted ways with the official model of the past in terms of journal editing and responded nicely to the current situation. . . . By and large, those who engage in literature today can be divided into two types. The first includes those who want to get into the central literary scene [in Tokyo] and treat Taiwan as a stepping-stone. The other type includes those who

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have no interest in getting into the central literary scene and focus their efforts on the construction of an independent literary scene in Taiwan; while writers derive joy from publishing their works here, they are also trying to elevate the cultural development in Taiwan on all fronts. Which is correct? One can hardly generalize. However, in terms of building local culture, we have greater expectations of the latter than the former. After all, those who want to get into the central literary scene live in constant anxiety and work hard only to attract curiosity from the center. They intentionally avoid focusing on the reality of Taiwan; when necessary, they jump into reality and struggle hard to grab something that is literary in nature. With this intention, they only choose exotic subject matter for their writing, so long as it receives recognition from the center or attracts the attention of the center. Consequently, this kind of work may be popular among Japanese readers who do not know anything about Taiwan, but for those of us living in Taiwan, we find it hard to comprehend. . . .

3 Maybe one harbors doubt about whether or not Taiwan is able to establish a socalled literary scene. Let me answer clearly: yes it can. For the so-called literary scene does not fall from the sky; rather, it is cultivated by writers who carry hoes in their hands and work the soil with their blood and sweat. If it had been proposed two or three years ago, it would have been seen as pretentious. But recently, as I have pointed out, the number of people who engage in literature has increased dramatically, and there are two or three literary journals that publish good works each and every month. If things continue this way, it could be pretty easy to build a literary scene. Some may say that even if Taiwan had established a literary scene and good works were published here, without the acceptance by the center, it would still mean the end of works. This makes some sense, but think carefully, the value of literary works is absolute; in the end, a good work is a good work, a bad work is a bad work. It is impossible for a work to have a lower value when it is published in Taiwan but suddenly gain value when it is published in Japan. A good work transcends readers and publishing outlets and will always shine with an everlasting glow. Therefore, we must devote ourselves to writing good works and to building a solid literary scene. When good works appear, we must give their authors encouragement and appreciation. This way, even if we have no intention of getting into the central literary scene, the central literary scene will come looking for us. The result (not the goal) is that we will not have any problems publishing in Japan. Only our attitude must be made clear. We do not despise the local and always root our writing deeply in the soil of Taiwan.

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4 How then do we write good works and build a solid literary scene? First of all, writers must study Taiwan. As writers, of course we read as many as possible classics from the East and the West, from antiquity and the present, and try to know all things in all societies. However, at least for writers whose lives are attached to this island, is the study of Taiwan itself not the most important thing? To begin with, it is necessary to study the history and geography of Taiwan and to investigate in great detail the customs, politics, economy, transportation, properties, education, hygiene, and, in particular, the lives of the Japanese in colonial Taiwan. We must pay close attention to the second generation, their nostalgia for Japan, and their interactions with the locals. In addition, there is the helplessness of peasants living in this transition period, and the related problems and tensions concerning rice and sugar cane. There are many other examples. If we thoroughly study and fully digest this subject matter, all of it fit material for literature, there is no limit to how many good works we can produce. What about the current situation? We all choose such exotic things as temples with red tile roofs, rituals in the Shrine of the Local God, and rites in honor of Goddess Mazu—they may look pretty and rare, but they have no potential for moving the human heart. Of course, it is all right to have these works, but I hope we can write more deeply about things in life. However, no matter how deeply rooted our works are in life in Taiwan, if no one listens to them and offers sincere criticism or discussion, progress will be slow for writers. Therefore, we long for the appearance of a robust critical spirit. . . . Thus, if writers and critics work together over time, good works are bound to be produced. But even if we have good writers or good works, if society does not actively help writers and respect their works, there still exists the anxiety about atrophy and regression. Therefore, we hope for the assistance and understanding of the third party in the building of Taiwan’s literary scene.

5 As I said earlier, first of all, the authorities should actively help writers and literary organizations. At the beginning, much effort and aid was expended on the economy, land, and hygiene in Taiwan. But when it came to literature and art, concern was surprisingly sparse. For the new colonial government, such a policy might have been necessary, but as Taiwan enters the forty-seventh year of Japanese rule, there are the intelligence department in the office of the governor-general and

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the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services in the Department of Guidance for Living. I hope they will do their best from now on. This reminds us of the literary policy in Manchukuo. Since its founding, in merely a decade Manchukuo has provided all kinds of assistance and guidance. Let us single out March 23rd of this year, when the propaganda agencies in Manchukuo made a public announcement of the “Guidelines for Literature and Arts.” This shows how much it cares about cultural matters. . . . Of course, Manchukuo is an independent country, which is different from the situation of Taiwan. But I hope the authorities in Taiwan will play a more active role in cultural matters, whether it is the establishment of governorgeneral’s prizes for literary works, offering subsidies to literary organizations and publishers of journals, or raising writers’ political stature. On the last point, it is significant that the writer Zhang Wenhuan has been invited to be involved by the Taipei branch of the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services. I hope that from now on not just writers, but artists, musicians, dramatists, and others who engage in cultural enterprises will also be mobilized continuously to play a role on the political stage. . . .

7 All in all, there is no need for writers in Taiwan to be anxious. Standing steadfastly on the soil of Taiwan, creating good works, and building a literary scene— even if we do not make a point of getting into the center, it will happen naturally. Writers! Today, when even the homecoming of a former feudal lord is protested, let us stride toward the establishment of Taiwan’s literary scene! This journal will carry all of you joyfully and sail off magnificently. Come gather under the banner of Taiwan’s literary scene. Taiwan Literature 1, no. 2 (September 7, 1941); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule (Journals), 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 3: 162–68, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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41. Diary (1942–1944) lü her uo February 25th [1942], Wednesday, Clear When I got up this morning, the sun was dazzling, the sky a halcyon blue, the air clear and crisp. Snow gleamed brightly on the rooftops. What people call a silvery world is just like this. The desolate sound of snow falling and melting grated on my ears. All day long the sun shone brilliantly. I left the house at ten and watched the art film Ishikawa Takuboku on the fourth floor of the Toho Theater. Takuboku’s bitter life story bespeaks the inevitable fate for the artist. We need to take heed. Yet even in posterity, art still has a way of touching us with its beauty. Went home at 6:30. March 14th [1942], Saturday, Clear, brief showers . . . Hisako had her first inoculation. I felt a bit better tonight, so once again took up the translation of Dream of the Red Chamber, abandoned since last year. Even if it means spending ten years to finish it, I will translate this masterpiece and get it to a wider audience. This is my obligation as a Taiwanese. May 1st [1942], Friday, Clear This morning I took the four pieces of luggage that would be accompanying me (one sack with my cotton quilt, three wooden book trunks) to the Higashi Nakano station to ship. The transport fee was ten yen. I sent a registered letter to Rupeng and sent letters to Yongnan, Jinzhao, and Hanjin. At ten, went to Shinjuku and met Miss Cai at the Mitsukoshi Department Store; together we had dinner with Miss Miura at Takano. At Mitsukoshi, bought ties as gifts for Uncle and Rupeng, five yen. The sky was extraordinarily clear and bright. In the afternoon, went for a stroll with Miss Miura. Went home at 2:30. Spent a leisurely afternoon at home. At seven, took some liquor over to Suidobashi and afterward took Fangting and Fangrong to Takarazuka Theater to see the Orchid Fan rehearsal. We really must turn the story of Meng Jiangnü into a play ourselves. It is really hard to swallow when I see Chinese culture distorted in such a way. Went home at 11:30. July 25th [1942], Saturday, Clear Set to work on writing right after breakfast. I have never worked so earnestly before. I need to take myself seriously, so I can establish myself as a writer. I need to work hard without letting up and keep up my passion for literature. But writing really is an unrelenting taskmaster. On the other hand, it is enjoyable work. Is there any kind of work more enjoyable or worthwhile?

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In the afternoon, in between writing, went over to Tanzi to cheer myself up. Went to school and visited Xie Wanchuan’s house. But felt bored and so abruptly went home. After all I have no other career than being a writer. In the evening my good friend Yang Shi came to discuss problems with the sharecroppers. August 18th [1942], Tuesday, Clear Felt energetic and in good spirits this morning. Lay in bed reading Balzac’s Eugénie Grandet. I think I have reached the level of Balzac’s craft. At 3:30 took a bus to Taizhong, but my friend [Zhang] Xingjian was not there. Ran into Mr. Wu and went for a walk on the street. Visited Chen Xunzhang too. Decided Taizhong was also a boring place. Took the 6:30 bus home. Exhausted. February 23 [1943], Tuesday, Clear Because the suburban buses are not reliable, I walked to Yuanshan to catch the city bus. It makes me angry that the section chief has been nagging me about my article. Lin Boqiu came to visit in the early afternoon. After leaving the office, I went with him to Tianma for dinner. Ran into [Zhang] Wenhuan and learned that Professor Kudo Yoshimi at Tokyo Imperial University said my writings were weak ideologically. Had a look around Boqiu’s Sun Moon New Theater Troupe. Later went to Wang Jingchuan’s house and chatted with him and his wife and others. Went home at 11. Out of money, borrowed twenty yuan from Dongfang. Wrote until 11:30 at night. Really wanted to sleep, but . . . February 28th [1943], Sunday, Clear . . . Attended a lecture series on literature at 7:00 [p.m.] at the Taipei City public auditorium. Togawa, Tanba, and Shoji all spoke. Upset at writers who utterly lack a writer’s temperament and at their formulaic discourse. The attitude of these literary figures motivated by material gain is really disgusting. Tanba’s Battle of Solomon Islands about the November 1942 sea battle expresses his special brand of humor and keen sensibility—quite amusing. Personally, I think that writers should not touch on politics but should strive to produce literature. Caught a city bus at 10:30, then from Yuanshan walked home feeling lonely. May 4th [1943], Tuesday, Clear (Lunar Calendar: first day of the fourth month) Lately I have been feeling unhappy. I can only work toward my own convictions. There is not anything to fear so long as I have the ability and the result. I certainly will not compromise with others. I hope to disentangle myself from all these matters. I have heard that Miss Torii has gone to Tokyo. I spent all day today writing the draft of a new play, Ten-Day Newspaper. Wang Rende came by in the

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afternoon; we drank tea and talked about literature. It is my view that in Taiwan there are only sponsors of literature but no perceptive readers of literature. Went home directly from the office. No time in the evening to work on my draft. I ought to be able to carry out literary work through extreme pain and suffering. May 7th [1943], Friday, Clear Once I got to the office, I worked nonstop on the draft of Minamoto Yoshitsune. It was hard to swallow that there was no other work to be done. All sorts of criticism have suddenly been directed at the shortcomings of Nishikawa Mitsuru’s Contemporary Literary Criticism. In the end, Nishikawa has no literary standing to convince others, so he tries to use that kind of vicious trick to trap people in his plot. He is just a literary conspirator and hack. I don’t remember when Dr. Kanaseki said, “Those who are blocking the maturation of Taiwanese literature are the literary writers.” This is so true. Hamada [Hayao] is also a depraved jerk. In the end, literature means good writing. I need to produce a masterpiece! May 27th [1943], Thursday, Clear Naval Commemoration Day. After arriving at the office, I found it hard to put up with all the women coming around to solicit donations to the Naval Battleship Fund. In the covered loggia was an exhibition of popular fiction, poetry, and illustrations from the Literary Precept Society. Crude and graceless. But Sakaguchi Reiko’s “Brothers” is well written. And my own “The Appointment” stands out from the rest. It is surprising how low the level of the Japanese writers has become. Bought a copy of Chinese Drama.. . . . May 31st [1943], Monday, Clear Today was the first dress rehearsal, so I roused myself into high spirits for the occasion. But I don’t agree with the way the play’s theme is laid out or how it is performed. I had originally wanted to turn it into a modern Taiwanese play about an hour and a half long, but it is a complete bore. The problem lies with those who are just sitting around drawing a salary without doing any real work. Well, then, I will just have to write something else that will be a masterpiece. Tazuko went to kindergarten today. Because the first dress rehearsal for the new play began at 7:00 [p.m.], I went to the honorary section right after getting off work. I was the guest of Wu Dehe. It began at 7:00 and there were about six hundred people in the audience. Should we Taiwanese be pleased that we are copying an inferior Japanese play? Went home at 11:00. Worried about questions of artistry. June 7th [1943], Monday, Rainy Rain, misty rain, continues to pour. Bought The Book of Songs and Songs of the South as well as A Study of Chinese History today. My research on China is not for

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scholarship. It is my obligation. I need to understand myself. I want to write a piece about the self-realization of becoming and establishing oneself as part of Japan. Air raid drills today. Busy all day. My interior life! My spiritual life! Living merely on the surface of life is of no importance. Went home immediately after work. Heavy downpour this evening, a bit like a thunderstorm. Continued to write. Because Blood is a topic too frightening for present circumstances, I altered the title to Current. Stymied about how to deal with the current political situation. July 24th [1943], Saturday, Overcast Bought a biography of Dostoyevsky. Began to read and was amazed. My head is filled with thoughts. Can there really be people who live such a bitter life, so afflicted by existence yet persevere? Compared with Dostoyevsky, we should view our troubles as child’s play. Yet from ages immemorial, writers’ spiritual lives have been the same. It is the same with me. I know that I, too, have the sensibility of a writer. In the end, the path of literature is one of suffering and hardship. It is a path of struggling with our hopes and dreams. Diaries of Lü Heruo (1942–1944), 2 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taipei: INK Publishing, 2004), 1: 72, 116, 169, 183, 296, 300, 338, 339–40, 350, 358, 382, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

42. Responsibility of the Literati on the Island yu we n . . . Here I want to remind everyone that at a time of intense interest in literature, writers of both traditional and modern literature must gain a better understanding of their current situations and future prospects so as to spur themselves on in their literary quest. . . . In the past year or two, literary journals and monographs have sprouted everywhere on the island like bamboo shoots after the spring rain. We have seen masterpieces in published fiction, drama, and poetry. This phenomenon has not only generated great hope for the people of the island but has also caught the attention of those outside. Take the market for journals, for example: we used to print at most a thousand copies each issue and, despite our exhaustive efforts, sell fewer than half that number. Nowadays, according to the marketing

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scholarship. It is my obligation. I need to understand myself. I want to write a piece about the self-realization of becoming and establishing oneself as part of Japan. Air raid drills today. Busy all day. My interior life! My spiritual life! Living merely on the surface of life is of no importance. Went home immediately after work. Heavy downpour this evening, a bit like a thunderstorm. Continued to write. Because Blood is a topic too frightening for present circumstances, I altered the title to Current. Stymied about how to deal with the current political situation. July 24th [1943], Saturday, Overcast Bought a biography of Dostoyevsky. Began to read and was amazed. My head is filled with thoughts. Can there really be people who live such a bitter life, so afflicted by existence yet persevere? Compared with Dostoyevsky, we should view our troubles as child’s play. Yet from ages immemorial, writers’ spiritual lives have been the same. It is the same with me. I know that I, too, have the sensibility of a writer. In the end, the path of literature is one of suffering and hardship. It is a path of struggling with our hopes and dreams. Diaries of Lü Heruo (1942–1944), 2 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taipei: INK Publishing, 2004), 1: 72, 116, 169, 183, 296, 300, 338, 339–40, 350, 358, 382, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

42. Responsibility of the Literati on the Island yu we n . . . Here I want to remind everyone that at a time of intense interest in literature, writers of both traditional and modern literature must gain a better understanding of their current situations and future prospects so as to spur themselves on in their literary quest. . . . In the past year or two, literary journals and monographs have sprouted everywhere on the island like bamboo shoots after the spring rain. We have seen masterpieces in published fiction, drama, and poetry. This phenomenon has not only generated great hope for the people of the island but has also caught the attention of those outside. Take the market for journals, for example: we used to print at most a thousand copies each issue and, despite our exhaustive efforts, sell fewer than half that number. Nowadays, according to the marketing

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department, our circulation ranges anywhere from two to three thousand to five to six thousand copies. We have no problem selling them; the market is even expanded to Japan, Korea, Manchuria, and many areas in China. Taiwanese literature, one may say, has gradually shed its label as local literature. In this regard, Taiwan’s literary movements have made a great leap forward. However, only writers in Japanese have truly received such honorable popularity; writers in Chinese still need to work harder to catch up. Since the start of the Sino-Japanese War [in 1937], through the coordinated efforts of Japan and China, together with Manchuria, the government of Outer Mongolia, and the newly established regimes of Southeast Asia, which have joined the Axis Powers, the grand ideal of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere is gradually becoming a reality. Without the advice of knowledgeable people, the Japanese government has already recognized the importance of the Chinese language in promoting cultural exchanges between Japan and China. Every one of us should be deeply aware of the literati’s great mission on the island during this time. Within precious and limited space, we should not “wage a battle from the snail’s horns” based on the division between the “new” and the “old” schools. In summary, the literati on the island have many urgent duties to carry out. Mr. Zhou Chuanzhi has listed them as follows. 1. Try to define the basic goals of literary reform. 2. Insist on writing in the vernacular and promote the objectives of New Literature. 3. Encourage the creation of short stories as well as modern poetry and prose. 4. Introduce canonical works by Eastern and Western writers, especially those on the evolution of literary history.

These are all necessary steps. But we should prioritize our tasks; we must not dwell on the trivial at the expense of the fundamental. In my humble opinion, we should start with the following tasks. 1. Organize the cultural legacy of our literary predecessors. (What follows is a detailed list of “internal” tasks.) a. Collect our predecessors’ scattered works and compile biographies. b. Collect folk literature, legends, tales, ballads, riddles, and popular axioms. c. Edit a history of Chinese literary movements. d. Document all literary debates of the past. 2. Consult the literary accomplishments of other countries to help promote literary activities on the island. (What follows is a detailed list of “external” tasks.) 3. Study the literatures and literary histories of other countries (especially those of Japan and China).

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4. Promote discussions of literary theory and encourage writers to compose poetry, fiction, drama, and prose.

All of the tasks I have mentioned above should be completed through the collaborative efforts of all citizens to help build the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. This is the only correct path for the literati on the island. How can one man complete a task of such magnitude, even if he puts his heart and soul into it? Even with the collaborative effort of all the literati on the island, we still may not be able to achieve our goal. Who then has the time to talk about the old school versus the new school? The South 163 (November 1, 1942): 6–7, translated by Hsiu-Chuang Deppman.

43. Taiwanese Theater in the Current Stage of Development ta ki ta te i ji . . . At present, the chief form of theater in Taiwan is the popular new school known as New Drama, with altogether some forty troupes organized by the islanders, who perform in the local language. The scripts have been written or approved by the Theater Association; the choice of troupes, allocation of theater space, and so forth are the responsibility of the Entertainment Industry Regulation Corporation. Are the contents and organization of these structures really ideal for meeting the needs of the nation? That could only be ascertained after inspecting the program for each troupe when it puts on a performance. But, in fact, there is a deficiency in data that address this area. Given that I believe this is a difficult topic, I have decided to write a general survey of drama in Taiwan. There used to be nearly one hundred theater companies in Taiwan, it is said. Now, after consolidations, some forty remain. I believe that this is calculated based on the relevant numbers of theaters, districts, etc. If that is the case, is the number [of theater companies] too high? It is said that the islanders love theater. It is fine to have a natural love for theater, but even if people love to watch drama, that is not a good reason to stage plays one after another. It would be better to assess their natural inclinations and offer an appropriate amount of good drama for a more efficient result. The said number of theater companies tours the island, putting on public performances. They stay at each location for five to ten days, changing the program each day. Such a performance schedule leaves the actors little time to rest and recharge. Consequently, actors are so exhausted, they merely go through

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4. Promote discussions of literary theory and encourage writers to compose poetry, fiction, drama, and prose.

All of the tasks I have mentioned above should be completed through the collaborative efforts of all citizens to help build the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. This is the only correct path for the literati on the island. How can one man complete a task of such magnitude, even if he puts his heart and soul into it? Even with the collaborative effort of all the literati on the island, we still may not be able to achieve our goal. Who then has the time to talk about the old school versus the new school? The South 163 (November 1, 1942): 6–7, translated by Hsiu-Chuang Deppman.

43. Taiwanese Theater in the Current Stage of Development ta ki ta te i ji . . . At present, the chief form of theater in Taiwan is the popular new school known as New Drama, with altogether some forty troupes organized by the islanders, who perform in the local language. The scripts have been written or approved by the Theater Association; the choice of troupes, allocation of theater space, and so forth are the responsibility of the Entertainment Industry Regulation Corporation. Are the contents and organization of these structures really ideal for meeting the needs of the nation? That could only be ascertained after inspecting the program for each troupe when it puts on a performance. But, in fact, there is a deficiency in data that address this area. Given that I believe this is a difficult topic, I have decided to write a general survey of drama in Taiwan. There used to be nearly one hundred theater companies in Taiwan, it is said. Now, after consolidations, some forty remain. I believe that this is calculated based on the relevant numbers of theaters, districts, etc. If that is the case, is the number [of theater companies] too high? It is said that the islanders love theater. It is fine to have a natural love for theater, but even if people love to watch drama, that is not a good reason to stage plays one after another. It would be better to assess their natural inclinations and offer an appropriate amount of good drama for a more efficient result. The said number of theater companies tours the island, putting on public performances. They stay at each location for five to ten days, changing the program each day. Such a performance schedule leaves the actors little time to rest and recharge. Consequently, actors are so exhausted, they merely go through

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the motions of performing. From the standpoint of the audience, if this is how plays are always performed (putting aside the issue of the quality of the content), the result is that the audience watches them superficially and gets no spiritual nourishment out of it, at most only physical fatigue in varying degrees. Doesn’t this harried, fast-paced life account for the fact that there are so few famous actors and so few excellent theater companies in Taiwan? Although we cannot generalize, given differences in lifestyle, are quality and quantity important for entertainment? For example, going to the theater two or three times a month, at most once a week, ought to be more than enough. Moreover, the time allotted to entertainment could be spent otherwise, going on excursions or watching movies. Therefore, I also think that it is a waste to have different theater companies moving around from this theater to that stage. Stage theater is different from film: each performance requires changing makeup, costumes, and scenery, and every day requires a new creation. Therefore, the adopted modes of performance and production should not be so crude. Just now I said that there are no famous actors and no outstanding theater companies in Taiwan. Regrettably, these are the facts. However, I did not say that famous actors and outstanding theater companies could not appear. If we raise the caliber of actors by teaching them new knowledge and new techniques; find a conscientious, responsible director for a theater company; or improve the mode of production, we ought to see results worth waiting for. The next point is that it is truly astonishing that the language used in the theaters of most troupes is the local language of the island. Perhaps there is little that can be done about this situation, given that the audience is the general public, and in view of the current level of education of the actors. The principle in carrying out all policies has been to make the national language [ Japanese] the only language used in Taiwan, and a great deal of effort has been expended on the uniformity of the national language. The Chinese language sections were scrapped from all the newspapers, and for the same reason, no broadcasts were in Taiwanese either. However, the wartime measure to adopt Taiwanese language broadcasting is out of the necessity to implement decrees and disseminate news reports. It will not, on this account, admit the least relaxation or dilution in the dissemination of the national language. The question of language use among the theater companies of the island is based on this consideration. It would be particularly egregious to mistake this for a state of normalcy. Today, when imperial benevolence reaches every frontier and the national language can be used unhindered in every place, no matter how remote, it is absolutely not too soon to have two or three theater companies that make it a principle to perform in the national language. As I will mention later, if there are theater companies formed by Japanese, they can simultaneously offer both drama and the national language, and kill two birds with one stone. Yet, the present state in which no such troupes exist at all probably means a lack of funding to establish them.

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Staging a good performance naturally requires selecting a good script. No matter how much effort actors and directors put into it, a rotten script cannot be turned into a masterpiece, regardless of how many times it is studied. The most fundamental ingredient in theater consists of the play script, the sole aim of performance is how best to represent the play on stage, and if it is understood that the directors and actors work closely with the script for that purpose, then the point is self-evident. Scripts that serve an important function in performance can be divided into those that the theater companies themselves consider good plays and that have obtained authorization, and those prepared by the Theater Association. Neither kind can be performed without approval from the Theater Association, so the agency in this regard must be endowed with substantial authority. Of course, the Theater Association is not legally the highest unit for censorship, as above it there is the prefecture’s Bureau of Police Affairs. The actual work of inspection at the lower level is the responsibility of the Theater Association, while the principal duty of the Bureau of Police Affairs is to set out the permissible boundaries for ideology and practices; artistic concerns are left to the judgment of the Theater Association. Therefore, it is largely by viewing the plays prepared or authorized by the Theater Association that we get a sense of what kind of attitude the association takes toward combining artistry and effectiveness, because they at the same time suggest the association’s overall understanding of the current political situation based on the fundamental nature of Taiwan and of Japan. . . . I believe that, through its play scripts and other appropriate measures, theater in Taiwan can be revitalized and achieve a higher level. It so happens that the Imperial Public Service Association has just announced the drama awards beginning this year. These will play an effective role in improving the theater of Taiwan, which we anticipate will become the object of recognition and encouragement. In addition, the various forms of puppet theater—finger puppets, marionettes, and shadow puppets—should also be mobilized now, as ignoring such excellent forms may even violate national policy. It is hoped that the same degree of attention will be given to puppet theater as will be given to providing the new drama troupes with plays. A finger puppet theater, for example, can be staged in a space no larger than a handcart, so that no matter how cramped a place is, it can fit in a performance, making it quite suitable as a form of street theater for the masses. It may not be as simple as showing the old-fashioned lantern slides, but it would not be difficult for it to become more effective. . . . Taiwan Literature 3, no. 1 (January 31, 1943); reprinted in Critical Essays on Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 4: 33–39, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

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44. A Conversation on Taiwanese Culture na k a mur a a ki r a a nd long y ingzong ... nakamura: People often voice the criticism that there is no critical spirit in Taiwan. However, it seems that there is neither a critical spirit, nor a spirit of being critiqued. In other words, there is no good criticism.

CRITICAL SPIRIT long: I guess one reason is that there are no true critics. The same is true of Japan. Compared with authors, critics receive little recognition for their work and therefore a low income. I think this is also a reason. In Japan, Mr. Aono Kikitsu is probably the only person who can make a living as a critic. In all other instances, critics all moonlight: doing one thing for a livelihood and writing criticism on the side. So for one to be able to make a living as a critic in Taiwan, we still have a long way to go! nakamura: I think that critics do not necessarily have to do that. Critics are a type of expert, someone with a unique talent, so what is wrong with having a regular job and writing criticism on the side? Being a good reader and a good critic is not a bad idea. long: Of course there is a need for amateur critics, but I also hope that there are professional critics. However, literary works precede criticism. When there is vitality in literary production, good critics are bound to emerge one by one. At present, Mr. Takemura Mo and others like him have written noteworthy criticism. Having no good criticism is an unfortunate thing for writers, for they would easily fall into all kinds of traps. nakamura: Are fiction writers in touch with readers’ feelings? For writers, critics are surely important, but readers are just as important. Yet it seems that in Taiwan it is difficult to find good readers. long: We have not reached a consistent level yet. It seems there are few people in Taiwan who have the capacity to understand pure literature. Taking our writings as an example, their contents, or the issues they describe, should strike a chord with the Taiwanese more easily than with the Japanese. Nevertheless, the Japanese are more likely to have a better understanding of the works after reading them, and respond more to them, than do Taiwanese. We may say our literature is quite wonderful. nakamura: That is interesting. I think there are several factors involved in this. Your situation is similar to that of Mr. Kim Saryan in Korea. Mr. Kim’s

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fiction is Korean, but we might as well say it is part of Japanese literature. On the other hand, there is to need to call it Taiwanese literature just because a work is written in Taiwan and about Taiwan. long: Just as you have said, eventually Taiwanese literature will aspire to such a thing as the universality of literature. There really is no need to be entrenched in the confines of Taiwanese literature. If we had works comparable to those of Tolstoy or Balzac, that would be nice. nakamura: All in all, what we are saying is that it is acceptable not to write about Taiwan, so long as it is a “literary work.” Whether or not it is about Taiwan, we will let readers name it; the writer does not have to. long: Actually, it is for convenience’s sake that critics use the label; writers do not need to write with it in mind. In his Pierre et Jean: The Two Brothers, Guy de Maupassant was very clear on this point. nakamura: Works of literature are supposed to explore the issue of humanity. If there are Taiwanese characters in these works occasionally, that is okay. But you must not forget to explore humanity. Presently it is not of great consequence, but if a good work comes along and is criticized—“What is this? Your work is nothing more than Taiwanese literature?”—sometimes I think I would get upset. Your work is both Eastern literature and world literature. long: I think that is due to the influence of journals and newspapers. The pursuit of particularity in literature is motivated by the commercialism of the media. nakamura: I agree. By the way, Mr. Long, did you study in Tokyo for a few years? long: Not at all. When Reform was selected, both times, I had only lived in Tokyo for about two months. nakamura: It is because your stories have a metropolitan air, so I assumed you had lived in Tokyo for a while. long: I also lived a long time in the countryside in Taiwan. It might sound like I am bragging, but I did not have much schooling and entered society at a young age. Because I have always lived in the lower echelon of society, I think I have a lot of life experience.

ON CONTROVERSY ... nakamura: Literary writers do not develop outwardly; they are individuals seeking to deepen inwardly. So solitude is a requirement. But it seems that Taiwan’s literature lacks introspection, and there are too many who flaunt their works. This is not only true for literature but also for art. long: Literature should be something that develops from self-introspection. I think that for Japanese literature the “I” novel is not devoid of function, but I do think that the right path is for the “I” novel to evolve to the formal

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novel, or the objective novel. Basically, the “I” novel is only a stage preceding the objective novel. Without self-affirmation, you cannot create the objective novel. nakamura: People engaged in literature must be tough on themselves, hence the idea of “literary cultivation.” This applies to Taiwanese culture as a whole. Yet it seems that the literary people in Taiwan are not tough on themselves; instead, they do things sloppily. They can get away with writing a careless article or making careless comments. Lack of deep reflection and dealing with issues perfunctorily—this is the cause of the dismal state of affairs in Taiwan. Having written something carelessly can get one famous right away. This is not just the writer’s responsibility but also the responsibility of those around him. Journals in Taiwan also bear some of the responsibility. [Laughter]

C O L O N I A L C U LT U R E long: Once Mr. Aono Kikitsu said something that struck a chord with me: “The foundation of colonial literature is too shallow.” The foundation of colonial culture is not yet solid, so Taiwan needs many more enlightenment movements for its culture as a whole. nakamura: While those involved in Taiwanese culture are doing this, they do not seem to have much self-confidence. Because they have not done formal study, they lack self-confidence. All they care about is how they present themselves and how others perceive them. Who cares what others think or say, all you have to do is do what you believe in, that is all. They lack the spirit [of self-confidence]; they direct all of their interest to how others see them, none to how they can elevate themselves. You could say the whole society is like this in Taiwan. . . . Those who were born and raised in Taiwan have had no contact with authentic Japanese culture and authentic literati from Japan. Because they have only seen the mediocre culture in common practice in Taiwan or, in other words, shallow-rooted colonial culture. Naturally, they have no way of knowing the outstanding traditional Japanese culture. That is why Taiwanese youth mistakenly think that their shallow-rooted colonial culture is on par with Japanese culture, and they go about doing things in a careless and perfunctory fashion. The only way to enlighten them is this: many Japanese who travel south or return from the south often pass through Taiwan; therefore, I think Taiwanese youth and all those in the cultural sphere should find opportunities to make contact with them, carefully observe their keen eyes and sharp thinking, and resolutely abandon their lackadaisical attitude of the past, in order to become truly cultivated in Japanese culture.

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T H E Y O U N G E R G E N E R AT I O N long: The current literary scene is full of people in their thirties; there are few in their forties and fifties. This is unfortunate for our writers. As Mr. Nakamura says, it is necessary for them to try to have as much contact as possible with those passing through the south in order to elevate themselves. nakamura: I once wrote an article for a journal, in which I said most people in Taiwanese culture are in their thirties; there are few new people in their twenties or teens. This is a worrisome situation for Taiwan. If I bring this up with the people on the island, surely they will say that is because we do not have the conditions for developing a new generation. This is just an excuse. I think it is our obligation to nurture new people. The seniors on the cultural scene should pave the way for the next generation. This is a topic for those active on the scene. The flourishing or decline of Taiwanese culture depends, in the end, on whether or not new people will emerge. If we do not nurture a passionate youth, there will be no one to carry on the legacy of the current generation. ... nakamura: Taiwanese culture is one of the cultures of great East Asia. I find it odd that as great East Asia is being established, why is Taiwan not exhibiting more vitality as a main branch of this culture? The six million residents on Taiwan must muster energy to accomplish the mission of assisting Japan in establishing a Great East Asia. I believe this is the goal of the Japanization movement. long: What causes me to feel lonely is that each year a large number of students go to Japan, and although they return to Taiwan upon finishing their study, they hardly care about Taiwan’s cultural movement. How unimaginable! It is only natural that the intellectuals returning from Japan should become the main force driving the cultural movement in Taiwan. ...

T H E D I R E C T I O N O F TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E nakamura: Two or three years ago, literature, compared with art, was not doing better. In the last two or three years, however, literature has shown much improvement and shown considerable development. But that does not necessarily mean that it will keep up at the same pace. Given that in the past literature was lagging so far behind, the gains so far have only achieved an average quality. It will not be an easy matter to progress from this point forward. Having published only one or two novels does not mean that the

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author has passed the stage of literary youth; he would still be treated as a newcomer in Japan. However, once a work is labeled “Taiwanese literature” in Taiwan, the author is treated like a master by all. This is no different from what we said earlier about the lackadaisical attitude; it is a point on which we all need to reflect. long: This is something I have thought about a lot. Basically, since the current state of Taiwanese literature cannot be considered as true literature, we should return to the most basic question: Should we explore a broader range of issues concerning the root and principles of literature? For example, why should we engage in literature? This question alone deserves careful consideration. On the contrary, most in Taiwan think that only some young dolt would think about this; their tendency is to skip the fundamentals and leap to a high literary level. Although I don’t know much about painting, I think it is like painting without a sketch first. There are many such people in literature. ...

D I R E C T I O N S O F TA I W A N E S E W R I T E R S nakamura: Such writers as Yang Kui and Lü Heruo wrote a lot last year. What kind of work they will produce this year intrigues me very much. long: Although Mr. Yang’s work is uneven, it is always worth waiting for. Mr. Lü works very hard too; he will probably produce a work that will astonish us all. nakamura: The most important thing is not to be biased. There is a writer by the name of Zhou Jinbo. I have only read a few of his works. What kind of person is he? Is he a young man? long: He is young, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. He is a writer of fine temperament. But he is still a little impatient, so I am concerned for his sake. I think one does not produce a masterpiece before age forty. All of us in Taiwan are quite young, so we should not be impatient but should strive to learn more about life and how to behave ourselves in the world. Taiwan Art 4, no. 2 (February 1, 1943); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule, 4 vols., ed. Huang Yinghe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 4: 76–86, translated by Marshall McArthur.

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45. A Commentary on Current Literature nis hi k awa mi tsuru

S

ome time at a Wednesday meeting, the topic of Izumi Kyôka [1873–1939] was brought up. I listened as Matsukaze Shigeru expressed his opinion that Izumi Kyôka is one of Japan’s great writers who brought Japanese tradition back to life, and he is correctly placed in literary history alongside Koda Rohan [1867–1947]. I completely agreed with him, but I was surprised that almost all of the people present that day agreed with Matsukaze’s view. Although I find it amusing that the Wednesday gathering was really a Kyôka meeting, I wonder if these days Kyôka is not read in a distorted fashion and unjustly criticized. Of course, sometimes his works do reveal his true and oftentimes absurd character, but the greatness of this literary person’s “art,” which revived the unique beauty, rich vocabulary, and superb composition of Japanese literary tradition, cannot be ignored. Generally speaking, kuso realism, which has become the mainstream of Taiwanese literature, is an Anglo-European literary style that entered Japan at the end of the Meiji era. Yet we, the Japanese, who appreciate such simple things as cherry blossom, do not sympathize with it at all. If kuso realism contained even a tidbit of humanitarianism, that would make it okay. But, besides the problem of vulgarity, it does not offer any critical perspective in its descriptions of life, nor does it have anything to do with the Japanese tradition. To writers of Taiwan it is especially clear, in my view. True realism is definitely not like this. Some native writers are still concerned with such issues as “abused stepchildren” and “family conflicts” and hung up on depicting bad customs, while the next generation of writers is actively engaged taking part in the Patriotic Corps and Volunteer Army. How ironic is it that writers of realism can be so blind to reality and lacking in self-awareness! How I have digressed unwittingly from our discussion of Izumi Kyôka! The reason I am so bold as to single out Kyôka, whom people consider an idiot, is because I want to investigate the spirit of the Japanese tradition inherent in his work. Some people call him a romantic, some a Parnassian. It depends on who you ask. Even if we agree that he is a writer of the romantic school, he is still clearly distinguished from Taiwanese writers we see everywhere, who are devotees of decadent European romanticism and associate themselves with writers of kuso realism. Kyôka’s works have art as well as polish. No matter what you are writing about, if it is to be belles lettres, you cannot lack these two essential ingredients. On second thought, it is only natural that Taiwanese writers are ridiculed by newspaper reporters for their inartistic gluttony and barbaric jungle of confusing compositions.

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I hasten to make it clear that I am not encouraging people to imitate Kyôka and become Kyôka look-alikes. After all, he is a man of the past. Today, to write in the style of Kyôka would be an anachronism. But what I am trying to say is that there are things in the works of a great writer like Kyôka that are worth studying and being adopted by us today. During the great East Asian war, we must aim to build a true imperial literature, not opportunistic literature. That is all. There is a memorable ancient proverb: “By reviewing the old, one learns something new.” . . . Alas, if you have time to read such foreign writers as Balzac, Tolstoy, and so on, I would like to ask you to at least learn the work of someone near you, like Kyôka. Let me come to the point. Even if those works of kuso realism were translated into European languages, they would not catch the eye of Europeans and Americans; on the contrary, they would be sneered at. As Japanese writers, can we not create works that contain the traditional spirit of Japan and that could never be created by Europeans and Americans? Let us rid our literature of AngloAmerican traits. This is the main reason why I bring up Kyôka. For people who hate Kyôka, I suggest getting hold of The Tale of Genji. The pride of the world, The Tale of Genji is certainly not kuso realism. Literary Taiwan 6, no. 1 (May 1, 1943): 38, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

note In the Japanese original, kuso means “feces.”

46. Kuso Realism and Pseudo-Romanticism shi wai min

A

ccording to the law, there are times when lying is permitted; however, within the confines of literature, lying is not permitted. When authors lie in their works, even for [the purpose of artistic] development, for people who love truth and the truth value of literature, works that use lies are not worth a penny. Every immortal work is the revelation of the author’s soul. For example, Flaubert declares: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi!” And at the end of War and Peace, Tolstoy provides an eloquent discussion on history. There are no exceptions. For example, [Nagai] Kafû states: “Since I am extremely bashful about being a writer, I expect myself to achieve a higher level of art than writers of the Edo period.” It seems that what Kafû was saying is that in essence literary truth

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I hasten to make it clear that I am not encouraging people to imitate Kyôka and become Kyôka look-alikes. After all, he is a man of the past. Today, to write in the style of Kyôka would be an anachronism. But what I am trying to say is that there are things in the works of a great writer like Kyôka that are worth studying and being adopted by us today. During the great East Asian war, we must aim to build a true imperial literature, not opportunistic literature. That is all. There is a memorable ancient proverb: “By reviewing the old, one learns something new.” . . . Alas, if you have time to read such foreign writers as Balzac, Tolstoy, and so on, I would like to ask you to at least learn the work of someone near you, like Kyôka. Let me come to the point. Even if those works of kuso realism were translated into European languages, they would not catch the eye of Europeans and Americans; on the contrary, they would be sneered at. As Japanese writers, can we not create works that contain the traditional spirit of Japan and that could never be created by Europeans and Americans? Let us rid our literature of AngloAmerican traits. This is the main reason why I bring up Kyôka. For people who hate Kyôka, I suggest getting hold of The Tale of Genji. The pride of the world, The Tale of Genji is certainly not kuso realism. Literary Taiwan 6, no. 1 (May 1, 1943): 38, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

note In the Japanese original, kuso means “feces.”

46. Kuso Realism and Pseudo-Romanticism shi wai min

A

ccording to the law, there are times when lying is permitted; however, within the confines of literature, lying is not permitted. When authors lie in their works, even for [the purpose of artistic] development, for people who love truth and the truth value of literature, works that use lies are not worth a penny. Every immortal work is the revelation of the author’s soul. For example, Flaubert declares: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi!” And at the end of War and Peace, Tolstoy provides an eloquent discussion on history. There are no exceptions. For example, [Nagai] Kafû states: “Since I am extremely bashful about being a writer, I expect myself to achieve a higher level of art than writers of the Edo period.” It seems that what Kafû was saying is that in essence literary truth

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is cursed by social restrictions. But the most essential criterion for a work is whether or not the author’s attitude is truly expressed in his or her work, regardless of what is said in it. . . . Yet the author’s attitude cannot be determined by a superficial understanding of the work. For example, no reader of The Sorrows of Young Werther can deny that the novel is not the expression of Goethe’s true feelings. But when it comes to how one views the protagonist, it depends on who you ask. Some see him as an innocent young man; others, a foolish youth. Moreover, based on these superficial impressions, some people may view Goethe as superficial. But that is an extremely hasty conclusion. I say this because I cannot help making clear my standpoint, which is: we must exercise caution when we analyze an author’s attitude toward creation. When I read “A Commentary on Current Literature” by Nishikawa Mitsuru in the May issue of Literary Taiwan, I had to restrain myself from screaming over some of the silly comments. What I took away was more sickening slander than words of sincerity. The article states: “Generally speaking, kuso realism, which has become the mainstream of Taiwanese literature, is an Anglo-European literary style that entered Japan at the end of the Meiji era. Yet we, the Japanese, who appreciate such simple things as cherry blossom, do not sympathize with it at all. If kuso realism contained even a tidbit of humanitarianism, that would make it okay. But, besides the problem of vulgarity, it does not offer any critical perspectives in its descriptions of life, nor does it have anything to do with the Japanese tradition.” This statement, which implies there is some fundamental problem with Japanese literature, definitely needs to be clarified. If, as would be expected, Japanese literature of the past was proceeding in the right direction, why is there a problem [with contemporary literature]? But, as stated earlier, [Nishikawa’s] conclusion is that although The Tale of Genji is one of the most beautiful works of literature, it is after all an expression of mono no aware [pathos of things] through the tragedies and loves of a noble family. Thus, Japanese literature can hold a place in world literature due to its special characteristics. A work like The Tale of Genji shows how Japanese literature is indeed sophisticated, with a distinct human perspective and worldview. However, for Japanese literature to develop fully in a wholesome way, besides carrying on the traditional aesthetics of The Tale of Genji, we should take a step forward by calling for justice and establishing a clear and correct attitude toward life and the world. . . . Nishikawa continues to say in “A Commentary”: “To writers of Taiwan, it is especially clear, in my view. True realism is definitely not like this. Some native writers are still concerned with such issues as ‘abused stepchildren’ and ‘family conflicts’ and hung upon depicting bad customs, while the next generation of writers is actively engaged taking part in the Patriotic Corps and Volunteer Army. How ironic is it that writers of realism could be so blind to reality and lacking in

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self-awareness!” Although I have only glanced at three journals: Taiwan Literature, Literary Taiwan, and Taiwan Forum, I cannot imagine that writers, whether Taiwanese or Japanese, lack self-awareness when it comes to writing. As I said earlier, it is difficult to definitively conclude what a writer’s attitude may be, so it is ridiculous to even wonder which of the three—Nishikawa, Zhang Wenhuan, or Lü Heruo—is more self-aware. I recognize that Nishikawa’s aesthetic judgment is underlain by a quest for pure beauty. Yet at the same time, I cannot help but say that one cannot willfully impose the label of kuso realism on Taiwanese writers, because it is based on their reflections on life and hopes for the future. Even when they depict family troubles, it seems that these phenomena are the most basic problem in the fast-changing Taiwanese society of today. Nishikawa neglects the reality in Taiwanese society, gets mired in shallow rhetoric, and does nothing but reproach [Taiwanese writers]. Such behavior only exposes his own small-mindedness. This may sound like nit-picking, but Nishikawa chastises Taiwanese writers for lacking the Japanese spirit, which makes me wonder if he really understands the meaning of tradition. Tradition refers to that which helps bring about progress in history or contemporary society. From this point of view, realism is the most powerful weapon of criticism in modern society and should not be ignored. In addition, true romanticism is informed by the undercurrent of realism. Romanticism without any concrete ideals is nothing more than sentimentalism, which in its unconscious superficiality, is nothing but simplistic fantasy. I believe that Taiwanese literature should strive to produce works that provide guidance. The ideal is to give birth to works that will last forever, although Taiwanese literature today has yet to reach that level of quality. Perhaps it is at the stage of kuso realism. In that sense, Nishikawa’s criticism in “A Commentary” may be surprisingly accurate. But if that were the case, he should not have accused realism of being kuso. Sentimentalists, as well as self-styled romanticists, could not escape the criticism of pseudo-romanticism. It is regrettable that Taiwanese literature is still at this level, but literature develops step by step. Taiwanese writers must seek improvement through mutual criticism; no acrimonious words should be spoken. The writer’s mission is to live for truth. If one cannot insist on living in truth and justice, then should he choose the same fate as that of Kafû or willingly lower the standards of his work? After all, the life of a writer lies in his work. When Madame Bovary was first published, Flaubert was charged with obscenity, for which he became famous overnight. But Flaubert dreaded, even abhorred, the interference of impure elements in art. When Madame Bovary was characterized by critics as a work of realism, he was so enraged as to say that if he had money he would buy all the copies of the novel and burn them. It is in the silent eloquence of a literary work that we see the value of the writer. With magnanimity and conviction, writers on this island will surely get

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over the kind of petty criticism they read in Nishikawa. Is the work of all Taiwanese writers kuso realism? I leave this question to the future, for time alone will be the true judge. Southern Reconstruction Daily, May 10, 1943, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

47. An Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai Min ye shi tao

A

s Mr. Shiwai Min correctly stated, there is one work that stands out more than any other as a proper judge of the times. Although it belongs to the Heian period (794–1185), The Tale of Genji correctly understood what is going on in our world today. Is The Tale of Genji all about the aristocrats’ pathos and unrequited love, as Mr. Shiwai Min said? He who makes this presumptuous comment on the classical novel nevertheless borrows his pen name from the character in Satô Haruo’s romantic “A Strange Tale of the Fan of Admonitions for Women” on the one hand, and on the other defends kuso realism by bending the truth. All this suggests that not only is he ignorant about the Japanese literary tradition but he has been misled by foreign literature (in translation). It is clearly evident that he is a liberal. I wonder if this guy who calls himself Shiwai Min has read even one page of The Tale of Genji. Besides, at this moment when imperial literature asks all citizens like myself to fight in the holy war so as to realize lofty ideals, we should draw on the tradition found in the Collection of a Thousand Leaves and The Tale of Genji and develop ideas for this new age of vitality. I wonder where Mr. Shiwai Min, who cites such works as Madame Bovary, got his ideas. Mr. Shiwai Min brings up Flaubert and Goethe with pride, and he praises The Tale of Genji as containing all the elements found in Flaubert and Goethe. Whether this is a distortion or not, it is clear that he does not understand the true meaning of mono no aware. . . . Modern Japanese literature since the Meiji era has been balanced with kuso realism. It is wonderful that we are on the verge of returning to a magnificent era. Nevertheless, there are those who do not know which direction the wind blows. No wonder there are conversations that compare various interests and people who are thankful for discussions that remind us of proletarian literature of ten years earlier that depicted family conflicts and made us think about Taiwan. For example, in Zhang Wenhuan’s “Night Monkey” and “Capon,” what kind of worldview is there anyway? When I read his characteristic style, in which he mixes Taiwanese and Japanese, how

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over the kind of petty criticism they read in Nishikawa. Is the work of all Taiwanese writers kuso realism? I leave this question to the future, for time alone will be the true judge. Southern Reconstruction Daily, May 10, 1943, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

47. An Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai Min ye shi tao

A

s Mr. Shiwai Min correctly stated, there is one work that stands out more than any other as a proper judge of the times. Although it belongs to the Heian period (794–1185), The Tale of Genji correctly understood what is going on in our world today. Is The Tale of Genji all about the aristocrats’ pathos and unrequited love, as Mr. Shiwai Min said? He who makes this presumptuous comment on the classical novel nevertheless borrows his pen name from the character in Satô Haruo’s romantic “A Strange Tale of the Fan of Admonitions for Women” on the one hand, and on the other defends kuso realism by bending the truth. All this suggests that not only is he ignorant about the Japanese literary tradition but he has been misled by foreign literature (in translation). It is clearly evident that he is a liberal. I wonder if this guy who calls himself Shiwai Min has read even one page of The Tale of Genji. Besides, at this moment when imperial literature asks all citizens like myself to fight in the holy war so as to realize lofty ideals, we should draw on the tradition found in the Collection of a Thousand Leaves and The Tale of Genji and develop ideas for this new age of vitality. I wonder where Mr. Shiwai Min, who cites such works as Madame Bovary, got his ideas. Mr. Shiwai Min brings up Flaubert and Goethe with pride, and he praises The Tale of Genji as containing all the elements found in Flaubert and Goethe. Whether this is a distortion or not, it is clear that he does not understand the true meaning of mono no aware. . . . Modern Japanese literature since the Meiji era has been balanced with kuso realism. It is wonderful that we are on the verge of returning to a magnificent era. Nevertheless, there are those who do not know which direction the wind blows. No wonder there are conversations that compare various interests and people who are thankful for discussions that remind us of proletarian literature of ten years earlier that depicted family conflicts and made us think about Taiwan. For example, in Zhang Wenhuan’s “Night Monkey” and “Capon,” what kind of worldview is there anyway? When I read his characteristic style, in which he mixes Taiwanese and Japanese, how

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many times do I labor over his antirealist writing? A dream of no return—an old Taiwan that only lives in lingering memories. Is this not Mr. Shiwai Min’s socalled realism? As to Lü’s Peace in the Family and Temple Courtyard, they are no more than new plays in a country theater. I think it is contemptible that even out of a sense of duty, people call them splendid. I wonder if on this point alone this topic is not painful for Mr. Shiwai Min. . . . What I want to say is that Mr. Shiwai says that “writers of Taiwanese literature certainly are not people who make slanderous denunciations,” yet he calls Nishikawa’s literature contemptible. Is it not Mr. Shiwai Min who makes slanderous denunciations? Has he read all of Nishikawa’s work? Just as he distorts The Tale of Genji, Mr. Shiwai Min somehow has not carefully read Nishikawa’s quest for beauty. But, if I may say so, the innocent beauty that Nishikawa seeks is founded on the Japanese literary tradition. He is not a so-called romanticist; his work sings the praises of the self-awareness as a Japanese person, as seen in “One Will” and “To My Brother Who’s Drafted a Second Time,” which appear in the May issue of Bungei Taiwan as “Diary.” How can these works be described simply as a quest for beauty or be accused of being pseudo-romanticism? Even if they are pseudo-romantic, they are good. Can you find the consciousness of the imperial subject in Zhang’s or Lü’s work as in Nishikawa’s work? It is only reasonable that Nishikawa sends a warning to Taiwanese writers. Southern Construction Daily, May 17, 1943, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

48. Good Writing, Bad Writing wu xinrong . . . If it is natural to pay compliments to good writing, it also seems reasonable to criticize bad writing. For example, although Ye Shitao’s “An Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai Min” is not poorly written, there are parts that I find unacceptable. I don’t know Mr. Shiwai Min personally. I have read some of his works, but they did not leave much of an impression on me. Even so, this has nothing to do with my criticism of “An Open Letter.” Besides, even the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services is actively directing the literary movement.1 It is clear that the target reader of such literature is the general public. Thus, even though I don’t know much about The Tale of Genji or Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves, as an imperial subject and as a person who loves literature, I am not overreaching in offering a critique of the article.

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many times do I labor over his antirealist writing? A dream of no return—an old Taiwan that only lives in lingering memories. Is this not Mr. Shiwai Min’s socalled realism? As to Lü’s Peace in the Family and Temple Courtyard, they are no more than new plays in a country theater. I think it is contemptible that even out of a sense of duty, people call them splendid. I wonder if on this point alone this topic is not painful for Mr. Shiwai Min. . . . What I want to say is that Mr. Shiwai says that “writers of Taiwanese literature certainly are not people who make slanderous denunciations,” yet he calls Nishikawa’s literature contemptible. Is it not Mr. Shiwai Min who makes slanderous denunciations? Has he read all of Nishikawa’s work? Just as he distorts The Tale of Genji, Mr. Shiwai Min somehow has not carefully read Nishikawa’s quest for beauty. But, if I may say so, the innocent beauty that Nishikawa seeks is founded on the Japanese literary tradition. He is not a so-called romanticist; his work sings the praises of the self-awareness as a Japanese person, as seen in “One Will” and “To My Brother Who’s Drafted a Second Time,” which appear in the May issue of Bungei Taiwan as “Diary.” How can these works be described simply as a quest for beauty or be accused of being pseudo-romanticism? Even if they are pseudo-romantic, they are good. Can you find the consciousness of the imperial subject in Zhang’s or Lü’s work as in Nishikawa’s work? It is only reasonable that Nishikawa sends a warning to Taiwanese writers. Southern Construction Daily, May 17, 1943, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

48. Good Writing, Bad Writing wu xinrong . . . If it is natural to pay compliments to good writing, it also seems reasonable to criticize bad writing. For example, although Ye Shitao’s “An Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai Min” is not poorly written, there are parts that I find unacceptable. I don’t know Mr. Shiwai Min personally. I have read some of his works, but they did not leave much of an impression on me. Even so, this has nothing to do with my criticism of “An Open Letter.” Besides, even the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services is actively directing the literary movement.1 It is clear that the target reader of such literature is the general public. Thus, even though I don’t know much about The Tale of Genji or Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves, as an imperial subject and as a person who loves literature, I am not overreaching in offering a critique of the article.

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It is not my intention to comment on The Tale of Genji or Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves, nor do I care to debate the issue of Japanese literature versus foreign literature. However, I was educated in Japanese since I was a young boy, so I love the spirit of Japanese literature and understand it more than any other literature. Therefore, for Mr. Ye to talk about the works of Zhang Wenhuan and Lü Heruo as if they were foreign literature written in Japanese is unfathomable to me. Such intentional disdain is no way to “realize the lofty ideals” as Ye Shitao claims, neither is it the true spirit of unity. As we all know, Zhang Wenhuan won the Taiwan Culture Award from the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services for his “Night Monkey” and “Capon.” But Ye Shitao questions his views on history and the world, as if there were something improper about these works. Obviously, his criticism insults the Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services and shows contempt for its authority. So it follows that he should ask himself first whether or not he has the “consciousness of an imperial subject.” Taiwan is an important part of Japan today; its existence depended on Japan in the past as well. Consequently, people who deny Taiwan’s past also deny Taiwan’s present, and thus they must be called unpatriotic. If the works of Zhang Wenhuan, which record past life in Taiwan, are wrong, then how do we evaluate Nishikawa Mistsuru’s “A Tale of Red Deceit” and “Dragon Vein”? Would it not be appropriate to apply the same criticism to them for being “a dream of no return”? Ye Shitao also chastises Zhang for writing “in Taiwanese-style Japanese.” I think that quite on the contrary, Zhang’s work is actually written “in Japanese-style Taiwanese.” His literary style is not only appropriate but demonstrates the great capacity of the Japanese language; moreover, we should rejoice over the greatness of the Japanese people. I said earlier that Nishikawa’s works, such as “A Tale of Red Deceit,” are also “a dream of no return.” In truth, I am a great fan of dream tales. I recall having read dream tales with such excitement that I could hardly contain it. Several years ago I denounced adherents of art for art’s sake as “demons in the ivory tower.” However, if “A Tale of Red Deceit” is an example of art for art’s sake, then it is not such a bad thing today. But I hear that Nishikawa has long abandoned “the pursuit of beauty” and set off in the direction of “tragic resolution.” Southern Construction Daily, May 24, 1943, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

note 1.

The Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services, or Kômin hôkôkai, was established in 1941 in Taiwan to encourage wartime mobilization.

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49. In Defense of Kuso Realism yid ong li a ng 1. ON THE FUNCTION OF KUSO To debate about new ways of looking at fecal matter perhaps is an odd conversation to have here. Even though everyone seems to know the function of fecal matter, I wonder if we have begun to lose sight of its true nature. According to scholarly research that I have read, there are different grades of kuso: city people’s, children’s, and farmers’. Because farmers eat coarse food, their kuso makes the lowest grade. . . . In the past, before commercial fertilizer was invented, the only thing that could increase a farmer’s harvest was the kuso from pigs, cows, chickens, and humans. . . . Perhaps this is something that makes people uncomfortable; today, when there is a severe shortage of commercial fertilizer, farmers see kuso as a treasure. This is not hard to imagine when we consider recent stories about kuso thieves. If there is no kuso, there will be no rice and no vegetables. This is realism. It is “kuso realism” through and through. There is no romanticism in kuso. Although people turn their faces from and hold their noses around kuso, I would like see how we can survive without kuso realism.

2. ON ROMANTICISM I have written that there is no romanticism in kuso. I have written that people turn their faces from and hold their noses around kuso. However, this alone does not tell the whole story, because it is one-sided and only about the surface of things. Look at the glossy shine of vegetables and how quickly they grow after kuso has been applied. Isn’t this abundantly romantic? If nihilistic naturalists only see the dark side and only depict the dark side, overlooking those teeming hopes and truths hidden in the dark, it is impossible for them to appreciate this kind of romanticism. If Nishikawa disdains this type of nihilistic naturalism, then we are of the same mind. But if his rejection of naturalism extends to kuso realism, then, to put it bluntly, it is no different from a mirage in the desert and a house of cards.

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It is no different from “nihilistic naturalism,” because insofar as they both kill the spirit of truth, they are the same. For all the nihilistic naturalists can do is snoop around putrid things and sigh again and again. Nishikawa is quite the opposite. From the beginning, he put a lid on putrid things, so he does not have to look at them. He is escaping reality by turning his face away and covering his nose. But reality is reality. . . . True romanticism is certainly not that. True romanticism has its starting point in reality and embraces hopes for reality. If something stinks, romanticism eradicates it. If it is dark, even if there is only a glimmer, romanticism will make it shine brightly. When it comes to kuso, which people hold their noses around and turn their faces away from, we must also see its value, its value in making rice mature and vegetables plump. We must place our hope on it, treasure it, and put it to good use. When it comes to society, we must not be enthralled by the positive aspects and overlook the negatives on the one hand, or see the negative aspects and miss the positive, on the other. In short, we must stare at reality and see the negative hidden in the positive so as to overcome it. At the same time, we must cultivate the positive sunk in the negative so as to transform the negative into the positive through our efforts. This then is a wholesome romanticism, not an absurd romanticism. This romanticism is not diametrically opposed to realism; only when romanticism bases itself on realism can it bloom. If romanticism cannot exist without denouncing realism, then it is only an illusion, a ridiculous thing, like riding a cloud instead of an airplane. It is a fool’s dream, nothing more than a love story about the Goddess Mazu. . . . Finally, I want to say one more thing about Nishikawa’s critique, published in the May issue of Literary Taiwan, of the way Taiwanese writers continue to address the local issues of abused stepchildren and family conflicts. In the April issue of the Taiwan Times, Hamada also critiques Taiwanese writers for focusing on the negative in their depictions. If the reproach targets works that endlessly depict the ugly side of reality, even I have great empathy [with the critics]. However, if the critiques intentionally ignore the fact that even while most Taiwanese writers depict the so-called negative side, they still express the will to move forward, then I must say they exhibit a pathetic prejudice. Whether it is abused stepchildren or family conflicts, if they are the reality of Taiwan, it is easy but foolish to avert one’s eyes. The question is, are these nihilist works that express nothing but the negative? Or, do they express the will to fight hardship and construct humanity based on the said reality? . . . That being said, such problems as abused stepchildren, family conflicts, and many other issues that Nishikawa is unwilling to see still exist in reality. Unlike him, we cannot act unconcerned but must face such negatives. As long as there are positive elements in the negative, no matter how minuscule they are, we feel a responsibility to cultivate and develop them. We will not allow them to be eradicated. Even if it is only 1 percent, we must add it to reality.

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This, I believe, is the spirit of public service and the goal of the public service movement. Taiwan Literature 3, no. 3 (July 31, 1943): 17–21, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

50. The Thorny Road Continues z ha ng we nhuan

R

ather than calling it a maiden work, it would be more appropriate to think of it as what motivated me to enter the field of literature. Since high school, I have been interested in literature. Although I was confident about my writing, I had not once dreamed about becoming a writer. For I knew the complexity of human emotions and the difficulty of the [Japanese] language. At the same time, I thought I ought to learn more about literature, because it was essential to understanding people’s spiritual side, no matter what career I chose. My birthplace is a village in the mountains. Unlike children in the cities, I had no toys and no opportunity to go to shows. To alleviate boredom, I could only use the Chinese that I had learned in my study to read folk operas or Poems of the Masters. As a result, at the young age of nine, I was already familiar with the tragic romance about the Butterfly Lovers Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai. When I thought of how remote their locations were, I identified my village as destined for unfulfilled love. I admired the city and wanted to study at a public elementary school. This was how dreamily I spent my life in the countryside before I entered middle school. I had never thought about what I liked and did not like. After I went to middle school, I began to take an interest in life. I became interested in comparing real people and their spiritual life to the characters from such novels as The Seven Heroes and the Five Gallants and The Eight Swordsmen [of Jiangnan]. Then I moved to Tokyo, where all types of sounds entered my head. Then I grew increasingly dissatisfied with literary works like the poems of Ishikawa Takuboku or The Golden Yaksha by Ozaki Kōyō. In magazines, I often read articles on Taiwan and got impatient, because they never bothered to write about the hardships of the Taiwanese people and the subtleties of their feelings in life. Most of the articles were wildly self-serving, unbearably subjective, and unfocused. They irritated me a great deal. Nothing angered me more than seeing a third party write about my passion in a senseless way. Without this experience, I probably would not have become a writer. Unfortunately,

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This, I believe, is the spirit of public service and the goal of the public service movement. Taiwan Literature 3, no. 3 (July 31, 1943): 17–21, translated by Anne Sokolsky from the Japanese.

50. The Thorny Road Continues z ha ng we nhuan

R

ather than calling it a maiden work, it would be more appropriate to think of it as what motivated me to enter the field of literature. Since high school, I have been interested in literature. Although I was confident about my writing, I had not once dreamed about becoming a writer. For I knew the complexity of human emotions and the difficulty of the [Japanese] language. At the same time, I thought I ought to learn more about literature, because it was essential to understanding people’s spiritual side, no matter what career I chose. My birthplace is a village in the mountains. Unlike children in the cities, I had no toys and no opportunity to go to shows. To alleviate boredom, I could only use the Chinese that I had learned in my study to read folk operas or Poems of the Masters. As a result, at the young age of nine, I was already familiar with the tragic romance about the Butterfly Lovers Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai. When I thought of how remote their locations were, I identified my village as destined for unfulfilled love. I admired the city and wanted to study at a public elementary school. This was how dreamily I spent my life in the countryside before I entered middle school. I had never thought about what I liked and did not like. After I went to middle school, I began to take an interest in life. I became interested in comparing real people and their spiritual life to the characters from such novels as The Seven Heroes and the Five Gallants and The Eight Swordsmen [of Jiangnan]. Then I moved to Tokyo, where all types of sounds entered my head. Then I grew increasingly dissatisfied with literary works like the poems of Ishikawa Takuboku or The Golden Yaksha by Ozaki Kōyō. In magazines, I often read articles on Taiwan and got impatient, because they never bothered to write about the hardships of the Taiwanese people and the subtleties of their feelings in life. Most of the articles were wildly self-serving, unbearably subjective, and unfocused. They irritated me a great deal. Nothing angered me more than seeing a third party write about my passion in a senseless way. Without this experience, I probably would not have become a writer. Unfortunately,

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to this day, I have not read even one magazine article that has an accurate depiction of Taiwan. Could this be my arrogance? No, my demand is reasonable. I would be pleased to read just one article that expresses my passion. Indeed, those magazines could not reflect the truth about the Taiwanese people. . . . So I began to realize that a literary movement was much needed in Taiwan. After discussing it with a few friends, we decided to publish a coterie magazine. We printed five hundred copies in total; three hundred were complimentary copies and the rest were for sale in bookstores. It was no surprise that one hundred and fifty copies were returned, with only fifty copies sold. We were dismayed, but I didn’t blame it on the masses. As unremarkable as the magazine was, of course no one would care to read it. My friends and I didn’t give up. Nowadays, Taiwan Literature prints two to three thousand copies per issue, and only 20 percent are returned. What a world of difference! It has little to do with our work. Rather, it is the result of increasing numbers of readers in Taiwan, who are paying more attention to literary development. As someone who had never taken lessons on writing, I just wanted to express what was on my mind, and I was surprised that my short story “Father’s Face” was awarded a special prize by the Central Forum in 1933. After that I began to ponder the issue of fiction writing. Before that, I wrote only because I wanted to introduce the life of the Taiwanese people. It certainly did not occur to me that I would continue writing to this day. If someone else would like to write about what I feel, I would gladly put down my pen and write no more. Establishing the South News, August 16, 1943; reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wenhuan, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taizhong: Cultural Center of Taizhong County, 2002), 6: 162–63, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

51. Our Propositions naga sa ki hi roshi , et al. NAGASAKI HIROSHI: THE CONVICTION OF VICTORY The war has formally entered the final stage. Even at this precise moment, as I speak, fierce and bloody battles on the bases in the South Pacific are raging on in the form of hand-to-hand combat. The great result of the battle in the Solomon Sea made our blood boil; yet the enemy’s stubborn but doomed resistance is surely going on. Even though

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to this day, I have not read even one magazine article that has an accurate depiction of Taiwan. Could this be my arrogance? No, my demand is reasonable. I would be pleased to read just one article that expresses my passion. Indeed, those magazines could not reflect the truth about the Taiwanese people. . . . So I began to realize that a literary movement was much needed in Taiwan. After discussing it with a few friends, we decided to publish a coterie magazine. We printed five hundred copies in total; three hundred were complimentary copies and the rest were for sale in bookstores. It was no surprise that one hundred and fifty copies were returned, with only fifty copies sold. We were dismayed, but I didn’t blame it on the masses. As unremarkable as the magazine was, of course no one would care to read it. My friends and I didn’t give up. Nowadays, Taiwan Literature prints two to three thousand copies per issue, and only 20 percent are returned. What a world of difference! It has little to do with our work. Rather, it is the result of increasing numbers of readers in Taiwan, who are paying more attention to literary development. As someone who had never taken lessons on writing, I just wanted to express what was on my mind, and I was surprised that my short story “Father’s Face” was awarded a special prize by the Central Forum in 1933. After that I began to ponder the issue of fiction writing. Before that, I wrote only because I wanted to introduce the life of the Taiwanese people. It certainly did not occur to me that I would continue writing to this day. If someone else would like to write about what I feel, I would gladly put down my pen and write no more. Establishing the South News, August 16, 1943; reprinted in Complete Works of Zhang Wenhuan, 8 vols., ed. Chen Wanyi (Taizhong: Cultural Center of Taizhong County, 2002), 6: 162–63, translated by Chien-hsin Tsai.

51. Our Propositions naga sa ki hi roshi , et al. NAGASAKI HIROSHI: THE CONVICTION OF VICTORY The war has formally entered the final stage. Even at this precise moment, as I speak, fierce and bloody battles on the bases in the South Pacific are raging on in the form of hand-to-hand combat. The great result of the battle in the Solomon Sea made our blood boil; yet the enemy’s stubborn but doomed resistance is surely going on. Even though

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we may suffer twists and turns in a certain region or at a certain time, we must persist with our unyielding conviction of ultimate victory, and advance with a clear and bright spirit on the road to eradicating our stubborn enemies. What is the conviction of ultimate victory? It is nothing other than the unwavering Way transmitted to our imperial country, the great way of the founding of our country, which we humbly accept will last as long as heaven and Earth. Our English and American enemies, since they do not possess this great Way, are confused by the constantly changing conditions and only anxious about what strategies to use. The attitude with which we are facing today is the wildly abundant blossoming of historical national aspiration of three thousand years. The spirit of the founding of our nation has manifested itself in the people living today. . . . We, disciples of Japanese literature, have inherited the national tradition of three thousand years and have been carrying on literary endeavors to this day. What we mean by tradition is not cultural legacy but, rather, a living thing in the real world. As the vanguard of tradition, we are composing poetry for this great era. Only poetry can reflect the reality of the prosperity of heaven and Earth. The real world thriving between heaven and Earth—if this is not poetry, what is it? Some say that when a nation is great, great poetry will be born. We shall wield the torch of the poetic spirit as we carry out the founding spirit of our nation, use our poems as weapons to elevate the conviction of absolute victory. I believe that this is the mission and honor of poets, who are the select few of a thriving nation. The deceased writer Shimazaki Tōson once proclaimed: “The age of New Poetry has finally arrived!” I would like to make the same proclamation in a different light: at this very moment, we shall write poems of absolute victory as combat weapons. Only in this way are we able to resonate with the great spirit of Emperor Jinmu’s poem, which encouraged the children of Kume to “hit hard without ever letting up.”

NIGAKI KŌICHI: THE LEGACY OF J A P A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E The time for the people of the island to send off imperial soldiers has finally arrived. The result of the training of imperial subjects is unfolding before our eyes. However, we must quicken our pace of training imperial subjects. At this moment, we need all islanders to work together in order to train them to be great imperial soldiers. In light of this, how should the collective force of

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Taiwan be designated in the strategic deployment for the final battles? In my opinion, Taiwanese literature and literary writers play a crucial role. Certainly, the establishment of imperial literature is an important step in achieving the goals of training imperial subjects. But my own personal view is that we shall not stop short of training the imperial subject to have the fighting spirit merely based on an understanding of the current situation. We must expect to start at a more fundamental level. In other words, I would make it my goal to nurture families of soldiers in an environment based on a correct understanding of Japanese traditions. Families in which honorable soldiers are born on this island must possess the same essence as soldiers’ families in Japan. It does not matter whether one comes from the lowly working class or from a region of extreme poverty, so long as he is a true Japanese, he will inherit the ancient Way of the samurai consciously or unconsciously. During the Edo period, even the illiterate learned the Way of the samurai from theatrical literature, such as kabuki and jōruri puppet plays, and based on that, they created towns and the spirit of the townsman, emphasizing social obligations and human feelings. Both the Way of the samurai and the spirit of the townsman are part of the imperial Way passed down through the blood of the people. Therefore, I believe that, besides blood lineage, we should recognize another legacy: the legacy of classical Japanese literature. Even a proverb or a short comical senryū poem contains Japanese sensibilities and constitutes our everyday life. In a broad sense, just as Japanese literature permeates our parents’ lives in unconventional ways, so today we should make it available to the lowest class of the islanders. We want them to be able to respond to and appreciate the tradition embedded in Japanese expressions. This is the greatest work, though it will not require a lofty literary spirit to propagate Japanese literature as a whole among all people, including the lowest class. . . .

K A N G AW A K I Y O S H I : T H E E S TA B L I S H M E N T O F C O L O N I A L S U B J E C T L I T E R AT U R E The current literary scene lacks critics who abide by the correct critical spirit and resembles a bunch of powerless children abandoned in the wilderness. When I survey the literary scene of the island, I see no such critic, and even if literary critics exist, they tend to stop short at criticisms of technique. Further, I must point out another related fact: currently on the Taiwanese literary scene, there is a particular group that continues to engage in improper literary activities. Regardless, I want to boldly say to these people: even the criterion for literary criticism is still the spirit of Japan. I want to proclaim that the genesis of literature resides in the self-awareness of the imperial institution and its thorough implementation, and it is imperative to have the attitude of combining one’s work with the national institution. I also want to point out the

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fallacies in those literary theories that were born in the philosophical crisis in the late Heian period and those imported literary theories after the Meiji period. When it comes to describing “things,” I would place the content and the spirit of description above technique as the subject of our consideration. Maybe my view is biased, but my purpose is to overcome literary theories that only focus on techniques. For example, even if a work was technically accomplished (as literary treatises have so far advocated), if its content or thinking was erroneous, I would say that the value of the work was nil or even negative. Facing the final battles, warriors in the ideological camp must eradicate non–imperial subject literature and denounce non–final battle literature. If I may have one more minute to make another point, the characteristic and fundamental meaning of the literature of Greater East Asia lies in its lofty ideology. Literature that is merely an organization of words or merely describes things does not qualify as living literature. The healthiest work is that which thoroughly understands the imperial institution and is filled with the joy of construction. Lastly, I want to firmly conclude that the source of the fighting spirit for the heroic final battles is the founding spirit of our nation.

K Ō N O Y O S H I H I K O : P U R I F I C AT I O N O F T H E SENTIMENTS OF IMPERIAL SUBJECTS I think that, besides the literature that lifts the fighting spirit, there must be a literature that purifies and nourishes the senses of imperial subjects. It is understandable that as the war intensifies, the feelings of the citizens are getting more agitated, and one worries that, as the tension persists, they are likely to lose flexibility. It is in this current situation that we need a literature that can nourish the heart and purify feelings so as to cultivate the root of the will to fight. The ancient warrior preparing for battle who found momentary ease of heart in the sight of falling cherry blossoms, the young samurai who did not know whether he would be alive tomorrow and decorated his quiver with a bouquet, the soldier who took a short break from the dusty battlefield to recite an ancient song from the Ten Thousand Leaves—these are indeed the spirit of Japanese men. Fighting ferociously on the one hand, while embracing elegance on the other—this is the heart of the imperial country as well as an imperial custom. This is why I think that there must be a literature that nourishes the heart and purifies feelings alongside a literature of fierce fighting. At another level, this kind of literature is indispensable for Taiwan. Of the works published on the island, at times I feel that they do not emote in a way that is consistent with the Japanese spirit. Especially since the rise of naturalism, even the bloodstained heart, the beastly heart in painful struggle, and the groaning heart mired in the Western swamp have been mistaken for a truthful description of humankind. Whenever I think of this, I sigh and believe firmly that the heart and the body of our nation are

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inseparable and that literature in particular depends on the body of the nation. In western Europe, literature as an independent, objective entity has nothing to do with the existence of the nation. But in our country, literature shares its fate with the fate of the nation. There can absolutely be no literature even if “the country is broken, mountains and rivers remain.” Since the Meiji period, many have been influenced by foreign literatures and deem literature as a bystander disconnected from the ebb and flow of the fate of the nation. This is the result of ideological control by the enemy and must be crushed resolutely. Today, Taiwan should no longer be seen as a colony but as part of Japan. Therefore, I expect the literary works of this island to purify the sentiments of imperial subjects and function as a source of nourishment in order to make a greater contribution to elevating the will to fight tomorrow.

N I S H I K AW A M I T S U R U : M I L I TA R Y D E P L O Y M E N T OF LITERARY JOURNALS (A SUMMARY) Now that the humanities curriculum has been abolished at universities, I feel urgently that the war has reached a critical moment and that all citizens must take their combat positions. Under the circumstances of impending final battle, starting from this day on, literary works that are amateurish or playfully self-indulgent shall no longer be tolerated. It is a matter of course that literature must fulfill its grand function as bullets and bombs in ideological warfare. Fortunately, six months after the birth of the Taiwanese Literary Patriotic Association, it is most propitious to gather many writers here today to forge their collective strength. That said, the most important task is how to convert this collective strength into practice. Hereupon, I suggest that the Taiwanese Patriotic Literary Association edit and publish a powerful journal to reflect the lofty ideals expressed by and the collective strength of all the writers gathered here as a way of showcasing the accomplishment of today’s gathering. Nothing would please me more than to see a literary magazine of general interest, combining sections of fiction, poetry, criticism, and drama, published by the Taiwanese Patriotic Literary Association, together with a section devoted to tanka and one devoted to haiku, all of which implement the same guiding principle. As writers, we treat writing as our work, so the only way to achieve great unity of writers is through the founding of this type of organization. Nevertheless, it is extremely difficult for the Patriotic Literary Association to publish a new magazine due to restrictions on publication. To solve the problem, it is up to us to donate a magazine already in publication to the association, using what it has achieved within the allotted space as the foundation for launching a new magazine of the organization. There is simply no

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other way. Therefore, as a modest gesture, all of the members at the Literary Taiwan Association have decided to donate Literary Taiwan to the Patriotic Literary Association. If you would allow me to indulge in some personal reflection, seven volumes and thirty-seven issues of Literary Taiwan have been published so far, and honestly, although I personally treasure it very much, I will seize this opportunity to abandon the “small self,” sacrificing the private for the public good. Of course, it is difficult to make such a major decision at this conference, but I fervently hope the Patriotic Literary Association will appreciate our minor sadness, accept our donation, and complete the military deployment of literary magazines in order to help win the war.

TA K AYA M A B O N S E K I ( C H E N H U O Q U A N ): O N I M P E R I A L S U B J E C T L I T E R AT U R E For the sake of His Majesty, for the sake of the motherland, Japanese people keep fighting with a burning conviction of victory and a brave heart. Indeed, they have shown the most beautiful bearings. Is it not then an important job for writers to depict this beauty and to elevate it to an even higher level? . . . The six million people who live on the island are undergoing training to become imperial subjects. To portray the psychology and action during the process and to hasten the pace of the training are also the mission of the writers. . . . What is important is that, so long as literary writers are honest like Japanese people, they can accomplish anything; so long as they are sincere, they can accomplish anything through self-sacrifice and dedication. Moreover, if we cannot sacrifice ourselves, we should know that we are neither good writers nor do we deserve to be called Japanese.

M U R ATA Y O S H I M I T S U : L I T E R AT U R E FOR YOUNG CITIZENS As everyone knows, the imperial draft order has been announced in Taiwan; finally, the people of the island have the honor of becoming shields to protect His Majesty. It goes without saying that the people of the island are grateful. One way such gratitude manifests itself is that, especially among those eligible for the draft, there has been an intensified enthusiasm for learning the Japanese language. I would like to propose that Japanese readers and other books of this nature be compiled for young folks. So long as these books draw upon imperial history for content, they will advocate the imperial spirit, while at the same time both providing the pleasure of reading novels and teaching the Japanese language.

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Further, we have recently been witnessing a growing craze for reading among the native youth. Yet there are very few good books we can offer them. I would like to propose an appropriate solution in consideration of the unique conditions of the island. Particularly for the sake of the native youth, I hope that a literature for young citizens will develop and flourish. To achieve this goal, it is an imperative to set up an organization such as a section of literature for young citizens within the Patriotic Literary Association. Let robust young lives receive abundant light and nourishment from literature. Taiwan Literary Arts, last issue (January 1, 1944); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule (Journals), 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 4: 423–33, translated by Faye Yuan Kleeman.

52. The Path of Bridge—Report on the Second Writers’ Gathering ge lei YA N G K U I : H O W T O E S TA B L I S H TA I W A N ’ S N E W L I T E R AT U R E The beginning of Taiwanese literature goes back twenty some years during the period of Japanese imperialist rule, when World War I had just ended and the high tide of national self-determination was spreading throughout the world. The considerable influence and stimulation generated from the tide naturally shaped the Taiwan New Literature movement. The influence of the May Fourth movement cannot be discounted either. Thus, while we sought plain, populist forms of expression, ideologically we prized anti-imperialism, antifeudalism, democracy, and science. The first voices speaking on behalf of this movement arose from Taiwan Youth, founded by overseas students studying in Tokyo. Taiwan Youth turned into Taiwan People’s Journal, and later into Taiwan New People’s Daily, the only daily newspaper in Taiwan that was published by Taiwanese. Two pioneers in Taiwan’s New Literature movement were Lin Youchun, the first publisher of the Taiwan People’s Journal, and Lai He, who was appointed the chief editor of the newspaper’s literary supplement. Many literary magazines appeared in quick succession: The Masses, Southern Voice, Morning Chime Bell, Vanguard, Frontline, Taiwan Literary Arts, Taiwan New Literature, and so on,

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Further, we have recently been witnessing a growing craze for reading among the native youth. Yet there are very few good books we can offer them. I would like to propose an appropriate solution in consideration of the unique conditions of the island. Particularly for the sake of the native youth, I hope that a literature for young citizens will develop and flourish. To achieve this goal, it is an imperative to set up an organization such as a section of literature for young citizens within the Patriotic Literary Association. Let robust young lives receive abundant light and nourishment from literature. Taiwan Literary Arts, last issue (January 1, 1944); reprinted in Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule (Journals), 4 vols., ed. Huang Yingzhe (Tainan: National Museum of Taiwan Literature Organization Committee, 2006), 4: 423–33, translated by Faye Yuan Kleeman.

52. The Path of Bridge—Report on the Second Writers’ Gathering ge lei YA N G K U I : H O W T O E S TA B L I S H TA I W A N ’ S N E W L I T E R AT U R E The beginning of Taiwanese literature goes back twenty some years during the period of Japanese imperialist rule, when World War I had just ended and the high tide of national self-determination was spreading throughout the world. The considerable influence and stimulation generated from the tide naturally shaped the Taiwan New Literature movement. The influence of the May Fourth movement cannot be discounted either. Thus, while we sought plain, populist forms of expression, ideologically we prized anti-imperialism, antifeudalism, democracy, and science. The first voices speaking on behalf of this movement arose from Taiwan Youth, founded by overseas students studying in Tokyo. Taiwan Youth turned into Taiwan People’s Journal, and later into Taiwan New People’s Daily, the only daily newspaper in Taiwan that was published by Taiwanese. Two pioneers in Taiwan’s New Literature movement were Lin Youchun, the first publisher of the Taiwan People’s Journal, and Lai He, who was appointed the chief editor of the newspaper’s literary supplement. Many literary magazines appeared in quick succession: The Masses, Southern Voice, Morning Chime Bell, Vanguard, Frontline, Taiwan Literary Arts, Taiwan New Literature, and so on,

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which constituted the formative period and were all published before July 7, 1937. This period was characterized by journals written either in Chinese or a mix of Chinese and Japanese. But after the December 1936 special issue of Chinese short stories in Taiwan New Literature, Chinese was proscribed and the journal was shut down. Chinese was no longer permitted in Taiwan literary circles. The second period was during the Sino-Japanese War, with the reappearance of Taiwan Arts and Taiwan Literature, as well as publications by Japanese or the Japanese government, such as the Taiwan New Journal, Taiwan Public Forum, Literary Taiwan, Taiwan Literary Arts, and others, which actively recruited Taiwanese writers and frequently discovered works by Taiwan authors. Of course, Chinese writings were completely excluded. So this period is characterized by the fact that all the writings were in Japanese, but ideologically Taiwanese writers had not completely forgotten the main themes of anti-imperialism, antifeudalism, science, and democracy. Although there were a few exceptions, the mainstream of Taiwan’s New Literature did not depart from the national Chinese point of view. The Japanese government exerted considerable control over Taiwan’s New Literature movement, yet progressive elements from Japan also greatly assisted the movement. Looking back at the New Literature movement in Taiwan, we see that its characteristic was language. Ideologically, its anti-imperialism and antifeudalism, along with its dedication to democracy and science, were no different from the stance of those in China. It has been almost three years since Taiwan was returned to China. Taiwan literary circles should have revived by now, yet they are still pitifully dormant. One reason is language; that is, for more than ten years Chinese was banned, and it has become unfamiliar to us. Today it is difficult for us to use Chinese to effectively communicate our ideas. The second reason is that political conditions and political fluctuations make writers feel uncomfortably threatened and intimidated. What they can write about has become limited. This time, the chief editor of Bridges, Mr. Ge Lei, has given us the opportunity to come together to discuss these issues, so the literary workers can cooperate in this endeavor. In addition, he has taken the initiative for Taiwan writers to translate and abridge their works. All of this may lead to a revival of Taiwan literary circles. I hope that all of Taiwan will enthusiastically work together and record the people’s feelings and struggles.

W U Z H U O L I U : T H E N E W L I T E R AT U R E M O V E M E N T I N TA I W A N I N T H E P A S T I S W O R T H Y O F S T U D Y Previously, when Taiwan was under Japanese rule, military force was the preferred method of control, and cultural workers had no weapons with which to

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fight back. Thus, during that period, they appeared quiet and mute, but we did not stop writing. On the contrary, we used every means available to oppose Japanese policies and at the same time to promote the national characteristics of our people. Since Taiwan was returned to China, Taiwanese writers have not been active due to a difference in literary style. I personally believe that there is much to be learned from Taiwan’s New Literature movement in the past. For example, after Retrocession, Mr. Wang Baiyuan of the New Life Daily edited the literary supplement and, during 1947, published a considerable amount of archival material from the past. Recently Mr. Wang has been planning to organize these materials—on wide-ranging topics such as music and literature—and compile them. I think it is good work and hope that we can offer our help.

L I N G S H U G U A N G : T H E N E W L I T E R AT U R E M O V E M E N T I N TA I W A N W A S D I R E C T LY O R I N D I R E C T LY I N F L U E N C E D B Y C H I N A’ S M AY F O U R T H M O V E M E N T The emergence and development of the literature movement in Taiwan has its own background. First, it was influenced by the May Fourth movement in China, and secondly, in the aftermath of the Xilai Convent Incident, the Taiwanese people realized that relying solely on force of arms to fight the Japanese was ineffective and decidedly employed cultural means instead. In the past, what had been called literature in Taiwan referred to classical writings, which were nothing but displays of stale allusions without any expression of thought or aspiration. This went on until Mr. Zhang Taiyan arrived in Taiwan to publish the Chinese language edition of the Taiwan Daily. Consciously or unconsciously, Taiwanese people were greatly influenced by him. This laid the foundation for Chinese literature in Taiwan. Next came Mr. Lai Ho, who enthusiastically took charge of the literary supplement to the New People’s Journal. Thereupon, Taiwanese literature began rapid development, as seen in his works “The Story of the Great Litigator” and “The Honorable Mr. Cha at New Year’s.” They are very moving, even when we read them today. In addition, Xu Kunquan and Wu Mansha were both powerful writers in Chinese. Xu, under the pen name of “Ah Q’s Younger Brother,” published three masterpieces: Hidden Reef, A Lovable Adversary, and “The Path of Body and Soul.” For a time, his popularity spread all over Taiwan, but because he wrote in Chinese, only a few young people could understand his work. By this time, the direction of the literary movement had changed, due to the fact that most young people had to learn Japanese for survival, so from then on there were fewer and fewer who could read and understand Chinese.

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Wang Baiyuan previously published “Thorny Road” in the Japanese publication Morioka, an anthology of Japanese language works including poetry, essays, short stories and plays. Due to a small press run and limited availability in Taiwan, its influence was insignificant. But this publication showed, first, that Taiwanese already had confidence in publishing in Japanese, and, secondly, that his works depicted contemporary reality in China and served as a wake-up call to the young. Because of this, Japanese authorities scrutinized the works of Taiwanese authors and these Japanese bandits labeled them as left-wing whether they were written in Chinese or Japanese. In fact, these were only expressions of resistance against Japanese rule at that time, carrying with them somewhat nationalistic sentiment. Thus, some of these writings were banned in Taiwan but were published in Japan in what some considered left-leaning periodicals. Once the Pacific War broke out, the clampdown on literary circles began, and writers were mobilized to go to factories, villages, and even volunteer soldiers’ boot camps to propagandize the war on behalf of the Japanese bandits and encourage youth to sign up to be cannon fodder. The two-volume The Decisive Battle: A Collection of Taiwanese Fiction was a product of that time, but it is not to be regretted. At that time, all Taiwanese writers insisted on retaining their original names and not taking Japanese names, an indication that they did not forget that they were Chinese. This action hindered Japanese policy to turn Taiwanese into imperial subjects. In addition, some writings were hampered by the cultural environment, not by Japanese authorities. Wu Zhuoliu’s masterpiece, the five-volume Hu Zhiming [The Orphan of Asia], was completed before Retrocession and also showed that the Taiwanese had not lost their national consciousness. Yang Kui’s [ Japanese] translation of The Three Kingdoms and Huang Deshi’s translation of The Water Margin introduced Chinese classics and can also be considered an expression of national consciousness. My last point is this: The New Literature movement in Taiwan was directly or indirectly influenced by China’s May Fourth movement, and it therefore was not an event separate from the May Fourth literary movement. Hu Feng translated both Yang Kui’s “The Newspaper Boy” and Lü Heruo’s “The Ox Cart” into Chinese and introduced them to China. This created much sympathy and understanding on the part of the Chinese toward Taiwan’s New Literature.

W U K U N H U A N G : H O P E F U L LY W E C A N B R E A K T H E SILENCE ON THE CURRENT LITERARY SCENE Previous speakers have spoken in detail about the circumstances in the past and since Retrocession. Regarding problems that impact us, Mr. Yang Kui just now

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touched on the current situation. This is something that both writers and the average young man and woman perceive. Previously, when we were in Tokyo, we organized the Taiwan Literary Research Society and published three issues of our journal. With this foundation, we were able to carry out a great deal of work, but we were under a great deal of pressure from the Japanese authorities. Luckily, some progressive Japanese writers offered us much sympathy and assistance, so we collaborated with them. Later on, I was detained and jailed as a suspect; some of my colleagues fled to China. This could be considered the most important page in the history of Taiwanese literature. What is worth mentioning about our work in Tokyo is our collaboration with Mr. Goki and others. At that time, such people as Mr. Lin Huanping and the poet Pu Feng came from China and participated in our group; they were sympathetic to our cause and for this they were also persecuted. So there was a sense of camaraderie based on shared experience. After Retrocession, we published Taiwan Forum. Before the February 28th Incident [in 1947], we were planning on publishing a literary journal, but due to those circumstances, that plan was scrapped. Under “present” circumstances, none of us dares say a word. We cannot help but be silent. I hope that we can break this silence.

W U Y I N G TA O : D I F F I C U LT I E S F O R L I T E R A R Y W O R K E R S T O D AY: (1) D I F F I C U LT Y O F WRITING IN CHINESE AND (2) SCARCE P U B L I C AT I O N O P P O R T U N I T I E S The previous speakers have spoken in detail about literary movements in the past and since Retrocession. However, I would like to add a comment of my own. The literary movement in Taiwan began as a vernacular movement. The Taiwanese vernacular did not have a long history, due to the Japanese government’s policy to adopt Japanese as the official language, so later on, young people had little knowledge of Chinese and turned to Japanese. Under the Japanese educational system, there was universal primary education, and most people had some foundation in Japanese grammar but lacked familiarity with Chinese. After Retrocession, we returned to the arms of the motherland, and some people in the cultural circles stepped up to engage in literary work, including such periodicals as New Life and Great China, as well as cultural exchanges in central and southern Taiwan. I believe that these activities had great impact. But after the February 28th Incident, this type of work was halted. There are many reasons for the silence in literature, but mostly it is due to a lack of facility in Chinese and the scarcity of publishing outlets. At the same time, economic pressures mean there is no funding for journals. Previously, we endured Japanese oppression and every writer encountered much difficulty—unimaginable difficulty. Now that we have returned to Chinese control, we should alleviate those past difficulties.

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G E L E I : T H E U N I Q U E N E S S O F TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E A N D T H R E E N E C E S S A R Y TA S K S 1. Reflect authentic feelings about reality. 2. Break through sentimental gloom. 3. Strive for the power to move through profound literature.

The issue of Taiwanese literature’s uniqueness arises not because we emphasize its regionalism or try to maintain its regional characteristics. It just means that we want Taiwanese literature to develop by recognizing its unique elements. This is similar to what in China is called “border literature.” It relies on differences in regional expression to reflect authentic reality and popular forms. Generally speaking, the unique characteristics of Taiwanese literature today come under these categories: first, in addition to Japanese, the Chinese that Taiwanese writers employ is actually the Chinese used in the May Fourth era; they even still employ the syntax of the pre–May Fourth era. This phenomenon is due to the fact that, under Japanese rule, there were limited opportunities for publication. Writers were repressed by the environment; no one was able to pay attention to developing stylistic rules and form. Thus, they mostly retained the kind of vernacular similar to the May Fourth era in China and employed a straightforward narrative style of expression. This has resulted in a disparity with Chinese writers today in terms of language style and technique. Second, because Japan ruled Taiwan for fifty-one years, during these fifty-one years, colloquialisms and slang that evolved from both Japanese expressions and native Taiwanese expressions seeped into the literature. This has not only resulted in a lot of mixing in vocabulary and phrases but has also created great grammatical disparity with literature today. Third, those who previously engaged in literary production were for the most part resisting Japanese rule. Besides, facing Japanese oppression and exploitation of Taiwan, the writers’ intense reaction to reality was both pointed and profound. But because of the narrowness of their reality and the influence of Japanese writers on their writings and their thinking, their work was permeated by an individualistic sentimentalism and a depressing ambiance. The character of their works invariably lacked energy and richness in creativity. Fourth, in the past struggles against Japanese rule, writers’ creativity and anticolonialism were melded into one; therefore, in their creative mentality informed by nationalistic consciousness, popular forms and the people’s suffering and demands all fused together. This is why the most powerful commonality in successful writing of Taiwanese authors was its folk art forms and reflection of reality. This uniqueness preserved in Taiwan’s New Literature in the current condition must undergo a process of “repudiation” in its future development. In some respects, it must actively pursue new paths and improvement, while in others,

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it must preserve and enhance its traditional spirit. In the study of language by literary workers from mainland China and those from Taiwan, Taiwanese writers not only need to learn and improve their vernacular Chinese in order to overcome the deficiencies in language form and technique from these past fifty years, but also to blend language usage from contemporary Chinese literature with Taiwan’s unique vocabulary. In this blending process, both Taiwanese and mainland Chinese writers can learn from one another in their creative writings; it is not a one-sided phenomenon. As for artistic spirit and creative mentality, we must not only preserve folk styles and realistic content, but we must also break through individualistic sentimentalism and dispirited ambiance; in enlarging the scope of literary writing, we seek responses in both breadth and depth. We must seek a greater degree of emotional depth, because literary response is outside of literature, yet literary feeling resides within literature; it is more complete, more powerful, and more capable of inspiring emotional depth. The above points are what all Taiwanese writers should learn from one another. Bridge, literary supplement to the New Life Daily, March 28, 1948; reprinted in Issues in Taiwan Literature 1947–1949, ed. Chen Yingzhen and Zeng Jianmin (Taipei: Renjian, 1999), 49–65, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

53. Questions and Answers Concerning Taiwanese Literature yang kui I S “ TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E ” A F L AW E D E X P R E S S I O N ? q: Is it logical to speak of “Taiwanese literature”? a: Yes, the term is not only logical but necessary. q: Educated people here have recently started active discussions on “constructing a new Taiwanese literature.” According to Qian Gechuan, this topic is flawed. What are your thoughts on this? a: There is nothing wrong with it. q: That being so, Qian Gechuan says that literature is identified by region, such as southern European literature and northern European literature, because ethnic groups differ in their essence, spoken and written language, and ideas about lifestyle, which exert an influence on the way they write (subject matter and mode of expression). Can you agree with this observation?

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it must preserve and enhance its traditional spirit. In the study of language by literary workers from mainland China and those from Taiwan, Taiwanese writers not only need to learn and improve their vernacular Chinese in order to overcome the deficiencies in language form and technique from these past fifty years, but also to blend language usage from contemporary Chinese literature with Taiwan’s unique vocabulary. In this blending process, both Taiwanese and mainland Chinese writers can learn from one another in their creative writings; it is not a one-sided phenomenon. As for artistic spirit and creative mentality, we must not only preserve folk styles and realistic content, but we must also break through individualistic sentimentalism and dispirited ambiance; in enlarging the scope of literary writing, we seek responses in both breadth and depth. We must seek a greater degree of emotional depth, because literary response is outside of literature, yet literary feeling resides within literature; it is more complete, more powerful, and more capable of inspiring emotional depth. The above points are what all Taiwanese writers should learn from one another. Bridge, literary supplement to the New Life Daily, March 28, 1948; reprinted in Issues in Taiwan Literature 1947–1949, ed. Chen Yingzhen and Zeng Jianmin (Taipei: Renjian, 1999), 49–65, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

53. Questions and Answers Concerning Taiwanese Literature yang kui I S “ TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E ” A F L AW E D E X P R E S S I O N ? q: Is it logical to speak of “Taiwanese literature”? a: Yes, the term is not only logical but necessary. q: Educated people here have recently started active discussions on “constructing a new Taiwanese literature.” According to Qian Gechuan, this topic is flawed. What are your thoughts on this? a: There is nothing wrong with it. q: That being so, Qian Gechuan says that literature is identified by region, such as southern European literature and northern European literature, because ethnic groups differ in their essence, spoken and written language, and ideas about lifestyle, which exert an influence on the way they write (subject matter and mode of expression). Can you agree with this observation?

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a: Yes, I can. q: In that case, Qian also says that when language is unified and ideology and sentiment are homogeneous within a country, yet one speaks of constructing Taiwanese literature or literature of a certain province, that goal is rather difficult to establish. What are your views on this? a: As Qian says, it would be difficult to establish a separatist goal for provincial literature such as Jiangsu literature and Anhui literature. In Taiwan, we have not sought to establish a separatist goal, yet we can have a different goal and a higher need of the concept of “Taiwanese literature.” When “language is unified and ideology and sentiment are homogeneous within a country,” for example, in Jiangsu or Zhejiang, there is no need. Yet in Taiwan, there is a need, due to its unique circumstances. Just as Qian says, “During the half-century when Taiwan was ruled by Japan, literary movements had long come to a halt. It is only right for us to work hard in cultivating this wasteland so we can once again actively and broadly help the movement unfold. Moreover, when promoting this movement, it is natural to encourage creative writing that vividly portrays regional color and employs the local dialect appropriately.” But in fact, Taiwan’s uniqueness is not limited to this. Since the time of Zheng Chenggong’s conquest and the rule by the Qing dynasty, Taiwan and mainland China have been separated for a long time. Under Japanese control, how much did Taiwan’s living environment change in regard to its natural resources, politics, economy, and educational system? And how much did this environment cause the people’s ideology and sentiments to change? If ideology and sentiment are not just words on a page or not just found in official documents, but are to be sought among the people, then we must revise the notion of unity and homogeneity. This is not only what we locals believe, but something that many friends from mainland China have also come to realize. The so-called gap between the Taiwanese and mainlanders, the socalled “enslavement education,” or the dispute about culture being high or low is all rooted in this issue. This is a most deplorable situation, but it is an undeniable reality. “Taiwan is a province of China. Taiwan cannot be separated from China!” This idea is correct, something that even moderately educated people recognize and strive to bridge the gap. But the Pescadores Gulf (the Taiwan Strait) is very deep. The best opportunity to bridge this gap was the enthusiasm of the Taiwanese people right after Taiwan was restored to China, but this excellent opportunity was lost and the gap has widened even more due to corrupt officials and devious merchants. Whoever wishes to contribute to Taiwan’s literary movement and more broadly to the cultural movement must have a profound understanding of Taiwan’s history, the people’s lives, customs, and sentiments, and must stand with the people of Taiwan. This is the reason why the term “Taiwanese literature” is necessary. The November issue of Literary

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Annals last year was a special issue on literature of border regions. One of the pieces, “Intoxicated,” had Taiwan as backdrop and is a good specimen of Taiwanese literature. q: Then do you think that Taiwan’s New Literature stands in opposition to Chinese literature or Japanese literature? a: Taiwan is a province of China. There is no opposition. Taiwanese literature is one ring in the Chinese literary circle and of course is not in opposition to it. What does exist is only a gap that has yet to be filled in completely. If the “trusteeship advocates,” “Japanese rule advocates,” or “American rule advocates” in Taiwan were to run up their own separatist standards on the flagpole and produce their own literature, that would be in opposition to Chinese literature. However, I believe that that kind of slave mentality literature has no chance of gaining a foothold on Taiwan. We need to recognize that literary issues are not just about writers but also about readers. Literature that readers cannot understand, sympathize with, or even embrace cannot exist. And literature that the people understand, sympathize with, and embrace can never be destroyed, even if it is suppressed and demeaned by dictators. On the other hand, even with the support and encouragement of the ruler and the advantage of rich resources, slave mentality literature could not survive. There would always come a day when the people would reject and discard it. And just like this situation, Taiwanese literature does stand in opposition to Japanese imperialist literature, but not to Japanese people’s literature. Although it is not in opposition to it, Taiwanese literature is not the same thing. But in the realm of world literature, they can all coexist. Taiwanese literature is one ring within the circle of Chinese literature, just as Chinese literature, Japanese literature, and many other literatures are part of world literature. There is not any opposition on the path to progress to speak of, despite their different characteristics and styles. Bridge, literary supplement to the New Life Daily, June 25, 1948; reprinted in Issues in Taiwan Literature 1947–1949, ed. Chen Yingzhen and Zeng Jianmin (Taipei: Renjian, 1999), 141–43, translated by Jane Parish Yang.

part ii Wading Through the Cold War Under Martial Law (1949–1987)

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his section covers the time period that began in 1949—the year when the Nationalist government of the Republic of China (ROC) retreated to Taiwan after losing the civil war in mainland China—and ended with the lifting of the thirty-eight-year long martial law on July 15, 1987. A close ally of the United States after the Korean War broke out, Taiwan during the martial law period developed a cultural life that was deeply entrenched in Cold War geopolitical alignments and the ideological assumptions that sustained them. Avant-garde literature flourished in Taiwan under the influence of Western modernism in the 1950s and 1960s, despite resistance from the conservative cultural establishment. In the 1970s, a new round of criticism and debates erupted as the ROC suffered an identity crisis as a result of severe diplomatic setbacks in the international arena. From the debate over modern poetry to the nativist literature movement, the decade witnessed a definite turn from modernist experiments toward socially engaged nativism and realism. The trend continued into the 1980s, as “Taiwan consciousness” moved into the center of the cultural discourse.

1. Inaugural Preface to Literary Creation z ha ng daofan

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s a result of the rising tide of anti-Communist and anti-Soviet fervor, the last two years of literary activity in Free China has experienced an unprecedented flourishing. Countless patriotic writers have fully developed their intelligence and skills by penning works with flesh and blood that sing and cry. The contribution to our fellow soldiers and citizens engaged in combat makes us take pleasure in the fact that the Chinese renaissance is following fast on the national restoration in opening up an infinitely glorious horizon. That said, because of difficulties in publishing, not to mention the limited space of newspapers and journals, superior works of literature, though large in number, are finding publication opportunities to be few and far between. Since its founding last April, the goals of this association are to exhaust its efforts to reward literary creation. In one year, due to its earnest encouragement, the number of anti-Communist and anti-Soviet authors has exceeded three thousand, and the number of authors who have received prizes or royalties from the association exceeds four hundred. Moreover, it recommends award-winning and selected works to appropriate publishers, literary supplements, and journals for publication. The two novels, Purple Love and Scar Medal, have been entrusted to Zhengzhong Bookstore for publication; the novel Like a Dream has been put in the hands of Chongguang Literary Publishers. Short stories, poems, and literary criticism amounting to nearly 300,000 characters have been recommended to the literary supplements of the China Daily and New Life Daily, as well as Torch

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and other journals, for publication. Short stories, poems, plays, drum ballads, and folk ditties amounting to 270,000 characters have been sent to various overseas Chinese newspapers in Southeast Asia, India, Canada, and the United States for publication. Moreover, the association has directly published an Anthology of Anti-Communist and Anti-Soviet Lyrics. Not counting the radio broadcasts, which amount to about 400,000 characters, the above-mentioned printed works total approximately 800,000 characters. Although no one could say that is a small number, in comparison with the four million characters worth of writings that we have received in one year, it is only about one-fifth of the submissions. The association is acutely aware of the fact that it cannot publish works in great quantity, and it not only fails to give recognition to so many heartfelt works and weakens the power of our ideological and morale ammunition, but this fact also hampers the creative mood of writers and impedes the development of the literary movement. Moreover, literary supplements to newspapers cannot accommodate works over 5,000 characters in length, and most publishers do not accept works of limited distribution, because it is difficult to get a return on their investment. Concerned over the fact that so many substantial and lengthy works have nowhere to go to get published, upon careful consideration, we have launched this journal this month, this year, under extremely harsh economic conditions, in order to start a spacious garden for writers of Free China and to provide abundant spiritual nourishment for our loyal military and civilian readers. At the inception of the journal, we make the following announcement to our literary peers and general readers. 1. This journal does not have a set date for publication but will publish at least one issue a month. Based on the actual demand each month, we may increase the number of issues. 2. Select works of extraordinary merit may be published individually after they have appeared in this journal. 3. In each issue, preference will be given to those manuscripts that have won awards from the association or have been chosen by the association. 4. The works that the association has selected will all be published. Works by established authors have great emotive power and exceptional artistic qualities. They certainly will be welcomed by our readers. Works by upand-coming authors are also heartfelt products of patriotic literary warriors. They are faithful testimonies to our era and are sure to receive the serious attention of readers. 5. We particularly welcome critical essays that address the theories of the current literary movement and excellent literary works.

Finally, we hope that our peers in the literary field and general readers will not hesitate to offer us guidance, encouragement, and support. Literary Creation 1 (May 4, 1951): 89–90, translated by Christopher Lupke.

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2. Declaration ji xi a n

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e are a group of poets from Free China. We have arrived! We stand under the twin banners of anti–Soviet Union and anti–Communist China. We are united as one, vigorously pointing our pens toward the ugly and the vile. We take aim and fire. We are beams of light. We sing. We stride forth with giant steps. We believe that all literature belongs to its time. Only literature that is truly of its time has enduring value. This is to say, we cherish social significance and artistic merit equally. Above all, we demand that poetic expressions of the uplifting spirit of our time be distinctly modern, not in the classical style, which is too remote from the society of today. Even more so, we do not want outdated, foreign poetry. For this reason, we refuse to use the vernacular or colloquial language to write poems that are in essence rehashed versions of the Tang and Song dynasties. Rather than using modern words and phrases to translate the sentiments, scenes, and ideas of the ancients, we may as well bury ourselves in elegantly bound volumes of classics, parrot their meters and rhymes, mimic their styles of heroic abandon and delicate restraint, write regulated verses and song lyrics. By the same token, we absolutely refuse to accept anything that peddles antiquities of the West in the Chinese marketplace, such as using Chinese to write sonnets. In our view, even Byron, Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and so on belong to the distant past. We don’t want them! We want works that are modern. In terms of technical skills, we are still at an immature stage and are lagging far behind the rest of the world. This is indisputable and deserves our attention. Only by looking to the international poetry scene and expeditiously catching up can we learn new techniques of expression and will we be able to modernize New Poetry. This is one of the two objectives for launching this journal. The other objective is to combat the Soviet Union and Communist China, as we mentioned earlier. When it comes to the rise and fall of our nation, poets must take on responsibilities. We will unleash great power and render mortal blows to the Communist bandits who occupy the mainland and the Soviet criminals who maraud the sacred land. We must fire nonstop and bomb ferociously. Our short poems are rifles on the front line; our long poems are heavy artillery. Here we come, here we come! Of course, slogans are not poetry. On the other hand, why can’t well-written political poems deserve the name of art? As long as it is poetry, good poetry, modern poetry, whether it’s political or not, it is the poetry we want.

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Poetry is art and weapon. Here we come, we build and battle. Here we come! Modern Poetry Quarterly 1 (February 1, 1953): 1, translated by Paul Manfredi.

3. Inaugural Preface to Military Literature: Establishing a Modernized, Populist, Revolutionary, and Combative National Literature edi tor s . . . What kind of literature do we need today? Simply put, we need nationalist literature. Since the most important sentiment that humankind has is feelings for the people, nationalist literature is the best tool through which to communicate feelings for the people. And since nationalist sentiments derive from nationalist thought and consciousness, nationalist literature is also the best tool with which to communicate nationalist thought. Today, in our effort to oppose the Communists and resist the Soviets, the most important thing is to inspire the hearts and minds of the people so that they will be unified, and to strengthen the people’s nationalist thought so that they will be united. Only then can we fully exercise the strength of our people to resist the encroachment of the Soviet imperialists and destroy the sellouts of our nation, Zhu De [1886–1976] and Mao Zedong [1893–1976]. Thus, nationalist literature is an important weapon in fighting the Communists and the Soviets. The establishment of a nationalist literature is an important issue for literary workers today. Now, what kind of nationalist literature should we establish? The first thing is that it must be modernized. Of course, we should carry on and promote the legacy of traditional literature, but we must be attentive to the needs of the here and now, and create new literary works that express the national culture, are deeply rooted in the hearts of the people, and respond to the needs of our times. Only then can we get literature to take on the responsibilities of the day and complete the task before us. The foremost principle in establishing a nationalist literature, therefore, is that it be modernized. The second principle is that it must be popular with the common people. Literature is an instrument used to express thoughts and feelings; it is critical that the common people can understand it when they read it or listen to it. It must be literature that appeals to the eyes and ears of the common people. Only then is it the best and most effective. Otherwise, it will be monopolized by the privileged class of intellectuals, who in the past engaged in complex wordplay

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Poetry is art and weapon. Here we come, we build and battle. Here we come! Modern Poetry Quarterly 1 (February 1, 1953): 1, translated by Paul Manfredi.

3. Inaugural Preface to Military Literature: Establishing a Modernized, Populist, Revolutionary, and Combative National Literature edi tor s . . . What kind of literature do we need today? Simply put, we need nationalist literature. Since the most important sentiment that humankind has is feelings for the people, nationalist literature is the best tool through which to communicate feelings for the people. And since nationalist sentiments derive from nationalist thought and consciousness, nationalist literature is also the best tool with which to communicate nationalist thought. Today, in our effort to oppose the Communists and resist the Soviets, the most important thing is to inspire the hearts and minds of the people so that they will be unified, and to strengthen the people’s nationalist thought so that they will be united. Only then can we fully exercise the strength of our people to resist the encroachment of the Soviet imperialists and destroy the sellouts of our nation, Zhu De [1886–1976] and Mao Zedong [1893–1976]. Thus, nationalist literature is an important weapon in fighting the Communists and the Soviets. The establishment of a nationalist literature is an important issue for literary workers today. Now, what kind of nationalist literature should we establish? The first thing is that it must be modernized. Of course, we should carry on and promote the legacy of traditional literature, but we must be attentive to the needs of the here and now, and create new literary works that express the national culture, are deeply rooted in the hearts of the people, and respond to the needs of our times. Only then can we get literature to take on the responsibilities of the day and complete the task before us. The foremost principle in establishing a nationalist literature, therefore, is that it be modernized. The second principle is that it must be popular with the common people. Literature is an instrument used to express thoughts and feelings; it is critical that the common people can understand it when they read it or listen to it. It must be literature that appeals to the eyes and ears of the common people. Only then is it the best and most effective. Otherwise, it will be monopolized by the privileged class of intellectuals, who in the past engaged in complex wordplay

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and preserved ossified literary forms. This kind of literature is neither accepted nor needed by the common people. Today, the military literature movement is advancing the goals of soldiers writing about soldiers, soldiers portraying soldiers, soldiers performing the roles of soldiers, and soldiers singing about soldiers. Literature is thus rooted in military life and flourishes. This is the result of the popularization of literature. This is why popularizing literature among the common people is the second most important principle. The third is that literature should be revolutionary. Literature is in reality inseparable from revolution. Revolutionary thought needs literature to propagate it; revolutionary sentiment needs literature to establish it. And literature is the most effective tool in the propagation of revolutionary thought and the establishment of revolutionary sentiment. At the same time, literature is the most effective weapon in the fight against the enemy. Revolution has two enemies: the first is putrefaction; the second is evil. If they are not instilling decadent thought and sentiment in the people’s minds through literature, then they are inculcating the thought and sentiment of class conflict into the people’s minds through literature. This results in the people either being harmed by obscene literature or poisoned by Communist literature. Our revolutionary, nationalist literature must declare war on putrefaction and evil, eradicate the harm of obscenity and the poison of Communism. It absolutely cannot allow for these two counterrevolutionary poisons to eat away at the minds of our people. Only then can we preserve the victory of the revolution. Thus, revolutionization is the third most important principle in the establishment of a nationalist literature. The fourth is that it must be combative. This is a combative, revolutionary age. Only in combat can we have survival. Only through combat can we preserve the independence of the nation. Only through combat can we glorify the lives of the people. And only if we are able to incite the combative spirit of literature are we able to carry on the mission of the day. We could say that literature and combat are strongest together, weakest when separate, and obliterated when opposed to each other. Literature and martial arts in ancient China were unified. The six educational arts that Confucius advocated—rite, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics—formed an education that unified the literary and martial arts. Our effort to combine literature and combat into one unified force today models after the ancient idea of the six educational arts. To combine the literary and martial arts will establish a combative, nationalist literature. Thus, combatification is the fourth principle of nationalist literature. To sum up, the kind of literature we want to establish is a modernized, popular, revolutionary, and combative nationalist literature. This is also the new literature that the armed forces and the society wish to establish. Only this kind of literature is one with happiness, love, beauty, and strength. This is precisely the kind of literature we need to restore and establish our nation as anti-Communist and anti-Soviet. At the inauguration of this journal, we particularly emphasize the establishment of a modern, popular, revolutionary,

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and combative nationalist literature as the general goal of our endeavor. Let us march forward toward this goal! Military Literature (January 1954): 1, translated by Christopher Lupke.

4. Poetry Is Poetry; Song Is Song; We Do Not Say “Poem-Song” ji xi a n

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s human society evolves, division of labor becomes finer and finer. It is true of science, so why isn’t it applicable to literature as well? In ancient times, witchcraft and medicine were one and the same, astrology and astronomy were indistinguishable. But as time went on, they became separated: witchcraft is witchcraft, medicine is medicine; astrology is astrology, astronomy is astronomy. Modern medicine is pure science, so is modern astronomy. They contain no superstitious elements. Therefore, doctors today are no longer wizards who exorcise evil spirits with charms and spells; astronomers are no longer fortune-tellers who read horoscopes. Moreover, medical science is divided into a variety of specialties, such as internal medicine, surgery, and so on. Astronomy, too, is divided into theoretical astronomy, applied astronomy, and so on. These disciplines have become more and more refined, more and more specialized. This is the reality of the twentieth century, which everybody knows and nobody can deny. Let’s take painting as another example. Before the camera was invented, painting played a dual role: to paint and to record images. But after the invention of the camera, painting no longer needs to take on the task of recording images but can pursue its independent existence. Also, as photography makes swift progress, such as the invention of Technicolor, it has rendered paintings that copy physical objects so outdated that no one is interested in them anymore. This is why since Cézanne, the father of modern art, postimpressionist art has made great strides in the right direction. No longer fettered by subject matter, it emphasizes the creation of mood and focuses on individual personality for the sake of expression. It has led to the robust and thriving modernity that we see today. If painting and photography were one and the same in ancient times, they are no longer so. The cubists take an object apart before they reassemble it. The surrealists distort nature in a dreamlike fashion on canvas. Why do they do these things? The reason is that the naked eyes can’t see as minutely and precisely as mechanical eyes. No matter how realist your painting is, it can’t be more real than a photograph, especially one in Technicolor. Therefore, modern

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and combative nationalist literature as the general goal of our endeavor. Let us march forward toward this goal! Military Literature (January 1954): 1, translated by Christopher Lupke.

4. Poetry Is Poetry; Song Is Song; We Do Not Say “Poem-Song” ji xi a n

A

s human society evolves, division of labor becomes finer and finer. It is true of science, so why isn’t it applicable to literature as well? In ancient times, witchcraft and medicine were one and the same, astrology and astronomy were indistinguishable. But as time went on, they became separated: witchcraft is witchcraft, medicine is medicine; astrology is astrology, astronomy is astronomy. Modern medicine is pure science, so is modern astronomy. They contain no superstitious elements. Therefore, doctors today are no longer wizards who exorcise evil spirits with charms and spells; astronomers are no longer fortune-tellers who read horoscopes. Moreover, medical science is divided into a variety of specialties, such as internal medicine, surgery, and so on. Astronomy, too, is divided into theoretical astronomy, applied astronomy, and so on. These disciplines have become more and more refined, more and more specialized. This is the reality of the twentieth century, which everybody knows and nobody can deny. Let’s take painting as another example. Before the camera was invented, painting played a dual role: to paint and to record images. But after the invention of the camera, painting no longer needs to take on the task of recording images but can pursue its independent existence. Also, as photography makes swift progress, such as the invention of Technicolor, it has rendered paintings that copy physical objects so outdated that no one is interested in them anymore. This is why since Cézanne, the father of modern art, postimpressionist art has made great strides in the right direction. No longer fettered by subject matter, it emphasizes the creation of mood and focuses on individual personality for the sake of expression. It has led to the robust and thriving modernity that we see today. If painting and photography were one and the same in ancient times, they are no longer so. The cubists take an object apart before they reassemble it. The surrealists distort nature in a dreamlike fashion on canvas. Why do they do these things? The reason is that the naked eyes can’t see as minutely and precisely as mechanical eyes. No matter how realist your painting is, it can’t be more real than a photograph, especially one in Technicolor. Therefore, modern

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painting embodies a profound awareness, which believes that photography owes loyalty to subject matter, whereas painting lords it over nature. Painting creates a subjective nature, whereas photography copies objective nature. Representation without personality is no longer considered art, which is the expression of personality. Therefore, whoever says that photography will replace painting and painting will become extinct is an illiterate! Modern literature, especially modern poetry, marches to the same tune as modern painting in its spiritual awakening: division of labor, independent development, and the pursuit of purity. Poetry is poetry; it is not song. Song is song; it is not poetry. The word shige (poem-song) is an obsolete noun.1 Just as fiction is different from storytelling, poetry and song walk on separate paths. Like painting, poetry is not functional; like photography, song is functional. We should know that a long time ago poetry and song were one and the same. Could the primitive age when witchcraft was indistinguishable from medicine, astrology from astronomy, return to civilized society? True, there may be a family of five generations living under the same roof, but brothers who have formed their own families cannot be one family again! Therefore, we call poetry poetry, and we call song song. We do not say poemsong. Poetry is literature, song is music. Song lyrics are absolutely not modern poetry. Confucius declared, “Rectification of names is crucial. It is a matter of utmost importance.” Modern Poetry Quarterly 12 (Winter 1955): 131, translated by Michelle Yeh.

note 1.

The Chinese word shige literally means “poem-song.” It is a term commonly used to refer to poetry of all forms in Chinese. Throughout most of its history, Chinese poetry has, in fact, been sung.

5. Explicating the Tenets of the Modernist School ji xi a n PREFACE We are neither a political party nor a religious sect; we have neither strict organization nor abiding form. We base our affiliation on similar views of New Poetry and consistent literary tendencies. We are bound together by a spirit of common

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painting embodies a profound awareness, which believes that photography owes loyalty to subject matter, whereas painting lords it over nature. Painting creates a subjective nature, whereas photography copies objective nature. Representation without personality is no longer considered art, which is the expression of personality. Therefore, whoever says that photography will replace painting and painting will become extinct is an illiterate! Modern literature, especially modern poetry, marches to the same tune as modern painting in its spiritual awakening: division of labor, independent development, and the pursuit of purity. Poetry is poetry; it is not song. Song is song; it is not poetry. The word shige (poem-song) is an obsolete noun.1 Just as fiction is different from storytelling, poetry and song walk on separate paths. Like painting, poetry is not functional; like photography, song is functional. We should know that a long time ago poetry and song were one and the same. Could the primitive age when witchcraft was indistinguishable from medicine, astrology from astronomy, return to civilized society? True, there may be a family of five generations living under the same roof, but brothers who have formed their own families cannot be one family again! Therefore, we call poetry poetry, and we call song song. We do not say poemsong. Poetry is literature, song is music. Song lyrics are absolutely not modern poetry. Confucius declared, “Rectification of names is crucial. It is a matter of utmost importance.” Modern Poetry Quarterly 12 (Winter 1955): 131, translated by Michelle Yeh.

note 1.

The Chinese word shige literally means “poem-song.” It is a term commonly used to refer to poetry of all forms in Chinese. Throughout most of its history, Chinese poetry has, in fact, been sung.

5. Explicating the Tenets of the Modernist School ji xi a n PREFACE We are neither a political party nor a religious sect; we have neither strict organization nor abiding form. We base our affiliation on similar views of New Poetry and consistent literary tendencies. We are bound together by a spirit of common

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purpose, and the natural inclination is thus to form the Modernist School. This is the first point we wish to make clear. The Modernist School is a poetry group and not a social organization. Other than adherence to the tenets of the Modernist School, members of this group are completely free to join, or not join, any literary organization they choose (for instance, the Chinese Literary Arts Association). The Chinese Literary Arts Association is a social organization, and we are just a poetry group. Freedom of association is the second point we wish to make clear. Moreover, the Modern Poetry Association is a journal-based association and is not equivalent to the Modernist School. But the Modernist Poetry Quarterly is edited and published by the Modern Poetry Association for all poets of the Modernist School. Therefore, it is obviously our flagship journal. This is the third point we wish to make clear.

E X P L A N AT I O N There are six tenets of the Modernist School. They are simple and clear. In order to accomplish the modernization of poetry and bring about a second revolution in New Poetry, we must broaden the understanding and sympathy among those engaged in literature and art, as well as general readers, so as to win their moral support. Thus, it is necessary to clarify our tenets. Number 1: We are a group of modernists who selectively promote and reject the spirit and constituents of all new schools of poetry from Baudelaire to the present. Just as new painting originated with Paul Cézanne, new poetry was inaugurated by the Frenchman Baudelaire. Symbolist poetry came from Mr. B., and all the new poetry schools since are either directly or indirectly influenced by symbolism. Those new schools include the symbolists in the nineteenth century, the postsymbolists, the cubists, the Dadaists, the surrealists, the new perceptionists, the American imagists, and the various pure poetry movements in Europe and America in the twentieth century. Collectively, they may be called modernism. What we reject are the sickly, fin-de-siècle tendencies; what we try to develop are those that are healthy, progressive, and uplifting. Number 2: We believe that New Poetry is a horizontal transplantation, not a vertical inheritance. This is a general view, a starting point for both theoretical development and creative practice. Generally speaking, New Poetry in China and Japan is a transplanted flower. Our New Poetry is clearly not the national essence of Tang dynasty verse or Song dynasty lyrics. Similarly, Japanese New Poetry is not the national essence of haiku or waka. Logically speaking, in terms of what they have accomplished, the Japanese and Chinese poetry of today should both be seen as part of world literature. To promoters of national essence, we say this: When in the realm of science we are eager to catch up with the world, why are we content to remain closed-minded and

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complacent in the realm of literature and art? We should realize that, like science, literature and art know no national boundaries. If someday our New Poetry achieves international acclaim, I guess even stubborn traditionalists will praise us for bringing glory to our country. Number 3: We advocate explorations of the new continent and cultivation of the virgin territory of poetry: expression of new content, creation of new poetic forms, discovery of new tools, and invention of new techniques. We believe that New Poetry must be true to its name and renew itself each and every day. If a poem is not new, it has no business being called New Poetry, hence our emphasis on worldview. At the same time, we do not advocate novelty for novelty’s sake. Those who don’t really understand us should not malign us blindly. Number 4: We emphasize rationality. This is of critical importance. One major characteristic of modernism is its opposition to romanticism, which is to say an emphasis on reason and rejection of the direct expression of emotion. What’s the use of giving free rein to passionate feelings? When you reach the second poem, you are bored already. Thus, as soon as the Parnassians emerged, Hugo lost his authority. Cool-headed, objective, and deep, we exercise a high degree of rationality and use subtle expression. A new poem should be a solid, perfect structure; a new poet should be an outstanding engineer. Here lies the essence of the tenet. Number 5: We pursue the purity of poetry. International movements of Pure Poetry have yet to create a ripple on our poetry scene. But we believe it is important to reject all the impure ingredients that are not poetic and to purify and distill poetry through refinement and more refinement, processing and more processing, like using an entire cow to produce a small jar of beef concentrate. Although the world is small, it is very dense. Every line, even every word, must be pure poetry and not prose. Number 6: We promote patriotism and anti-Communism. We support freedom and democracy. These need no explanation. Modern Poetry Quarterly 13 (February 1, 1956): 4, translated by Paul Manfredi.

6. To the Reader xi a ji ’a n

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fter several months of preparation, Literary Review has made it to publication quite smoothly. We hope that readers of this issue will think that this journal is worthy of the name Literary Review.

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complacent in the realm of literature and art? We should realize that, like science, literature and art know no national boundaries. If someday our New Poetry achieves international acclaim, I guess even stubborn traditionalists will praise us for bringing glory to our country. Number 3: We advocate explorations of the new continent and cultivation of the virgin territory of poetry: expression of new content, creation of new poetic forms, discovery of new tools, and invention of new techniques. We believe that New Poetry must be true to its name and renew itself each and every day. If a poem is not new, it has no business being called New Poetry, hence our emphasis on worldview. At the same time, we do not advocate novelty for novelty’s sake. Those who don’t really understand us should not malign us blindly. Number 4: We emphasize rationality. This is of critical importance. One major characteristic of modernism is its opposition to romanticism, which is to say an emphasis on reason and rejection of the direct expression of emotion. What’s the use of giving free rein to passionate feelings? When you reach the second poem, you are bored already. Thus, as soon as the Parnassians emerged, Hugo lost his authority. Cool-headed, objective, and deep, we exercise a high degree of rationality and use subtle expression. A new poem should be a solid, perfect structure; a new poet should be an outstanding engineer. Here lies the essence of the tenet. Number 5: We pursue the purity of poetry. International movements of Pure Poetry have yet to create a ripple on our poetry scene. But we believe it is important to reject all the impure ingredients that are not poetic and to purify and distill poetry through refinement and more refinement, processing and more processing, like using an entire cow to produce a small jar of beef concentrate. Although the world is small, it is very dense. Every line, even every word, must be pure poetry and not prose. Number 6: We promote patriotism and anti-Communism. We support freedom and democracy. These need no explanation. Modern Poetry Quarterly 13 (February 1, 1956): 4, translated by Paul Manfredi.

6. To the Reader xi a ji ’a n

A

fter several months of preparation, Literary Review has made it to publication quite smoothly. We hope that readers of this issue will think that this journal is worthy of the name Literary Review.

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The journal was conceived by several friends who love literature. We don’t plan to revolutionize the literary scene. We merely hope to keep our feet on the ground and do our best to produce a few good works. But with the fall of China, the survival of the Chinese people depends on all of us working hard, with determination, and pragmatically. We shall muster all our strength in the literary realm to find justice for our nation. We cannot say at this point how big a contribution we can make, but we hope to be heirs to the great, millennia-old heritage of Chinese literature and, by virtue of that, to extend its glory. Although we live in tumultuous times, we hope the works we publish are not themselves chaotic. We are advancing a style of purity, rationality, and composure. We do not wish to escape from reality. This is our belief: a conscientious writer is someone who embraces a spirit of reflecting and expressing the era in which he or she lives. We do not wish to advocate art for art’s sake. Art cannot be separate from life. We live in a time when the existence of our nation is in peril. We are filled with grief and indignation, as well as fervent patriotism, and we will wait for no one, no matter how cool and collected our minds may be. We oppose the inflammatory Communist literature. Our view is that although admittedly works of propaganda may contain qualities of good literature, literature cannot be limited to propaganda and must possess timeless elements of great value. We disapprove of idle wordplay. We oppose confusing right and wrong. We abjure misrepresentation of the truth. It is not that we eschew the beauty of language, but we think that the most important thing is to speak the truth. Confucius said, “Painting follows plainness.” This is the principle we are advancing. In many ways, the reasoning of Confucius is our compass. We shall emulate Confucius, who was open-minded, logical, steadfast to the Way, and earnest, but who also did not lose his sense of humor. We don’t believe that writing relies on genius alone. Our view is that a writer’s training and seriousness are more important than inspiration. We hope that with the advent of Literary Review we will spur the interest of free Chinese writers and readers here and abroad. We welcome submissions. We hope that authors and translators here and abroad will keep sending original literary works and translations of all genres to our editorial office so this journal will reach its full potential. Theories related to Chinese and Western literature can stimulate interest and inspire research. Although they are not literary works, they can be a catalyst for the creation of good literature. We particularly encourage the submission of this sort of writing. Literary Review 1.1 (September 1956): 70, translated by Christopher Lupke.

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7. A Critique of Peng Ge’s Setting Moon and a Discussion of the Modern Novel xi a ji ’a n

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here is no telling how many budding writers have dreamed of writing a great work since the literary revolution in China began. The standard of a great book is this: it reflects a great age. For this reason, the public places this expectation on writers, and writers also place this expectation on themselves. It seems that if the background of a novel doesn’t encompass thousands of miles and characters, if it doesn’t involve such scenes as wars, flights to refuge, demonstrations, riots, the building of canals and roads, and so on, then it has not accomplished its mission. This kind of great book has certainly been written before. Although the book is large, it is not necessarily successful. Throughout the world, novels are written with history composing the warp and love between man and woman composing the woof; great novels are few and far between. Peng Ge’s Setting Moon could become a great book, but what we see now is a small book—a rather good small book. If critics were to praise it for reflecting a great age, I am certain that even the writer himself would be dumbfounded. True, this book encompasses Peking, Chongqing, Taipei, and several other places, and on the face of things the span of time covered is considerable too, including the eight-year War of Resistance against Japan and the anti-Communist war. However, the energy the author put into reflecting a great age is far from sufficient. He had little interest in the major economic and political events that occurred during the life of an actress, the heroine Yu Xinmei. Zhuoru, for example, is a main character in the book, but the author scarcely wrote two or three lines relating to his story. We have both changed a lot, Zhuoru sighed wistfully. Then he told his story; how he left Peking, fled to Luoyang, Xi’an, Chongqing, and Kunming. Finally, he went abroad, to London and New York for a while, returning once to Shanghai in the process. (109–10) These two or three sentences contain so much—they draw in many captivating subplots, moving scenes, and interesting characters. In the hands of the author of War and Peace, these few lines could have been developed into several chapters. But I am not disappointed in Setting Moon for this reason. A lousy big book is not nearly as satisfying as a good small book. The scope of a novel is no indication of its quality. Admittedly there are certain principles in writing fiction, but

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there are no hard and fast rules. Each writer has his or her own style and he or she is entitled to choose to write a novel on a large or small scale. A novel that depicts the life of an actress, for instance, can become a great work, even if the author glosses over issues of a political or economic nature. The question is: What is the method by which the author chooses the small over the large? Is this a viable method? Has he gotten the most from this method and has it rendered a perfect result? I like the method used in Setting Moon. The author doesn’t particularly care to reflect a great age. The story begins on page 5: “Calmly wiping off the tears running down her face, she opened the photo album . . . ” The conclusion to the story comes on page 119: “She turned to the last page in the photo album.” How much time does it take to leaf through a photo album? I think ten minutes should be enough. An author who dares to mold ten minutes of a woman’s reminiscences, thoughts, feelings, and other psychological activities into a novel is worth admiring for his courage. Few Chinese writers have tried to write a pure psychological novel. Peng Ge has blazed the trail for the Chinese psychological novel. Nevertheless, it is unfortunate that Peng Ge did not do a thorough job. He often forgets that he is writing about a woman’s psychology. He often comes right out of the photo album himself to address the reader and ramble on. Sometimes he completely abandons the album and tells the story for us. The result is: we have heard an interesting story that in some places is quite moving, yet this novel is flawed on the artistic level. The origin of the novel was storytelling. To tell stories is rather simple: There once was a farmer who had three sons. The first two were rotten while the youngest was a good boy.  .  .  . Later, someone was not satisfied with the simplicity of the style and decided to borrow some techniques from the stage. The author didn’t tell you which was the father, the elder brother, or the younger brother. He would allow the characters in the story to speak as if they were on the stage. . . . What about good and evil characters? The author doesn’t need to explain them either. He can borrow the makeup used in Peking opera. (For example, Elder Brother’s facial features suggest cunning and meanness, Second Brother is fierce looking, and Third Brother has delicate eyebrows and bright eyes.) Then he can add action and dialogue. (For example, Elder Brother and Second Brother discuss a plan to murder someone for money, while Third Brother works in the field during the day and studies at night.) The reader can tell the good guys from the bad. The lazy reader, however, is not satisfied with dramatic novels. The lazy reader doesn’t have the patience to listen to so much dialogue or concentrate on the actions of the characters. He is happy enough knowing the gist of the story. He is too lazy to think or make judgments. He would prefer that the author spell out the details clearly.

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The novelist should not indulge the lazy reader. He must have faith that among readers there are those who are conscientious. The work he has written conscientiously is designed with the conscientious reader in mind. He is able enough to tell stories, but he is willing not to just tell them. Instead, he employs the dramatic method. Because he knows that in telling stories he will soon exhaust all the tricks, that he cannot use that method to write a novel. With regard to good and bad guys, for example, a good guy may be thirty percent bad, and a bad guy thirty percent good. Good and bad guys may change too. Characters who are neither good nor bad can do both good and bad things. In that case, what do you do? You had better let them do what they do and let the reader see, let readers figure it out and judge for themselves. . . . The mixture of these two methods has produced some fine psychological novels. But in the twentieth century the art of the novel has progressed further. On the one hand, the American novelist Henry James’s single point of view has served as a model for many writers. The so-called single point of view means that all the characters, events, and local color in the book are seen through the eyes of one particular character. If the character does not understand something that is happening around him, then the reader doesn’t understand it either. The author offers no explanation. Henry James is not interested in depicting the objective world itself; he wants to depict the objective world in the character’s subjective consciousness. On the other hand, we have seen the rise of the psychological novel based on stream of consciousness, which gives the novel a new look. I will be saying more about stream of consciousness; for now we should point out that the 1920s and 1930s were the golden age of stream of consciousness. Nowadays, one rarely sees a novel written entirely in this mode. Nonetheless, the technique of stream of consciousness has been highly influential. Even novelists who employ the dramatic method these days cannot avoid the influence of stream of consciousness. Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, with which Chinese readers are familiar, is a case in point. Few of Henry James’s novels have been introduced into China, but a Chinese translation of The Turn of the Screw has been published in Hong Kong, in the New World Publishers series. Daisy Miller is also included under the same cover. The book, along with James’s preface, is worth recommending to the reader. Setting Moon should be a psychological novel, but unfortunately, the author did not fully exploit the techniques unique to the genre. Since we cannot criticize Peng Ge for not writing like Tolstoy, we can hardly criticize him for not writing like Henry James or Virginia Woolf either. What I wish to point out is that the techniques of psychological fiction would go a long way toward helping perfect this novel, enabling it to surpass the criteria for pulp fiction. . . . In the space of this article, I can’t say all that needs to be said about the techniques of psychological fiction. There are many stylistic models, and each has its own set of techniques. If a genius were to emerge, the psychological novel (or novels in general) would without a doubt once again be written anew.

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I believe I can make a simple statement here: twentieth-century psychological novels purposely model themselves after poetic techniques. What I mean by poetic techniques is not that the novel should throw in a few poetic lines like the breeze stealthily kisses the tree tips, the crescent moon hangs in the blue sky, mired in the swamp of sorrow, or falling into the abyss of heartache. Our fiction writers have produced plenty of those. They are neither great poetry nor good prose. . . . There are not many effusive descriptions in Setting Moon, and we are grateful for it. Peng Ge writes a clear, flowing prose that isn’t prone to affectation. In this respect, he has already surpassed many of his contemporaries. Unfortunately, his prose is rather commonplace, as though he has yet to forge his own unique style. I will discuss Peng Ge’s prose style later. For now, allow me to explain what I mean by “poetic techniques.” Poetic techniques should be distinguished from storytelling techniques. (There is narrative poetry, which adopts the techniques of storytelling. We will not discuss that here.) While stories should be told as clearly as possible, poetry benefits from subtlety. You could even say that subtlety is what is valued in poetry. Stories are told directly, but poetry should do its best to employ suggestion, association, and evocation. Stories say what they mean, while poetry strives for economy of language, and each word should have its purpose. It is enough for a storyteller to use common language. A poet racks his brains to create a tool fashioned for his own uses—his own unique style. Literary Review 1, no. 2 (October 1956): 25–44, translated by Christopher Lupke.

8. Newsletter of Literary Friends: Correspondence Between Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe FIRST LETTER, FROM ZHONG ZHAOZHENG TO Z H O N G L I H E : T H E N E W S L E T T E R G E T S U N D E R W AY April 23, 1957 DEAR ESTEEMED LIHE, This past March, I had the unexpected pleasure of corresponding with Mr. Liao Qingxiu [b. 1927] and reflecting on how young Taiwanese writers are situated in the contemporary Chinese literary scene. I came to realize that,

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I believe I can make a simple statement here: twentieth-century psychological novels purposely model themselves after poetic techniques. What I mean by poetic techniques is not that the novel should throw in a few poetic lines like the breeze stealthily kisses the tree tips, the crescent moon hangs in the blue sky, mired in the swamp of sorrow, or falling into the abyss of heartache. Our fiction writers have produced plenty of those. They are neither great poetry nor good prose. . . . There are not many effusive descriptions in Setting Moon, and we are grateful for it. Peng Ge writes a clear, flowing prose that isn’t prone to affectation. In this respect, he has already surpassed many of his contemporaries. Unfortunately, his prose is rather commonplace, as though he has yet to forge his own unique style. I will discuss Peng Ge’s prose style later. For now, allow me to explain what I mean by “poetic techniques.” Poetic techniques should be distinguished from storytelling techniques. (There is narrative poetry, which adopts the techniques of storytelling. We will not discuss that here.) While stories should be told as clearly as possible, poetry benefits from subtlety. You could even say that subtlety is what is valued in poetry. Stories are told directly, but poetry should do its best to employ suggestion, association, and evocation. Stories say what they mean, while poetry strives for economy of language, and each word should have its purpose. It is enough for a storyteller to use common language. A poet racks his brains to create a tool fashioned for his own uses—his own unique style. Literary Review 1, no. 2 (October 1956): 25–44, translated by Christopher Lupke.

8. Newsletter of Literary Friends: Correspondence Between Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe FIRST LETTER, FROM ZHONG ZHAOZHENG TO Z H O N G L I H E : T H E N E W S L E T T E R G E T S U N D E R W AY April 23, 1957 DEAR ESTEEMED LIHE, This past March, I had the unexpected pleasure of corresponding with Mr. Liao Qingxiu [b. 1927] and reflecting on how young Taiwanese writers are situated in the contemporary Chinese literary scene. I came to realize that,

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few in number, we should stay in close contact in order to learn from one another and reach new artistic heights. It is undeniable that the success of any enterprise depends on individual resolution and perseverance. However, the encouragement and support of friends is also an important factor. Why should the literary enterprise be any different? In the history of human achievement, there are innumerable examples of people achieving eventual success with help from their friends. Considering young Taiwanese writers on the Chinese literary scene, my own experience and impression is that our contact with one another, although not completely absent, is limited and sporadic. When it comes to concrete exchange and mutual critique, there is hardly any. We should not have too high an opinion of ourselves, but neither should we be overly modest: we are the pioneers of a new Taiwanese literature. Whether or not we will occupy a place in Chinese literature or even in world literature depends on how hard we work to cultivate the field. This is both profound and great. Therefore, do we have any good reason not to maintain regular and long-term contact with one another? I understand that this will require a great deal of labor. Although untalented, I am willing to offer my meager services. It’s a small token of my sincerity, and I pray that you pardon my many faults. Below is my preliminary draft proposal for the newsletter, which contains three points that I propose we pursue. 1. Distribute a mimeographed newsletter monthly, of two sheets of newsprint in length. The tentative title is Newsletter of Literary Friends. (There is to be no charge for the newsletter or honorarium for submissions.) The contents will include news of literary friends and writings as outlined in the following two points. The objective of the newsletter is to save friends the trouble of having to correspond with one another individually. Everyone will be required to send in one submission each and every month. 2. Take turns reading one another’s work. Each month a friend will send an original work to the other friends. (The order of rotation is to be determined.) After reading the work, friends will send in their critiques to be published, along with the original work, in the Newsletter. (Please offer your wise counsel on this point.) 3. Critique one another’s writings. Writings here refer to works that have been published in newspapers or magazines. Each month, before the Newsletter is issued, literary friends will inform one another of their own publications during the month, including the titles of the works and the names and issues of the periodicals in which they appear. The information will be included in the Newsletter. Over the course of the following month, the literary friends should make an effort to read those publications and send in criticisms to be printed in the Newsletter.

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The above is a preliminary plan. Please offer your thoughtful suggestions. As long as I am able, I will give it my all. At present, I have only eight or nine literary friends in mind. Considering my temporal and material constraints, I don’t plan to add more. But if these literary friends have friends who are dedicated to writing fiction and who have completed a number of works (and they must be Taiwanese), there is no reason why they shouldn’t be invited to join our ranks. The page attached herewith is a form I have drawn up for the inaugural newsletter. Would you fill it out ASAP and return it by the fifteenth of the month so that we could publish the newsletter on May 4th? Even if you do not agree with the plan, would you still RSVP? The ancients met “as friends through literature.” To this day it is a model to be emulated. Besides, we cannot shirk our responsibility. Let us form a spiritual union and march together, urge one another on as we strive for the day of glory. I respectfully send you my best wishes for the season. With humility, Your younger brother in letters, Zhong Zhaozheng

THE SEVENTH LETTER: ZHONG LIHE’S THOUGHTS ON ZHONG ZHAOZHENG’S “ TA I W A N E S E - D I A L E C T L I T E R AT U R E A S I S E E I T. ” May 29, 1957 DEAR ZHAOZHENG, MY ELDER BROTHER IN LETTERS, With regard to your “Taiwanese-Dialect Literature as I See It” (Newsletter no. 3), it seems to me that the issue should be divided into (1) a critical examination of Taiwanese-dialect literature of the past and (2) the promotion of Taiwanese-dialect literature in the future. As I see it, you incline more to the latter. I will follow suit in my response below. My opinion on the matter is simple: I disagree with the idea that Taiwanese-dialect literature should be promoted. I don’t think there is any problem with dialect literature per se; my consideration is rather the actual environment in which we are writing. You did not state clearly in your article what you mean by the Taiwanese dialect, the particular language to which you are referring. Normally, when people use the term “Taiwanese” they mean Hoklo, and I assume you do too. Two conditions would have to be met for Hoklo to be the basis and means for the promotion of

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Taiwanese-dialect literature: everyone speaks Hoklo and is able to read Hoklo. I will examine these conditions in turn. First, there are two groups in Taiwan besides mainlanders and aborigines: one is the Hoklo from Fujian Province, the other is the Hakka from Guangdong Province. For a Hakka my Hoklo is above average, but when I read works written in Hoklo, I can only understand three-quarters of what I read, although I can guess the rest. To go from speaking to writing in Hoklo, I can only say: “I wish.” You cannot use the fact that Hoklo speakers are the majority in Taiwan to justify ignoring Hakka speakers. Yet if you use “Taiwanese dialect” in a strict sense, you are excluding the Hakka. Regardless of whether or not it is feasible to do so, it’s not a wise move at this juncture. Second, as for the Hoklo people, most over the age of twenty-five today received a Japanese education. They can manage to read Japanese, but few, I am afraid, can read Chinese. (More to the point, few can read Hoklo written in Chinese.) How many under the age of twenty-five read the national language, Mandarin Chinese? They don’t necessarily understand the Taiwanese dialect in its written form. Being able to use Hoklo is one thing, but being able to read it is quite another. Consider my son, for instance. He is now in second grade. He can read and write (and of course he can speak Hakka) but cannot read the national language using Hakka pronunciation. I think this is basically the norm, not only for children and Hakka speakers in general but also for younger Hoklo speakers. Only the very few could appreciate literature written in dialect. To insist on writing dialect literature would be like enclosing art in an airless room. Even if we could hold our breath, it would be impossible for dialect literature to thrive. What you seem to look for is an outlet, a way for literature to reach a general audience. If so, promoting Taiwanese-dialect literature would be counterproductive. Moreover, our China (and this is true of Taiwan as well) has been held back by a congeries of dialects, by a lack of linguistic unity. Mutual unintelligibility has led to estrangement; misunderstandings are common. We have endured dialects long enough; they have held us back. Now that the national language is understood by everyone, all people—old or young, Hoklo or Hakka—can communicate and commiserate with one another. They can get their ideas across and relate to one another in a more friendly way. There is no need for us to dwell on our differences and reinforce the boundaries that divide us. There was once a time when people advocated dialect literature; but that was during the Japanese era, when Taiwan was under alien rule. The proposal was made to promote unity among the Taiwanese and to preserve the cultural tradition. The lack of a common language left them

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no other choice. Besides the literary considerations behind the proposal, there were also apt political considerations. I wonder what you think of my humble opinion? . . . Respectfully, I remain Your younger brother in letters, Lihe Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe, Letters Between the Two Zhongs in Taiwan Literature, ed. Qian Hongjun (Taipei: Grassroots Publishing, 1998), 23–25, 33–35, translated by Darryl Sterk.

9. Notes from the Editors of Epoch Poetry Quarterly z ha ng mo

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e have been silent for almost a year, a painful year that felt like a century. We often wonder, we always wonder, when can we publish a poetry journal that has good size, quality, and impact? This is not a dream, but cruel reality tells me: How can you break free of the many difficulties, each the size of Iceland? It is only today, when I have the courage to look out the window at the sun of a spring morning, that my heart is filled with mixed feelings—sour and sweet, bitter and spicy. Reality has not crushed us after all. We have lifted our heads once again, and we hold them high. How can we not work with diligence and wariness? Back in February, Epoch decided to change its format. When I conveyed this decision to Luo Fu, he was ecstatic. Then each of us started inviting submissions. All went well. We owed the success to the muse of poetry. This issue contains solid material, and it is an issue of which we are most proud. The remarkable progress that some poets have shown is amazing. What we would like to explain and must explain is the contents of the issue, which reveal our plan to gradually increase the portion of translations from now on. We believe that translation is as important as original creations. Which is why we rejoice in the fact that Ji Hong translated “The Poet’s Vision” by Edith Sitwell [1887–1964] every evening for two weeks, against the backdrop of his daughter’s baby talk. This is the first translation he has ever done. Ye Ni tried his hand at translating André Gide. We believe that it will be warmly received by readers in this country and will have a significant impact on literary history. Since the last issue, the translations of Jules Supervielle have caused quite a stir

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no other choice. Besides the literary considerations behind the proposal, there were also apt political considerations. I wonder what you think of my humble opinion? . . . Respectfully, I remain Your younger brother in letters, Lihe Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe, Letters Between the Two Zhongs in Taiwan Literature, ed. Qian Hongjun (Taipei: Grassroots Publishing, 1998), 23–25, 33–35, translated by Darryl Sterk.

9. Notes from the Editors of Epoch Poetry Quarterly z ha ng mo

W

e have been silent for almost a year, a painful year that felt like a century. We often wonder, we always wonder, when can we publish a poetry journal that has good size, quality, and impact? This is not a dream, but cruel reality tells me: How can you break free of the many difficulties, each the size of Iceland? It is only today, when I have the courage to look out the window at the sun of a spring morning, that my heart is filled with mixed feelings—sour and sweet, bitter and spicy. Reality has not crushed us after all. We have lifted our heads once again, and we hold them high. How can we not work with diligence and wariness? Back in February, Epoch decided to change its format. When I conveyed this decision to Luo Fu, he was ecstatic. Then each of us started inviting submissions. All went well. We owed the success to the muse of poetry. This issue contains solid material, and it is an issue of which we are most proud. The remarkable progress that some poets have shown is amazing. What we would like to explain and must explain is the contents of the issue, which reveal our plan to gradually increase the portion of translations from now on. We believe that translation is as important as original creations. Which is why we rejoice in the fact that Ji Hong translated “The Poet’s Vision” by Edith Sitwell [1887–1964] every evening for two weeks, against the backdrop of his daughter’s baby talk. This is the first translation he has ever done. Ye Ni tried his hand at translating André Gide. We believe that it will be warmly received by readers in this country and will have a significant impact on literary history. Since the last issue, the translations of Jules Supervielle have caused quite a stir

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on the poetry scene. We publish his “Coeur” (“Heart”) and other great poems in this issue. May white waves rise in the hearts of Supervielle’s fans. Ye Di, who is serving in the military on Quemoy under the threat of bombing, continues to translate Baudelaire’s prose poems for us. We are deeply moved. As for original creations, Luo Fu’s “My Beast,” Huang Yong’s “City and Two Other Poems,” Ye Shan’s “January Awakening,” and Ya Xian’s “Setting Out from Feelings” are all important works. Xiong Hong [b. 1940] is a first-time contributor; “The Shadow Chaser” expresses deep emotion and beautiful melody. The poetry world is already whispering that she will be another Lin Ling. Far away in Iowa City, Yu Guangzhong wrote two poems especially for our journal. We should treasure them even more. “When I return I will bring you / a spheroid fruit of Iowa’s autumn.” It shows how much the poet misses Taiwan, his second homeland. Readers have long been familiar with Ji Hong’s [1927–2007] poetry, which delves ever deeper into the soul of a wise man who fights reality. His “Dormitory for Singles” is a rare piece. We cannot introduce the other poems one by one; the limited space cannot block the light they cast. As to Epoch’s future plans, we will not talk about them here, because they are far-ranging. To put it simply, we will strive to make the journal more refined, more pure, more representative and influential. It is our hope that in the roaring tide of Chinese poetry Epoch is a persevering sailor struggling to the end. In the last issue, we announced that Epoch would publish a comprehensive issue of representative works of modern Chinese poetry. We have now gathered almost all the material; the only thing missing is funding. Therefore, for the time being, we have to put it on the back burner. The first individual collection we have published this year is Bi Guo’s [b. 1932] Look, Autumn, at This Man! It is now available for sale. Other books of poetry are in the works. Epoch Poetry Quarterly 11 (April 1959), translated by Michelle Yeh.

10. On Symbolist Poetry and Chinese New Poetry: A Rejoinder to Professor Su Xuelin qin z i hao

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he prominent English poet Edith Sitwell published an essay entitled “The Poet’s Vision” last year in the November 15th edition of the American magazine the Saturday Evening Post. Her essay starts by bemoaning the fact that much nonsense is being written in England that attacks modern poets for having lost touch with the reading public.1 Sitwell expressed her dissatisfaction

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on the poetry scene. We publish his “Coeur” (“Heart”) and other great poems in this issue. May white waves rise in the hearts of Supervielle’s fans. Ye Di, who is serving in the military on Quemoy under the threat of bombing, continues to translate Baudelaire’s prose poems for us. We are deeply moved. As for original creations, Luo Fu’s “My Beast,” Huang Yong’s “City and Two Other Poems,” Ye Shan’s “January Awakening,” and Ya Xian’s “Setting Out from Feelings” are all important works. Xiong Hong [b. 1940] is a first-time contributor; “The Shadow Chaser” expresses deep emotion and beautiful melody. The poetry world is already whispering that she will be another Lin Ling. Far away in Iowa City, Yu Guangzhong wrote two poems especially for our journal. We should treasure them even more. “When I return I will bring you / a spheroid fruit of Iowa’s autumn.” It shows how much the poet misses Taiwan, his second homeland. Readers have long been familiar with Ji Hong’s [1927–2007] poetry, which delves ever deeper into the soul of a wise man who fights reality. His “Dormitory for Singles” is a rare piece. We cannot introduce the other poems one by one; the limited space cannot block the light they cast. As to Epoch’s future plans, we will not talk about them here, because they are far-ranging. To put it simply, we will strive to make the journal more refined, more pure, more representative and influential. It is our hope that in the roaring tide of Chinese poetry Epoch is a persevering sailor struggling to the end. In the last issue, we announced that Epoch would publish a comprehensive issue of representative works of modern Chinese poetry. We have now gathered almost all the material; the only thing missing is funding. Therefore, for the time being, we have to put it on the back burner. The first individual collection we have published this year is Bi Guo’s [b. 1932] Look, Autumn, at This Man! It is now available for sale. Other books of poetry are in the works. Epoch Poetry Quarterly 11 (April 1959), translated by Michelle Yeh.

10. On Symbolist Poetry and Chinese New Poetry: A Rejoinder to Professor Su Xuelin qin z i hao

T

he prominent English poet Edith Sitwell published an essay entitled “The Poet’s Vision” last year in the November 15th edition of the American magazine the Saturday Evening Post. Her essay starts by bemoaning the fact that much nonsense is being written in England that attacks modern poets for having lost touch with the reading public.1 Sitwell expressed her dissatisfaction

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with such excessively critical articles. She went on to clarify the true significance of modern poetry and the key to understanding it. Modern poetry has received harsh criticism not only in England but also in the United States. Modern poetry in China, where there is such a vast difference between new and old cultures, is no exception. If the poetry scene were an exception, that would simply be a sign that Chinese New Poetry was still stagnating in the romantic age, lagging behind by at least a century. No matter what country, there are power conflicts in every literary scene: sharp contrasts between conservatives and progressives, traditionalists and antitraditionalists, imitation and creation. It is amid these intense conflicts that we witness the growth and decline, progress and regress of literature. The harsh criticism leveled at Chinese New Poetry is to be expected. Recently, several periodicals and newspaper supplements have disparaged New Poetry. I believe that anyone who wants to broaden the influence of New Poetry should welcome such criticism. Poets have the right to choose what path their writing will take, and readers have the right to criticize poetry they do not understand. Criticism and debate help the advance of new poetry. Unfortunately, the recent articles that disparage New Poetry lack insight and are just full of sarcasm and denunciation; rather than critiquing New Poetry, they attack it. I recently read Professor Su Xuelin’s [1897–1999] article in Free Youth (vol. 22, no. 1), “On Li Jinfa: Founder of the Symbolist School in New Poetry.” For the most part, the article touches on the relationship between symbolist poetry and Chinese New Poetry—old news in literary circles. There are many places in this article where the author bases her argument on things that seem true but are in actuality false. I would like to go over them for readers to examine. 1. Without a doubt, Chinese New Poetry developed under the influence of foreign poetry. It was only after the Creation Society’s reception of the romantic mode of writing and the Crescent School’s reception of English formal verse that New Poetry cast off the shallow tone of vernacular poetry. With the publication of Li Jinfa’s [1900–1976] Light Rain [in 1925] and Singing for Joy [in 1926], Chinese New Poetry began to have a close relationship with French symbolism and leaped forward in new development, in content as well as in techniques of expression. At that time symbolist verse met the tastes of readers who were on the verge of finding the poetry of the Crescent School and Creation Society banal and tiresome. Thereafter, Li’s symbolism transformed into Dai Wangshu’s [1905–1950] modernism and overtook the entire poetry scene. The influence of French symbolism on Chinese New Poetry was enormous. . . . 4. Li Jinfa was the first Chinese poet to write with symbolist techniques. His model was Verlaine, and he considered himself Verlaine’s disciple. Li’s only shortcoming was that he didn’t learn from his master how to refine language. Although he had little concern for the rules of classical poetry,

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Verlaine still refined his language through new methods. Verlaine’s language is pristine and concise, not the least bit wordy and obscure; few French poets could match that. Readers immediately recognize the beauty of his melody. Li Jinfa mixed classical and vernacular language in a way that was jarring and difficult to understand. He wrote in the foreword to Light Rain: “Ever since the literary revolution in China, the poetry scene has been in a state of anarchy. All the different types of poetry have displeased quite a few people, but that is not important, as long as they are enough to express everything.” Li’s only concern was for methods of expression; he paid little attention to the language of the expression, which is inextricably related to expression. Therefore, the pregnant images throughout his poetry are shrouded by obscure language and never fully materialize; consequently, readers don’t know what he is talking about. There is no denying that, in the wake of the May Fourth movement, as the poetry scene wandered aimlessly, Li Jinfa showed us a new way. Compared with the work that the Creation Society and the Crescent School were producing, Li’s poetry was superior in its techniques of expression and crafting images, which he had learned from the French symbolists. Even Professor Su has to admit that Mr. Li’s poetry has many pretty phrases. 5. Although Dai Wangshu, the leading poet in the Modernist School, was influenced by Li Jinfa, he was more directly influenced by French poets and had a different style than Li. Dai Wangshu did not have as abundant an imagination as Li Jinfa, but his language was more pristine and refreshing. Readers enjoy the pristine language and the rich texture of his poetry. The world of New Poetry was overtaken by symbolist styles, as Professor Su observes. With the emergence of the Modernist School, New Poetry finally freed itself from the banal style of the Creation Society and the formalism of the Crescent School. Poets stopped considering meters in their poetry and devoted themselves to fostering the spirit of free verse. There is no doubt that free verse is more capable of expressing the deep and complex emotions of modern people. However, there was a side-effect to this development; that is, many poems were simply prose broken up into staggered lines and lacked poetic sensibility. Average readers had a hard time determining whether or not these pieces were poetry, and average young writers lacked the necessary standards of poetry. This is an undeniable fact. Nevertheless, one cannot dismiss the progress of New Poetry either. How could it be dismissed as “a witch’s curse, a Daoist priest’s incantation, or the secret code of bandits”? This is simply unjust! 6. The mainstream in contemporary Taiwan poetry is not based on the residual force of Li Jinfa or Dai Wangshu, even less so on new colonization by the French symbolist school. The foreign influences on Taiwan poetry are extremely complicated; there is no single dominant school of thought or movement. It is a hybrid creation that has combined countless

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new influences. Art and literature change with the time; poetry necessarily seeks out ever-newer ways to develop. Present-day poetry in Taiwan tends to express the inner world and not the external world of phenomena. It unearths the profound enigmas and the quintessence of human life; it does not take in the phenomena of ephemeral life. It has already surpassed the hazy, mysterious poetic realm that the symbolists sought; it has come closer to the realities of life. 7. Recent New Poetry is harder to understand than New Poetry from the past. The difficulty of New Poetry has become its fatal flaw and the sole weapon with which to attack it. In China, several circumstances make a poem difficult to understand. Sometimes the techniques of expression in a piece break established rules, whether on the level of syntax or semantics. Sometimes poetry has the superficial appearance of modernist poetry, but not the essence of the modern; such poems generally lack a real subject and thus do not have any content for readers to understand. Finally, sometimes a reader is not mentally prepared to engage with, grapple with, and overcome a work before he or she reflects on it. Sitwell describes these circumstances well: “Sometimes a phrase may bear two meanings [both of which a reader must grasp in order to appreciate it]. . . . To read poetry with enjoyment entails the use of all the reader’s powers of concentration, sensibility and sympathy. A poem may sometimes appear to be difficult simply because the reader has determined that it shall be difficult.”2 T.  S. Eliot expressed a similar idea when he wrote, “or difficulty may be caused by the reader’s having been told, or having suggested to himself, that the poem is going to prove difficult.”3 Obviously, these remarks are relevant only to poems of high quality. I can’t say for sure that Professor Su’s reading was guided by a deepseated, preconceived notion about the inherent difficulty of New Poetry. Nor do I think that Su is lacking in intelligence. But it is a fact that her attitude is neither calm nor patient, and she is deficient in concentration and empathy. To take but one example, in quoting poems by the younger poets in order to substantiate her argument, Professor Su was extremely clever in her selection. In modern poetry, lines in a poem are closely related to one another. It is not like classical poetry, wherein each line is often an integral image or idea that can be enjoyed on its own. Furthermore, New Poetry is an indirect expression, not a direct or discursive explanation; therefore, it is common to have some difficulty in understanding a poem’s deeper meanings after only having read it once. When one tears a poem apart to critique some aspects, they are often taken out of context. From my perspective, the examples cited by Professor Su were using metaphors that, while lacking in universality, managed to transcend conventional rules—average readers would find it difficult to empathize with them. However, if they could read them carefully, it would not be hard for them to understand the unstated

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meanings of the poems, which were hardly “obscure and vague, as if standing in the center of a pitch-black circle.” Professor Su’s intention was to take jabs at New Poetry; what I don’t understand is why she did not choose more established poets as her sparring partners. Did she choose examples from the poetry of young poets simply because they are more prone to take the beating with fewer chances to strike back? Or is it possible that the more experienced poets write poetry with nothing for Su Xuelin to pick on? If that’s the case, citing those examples was superfluous, because the work of young poets does not sufficiently represent the poetry scene. 8. . . . For poets and readers who are able to appreciate the subtleties of modern poetry, Chinese New Poetry has made great progress. However, this does not mean that a majority of readers can understand it. The more poetry advances, the fewer people will be able to appreciate it; sublime songs with few listeners is a universal phenomenon in the world of poetry. Actually, taking population into account, Taiwan has a proportionally high number of poetry readers. In Britain and America, the sales for a collection of poetry are around two to three thousand. In Taiwan, where our population is less than ten million, sales are generally more than fifteen hundred copies. Poets should be encouraged by these statistics. According to critics, however, New Poetry is disconnected from the reading public. This is not entirely unreasonable. It’s a pity that some poets have shut their doors on readers. Such poets are overconfident, lack self-reflection, and need more opportunities for self-criticism—naturally, their works are more and more disconnected from readers.

While I am passionately in support of creating New Poetry, I am also passionately against writing poems that look new but lack any real substance. The depth and mystery characteristic of poetry is not to be found in novel fantasies and perverse language but is found in the discovery of the true nature of humanity through precise expression. Many writers mistake fantasy for mystery when they create pieces that are difficult to comprehend. As Sitwell wrote: “[The poet] shows the quintessence of the thing seen. His imagination is not a pretty fancy, but is the quintessence of reality. The quintessence of reality cannot be seen by the naked eye; it can only be seen by the visionary eye.”4 To truly capture this quintessence is to be regulated by it in expression. The poet must seek a precise language to transform the abstract quintessence into concrete imagery. Such poetry has its own natural laws, and it is not difficult for readers to understand. Poetry based purely on the imagination’s fancy cannot stand up to testing, dissection, and analysis. When contemporary poetry blindly apes Western modern poetry, it becomes vague instead of subtle, raw instead of fresh, obscure instead of profound, and ultimately turns into false poetry. There are a lot of false poems today, and there is a tendency for these inferior poems to drive out the superior poems. This is a crisis for new poetry. The harsh

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criticism of New Poetry has an objective basis in reality. Certainly, many excellent works have been written in Taiwan over the past few years. However, their achievements are in danger of being overshadowed by the failures. To avoid repeating the same mistake, poets need to seek ways to move forward as they self-reflect. The presence of false poems in the contemporary poetry scene has led to chaos; but time is art’s alchemy. Given time, false poetry will be eliminated, the poetry scene will be cleared, and new poets won’t go astray again. Free Youth 22, no. 3 (August 1, 1959): 10–12, translated by Hayes Moore.

notes 1.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision.” Saturday Evening Post 231, no. 20 (1958): 29.

2.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision,” ibid., 126.

3.

T. S. Eliot, “‘Difficult’ Poetry,” Selected Prose, ed. John Hayward (Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1965), 87–88.

4.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision,” ibid., 126.

11. Five Years Later edi tor s . . . It is beyond doubt that this journal has always upheld the objective of pursuing purity and modernity when it comes to poetry. Although we have never hoisted the banner of modernism, we are in truth the eyewitnesses and practitioners of modern art. We do not advocate modernism due to objective circumstances. Besides, modernism embraces many schools and we are not content with confining ourselves to any one of them. We do not belong to any school; we are only on a quest of the spirit [of modernism]. In thought and spirit, we seek to understand the world in a new way based on modern observations and values, and we employ the newest techniques to constantly modify and experiment. From the path we have traveled and the direction of our development, history will infer our characteristics, assess our values, and ascertain our identity. One frequent criticism of modern art is that it does not belong to the people. Critics don’t realize that art is a mirror of the qualities that distinguish a society and an era. However, the clearest reflection in the mirror is that of the self. The human soul is the center of all art, and the poet is its spokesperson. Therefore, to express the feelings of the “small self” is to express the feelings of the “large self.” My soul is the universe; it endows all things with life and shines light on all art. . . .

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criticism of New Poetry has an objective basis in reality. Certainly, many excellent works have been written in Taiwan over the past few years. However, their achievements are in danger of being overshadowed by the failures. To avoid repeating the same mistake, poets need to seek ways to move forward as they self-reflect. The presence of false poems in the contemporary poetry scene has led to chaos; but time is art’s alchemy. Given time, false poetry will be eliminated, the poetry scene will be cleared, and new poets won’t go astray again. Free Youth 22, no. 3 (August 1, 1959): 10–12, translated by Hayes Moore.

notes 1.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision.” Saturday Evening Post 231, no. 20 (1958): 29.

2.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision,” ibid., 126.

3.

T. S. Eliot, “‘Difficult’ Poetry,” Selected Prose, ed. John Hayward (Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1965), 87–88.

4.

Edith Sitwell, “The Poet’s Vision,” ibid., 126.

11. Five Years Later edi tor s . . . It is beyond doubt that this journal has always upheld the objective of pursuing purity and modernity when it comes to poetry. Although we have never hoisted the banner of modernism, we are in truth the eyewitnesses and practitioners of modern art. We do not advocate modernism due to objective circumstances. Besides, modernism embraces many schools and we are not content with confining ourselves to any one of them. We do not belong to any school; we are only on a quest of the spirit [of modernism]. In thought and spirit, we seek to understand the world in a new way based on modern observations and values, and we employ the newest techniques to constantly modify and experiment. From the path we have traveled and the direction of our development, history will infer our characteristics, assess our values, and ascertain our identity. One frequent criticism of modern art is that it does not belong to the people. Critics don’t realize that art is a mirror of the qualities that distinguish a society and an era. However, the clearest reflection in the mirror is that of the self. The human soul is the center of all art, and the poet is its spokesperson. Therefore, to express the feelings of the “small self” is to express the feelings of the “large self.” My soul is the universe; it endows all things with life and shines light on all art. . . .

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Another reason why modern art, especially modern poetry, has come under attack by academics is that they see themselves as righteous defenders of art, when in fact, what they try so hard to defend are the hypocritical aspects of human nature. Insofar as modern art reproduces human experience, it is a guide for people to retrace the filthy and debased alleys they have walked and to return to the mind that has sustained numerous injuries. Art makes them feel hurt and angry. . . . In mode of expression, we have been quite conservative. In conceptualization we have never been as extreme as the Dadaists or as rambunctious as the Angry Young Men. Yet the degree of misunderstanding and rejection to which we have been subjected far exceeds that endured by those artists. In Europe and America, poets command respect and enjoy success. We envy that their livelihood is secure and they receive recognition in academia, as well as honorary degrees and grants. They critique their societies harshly, but the societies do not treat them poorly. All we do is speak as an eyewitness and spokesperson, with unlimited love and patience, serve the people . . . and express our views and insights with new techniques. . . . Conversely, can traditionalism sate our hunger for art today? It has been proven that the answer is negative. For it would only lead us to a stale and tasteless world filled with things with which we are already familiar. There is no trace of ourselves in it. Modern art is not the expression of appearances. Besides their surface meanings, things as perceptual images contain independent, hidden meanings. Therefore, it leads us to a fresh world that enables us to discover our selves, awakens our selves, and gives our selves meaning. The above represents our understanding of modern art and our position on the modern art movement. Epoch Poetry Quarterly 13 (October 1959): 12, translated by Michelle Yeh.

12. To the Poet Ya Xian sha ng qin

I

t was definitely not out of laziness that I said to you: Really, there is no need to publish any interpretation of “[Rejoice in the] Abyss.” In fact, I have risked insomnia for two or three nights in a row when I stayed up to read all the relevant books and came to the conclusion that this knot is too hard to untangle. Even Stephen Spender [1909–95] would have to admit that his words were biased, even though he once emphasized that he would rather choose the rhythm of a kerosene engine and that all he managed to speak of in

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Another reason why modern art, especially modern poetry, has come under attack by academics is that they see themselves as righteous defenders of art, when in fact, what they try so hard to defend are the hypocritical aspects of human nature. Insofar as modern art reproduces human experience, it is a guide for people to retrace the filthy and debased alleys they have walked and to return to the mind that has sustained numerous injuries. Art makes them feel hurt and angry. . . . In mode of expression, we have been quite conservative. In conceptualization we have never been as extreme as the Dadaists or as rambunctious as the Angry Young Men. Yet the degree of misunderstanding and rejection to which we have been subjected far exceeds that endured by those artists. In Europe and America, poets command respect and enjoy success. We envy that their livelihood is secure and they receive recognition in academia, as well as honorary degrees and grants. They critique their societies harshly, but the societies do not treat them poorly. All we do is speak as an eyewitness and spokesperson, with unlimited love and patience, serve the people . . . and express our views and insights with new techniques. . . . Conversely, can traditionalism sate our hunger for art today? It has been proven that the answer is negative. For it would only lead us to a stale and tasteless world filled with things with which we are already familiar. There is no trace of ourselves in it. Modern art is not the expression of appearances. Besides their surface meanings, things as perceptual images contain independent, hidden meanings. Therefore, it leads us to a fresh world that enables us to discover our selves, awakens our selves, and gives our selves meaning. The above represents our understanding of modern art and our position on the modern art movement. Epoch Poetry Quarterly 13 (October 1959): 12, translated by Michelle Yeh.

12. To the Poet Ya Xian sha ng qin

I

t was definitely not out of laziness that I said to you: Really, there is no need to publish any interpretation of “[Rejoice in the] Abyss.” In fact, I have risked insomnia for two or three nights in a row when I stayed up to read all the relevant books and came to the conclusion that this knot is too hard to untangle. Even Stephen Spender [1909–95] would have to admit that his words were biased, even though he once emphasized that he would rather choose the rhythm of a kerosene engine and that all he managed to speak of in

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poetry was an “Almond Tree in a Bombed City” or Fra Angelico’s angels. Think about it, this is not my arrogance, but Spender’s. Can a line like “the most up-to-date steel and concrete / To withstand fate” compare with “today’s notice pasted over yesterday’s notice”? As a poem, “Abyss” is not a failure. When it comes to the material and the ideas behind the poem, I think they are comparable to your “India” and “Paris.” If I did not insist that art is expression, rather than interpretation and explication, I would have become an opponent of yours a long time ago. Soon after I received the twelfth issue of Epoch, I went to Taizhong. When I came back, I left the journal behind. In terms of a rigorous discussion of the contents, I have little to offer for the time being. For more than a year now, I have been too timid to plunge into writing. I am a revolving wheel that has stopped turning. Restarting the wheel in the past few days has already made me dizzy. It’s hard to predict if I will stop again or continue turning until I slow down and stop… Certain things I just can’t discuss in a lucid way, or I am too lazy to do it. Do you feel the same way that none of those “isms” we often talk about is invented by us? When we try to speak about them, given how almost totally isolated this literary scene is from the rest of the world and how little information we have managed to scrape together, maybe it is better not to say anything at all. I don’t mean to sound discouraging, but take Rilke, for example. Thus far what we have read of his poetry is but a tiny portion of his oeuvre. This is what I think about our present situation: inspired by a superficial understanding, we utter sounds based on our dispositions. It is likely that the surrealism we set out to create may not be surrealism at all. Epoch Poetry Quarterly (October 1959): 36, translated by Michelle Yeh.

13. Random Talk on New Poetry No. 4: Whither It Goes? ya n xi

P

oets of the Creation Society emulated such romantic greats as Byron and Goethe. Poets of the Crescent Society reproduced English sonnets in regular forms. Well versed in classical Chinese literature and masterful in their use of the Chinese language, they were able to assimilate and negotiate with those resources and accomplish a great deal. Zhu Ziqing [1898–1948] and Xu Zhimo [1897–1931] boasted an abundance of extremely well-crafted lines, and they also wrote superb prose. Therefore, even though they searched for the new, they did

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poetry was an “Almond Tree in a Bombed City” or Fra Angelico’s angels. Think about it, this is not my arrogance, but Spender’s. Can a line like “the most up-to-date steel and concrete / To withstand fate” compare with “today’s notice pasted over yesterday’s notice”? As a poem, “Abyss” is not a failure. When it comes to the material and the ideas behind the poem, I think they are comparable to your “India” and “Paris.” If I did not insist that art is expression, rather than interpretation and explication, I would have become an opponent of yours a long time ago. Soon after I received the twelfth issue of Epoch, I went to Taizhong. When I came back, I left the journal behind. In terms of a rigorous discussion of the contents, I have little to offer for the time being. For more than a year now, I have been too timid to plunge into writing. I am a revolving wheel that has stopped turning. Restarting the wheel in the past few days has already made me dizzy. It’s hard to predict if I will stop again or continue turning until I slow down and stop… Certain things I just can’t discuss in a lucid way, or I am too lazy to do it. Do you feel the same way that none of those “isms” we often talk about is invented by us? When we try to speak about them, given how almost totally isolated this literary scene is from the rest of the world and how little information we have managed to scrape together, maybe it is better not to say anything at all. I don’t mean to sound discouraging, but take Rilke, for example. Thus far what we have read of his poetry is but a tiny portion of his oeuvre. This is what I think about our present situation: inspired by a superficial understanding, we utter sounds based on our dispositions. It is likely that the surrealism we set out to create may not be surrealism at all. Epoch Poetry Quarterly (October 1959): 36, translated by Michelle Yeh.

13. Random Talk on New Poetry No. 4: Whither It Goes? ya n xi

P

oets of the Creation Society emulated such romantic greats as Byron and Goethe. Poets of the Crescent Society reproduced English sonnets in regular forms. Well versed in classical Chinese literature and masterful in their use of the Chinese language, they were able to assimilate and negotiate with those resources and accomplish a great deal. Zhu Ziqing [1898–1948] and Xu Zhimo [1897–1931] boasted an abundance of extremely well-crafted lines, and they also wrote superb prose. Therefore, even though they searched for the new, they did

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not end up sounding ridiculous. Li Jinfa inherited European symbolism and was bent on the strange and the novel in order to compete with Crescent poetry, which was characterized by regular form and elegant beauty. Yet he was ill prepared, and the result was obscurity and incomprehensibility. True, Li’s poetry represents change; but change does not necessarily mean progress. Just as Song dynasty poetry represents change vis-à-vis Tang poetry, but is not necessarily better. Li Jinfa wrote a few good poems, but they don’t represent the proper style. Why is it, then, that they appeal to young aspiring poets? The main reason is that this type of poetry hides its affectation easily and blurs the distinction between good and bad poems. In the past, one spent half a lifetime in search of half a line, but one still might not become a fine poet. Nowadays, someone who can’t even write decent prose can in a few years call himself a teacher of poetry and act as if he were a master. It is no different from being awarded an advanced degree and taking a shortcut to the poetry scene. When it comes to style, we have lost all standards for writing, editing, and reading poetry, or the fine distinction between the marvelous and the ridiculous. What is incoherent is considered coherent; what is coherent is incoherent. Today, the freedom with which poets write with total disregard for grammar is reaching a new height. Those who write symbolist poetry nowadays have a modicum of talent, but the problem lies in their practice and mode of expression. It is also a challenge to capture highly suggestive beauty beyond this world. Those who lack skills produce either incomprehensible or shocking metaphors; trying to decipher them is a huge waste of time. But even if one manages to decipher them, they do not necessarily yield much meaning. For example, dusk is described as “the suspicious zone between afternoon and night”; the past of a deceased person is “a bronze-colored, rectangular story”; a running car is compared to “a hermit crab carrying a borrowed shell.” Even if we consider these riddles poetry, they are cleverly manipulative at best. On the one hand, to create an ostentatious air of mystery, poets resort to foreign names of characters and places unfamiliar to Chinese readers. Their poems read like translations. For example, “a city full of the sighs of Aphrodite and Venus” and “one who chooses death between the Seine and reasoning.” They fail to speak to readers, and the poets don’t always know the true meanings of these names. Readers only care about whether or not they experience the expressive and comforting pleasure of the heart. No one has the right to expect them to know that a poem is written in the style of a certain school or based on the guidelines of a certain theory. It is like choosing medicine; the patient only cares if it works but not how it is made. When we read the symbolist poems today, few meet the standards for well-crafted language, atmosphere, and sound. Writers have the freedom to write in any way they deem fit, but readers also have the freedom to refuse to read them. The sales of poetry books and poetry journals are dismal; they are merely gifts exchanged between poets for mutual review. Young people today read very little classical Chinese poetry, and few can read world poetry in

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the original language. What they read are imitations of symbolist poetry and think it’s all there is in the world. It is such an unfortunate misunderstanding and loss. If poetry is not accepted by readers, it’s because it is seriously aberrant. It is the poet, not the reader, who should do some soul-searching. It is also unfortunate that the reader’s intelligence is often underestimated. Poets who think that readers can be educated to gladly accept their poetry are indulging in a fantasy that will never come true. Poetry must come back to the majority of readers; that is the only way to revitalize poetry. If there are wonderful hills and valleys in the poet’s soul, to present them does not depend on words or form. Prosody never restricts great poets or weakens their rich imaginations, while total abandon of prosody never improves mediocre poets. Poetry must be intelligible; it is not a drunkard’s mumbling. Poetry must pass the bar for wordsmithing; it is not a random arrangement of the printer’s lead type. Poetry must have a rhythm one can clap to; it is not prose broken up in to lines. Achieve what is right first, then strive for the marvelous. Achieve what is well-established first, then strive for the new. Feel the pulse of the time with its sorrows and joys. Don’t just try to capture the feelings of a surrealistic personal world. Only then will we have truly good poetry to read. Such is my prayer! Central Daily literary supplement, November 23, 1959, translated by Michelle Yeh.

14. Taiwanese Writers Whose Works Burst with Local Color wang dingjun

T

his past June, during a meeting of the Provincial Assembly, an assemblyman called on the government to give more encouragement to native Taiwanese writers, and on newspapers and magazines to print more of their works. Governor Zhou Zhirou [1899–1986] made an impromptu reply: since Retrocession [in 1945], Taiwanese writers have made an exceptional showing and won the respect of their compatriots in their hometowns. He cited three names as evidence: Lin Haiyin, Shi Cuifeng [b. 1925], and Liao Qingxiu. It has been more than a decade since the return of Taiwan to China. The growth of the arts in this new land should attract wide interest. Everyone knows that during the Japanese occupation, young people in Taiwan had to learn Japanese, so those who loved literature could only use Japanese to write. If these writers can effectively use the national language not only for conversation and

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the original language. What they read are imitations of symbolist poetry and think it’s all there is in the world. It is such an unfortunate misunderstanding and loss. If poetry is not accepted by readers, it’s because it is seriously aberrant. It is the poet, not the reader, who should do some soul-searching. It is also unfortunate that the reader’s intelligence is often underestimated. Poets who think that readers can be educated to gladly accept their poetry are indulging in a fantasy that will never come true. Poetry must come back to the majority of readers; that is the only way to revitalize poetry. If there are wonderful hills and valleys in the poet’s soul, to present them does not depend on words or form. Prosody never restricts great poets or weakens their rich imaginations, while total abandon of prosody never improves mediocre poets. Poetry must be intelligible; it is not a drunkard’s mumbling. Poetry must pass the bar for wordsmithing; it is not a random arrangement of the printer’s lead type. Poetry must have a rhythm one can clap to; it is not prose broken up in to lines. Achieve what is right first, then strive for the marvelous. Achieve what is well-established first, then strive for the new. Feel the pulse of the time with its sorrows and joys. Don’t just try to capture the feelings of a surrealistic personal world. Only then will we have truly good poetry to read. Such is my prayer! Central Daily literary supplement, November 23, 1959, translated by Michelle Yeh.

14. Taiwanese Writers Whose Works Burst with Local Color wang dingjun

T

his past June, during a meeting of the Provincial Assembly, an assemblyman called on the government to give more encouragement to native Taiwanese writers, and on newspapers and magazines to print more of their works. Governor Zhou Zhirou [1899–1986] made an impromptu reply: since Retrocession [in 1945], Taiwanese writers have made an exceptional showing and won the respect of their compatriots in their hometowns. He cited three names as evidence: Lin Haiyin, Shi Cuifeng [b. 1925], and Liao Qingxiu. It has been more than a decade since the return of Taiwan to China. The growth of the arts in this new land should attract wide interest. Everyone knows that during the Japanese occupation, young people in Taiwan had to learn Japanese, so those who loved literature could only use Japanese to write. If these writers can effectively use the national language not only for conversation and

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correspondence but also for literary creation—for description, expression, and narration, not only to write elegant and unpretentious prose but also to employ more complex and exacting forms for organizing and representing life, then they will have finally been freed from the bondage of Japanese and won the ultimate victory. We should also see the youth who began schooling after Retrocession and who has developed an affinity for the arts as a triumphant warrior. With such warriors on our side, Taiwan will return to the cultural territory of the motherland. These literary figures have strengthened our love for Formosa and increased our delight as readers of literature. I am not yet able to give a complete report on how many native Taiwanese writers there actually are. This article is only written, to the best of my knowledge, to provide some information to interested individuals. Moreover, I hope that this incomplete report will raise concern in literary circles. The list of names that I provide here includes: Zhong Lihe, Shi Cuifeng [b. 1925], Liao Qingxiu, Xu Bingcheng, Zhong Zhaozheng, Chen Huoquan [1908–1999], Zheng Qingwen [b. 1932], Zheng Qingmao [b. 1933], Lin Wenyue [b. 1933], Li Rongchun, Lin Zhonglong [b. 1930], and He Ruixiong. I leave out Lin Haiyin, because she went with her parents to the mainland as a child and studied and worked there until Retrocession. Her achievement is a separate topic. Literary Star 5 (December 1959): 2–26, translated by Darryl Sterk.

15. Notes of a Poet ya xi a n . . . In China, Xu Zhimo, Zhu Xiang [1904–1933], Zong Baihua [1897–1986], Li Jinfa, Dai Wangshu, Feng Wenbing (Fei Ming [1901–1967]), and so on formed a stream of pure poetry. It was hampered and gradually sank into chaos, however, after the League of Left-Wing Writers was founded in Wuhan. Many poets were swept off their feet by the political wind. They became obsessed and tried to use thinly poetic verses to strike the revolutionary gong. They lauded themselves as a proletarian “wild flower and arrow” (Hu Feng), “son of a rural village” (Qing Bo), “political worker wearing a blue-rimmed badge” (Zou Difan [1917–1995]), composer of “songs of concrete” (Zang Kejia [1905–2004]), and man who “lights a torch for a vaguely defined ideal” (Ai Qing [1910–1996]). . . . A poet who wastes the best years of his life on political lyrics willingly pulls off the laurel crown he has been wearing and reduces himself to a “bugle of socialism.” Tell me, what can be more pathetic than this? . . .

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correspondence but also for literary creation—for description, expression, and narration, not only to write elegant and unpretentious prose but also to employ more complex and exacting forms for organizing and representing life, then they will have finally been freed from the bondage of Japanese and won the ultimate victory. We should also see the youth who began schooling after Retrocession and who has developed an affinity for the arts as a triumphant warrior. With such warriors on our side, Taiwan will return to the cultural territory of the motherland. These literary figures have strengthened our love for Formosa and increased our delight as readers of literature. I am not yet able to give a complete report on how many native Taiwanese writers there actually are. This article is only written, to the best of my knowledge, to provide some information to interested individuals. Moreover, I hope that this incomplete report will raise concern in literary circles. The list of names that I provide here includes: Zhong Lihe, Shi Cuifeng [b. 1925], Liao Qingxiu, Xu Bingcheng, Zhong Zhaozheng, Chen Huoquan [1908–1999], Zheng Qingwen [b. 1932], Zheng Qingmao [b. 1933], Lin Wenyue [b. 1933], Li Rongchun, Lin Zhonglong [b. 1930], and He Ruixiong. I leave out Lin Haiyin, because she went with her parents to the mainland as a child and studied and worked there until Retrocession. Her achievement is a separate topic. Literary Star 5 (December 1959): 2–26, translated by Darryl Sterk.

15. Notes of a Poet ya xi a n . . . In China, Xu Zhimo, Zhu Xiang [1904–1933], Zong Baihua [1897–1986], Li Jinfa, Dai Wangshu, Feng Wenbing (Fei Ming [1901–1967]), and so on formed a stream of pure poetry. It was hampered and gradually sank into chaos, however, after the League of Left-Wing Writers was founded in Wuhan. Many poets were swept off their feet by the political wind. They became obsessed and tried to use thinly poetic verses to strike the revolutionary gong. They lauded themselves as a proletarian “wild flower and arrow” (Hu Feng), “son of a rural village” (Qing Bo), “political worker wearing a blue-rimmed badge” (Zou Difan [1917–1995]), composer of “songs of concrete” (Zang Kejia [1905–2004]), and man who “lights a torch for a vaguely defined ideal” (Ai Qing [1910–1996]). . . . A poet who wastes the best years of his life on political lyrics willingly pulls off the laurel crown he has been wearing and reduces himself to a “bugle of socialism.” Tell me, what can be more pathetic than this? . . .

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The important difference between poetry and prose lies in substance. For example, prose poetry is not a cocktail of prose and poetry; it is poetry written in prose. In essence it is still poetry. Just like a poem in a dramatic mode, which is a dramatic poem and not a drama in verse. On the other hand, prose is an eternal impediment to poetry, while poetry is an aid to prose. A piece of prose with poetic qualities appeals to us as beautiful, but a poem that exudes a prosaic air is weak and even renders a fatal blow. . . . The so-called popularization is a shallow formula. It is unnecessary for poets to be confused on this issue. There is no need to worry too much about readers. Just keep going forward and they will catch up with you. If they can’t catch up today, they will tomorrow. Conservatives often underestimate readers. They don’t understand that part of the pleasure of reading poetry derives from the “matching game.” But we cannot imagine a writer falling behind his readers! There is no such thing as a poet of the people. Take Walt Whitman as an example. Many say he was a spokesman for the people; actually he never spoke to them. Yes, he sang for the people, but not to them. During his lifetime, America could not understand his songs, which are hard to memorize and understand. He was not a popular poet. . . . Manufacturers of fake poetry often disguise themselves, decorate themselves, deceive themselves, and ultimately humiliate themselves by random juxtapositions of words and purposely destroying the normal relations between words and their references. It is a form of laziness and an escape from contemplation, quest, and mental work, a playful attitude that mocks poetry of a solemn nature, an immoral person in art. No matter how strange a poet’s spiritual wandering is, how fantastic his emotional adventure, how oblique his style, or how obscure his art, so long as he completes a poem with robust and pure feelings toward poetry (even if they may be slight) and through the necessary process of representation, it is impossible that one cannot relate to his poem, unless he uses clever words to play a rhetorical game, which is what I call fake poetry. Fake poetry often covers itself with a coat of obscurity, but obscurity is not the exclusive attribute of fake poetry. An obscure poem is often a good poem, such as Paul Valéry’s “Le cimetière marin” (“Marine Cemetery”) and some of T.  S. Eliot’s poems. Obscurity is not atrophy, laziness, or coyness on the part of the poet during the creation process. Nor is it rawness as a result of a murky feeling or sleepiness. Nor is it a rushed outcome under pressure. Obscurity is not a choice. To put it differently, obscurity is the necessary expression derived from the poet’s desire for intense artistic effect. . . . In summary, fake poetry is pretentious posturing, a paupers’ graveyard for empty words. It has no feeling. No matter how much the reader uses his or her

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imagination to fill it in, to feed the flame, or to activate it with the catalyst of all his or her experience, it is still a pile of verbal garbage. . . . This is the key we hold. From a diachronic, historical perspective, we must rid ourselves of the shackles of traditional culture and boldly walk out of the old mansion to face reality and accept its challenge. From a synchronic, global perspective, we hope that more and more pilgrims of modern literature and art will march to the West but return to the East! Although the youth in China do not have the freedom that the United States enjoys in building a brand new world (her tradition poses a much smaller impediment than ours), at least we have not yet lost our opportunity. . . . True, at present there are only a few of us, but please listen to the words of George Cram Cook, a leader of the little theater movement in the United States. He says that when he dreams about the great art coming from the Provincetown Players: “An American renaissance of twentieth-century America is not the task of ninety million people, but of one hundred.” Epoch Poetry Quarterly 14/15 (February/May 1960), translated by Michelle Yeh.

16. Introduction to Modern Literature edi tor s

A

t the inauguration of Modern Literature, we offer this succinct introduction as a way to report to readers a few things about our direction in the future. This journal was founded by several young people. One of our motives for doing so was our concern about the future of Chinese literature. A second was that in these last few years we were all fired and driven by our passion for literature. This firing and this drive grew from a trickle to a torrent, until they coalesced into a desire to create, to critique, to promote, and to advocate, which obsessed us day and night with a fever that would not abate. This is why we decided to found Modern Literature. It is our intention that what we publish in Modern Literature will never be lacking in literary quality. This is our highest ideal. We have no intention to waste space debating socially engaged literature versus art for art’s sake, but we do believe that a successful work of art, even if it is not intentionally serving some social purpose, has already met the criterion of social utility. By stages, we plan to translate and to systematically introduce recent schools and trends in Western literature, criticism, and thought by selecting

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imagination to fill it in, to feed the flame, or to activate it with the catalyst of all his or her experience, it is still a pile of verbal garbage. . . . This is the key we hold. From a diachronic, historical perspective, we must rid ourselves of the shackles of traditional culture and boldly walk out of the old mansion to face reality and accept its challenge. From a synchronic, global perspective, we hope that more and more pilgrims of modern literature and art will march to the West but return to the East! Although the youth in China do not have the freedom that the United States enjoys in building a brand new world (her tradition poses a much smaller impediment than ours), at least we have not yet lost our opportunity. . . . True, at present there are only a few of us, but please listen to the words of George Cram Cook, a leader of the little theater movement in the United States. He says that when he dreams about the great art coming from the Provincetown Players: “An American renaissance of twentieth-century America is not the task of ninety million people, but of one hundred.” Epoch Poetry Quarterly 14/15 (February/May 1960), translated by Michelle Yeh.

16. Introduction to Modern Literature edi tor s

A

t the inauguration of Modern Literature, we offer this succinct introduction as a way to report to readers a few things about our direction in the future. This journal was founded by several young people. One of our motives for doing so was our concern about the future of Chinese literature. A second was that in these last few years we were all fired and driven by our passion for literature. This firing and this drive grew from a trickle to a torrent, until they coalesced into a desire to create, to critique, to promote, and to advocate, which obsessed us day and night with a fever that would not abate. This is why we decided to found Modern Literature. It is our intention that what we publish in Modern Literature will never be lacking in literary quality. This is our highest ideal. We have no intention to waste space debating socially engaged literature versus art for art’s sake, but we do believe that a successful work of art, even if it is not intentionally serving some social purpose, has already met the criterion of social utility. By stages, we plan to translate and to systematically introduce recent schools and trends in Western literature, criticism, and thought by selecting

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representative examples of each. To do so is not to favor foreign art, but to use it as a frame of reference on which to base our own progress. We recognize the importance of literary criticism for the future of Chinese literature. Therefore, from time to time, depending on the circumstances, we will invite scholars and specialists to discuss, critique, and introduce outstanding works by our own writers. From its beginnings to the present, China’s new literature has a history of several decades already, but it has always existed in a haphazard, laissez-faire environment. Besides the objective and subjective factors, the situation mainly has to do with the fact that systematic modern literary criticism has failed to appear. We are fully cognizant of the difficulty of the task, but we are willing to try, even to the point of risking presumptuousness. We have no desire to live in the paralyzed mind-set of the good old days. We must acknowledge our backwardness; in the realm of new literature, even though it is hardly an empty space, it is at least a desolate scene. If the rich legacy of our ancestors cannot be put to good use, then it becomes an obstacle to progress. We have no intention to be regarded as unfilial offspring, nor are we willing to invoke the name of Cao Xueqin just in order to raise the status of Chinese fiction. In short, we must rely on our own hard work. We feel that the artistic forms and styles of the past are no longer sufficient to represent our artistic feelings as modern people. Therefore, we have decided to experiment, explore, and create new artistic forms and styles. Perhaps we will fail, but that will not matter, because the literary workers who come after us may find success because of the lessons learned from our failures. Mr. Hu Shi was the first to advocate vernacular prose and New Poetry, but we have no right to demand that what Mr. Hu wrote should necessarily be the best vernacular prose and the best New Poetry. In the history of Chinese culture, Mr. Hu, with his brilliant work, has historic value as a pioneer. Similarly, we hope that our experiments and our effort will also be recognized by history. We respect tradition, but we do not need to imitate it or fiercely abolish it. However, by necessity we must carry out some “constructive destruction.” In the noisy art world, where truth is muddled and right is not distinguished from wrong, we will rely on composure, wisdom, open-mindedness, and humility as guides for our editorial colleagues and writers. Since we will publish critical essays, naturally we will enjoy receiving criticisms and suggestions. For our country, we hold an ardent love that traditional Chinese intellectuals have always held, perhaps even more than they did. We take pride in being Chinese, even though our country is at this moment facing a crisis of survival. But our pride is tempered with deep feelings of self-reproach. Let us—Chinese intellectuals—spur ourselves forward! Modern Literature 1 (March 1960): 2, translated by Robert E. Hegel.

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17. One Year of Modern Literature edi tor s . . . It has been a full year since Modern Literature was founded. We must leave it to our readers to decide how far we have reached in laying out paving stones toward the temple of the future. But regardless of our accomplishments, we recognize that this work is significant and valuable in and of itself. It is like a furnace; the dozen or so of us huddle around it for warmth when the gray building of the School of Humanities [at National Taiwan University (NTU)] feels too cold. In order to maintain the blaze in the furnace, we throw into it anything combustible that we can find—books from the library, foreign magazines, paper money, the manuscript paper we write on late at night, and those hard-to-get subscription orders. Naturally, some people laugh at us, saying that a periodical like this, which so few people read, is a total waste of energy. Too bad they don’t understand our outlook on life, or maybe their outlook and ours are just mutually incomprehensible. From our perspective, what the modern world lacks most is the spirit of romanticism. Nearly every modern person looks down on sentimentalism; men in particular are ashamed of it. Yet, without anyone noticing, romanticism has been murdered. Other than the fact that both center on emotion, romanticism and sentimentalism are two markedly dissimilar approaches. They are like two children of the same mother who have totally different personalities: the older brother is a hero of passion, while the younger brother is sentimental, like Jia Baoyu [protagonist in Story of the Stone]. Modern people, from their unfeeling, worldly perspective, treat both brothers coldly, making no distinction between them. No wonder this world no longer retains such old values as courage, enthusiasm, and hatred. Romanticism glorifies strength, both physical and mental. Romanticism does not value outcomes and consequences of reality; outcomes and consequences are worshipped by those with a mechanistic view, which obliterates humanity. Romanticism holds dear the basic nature and dignity of humanity. It is the starting point of Modern Literature. Even if it hangs in newsstands unnoticed by passersby, this does not matter. Even if what hangs beside it is all pornography, it can feel as secure as a gentleman does, even when squeezed in between scalpers selling tickets. We want to take this opportunity to discuss several questions about the journal itself. What kinds of manuscripts do we need? Must they be limited to modernist writing? This depends on how you interpret modernism. We recognize that modernism and other theories are matters of form and should not be considered matters of content. Should an author depict today’s society by adhering to Flaubert’s rules of realism, we also recognize him or her as a

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modernist. As for those guests with long hair and long beards like Shakespeare (as long as they are not ghosts), we also welcome them without hesitation. Over the course of the past six issues, we have had no shortage of traditional writings. If we have misled readers with the word “modern” in our title, we hope that from this point forward they will understand our intentions. Perhaps, even more simply, might we just treat Modern Literature as a name? However, we must also declare that our interest in formal modernism is unabated. This is the reason why we reserve half of each issue for introducing modern writers. We intend to let our readers see how diverse modernist literature is and how broad its scope; modernism is not simply stream of consciousness in the imagination of Chinese readers. Kafka, whom we have introduced, is most extreme in his rejection of tradition; others such as James Joyce (at least in his short stories) and D. H. Lawrence all have a close relationship to the realism with which people are more familiar. At times, we have unexpectedly come upon works that are not easily clarified. They are included somewhat apologetically, because we must ask readers to adjust the focus of their eyes. They are like hosts who invite readers to their homes to eat: the guests have just walked in from the bright outdoors and so cannot yet discern clearly the decor of the room. But after their eyes have adjusted, they discover that many fresh and tasty dishes are arrayed on the table! Consequently, we cannot tolerate some people’s claim that China’s formal experiments with modernism are a form of blind worship of the foreign. Are Chinese people not allowed to create new literary forms? Those who live in nests in trees chide us, saying: “Isn’t it nice to live in trees? Why do you build houses on the ground?” In their view, Chinese people ought not to write psychological fiction, symbolist fiction, or fantasy, ought not to experiment with surrealism or accept existentialism. Like a father, they want to limit the activities of their children: no playing ball, no racing, no singing, no riding bikes, no listening to the radio—all for one reason: these are all foreign entertainments. Dear Readers, if you happen to see a father of this sort, you had better give him some advice. We urge young writers to experiment honestly with new forms. Honesty means that the form must be one with the content. We know that in the short run it will be impossible to produce perfect Chinese modernist works, but given our experience over the past year, we believe that we will be able to wash a few grains of gold out of the sand. If readers bring an unbiased attitude and a keen sensibility, they will discover in any piece of fiction or any poem in this journal some element of precious value. We hope that young writers will have a true understanding of human life and of the times, but what they need most is an original outlook, because we do not wish to see them hiding under the cloak of T. S. Eliot, bewailing the cold in the wilderness. Who knows, maybe a plant has sprouted in the crack in a rock? Modern Literature (March 1961): 4–6, translated by Robert E. Hegel.

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18. Preface to Selected Poems of the 1960s zha ng mo, lu o fu, a nd ya xian

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he emergent modern art is a glimpse into a cracked mirror wherein people confront their pale, twisted selves and are overcome with fright. When they realize that the image in the mirror is not real but imaginary, out of anger and sadness they shatter the mirror and set out to find a truer, more complete self cast in another mirror. The process of the creation of modern art takes the form of this tragic circle. From imagism to cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and on down to existentialism, each movement and school of thought shatters one fantasy, only to construct a new one all over again, destroys one sense of self in search of a new one, in order to establish a new relationship between humanity and nature, between humanity and history. The various artistic movements and schools of thought are born out of intuition, not reason. Furthermore, the word “emergent” does not connote the satisfaction of maturity or the joy of harvesting. One may say that it is a new awakening of consciousness and new experimentation of expression. Since every school of modernism harbors the wish to lead humanity to a world of absolutes, wherein we realize that we are all alone in fantasy without any means of escape, regardless of methodology or aesthetic principles, they always embody a philosophical conundrum between affirmation and negation. However, this conundrum is certainly not the sort that some people anxiously describe as “lacking a philosophical foundation”—it preexists thought or at the very least comes into being simultaneously with thought. . . . Chinese poets of the 1960s who are in the middle of such a conundrum and conflict have not only accepted, one by one, all the schools and strands of modernism from Europe and America, but also have subtly demonstrated an even greater ambition to break down all obstacles and explore new territory. . . . Today, when the experimental phase of modernism is coming to an end, the responsibility of an avant-garde writer lies not just in negative iconoclasm but also in creating a new modern spirit and order. The humanist art and literature of the Renaissance has maintained its status, despite many subsequent revolutions, including impressionism and postimpressionism. Although we have critiqued it, we have had a hard time toppling it. It remains strong, because it meets the needs of a specific class and has power over a certain sphere of society. Nevertheless, outside of this particular social group, there are even more people who truly feel that traditional art can no longer satisfy them and never will again. Even though this is the case, we still believe that classicism and modernism can coexist in the same society, especially in China, with both its agricultural and industrial features.

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Theorizing the essence of modernism—its thought, spirit, forms, techniques, and other complex concerns—has been puzzling not only to orthodox and unorthodox critics and readers but also to poets themselves in the past few years. Some examples of their concerns include the following questions: While the writer might intentionally create fragmented images, how do readers connect them by association? Once the writer has transmitted a sense experience, how can the writer make readers relive it while enjoying the poem? At times it is necessary, due to the needs of expression, for the writer to be vague or cryptic, but how can the writer prevent readers from questioning this and help them understand that it is an artistic effect, to be appreciated as such? In practice, is it possible for the writer to start off from the subconscious and use the technique of automatic writing to express the interior world of the ego? Frequently, while attempting to express a unique mental fantasy, writers discover that the words they initially turn to are not reliable vehicles of expression. When this happens, what approach should they use to handle grammar, structure, and even diction to fulfill their artistic needs and gain the reader’s sympathy and recognition at the same time? Will the spatial effects that concrete poetry seeks stand the test of aesthetics, or is it not the case that the purity of poetry is compromised when two different mediums are used in the same space? Finally, perhaps the greatest issue of concern to poets and readers is whether or not a modern poem should be devoted to subject matter or meaning. This concern leads directly to another universal issue concerning the popularization of poetry. To prevent any misunderstanding, the term “popularization” is not synonymous with the familiar term “vulgarization.” Using “vulgarization” to achieve “popularization” is a trick used by the CCP to wage a cultural war. It not only sullies art but also, in essence, assassinates art. In the final analysis, The Mountain Songs of Ma Fantuo is just mountain songs1; they are not poetry. One can approach the issue of popularization from two perspectives: the function of language as a medium and the search for the meaning of modern poetry. 1. Language is the only instrument of expression for poetry. As an artistic vehicle, words are incomparable to line and color in painting, sound and rhythm in music, position and gesture in dance. To achieve intuitive enjoyment, these arts appeal directly to the five senses. Poetry, however, must rely on the referential function of words to indirectly convey the shifting images in the poet’s mind. Therefore, in order to glean the hidden meanings behind the words, readers must think deeply with an enlightened intelligence. Words themselves are not poetry, not even the necessary cause of poetry. Chinese characters have positive and negative features. On the positive side, Chinese characters have a great capacity for allusion and extension. Because each character is a single syllable, characters can easily be arranged in short sequences. On the negative side, Chinese characters can only convey a narrow range of ideas; too few of them can

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be used in the modern era. Archaic characters are unusable today, yet very few new characters have been introduced from abroad. Naturally, it is hard to use an extremely limited instrument to express extremely complicated concepts. Under these conditions, modern Chinese poets must apply the positive qualities of Chinese characters to bold experimentation, even to the destruction of traditional grammar to build a new rhetoric. They must use pictures to replace words and foreign words to replace Chinese characters, in order to expand the referential power and spatial effects of poetry. In fact, Anglo-European poets encounter the same problems; e. e. Cummings [1894–1962] in the United States and Guillaume Apollinaire [1880–1918] in France have both worked tirelessly to revolutionize language. Paul Verlaine once said, “It is dangerous to conform to grammatical rules. When you break my heart with an enigmatic smile, I have already leaped across grammar.” The true meaning of the leap lies in creating new functions and capabilities of words. . . . 2. Another obstacle to the popularization of poetry is that readers and poets still understand modern art in different ways. Most readers are familiar with traditional art and literature; they have been trained to look for meaning in a work. “What does this poem mean?” they are prone to ask. And they conclude, “I don’t understand it, so I am against it.” For most readers, the word “meaning” is a practical function, a philosophical revelation, a moral edification, or emotional catharsis. Readers who look at art in such a rudimentary way overlook the fact that the meaning in art is different from the meaning of art. The meaning in art is supplementary, practical, or transformed from another branch of knowledge. The meaning of art is subjective, abstract, independent, and derived from the writer’s intuitive expressions. The difference between these two perspectives marks the divide between traditional art and modern art. If readers keep looking for meaning in poetry and insist that a poem must have a subject, they are lost and can never find the way. . . .

If one insists on function in modern poetry, we will try our best to provide a couple of explanations. First, the intuitive perception of art helps us gain a deeper understanding of the essence of humanity and nature. The affectivity of poetry inspires self-consciousnesses. Second, the poet’s introspection and imagination connect otherwise desultory experiences and allow readers to achieve a more complete recognition of the meaning of the world. Both contributions of modern poetry help humanity to adapt to modern life in new ways. When it comes to the essence of the art of modern poetry, Chinese poets have achieved remarkable results under the influence of Anglo-European modernism and the historical conditions of our time after years of assiduous investigation, experimentation, and revision. We strongly believe that as long as critics and literary historians understand the importance of free will and the purity of poetry, they

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will seriously consider and carefully assess the poet’s efforts to destroy the old and create the new. It is a shame, however, that today there is a dearth of this type of critic, one who is able to recognize the value of modern art. Another reason is that we have been unable to systematically organize the best works over the years to give critics the whole picture. In Free China there have appeared several poetry collections. We will not argue about their artistic value, but it is a fact that, in terms of representing the modern spirit, they are insufficient and unsophisticated. The majority of the twenty-six poets selected in this anthology are representative of the recent development of modern Chinese poetry. At the very least, the works represent the evolution from symbolism to various phases of modernism. The so-called “sixties” not only marks a chronological perspective but also expresses a modern, revolutionary consciousness that has surpassed tradition. From start to finish, the editors were acutely aware of their responsibility. During the months of rigorous selection and assiduous editing, we endured the pain of perseverance and rejection. At the end of the process, we are happy to express our great respect to all the poets for their cooperation. We also sincerely look forward to all criticism and encouragement. Finally, we would like to express our gratitude to the painter Feng Zhongrui [b. 1934] for the illustrations and the cover design. Selected Poetry of the 1960s, ed. Zhang Mo, Luo Fu, and Ya Xian (Gaoxiong: Daye Bookstore, 1961), I–VI, translated by Hayes Moore.

note 1.

Ma Fantuo is the pen name of Yuan Guangmei (1916–1982, also Yuan Shuibo), best known for his satirical pieces written in 1944–1948 and collected in The Mountain Songs of Ma Fantuo, published in 1950–1951. The name Ma Fantuo is a homophone with the phrase “too bothersome.”

19. On Yu Guangzhong’s Sirius the Dog Star lu o fu . . . Some people believe that portions of Sirius the Dog Star exhibit surrealist tendencies. This is not really the case. There may be a few lines that are a bit abstract, and the occasional lack of links between images, but this change in technique is in no way a tendency in the author’s basic spirit. From any one of the author’s works, we discover that he expresses the world of the conscious mind, which is not only entirely unrelated to the world of the unconscious mind of surrealism,

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will seriously consider and carefully assess the poet’s efforts to destroy the old and create the new. It is a shame, however, that today there is a dearth of this type of critic, one who is able to recognize the value of modern art. Another reason is that we have been unable to systematically organize the best works over the years to give critics the whole picture. In Free China there have appeared several poetry collections. We will not argue about their artistic value, but it is a fact that, in terms of representing the modern spirit, they are insufficient and unsophisticated. The majority of the twenty-six poets selected in this anthology are representative of the recent development of modern Chinese poetry. At the very least, the works represent the evolution from symbolism to various phases of modernism. The so-called “sixties” not only marks a chronological perspective but also expresses a modern, revolutionary consciousness that has surpassed tradition. From start to finish, the editors were acutely aware of their responsibility. During the months of rigorous selection and assiduous editing, we endured the pain of perseverance and rejection. At the end of the process, we are happy to express our great respect to all the poets for their cooperation. We also sincerely look forward to all criticism and encouragement. Finally, we would like to express our gratitude to the painter Feng Zhongrui [b. 1934] for the illustrations and the cover design. Selected Poetry of the 1960s, ed. Zhang Mo, Luo Fu, and Ya Xian (Gaoxiong: Daye Bookstore, 1961), I–VI, translated by Hayes Moore.

note 1.

Ma Fantuo is the pen name of Yuan Guangmei (1916–1982, also Yuan Shuibo), best known for his satirical pieces written in 1944–1948 and collected in The Mountain Songs of Ma Fantuo, published in 1950–1951. The name Ma Fantuo is a homophone with the phrase “too bothersome.”

19. On Yu Guangzhong’s Sirius the Dog Star lu o fu . . . Some people believe that portions of Sirius the Dog Star exhibit surrealist tendencies. This is not really the case. There may be a few lines that are a bit abstract, and the occasional lack of links between images, but this change in technique is in no way a tendency in the author’s basic spirit. From any one of the author’s works, we discover that he expresses the world of the conscious mind, which is not only entirely unrelated to the world of the unconscious mind of surrealism,

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but it can never become its descendant. Clearly, the author is incapable of anything Dadaistic. Dadaism holds that the human mind possesses two worlds. What the traditional poet expresses is the world that is clear and easily recognizable, while the Dadaist prefers to explore the world that is more hidden, fluid, free, abstract, and impossible to recognize. Jean Cocteau, the veteran Dadaist, said: “The world of the subconscious is chaotic, unorganized, and beyond organization. In order to create a facsimile of this irrational world, the poet invariably cannot do so through the polish and order provided by analytic reasoning, but must employ rapid automatic language and convey this experience without variation from its very complexity.” This illogical notion, which is incomprehensible to readers, is at odds with Yu Guangzhong’s theory of art and artistic methodology, especially since it cannot apply to an interpretation of Sirius the Dog Star. It is safer to say that the author has converted to the rational and intellectual spirit of classicism, while somewhat favoring the ethereal thinking of symbolism without being entirely free from romantic lyricism. Yet, in looking at the author’s recent works, we also see that he is influenced by the contradictions and perplexities in the worldview of the average person in today’s scientific, industrial, and materialistic society. The authoritative anthology Selected Poetry of the Sixties introduces the author and appraises his works in the following fashion: “He regularly adopts an intellectual tone to sing with sentimental nostalgia about the decline of the glories of ancient China in the midst of the industrial smog of the twentieth century. At the same time he can’t help but glorify and rhapsodize about the magical force of machine and science, as well as astronomical phenomena. As such, his most important and outstanding poems are born of feelings of repression and disillusionment experienced by modern humanity on account of the interplay between external disturbances and inner chaos.” Modern Literature 9 (July 1961): 191–216, translated by John Balcom.

20. Goodbye, Nihilism! yu gua ngz hong . . . I am grateful that Mr. Luo Fu has taken notice of my Sirius the Dog Star and that he has undertaken the unprecedented and arduous task of writing a serious critical appraisal. Prior to the publication of Sirius the Dog Star, this kind of serious and comprehensive criticism was lacking. However, Mr. Luo Fu is hampered by a number of narrow theories of modernism and thereby reveals the true crises of modern poetry.

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but it can never become its descendant. Clearly, the author is incapable of anything Dadaistic. Dadaism holds that the human mind possesses two worlds. What the traditional poet expresses is the world that is clear and easily recognizable, while the Dadaist prefers to explore the world that is more hidden, fluid, free, abstract, and impossible to recognize. Jean Cocteau, the veteran Dadaist, said: “The world of the subconscious is chaotic, unorganized, and beyond organization. In order to create a facsimile of this irrational world, the poet invariably cannot do so through the polish and order provided by analytic reasoning, but must employ rapid automatic language and convey this experience without variation from its very complexity.” This illogical notion, which is incomprehensible to readers, is at odds with Yu Guangzhong’s theory of art and artistic methodology, especially since it cannot apply to an interpretation of Sirius the Dog Star. It is safer to say that the author has converted to the rational and intellectual spirit of classicism, while somewhat favoring the ethereal thinking of symbolism without being entirely free from romantic lyricism. Yet, in looking at the author’s recent works, we also see that he is influenced by the contradictions and perplexities in the worldview of the average person in today’s scientific, industrial, and materialistic society. The authoritative anthology Selected Poetry of the Sixties introduces the author and appraises his works in the following fashion: “He regularly adopts an intellectual tone to sing with sentimental nostalgia about the decline of the glories of ancient China in the midst of the industrial smog of the twentieth century. At the same time he can’t help but glorify and rhapsodize about the magical force of machine and science, as well as astronomical phenomena. As such, his most important and outstanding poems are born of feelings of repression and disillusionment experienced by modern humanity on account of the interplay between external disturbances and inner chaos.” Modern Literature 9 (July 1961): 191–216, translated by John Balcom.

20. Goodbye, Nihilism! yu gua ngz hong . . . I am grateful that Mr. Luo Fu has taken notice of my Sirius the Dog Star and that he has undertaken the unprecedented and arduous task of writing a serious critical appraisal. Prior to the publication of Sirius the Dog Star, this kind of serious and comprehensive criticism was lacking. However, Mr. Luo Fu is hampered by a number of narrow theories of modernism and thereby reveals the true crises of modern poetry.

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The first crisis is nihilism. In this decadent atmosphere, God, morality, society, and cultural tradition have been denied in toto, and finally even the very soul of the poet has been denied. This wind of nihilism has blown away all inherent values and has been entirely incapable (or unwilling) to establish new values. Regardless of what philosophical theory one uses to make a case, no literature or culture can be based on denial. These worshippers of nihilism live in an uncertain present. They deny the past, because the past is just the dregs of culture or shameful tradition; they deny the future, because they are without hope. This type of existence is entirely without continuity. Perhaps they have their own God, which is sex, and Freud is the Saint Peter or even the Jesus of their religion. Modern literature is antiromantic. Romanticism eulogizes the soul and naturally eulogizes spiritual love. Modern literature wishes to banish the soul and sing of the body, or at the very least deny the former while acknowledging the truth of the latter. For example, modern poets would not dare touch on the subject of spiritual love; instead, they only dare treat physical acts limited to a time and place. If a human being is merely a lump of flesh with no soul to function as salt, then that lump of flesh will soon rot. At this point, it is not my purpose to attack Mr. Ya Xian, because I believe he is honest. Those virgin male writers who have not yet spread their pollen but who frequently perform pantomimes of sex, and who even want to raise their underpants on the flagpole of art or anti-art, are just too puerile. Actually, these worshippers of nihilism have no need to write poetry, because this inevitably demonstrates that they are still engaged in activity and cannot let go of culture. If poetry neither reflects life nor expresses the self, then what does it convey? If poetry seeks to reflect life and express the self, yet if life is without meaning and the self unknowable, then isn’t poetry a waste of time? Mr. Luo Fu’s theory is contradictory. On the one hand, he says that human beings are empty, insignificant, and unrecognizable, while on the other hand, he criticizes the author of Sirius the Dog Star for overlooking Zhou Mengdie’s [b. 1921] excavations of character and artistic thought. If human beings are meaningless, why should we haggle over character and thought? Mr. Luo Fu goes on to say: “Zhou Mengdie is human, he lives, he writes poetry. His wisdom, like ours, is equally radiant. His rebellious spirit for breaking down the barriers of tradition, like ours, is equally rejected by the academic school.” I am startled by Mr. Luo Fu’s use of wisdom, which is a traditional and idealistic term. And radiant wisdom? Is this a romantic or existentialist term? Furthermore, to say that Mr. Zhou possesses a rebellious spirit for breaking through tradition is contrary to fact. Mr. Zhou possesses a sense of morality and lofty sentiments. His religious faith is even more evident in his poetry. These are all the chief characteristics of Mr. Zhou Mengdie’s spiritual world; moreover, what is most marvelous is that these are precisely the qualities that make the author of The Kingdom of Solitude a happier and more popular poet. . . .

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Mr. Luo Fu approves of images that are isolated and fragmented. Therefore, he advocates Dadaism and surrealism and as such must necessarily judge Sirius the Dog Star unsuccessful, because it expresses the world of the conscious mind rather than the world of the unconscious mind. When a poet writes a poem and wants to have it published, obviously his motive is to have someone else read it and for it to strike a sympathetic chord. The so-called world of the unconscious mind is nothing but a private dream world. It is difficult to arouse sympathy for a world that is not shared, and the transmission of this isolated world is made even more difficult through the use of the technique of automatic writing. This has made surrealism a problematic “ism” in modern poetry. Mr. Huang Yong has already made this point abundantly clear, and Mr. Luo Fu, who copies Mr. Huang, still stubbornly clings to the tail of surrealism and continues to martyr himself for the cause of this trend. His recent work titled “Sleeping Lotus” contains these lines: Perhaps this is the very first petal, in the morning light Someone shoulders a row of white teeth and walks toward the graveyard. Giving it rein to take shape, that lovely unease Giving the dead rein to dye the clothes white.

Naturally, this sort of poem lacks the deficiencies of the tidiness and precision of Sirius the Dog Star. For me personally, there is nothing to feel in these lines. I cannot grasp the substance behind them. Admittedly, modern poetry is not written for the masses, but at least it ought to satisfy a few select souls of the same ilk. In all honesty, I can say that I, who have some experience in reading, translating, writing, editing, teaching, and critiquing poetry, find many sections of Death in a Stone Cell far from affective, if not incomprehensible. . . . Finally, I would like to say that most modern poets in Free China have, with speed and alacrity, driven themselves into a dead end and are faced with the necessity for change. If one can only use Dadaism and surrealism as a compass, and to turn one’s back on these is taking the traditional path, and if one must admit that humanity is empty and meaningless before one can write modern poetry and that only broken images belong in modern poetry, then I would be glad to say goodbye to such modern poetry. I don’t necessarily believe that human beings have meaning; much less dare I say that I have grasped the meaning of being human, but I firmly believe that the search for meaning is the most solemn theme of many works. Nihilism, before it even started, denied this, and therefore it can only grope out some momentary experience in a moment of time. I doubt if all the modern poets who shout about nihilism truly believe that humanity has no meaning whatsoever and that the face of humanity is unrecognizable. Perhaps after practicing nihilism they will grow

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tired of it, because a group of human beings cannot practice nihilism actively and enthusiastically for very long. Blue Stars Poetry Page 37 (December 6, 1961): 151–64, translated by John Balcom.

21. Preface to the Japanese edition of The Orphan of Asia wu z huol i u

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he world has turned gray. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that there is nothing to be feared if we grope about in the undercurrent. History always repeats itself. But before it returns, we must study the objective historical facts and take the necessary measures to escape the fate that distorted history creates. Thus, we should always seek instruction from events of the past. The Orphan of Asia was written during World War II. I started it in 1942 and finished it in 1945. It is no more than a piece of what happened in Taiwan under Japanese rule. Although it is no more than historical facts, they are facts that nobody dared to write at the time, and it describes what happened without reserve. First of all, Hu Taiming (Ko Taimei) is a victim of distorted history all of his life. He leaves his hometown in search of a spiritual home, wanders around Japan, and even visits China. But there is no paradise for him, no place to live in peace. He suffers agony upon agony, lives in impenetrably dark depression, and perpetually yearns for ideals that perpetually forsake him. In the end, he encounters the brutal reality of war and all too easily slips into insanity. Alas, Hu Taiming has finally gone mad. How can anyone with a heart stay sane? I was planning to put my pen down here, but I feel something is still lacking, unfinished, when I recall the time I spent writing The Orphan. In 1943, the war was a life-and-death struggle for Japan. As a result, extreme wartime policies were set in place, and naturally the Japanese were divided into those who took advantage of the situation and those who did not. The former sang praises of the war, while the latter were always mocked as traitors. At the same time, a similar distinction existed among the Taiwanese: those who were “imperial subjects” (kōmin) and those who were not. In such a dilemma, complaints, frustration, suspicions, and jealousy arose, and demagogues appeared in droves. Meanwhile Manila was taken. Where on

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tired of it, because a group of human beings cannot practice nihilism actively and enthusiastically for very long. Blue Stars Poetry Page 37 (December 6, 1961): 151–64, translated by John Balcom.

21. Preface to the Japanese edition of The Orphan of Asia wu z huol i u

T

he world has turned gray. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that there is nothing to be feared if we grope about in the undercurrent. History always repeats itself. But before it returns, we must study the objective historical facts and take the necessary measures to escape the fate that distorted history creates. Thus, we should always seek instruction from events of the past. The Orphan of Asia was written during World War II. I started it in 1942 and finished it in 1945. It is no more than a piece of what happened in Taiwan under Japanese rule. Although it is no more than historical facts, they are facts that nobody dared to write at the time, and it describes what happened without reserve. First of all, Hu Taiming (Ko Taimei) is a victim of distorted history all of his life. He leaves his hometown in search of a spiritual home, wanders around Japan, and even visits China. But there is no paradise for him, no place to live in peace. He suffers agony upon agony, lives in impenetrably dark depression, and perpetually yearns for ideals that perpetually forsake him. In the end, he encounters the brutal reality of war and all too easily slips into insanity. Alas, Hu Taiming has finally gone mad. How can anyone with a heart stay sane? I was planning to put my pen down here, but I feel something is still lacking, unfinished, when I recall the time I spent writing The Orphan. In 1943, the war was a life-and-death struggle for Japan. As a result, extreme wartime policies were set in place, and naturally the Japanese were divided into those who took advantage of the situation and those who did not. The former sang praises of the war, while the latter were always mocked as traitors. At the same time, a similar distinction existed among the Taiwanese: those who were “imperial subjects” (kōmin) and those who were not. In such a dilemma, complaints, frustration, suspicions, and jealousy arose, and demagogues appeared in droves. Meanwhile Manila was taken. Where on

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Earth would the American soldiers go next?! Hong Kong, Taiwan, or Okinawa was surely targeted. If they landed on Taiwan, how could the Japanese military mobilize the educated Taiwanese? That was the question. Frightened by demagoguery and rumors, the educated had no peace of mind and lived trembling in fear. However, this writer was seized by the impulse to complete this novel rather than live in fear. At that time, in front of the house I was living in were the residences for members of the Northern Police Bureau, and I knew a couple of secret police. This was extremely inconvenient when I was writing the fourth and fifth chapters of the novel, as I had no choice but to lie low. Yet, although it may seem counterintuitive, I thought it best to not move, because we tend to overlook things under our eyes. Still, I took precautions and was prepared for an emergency. I would write a few pages and hide them in a charcoal basket in the kitchen; whenever I had accumulated a certain number of pages, I would move them to my family home in the countryside. Looking back on it now, I think it was pretty silly. But at that time, there was not a single unguarded moment. If the manuscript had been discovered, that would have been the end. Regardless of whether it was good or bad, they would have easily removed me as a traitor or an antiwar activist. In any case, history inevitably moves forward. Today, more than ever, I think it was ridiculous to make meaningless sacrifices, but it was torture to wait for the right time. Adding to the anxiety the air strikes were getting worse, and we had absolutely no way of knowing what would happen to us at any given place and time. That was why I had to hurry up and complete the novel. When I look back on it today, it was good to finish it then. It seems impossible to write something like that now. Even if I were to write it now, the authenticity of my situation at that time would not come through, and the quality of the work would be different. Putting aside the question of good or bad, I risked my life writing the fourth and fifth chapters. And now that the novel is finally published in Japan, the joy of this writer is beyond imagination. I must say that if you gain anything from this novel, it is all due to the friendship and sacrifices of my best friends Ueno Shigeo and Nakazawa Tomio. In closing, I am moved to tears by the spiritual support of Professor Kudo Yoshii, who unfailingly and unceasingly encouraged me. I bow my head in admiration for his love for literature. The Blue Garden, January 10, 1956 The Orphan of Asia (Kyushu, Japan: Kyushu Imperial University Law School, 1962), 9–11, translated by Bert M. Scruggs and Kazuko Osada from the Japanese.

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22. An Open Letter to Guo Lianghui xi e bingying DEAR LIANGHUI: . . . How time flies. More than twenty years have passed. I remember that eight years ago you sat next to me at a meeting that the Writers Association held in the Recovery Room at Dr. Sun Yat-sen Hall. We chatted about the past in Xi’an, and you asked me to critique your work. At the time, I had only praise for it; there was nothing for me to critique. However, I did feel uncomfortable about the length of your hair, mainly because I thought it was an inconvenience; moreover, long hair didn’t suit a writer. When I asked you whether you would cut your hair short, you replied in irritation, “Do you want me to copy Audrey Hepburn?” I knew then that I had misspoken, so I quickly apologized and explained that I had no such intention. A few minutes later, you left your seat and walked to the front of the room to put on lipstick in a coy manner, attracting the attention of several hundred people. I remember the episode clearly, because it left a deep impression on me. I didn’t understand why you would want people to notice you. It was a riddle without an answer at the time, but now I know. You have published quite a few novels in the past ten years and have become more and more famous. That is good, and we are all happy for you, especially an old person like me who watched you grow up. It proves that it is for good reasons that I have said one must heed the younger generation. One day I came across your “He, She, It” and was very disappointed after I read it. I never expected the essay to be so raunchy and so lewd. On another occasion, at a forum on Democracy and Constitutional Government, a fellow writer asked me: “Have you read Guo Lianghui’s The Locked Heart?” “No, I have not. Is it good?” I asked. “Too racy. Even men can’t stand it. I’m afraid you won’t be able to stomach it.” I was doubtful and thought that he might be exaggerating. Later, Professor Su Xuelin told me that she had bought the book and thought it was pornographic. She wrote a review of The Locked Heart and The Empire and the Beauty for Literary Garden (published in Taizhong). I asked her to send me The Locked Heart, and it took me a week to finish it. My head ached each time I picked up the book, proof that my blood pressure was shooting up! Lianghui, why did you write these stories about incest? The female protagonist Xia Danqi commits adultery with her husband’s younger brother

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and her brother-in-law. She often travels to Beitou to have sex with them. Her father commits adultery with his niece. After her mother leaves the house to buy groceries, her boyfriend comes in to rape her. Her husband’s younger sister-in-law flirts with her older brother. .  .  . My goodness, I don’t have the heart to continue. You curse all men and women, calling them beasts in human clothes. You condone father and son sharing a wife and brothers sharing a wife. What kind of world is this? Perhaps it exists among animals, but is there really such a world of humans? Even if there is, it must be a rare phenomenon that occurs only in barbarous times and savage places. How can you write about it and promote it in your fiction? As I reached the end of the book, I thought that Xia Danqi most definitely would die so as to prove that those filthy men and sinful women got what they deserved. Little did I know that you would keep the evil seed alive and allow it to take root and grow. You send her to church to make a confession; you even explain that she has sinned out of ignorance and God will forgive her. Lianghui, when you lie awake in the middle of the night, you should ask yourself what the theme of the novel is. At the end of the book, you even self-righteously raise a question about art, declaring your desire to revolt against tradition and fight feudalism. That is why you promote incest and claim through the mouth of the male protagonist that human beings need sex as much as animals. The Locked Heart depicts sex from cover to cover. Now you are rich! The better the sales, the more hideous your crime! Do you have the heart to use the dirty money you’ve made from sacrificing the futures of numerous young men and women? You have a husband and children. Didn’t they criticize you and try to intervene? If your children are still too young to understand your work, what will happen when they grow up? I urge you to retrieve the printer’s type of this book and burn it. Take back all the unsold copies and set them on fire. What is more, I recently read a few installments of your Green, Green Grass serialized in Investigative News. You tell innocent youngsters to steal money from their parents and fountain pens from their classmates. You make Sanlin borrow Pan Wending’s student ID and pawn it, because his own ID is being held at the snack bar at school. Furthermore, you even say that if something happens in the future it won’t involve him, because his name is not on the pawn ticket. That’s why he needs someone else’s ID. . . . A biology student at National Normal University once said to me, “Professor, please write a letter to those in charge of Investigative News and ask them to stop serializing Guo Lianghui’s Green, Green Grass. My younger brother snatches up the literary supplement every day to read it. It is exerting a major influence on him!” As a matter of fact, I have several friends working as editors at the newspaper. I also know the president. They are probably too busy to read the novel. If they knew, they would not publish it.

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Lianghui, Xuelin and I are giving you this advice in all sincerity because we love you, the readers, and the sacred literary field. I hope you will stop before it’s too late, turn yourself around, and change your ways. Please use your talent to write works beneficial to society and morality so as to erase the stains of The Locked Heart and Green, Green Grass. There are many more things I’d like to say, but my headache is unbearable, and I must stop here. I wish you Introspection, awakening, reform, and a bright future! Yours, Bingying Free Youth Magazine 337; reprinted in The Debate Over The Locked Heart, ed. Yu Zhiliang (Taipei: Five Continents, 1963), 172–75, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

23. An Announcement from the Chinese Writers Association 1. The objectives of our association are: to unite writers of the nation, research literary theory, create literature, advance literary movements, develop literary enterprises, comply with current national policies, and contribute art’s strengths to the grand project of recovering the mainland and rebuilding our country. Since its founding, we have registered over a thousand members, all of whom encourage one another to carry out these missions. Moreover, the general assembly has instituted regulations for all members to follow. Our association supports to the greatest extent possible the members’ literary creation. Based on the guidance of President Chiang Kai-shek’s “Chapters on Education and Entertainment: A Supplement to the Principle of People’s Livelihood,” we have launched a cultural cleansing movement to eradicate pernicious red [Communist] literature and black [nihilist] literature. We have mounted a fight against rampant piracy to protect writers’ rights. We have awarded prizes and medals to outstanding literary workers as a form of encouragement. At the same time, we have canceled memberships to strengthen the self-discipline of literary workers when some members violate the association’s founding principles and regulations and damage its reputation. 2. Some time ago, a member of the association, Ms. Guo Lianghui, wrote The Locked Heart. The book promotes debauchery and contains many descriptions of incest and sexual intercourse. It exerts an undesirable influence on society’s morals and customs and on the mental and physical health of

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Lianghui, Xuelin and I are giving you this advice in all sincerity because we love you, the readers, and the sacred literary field. I hope you will stop before it’s too late, turn yourself around, and change your ways. Please use your talent to write works beneficial to society and morality so as to erase the stains of The Locked Heart and Green, Green Grass. There are many more things I’d like to say, but my headache is unbearable, and I must stop here. I wish you Introspection, awakening, reform, and a bright future! Yours, Bingying Free Youth Magazine 337; reprinted in The Debate Over The Locked Heart, ed. Yu Zhiliang (Taipei: Five Continents, 1963), 172–75, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

23. An Announcement from the Chinese Writers Association 1. The objectives of our association are: to unite writers of the nation, research literary theory, create literature, advance literary movements, develop literary enterprises, comply with current national policies, and contribute art’s strengths to the grand project of recovering the mainland and rebuilding our country. Since its founding, we have registered over a thousand members, all of whom encourage one another to carry out these missions. Moreover, the general assembly has instituted regulations for all members to follow. Our association supports to the greatest extent possible the members’ literary creation. Based on the guidance of President Chiang Kai-shek’s “Chapters on Education and Entertainment: A Supplement to the Principle of People’s Livelihood,” we have launched a cultural cleansing movement to eradicate pernicious red [Communist] literature and black [nihilist] literature. We have mounted a fight against rampant piracy to protect writers’ rights. We have awarded prizes and medals to outstanding literary workers as a form of encouragement. At the same time, we have canceled memberships to strengthen the self-discipline of literary workers when some members violate the association’s founding principles and regulations and damage its reputation. 2. Some time ago, a member of the association, Ms. Guo Lianghui, wrote The Locked Heart. The book promotes debauchery and contains many descriptions of incest and sexual intercourse. It exerts an undesirable influence on society’s morals and customs and on the mental and physical health of

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our youth. After its publication, some members expressed their view to the association and suggested that the author of the book be warned and censured so as to maintain the reputation of the association and rectify literary culture. At the seventh meeting of the thirteenth executive committee, it was decided that Guo Lianghui’s membership was to be canceled. 3. After the association canceled Ms. Guo’s membership, some nonmembers voiced disagreement, perhaps because they were not cognizant of the facts or because they did not read the full text of The Locked Heart. Meanwhile, in the past few months, a large number of members and readers who care about literature and the association have expressed not only their condemnation of the pernicious harm that Ms. Guo’s pornographic book has done, but also their indignation at our tolerance and silence when we were unfairly attacked in this incident. Consequently, they demanded that we clarify our stance so that right be clearly distinguished from wrong. Based on these considerations, we provide the following explanations. a. The Women Writers Association of the province of Taiwan reported Ms. Guo Lianghui’s The Locked Heart to the Ministry of the Interior in November 1962, which then issued a ban as penalty. However, the reason that we canceled Ms. Guo’s membership is that the book obviously violates the members’ regulations passed at the fourteenth general assembly. Number three of our regulations stipulates: “We vow not to write anything that will harm social conscience and corrupt morality.” Ms. Guo has served as a council member of the southern branch of the association. She attended the fourteenth general assembly and participated in the discussion and passing of the regulations. She should have observed them faithfully. On the contrary, she disseminates poisonous obscenity and immorality and causes damage to society and to the reputation of the association. Therefore, we canceled her membership to maintain the dignity of the literary enterprise and strengthen writers’ self-discipline. It has nothing to do with the government’s ban on the book. b. Because it was not the association’s reporting The Locked Heart that led to the ban, we would have fought to protect her rights in accordance with our long-standing policy of encouraging and supporting our members if the government acts improperly in banning a book. However, not only is The Locked Heart a pornographic work that deserves banning, but writing this text violates the spirit of the association’s constitution and regulations. Even if the government had not issued a ban, we would have had the right to cancel her membership in view of our collective reputation and to uphold the solemn meaning of self-discipline. c. Leaving aside the question of whether or not The Locked Heart meets the criteria for literature and disregarding the question of artistic skills and techniques, it is obvious that the book contains excessive pornographic elements in its content, as reflected in the exaggerated descriptions of

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depravity, incest, and sex. The association has launched the cultural cleansing movement. How can we allow one of our members to harm society and destroy our literary community with pornography and still protect her? Moreover, at this very moment, when our nation is implementing the policy of “reform, mobilization, and combat,” our priority is to construct and reinforce correct mentalities. We cannot allow this kind of pornographic venom to jeopardize our young men and women, corrode the new life of the nation, and shake the foundation of morality and ethics. Therefore, we cancel Ms. Guo’s membership as a way of urging her to correct her mistake and reform. We are not only trying to help Ms. Guo to value her own talent and mend her ways, but also pointing out yet again the correct direction for literature in our time. Central Daily News, November 5, 1963, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

24. I Do Not Value The Locked Heart and Membership in the Writers Association gu o li a nghui

T

he Locked Heart has been banned for almost a year, and the Writers Association has canceled my membership for half a year. I have kept silent all along, because I don’t want to waste my time and energy on a finished work. I need to devote myself to works currently underway. Among my novels, The Locked Heart is not the one that gives me the greatest satisfaction. I will surely improve in the future. As to whether I am a member of the Writers Association or not, that could not matter less. Eight years ago, when I joined the association, my motivation was to increase my knowledge and make social connections. However, I discovered later that literary activities could not help me with my writing; all a writer can do is work alone with concentration and create works of significance to earn the reader’s respect. Therefore, I have not participated in any literary activities the past four years. In other words, I have long been a member in name but not in reality. . . .

W H AT D O O B S C E N I T Y A N D I N C E S T M E A N ? Literature reflects society. Any social phenomenon may appear in an author’s writing. If a phenomenon is wrong, it is society rather than the author who is to

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depravity, incest, and sex. The association has launched the cultural cleansing movement. How can we allow one of our members to harm society and destroy our literary community with pornography and still protect her? Moreover, at this very moment, when our nation is implementing the policy of “reform, mobilization, and combat,” our priority is to construct and reinforce correct mentalities. We cannot allow this kind of pornographic venom to jeopardize our young men and women, corrode the new life of the nation, and shake the foundation of morality and ethics. Therefore, we cancel Ms. Guo’s membership as a way of urging her to correct her mistake and reform. We are not only trying to help Ms. Guo to value her own talent and mend her ways, but also pointing out yet again the correct direction for literature in our time. Central Daily News, November 5, 1963, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

24. I Do Not Value The Locked Heart and Membership in the Writers Association gu o li a nghui

T

he Locked Heart has been banned for almost a year, and the Writers Association has canceled my membership for half a year. I have kept silent all along, because I don’t want to waste my time and energy on a finished work. I need to devote myself to works currently underway. Among my novels, The Locked Heart is not the one that gives me the greatest satisfaction. I will surely improve in the future. As to whether I am a member of the Writers Association or not, that could not matter less. Eight years ago, when I joined the association, my motivation was to increase my knowledge and make social connections. However, I discovered later that literary activities could not help me with my writing; all a writer can do is work alone with concentration and create works of significance to earn the reader’s respect. Therefore, I have not participated in any literary activities the past four years. In other words, I have long been a member in name but not in reality. . . .

W H AT D O O B S C E N I T Y A N D I N C E S T M E A N ? Literature reflects society. Any social phenomenon may appear in an author’s writing. If a phenomenon is wrong, it is society rather than the author who is to

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blame. Society rather than the author should take responsibility. The announcement by the Writers Association accuses me of disseminating obscenity and causing damage to society’s morals, decent customs, and the physical and mental health of young people. This inference based on speculation rather than fact constitutes a veritable personal attack. I would very much like to know which youngster who has committed debauchery is influenced by The Locked Heart and which immoral incident is caused by The Locked Heart? Different positions can lead to different evaluations of the same work. If we read Story of the Stone through the lens the Writers Association adopts to evaluate The Locked Heart, it would be seen as a most obscene book, for Jia Baoyu falls in love with one girl after another—isn’t it teaching people to be promiscuous? Examples of incest abound in both ancient and modern times, in China as well as other countries. If The Locked Heart should be banned because it depicts incest, should the histories of twenty-five dynasties also be banned, because they record countless incidents of incest? Besides, what happens between the characters in The Locked Heart does not constitute the crime of incest. According to a legal authority, sex between relatives who are not members of the immediate family is not considered incest.

NOT FOR MONEY’S SAKE Some people accuse me of writing The Locked Heart in order to make money. In fact, everyone knows that writers swear an oath of poverty in China. If it had not been for my literary interest, and if I had been intent on making money, I would not have chosen writing as my career ten years ago. In terms of sales, my Emotional Debt, published five years ago, has gone through eight printings; it is the best-selling one among my books. This proves that I didn’t need to write The Locked Heart for fame and fortune.

M Y M O T I VAT I O N I N W R I T I N G THE LOCKED HEART The reason I wrote The Locked Heart was to experiment with a new direction and a new subject. I have written twenty books already, and plenty of them sing the praises of leaders and eulogize the sunny side of society. Why can’t I adopt a different approach to fiction writing? Some senior writers fault me for lacking originality in my approach and subject. I accept this criticism, because I know that my talent and knowledge are limited and that what I consider new might not be new to others. Therefore, I am waiting to read and learn from their new works.

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I AM NOT AFRAID OF SHOWING IT TO MY CHILD I can show The Locked Heart to my child, for if he can openly read The Human Body and Hygiene at school, he can also read The Locked Heart without embarrassment. My child has never felt ashamed because I wrote The Locked Heart, just as a doctor’s children think that it is normal and appropriate behavior rather than molestation for doctors to examine their patients’ bodies. A doctor dissects the human body, whereas a writer dissects the human psyche.

I WILL NOT ACCEPT THE BAN The Locked Heart was published last September and was banned this January. The ban is unjustified, according to both common sense and the law. According to the publication law, if a work is not banned within three months of its publication, the period for issuing a ban expires. Moreover, if a book is not banned after the first printing, it cannot be banned after the second printing; however, The Locked Heart was not banned until the third printing. Furthermore, The Locked Heart was first serialized in the newspaper before appearing in book form. Why wasn’t it banned during serialization? Some may say that newspapers are not as influential as books, but a newspaper’s circulation is in tens of thousands, whereas a book usually sells only a few thousand copies. Before the court sentences a criminal to death, it examines the evidence presented in the indictment prepared by the prosecution. After the court hands out a sentence, the criminal can appeal to a higher court. By contrast, the government never gave the author of The Locked Heart a chance to defend herself prior to the ban. A literary work is the author’s property as well as her reputation, which she considers as important as her life. The government should not so carelessly deal with an individual’s property and reputation.

MY HOPE Since the Writers Association has canceled my membership, from now on my affairs as a nonmember should be of no concern to the association. The public can decide for itself whether The Locked Heart is good or bad. There is no need for the Writers Association to spend money on advertisements to announce to the public what a morally corrupting influence I am. The Writers Association is neither a Committee of Guidance for Reading nor a Censorship Committee. As to the criticisms of the association from newspapers and journals, please respond to them directly instead of involving me, because those objective discussions have nothing to do with me.

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My hope for the Ministry of the Interior is that it will listen to public opinion and accept the views of people from all social strata, because readers who have no connections with the literary circle are the most objective and least biased critics. I hope that the ministry will reopen this case for review during the appeal period and lift the ban soon to restore the rights to which I as the author am entitled. The Debate Over The Locked Heart, ed. Yu Zhiliang (Taipei: Five Continents, 1963), 176–80, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

25. Cutting Off the Prose Braids yu gua ngz hong . . . Now, let us take a look at the various forms of prose in China, their accomplishments and failures. We might as well begin with the observation that Chinese prose writing at present can be divided into the following four types.

1. S C H O L A R ’ S P R O S E This type of prose writing is limited to a relatively small number of authors. It includes primarily short lyrical pieces, humorous pieces, travelogues, biographical sketches, prefaces, book reviews, and so forth. This type of writing excels in providing a blend of amusement, wisdom, and erudition. It reflects a mind deeply imbued with cultural spirit, opens the reader’s heart, broadens his mind, and wins his admiration tinged with envy. When reading this type of prose, it’s as though we were J. P. Eckermann observing Goethe, or James Boswell listening to Samuel Johnson. Sometimes the voice of wisdom is sharp and satirical, like Jonathan Swift or Qian Zhongshu; sometimes it’s jocular and easy-going, like Charles Lamb or Liang Shiqiu; sometimes it’s keen and bright, like JeanJacques Rousseau or Li Ao [b. 1935]. Authors of many excellent newspaper articles belong to this type. . . .

2. C O X C O M B ’ S P R O S E Scholar’s prose is ultimately the purview of a small number of authors. No matter how incompetent, they still possess a few remnants of learning and raw

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My hope for the Ministry of the Interior is that it will listen to public opinion and accept the views of people from all social strata, because readers who have no connections with the literary circle are the most objective and least biased critics. I hope that the ministry will reopen this case for review during the appeal period and lift the ban soon to restore the rights to which I as the author am entitled. The Debate Over The Locked Heart, ed. Yu Zhiliang (Taipei: Five Continents, 1963), 176–80, translated by Tze-lan Deborah Sang.

25. Cutting Off the Prose Braids yu gua ngz hong . . . Now, let us take a look at the various forms of prose in China, their accomplishments and failures. We might as well begin with the observation that Chinese prose writing at present can be divided into the following four types.

1. S C H O L A R ’ S P R O S E This type of prose writing is limited to a relatively small number of authors. It includes primarily short lyrical pieces, humorous pieces, travelogues, biographical sketches, prefaces, book reviews, and so forth. This type of writing excels in providing a blend of amusement, wisdom, and erudition. It reflects a mind deeply imbued with cultural spirit, opens the reader’s heart, broadens his mind, and wins his admiration tinged with envy. When reading this type of prose, it’s as though we were J. P. Eckermann observing Goethe, or James Boswell listening to Samuel Johnson. Sometimes the voice of wisdom is sharp and satirical, like Jonathan Swift or Qian Zhongshu; sometimes it’s jocular and easy-going, like Charles Lamb or Liang Shiqiu; sometimes it’s keen and bright, like JeanJacques Rousseau or Li Ao [b. 1935]. Authors of many excellent newspaper articles belong to this type. . . .

2. C O X C O M B ’ S P R O S E Scholar’s prose is ultimately the purview of a small number of authors. No matter how incompetent, they still possess a few remnants of learning and raw

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material for philosophical thought. The coxcomb’s prose, by contrast, is ubiquitous. Open up just about any periodical and we immediately encounter this ephemeral paper flower. The upper echelon of authorship is occupied by famous writers; at the bottom are middle school girls. There is a staggering number of them; one can easily populate ten Vanity Fairs or a hundred costume balls! This type of prose is one of the paper industry’s primary benefactors. The alacrity with which it consumes paper is simply startling. Without variation it extols the beauty of nature, laments the impermanence of human existence, exalts in the innocent goodness of animals or children, and expresses shame for the author’s own petty stupidity. No matter how old they are, these authors are often nostalgic for the golden age of a child sitting on grandma’s knee and sucking its fingers. No matter how young they are, these authors speak words of grizzled wisdom. This type of prose is like a box of cheap candies wrapped in gaudy-colored paper and frighteningly sweet. Sometimes the package contains a vitamin tablet, and at such times it always begins with such precious morsels as: A wise old man once said, life is. . . . Whether that wise old man is Bernard Shaw, Socrates, or Tagore, the author has no idea and would never tell you anyway. This type of Chinese prose strays too far and is too pale, with [Tagore’s] “stray birds.” It seems that almost every coxcomb writer hangs from Tagore’s white beard, swinging on it, singing children’s songs, and talking in his or her sleep. . . . Sentimentality plus didacticism is the mortal wound of coxcombs. They love to discuss issues of truth–goodness–beauty. They enthusiastically promote good and devote themselves to preaching. They love beauty even more and brim full of emotion at every turn. Unfortunately, they neglect natural expressions of truth, turning their angels into Barbie dolls, their tears into faux pearls. When the scholar’s prose is sub par, it is stale and rotten. Even at its best, the coxcomb’s prose appears staged.

3. W A S H E R W O M A N ’ S P R O S E The problem with the coxcomb’s prose is that it is too thick and showy. In contrast, the problem with the washerwoman’s prose is that it is just plain vapid. Authors of the latter type are not as numerous as coxcombs; they are more like obsessive–compulsive old ladies. They wash their clothes again and again, with the result that dirt and other impurities surrender to the detergent. But the colorful patterns and embroidery on the clothing, along with safety pins and the like, are also washed away. These washerwomen don’t ask much of their writing; they are rather passive. They avoid errors instead of striving for success. To them, prose is a vehicle for communication, not artistic creation. They only allow themselves to walk in a rigidly and orderly fashion, but no leaping, dancing, or flying. Their prose is

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washed clean, with no flaw and nothing to engage the reader. Because it is too clean, this type of prose has no modulations or variations in rhythm, no distinctive phrasing or fresh vocabulary, no witty and offbeat images. These authors are the puritans of the prose world. They are the good boys and girls of vernacular literature; their simplicity is the simplicity of a religious gathering. Drinking plain water and speaking plain words intoxicate them. The truth is, using plain language to write expository prose for general purposes, such as lectures, broadcasts, propaganda, and news reports, is understandable and completely necessary. I don’t object to it, but I unconditionally approve it. However, creative prose (not to mention poetry) does not belong in this category. Due to overzealous promotion of the national language or years of teaching Chinese at the elementary or middle school level, this type of author believes all readers are the targets of language education. Moreover, they want all writers (including poets) to write in a plain, unadorned vernacular. Their ideal is that we are better off dispensing with “The Story of Yingying” and “Song of Everlasting Sorrow” and keeping only “The Wrongful Death of Cui Ning” and “Lord Stubborn,” better off dispensing with the regulated verses of Du Fu and Li Shangying and keeping only the vernacular poetry of Han Shan and Shi De. . . .

4. MODERN PROSE As for training in classical Chinese literature, we see before our very eyes that each generation is worse than the last. Those who are steeped in traditional literature and at the same time have a firm grasp of new literature and can write beautiful prose are as rare as phoenix plumage and unicorn horns. Even if we lower our standards, we cannot put much hope in the likes of the flowery coxcomb or the dutiful washerwoman. Readers who pay attention to the modern Chinese literature movement must have noticed that in the last few years there has emerged the fourth category of prose, one that emphasizes elasticity, density, and texture. Following the example of modern poetry, we call it modern prose. Elasticity concerns a high degree of adaptability for prose to absorb and accommodate all. The more varied the style and tone are, the more elastic the prose is. The more elastic the prose is, the greater the opportunity for development rather than stultification. Modern prose uses the modern vernacular as the basis for rhythm. However, so long as it is not the turgid tone of translation used by scholars of Western learning, it can adopt some Europeanized syntax to make the sentence more lively and novel. So long as it is not the stale tone of scholars of national studies, it can incorporate some classical Chinese syntax to make the sentence more concise and textured. Sometimes, within the scope of aesthetics, using musically pleasing and highly expressive dialects and slang against the backdrop of standard language makes prose even more vibrant and distinctive.

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Density refers to the degree of aesthetic satisfaction that readers demand in the space of a certain number of characters. The higher the degree, the greater the density. Whether out of laziness or low ability, most prose writers cannot maintain a high level of density. Loose, diluted prose contains neither clever turns of phrase nor new ideas. We can spend hours reading it, but it fails to satisfy our aesthetic sensibility and can only be considered heavy breathing. Yet, to mediocre minds, this type of rambling is accepted as fluent. In fact, it is a monotonous outpouring without so much as a billow or ripple. This kind of sputter is most common in many plain travelogues and long-winded book reviews. When a writer possesses a rich genius, expression comes naturally to offer spectacular phrases and images and dazzling gems of words. There is no blandness. Texture is something many prose writers never even consider. It is the quality of individual words or phrases in the overall structure of a piece of prose. This quality can practically determine the level of taste or state of mind. For instance, some rocks are lofty marble, others are common pebbles. The difference in quality is obvious. Similarly, when describing eyes, some authors say: “Her eyes shed tears of sadness,” while others say: “From her eyes of autumn ripples of pearls fall.” The meaning is practically the same, but the texture of words is clearly distinguishable as refined or coarse. A handmade product, no matter how well it’s done, is worthless if the texture is coarse. Authors who are particularly sensitive to words have their own vocabulary; their clothes are custom-made, not ready-made. Modern prose is still young. She is the youngest sister of modern poetry and modern fiction, but she strives wholeheartedly to emulate her older sisters. In fact, the prose of modern fiction is precisely modern prose. Sima Zhongyuan’s work is a good example. There are few authors who write modern prose only, so the accomplishment is understandably limited. But under the tutelage of the two elder sisters, she will mature gradually. Literary Star 68 (May 20, 1963); reprinted in Carefree Wandering (Taipei: Jiuge, 2000), 45–58, translated by Paul Manfredi.

26. Lower the Flag to Half-Mast for May Fourth! yu gua ngz hong

T

he great May Fourth is dead. Let us lower the flag to half-mast in an expression of mourning. Let us line up to pay our respects. Although her children, Mr. Democracy and Mr. Science, have gradually grown up, and although

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Density refers to the degree of aesthetic satisfaction that readers demand in the space of a certain number of characters. The higher the degree, the greater the density. Whether out of laziness or low ability, most prose writers cannot maintain a high level of density. Loose, diluted prose contains neither clever turns of phrase nor new ideas. We can spend hours reading it, but it fails to satisfy our aesthetic sensibility and can only be considered heavy breathing. Yet, to mediocre minds, this type of rambling is accepted as fluent. In fact, it is a monotonous outpouring without so much as a billow or ripple. This kind of sputter is most common in many plain travelogues and long-winded book reviews. When a writer possesses a rich genius, expression comes naturally to offer spectacular phrases and images and dazzling gems of words. There is no blandness. Texture is something many prose writers never even consider. It is the quality of individual words or phrases in the overall structure of a piece of prose. This quality can practically determine the level of taste or state of mind. For instance, some rocks are lofty marble, others are common pebbles. The difference in quality is obvious. Similarly, when describing eyes, some authors say: “Her eyes shed tears of sadness,” while others say: “From her eyes of autumn ripples of pearls fall.” The meaning is practically the same, but the texture of words is clearly distinguishable as refined or coarse. A handmade product, no matter how well it’s done, is worthless if the texture is coarse. Authors who are particularly sensitive to words have their own vocabulary; their clothes are custom-made, not ready-made. Modern prose is still young. She is the youngest sister of modern poetry and modern fiction, but she strives wholeheartedly to emulate her older sisters. In fact, the prose of modern fiction is precisely modern prose. Sima Zhongyuan’s work is a good example. There are few authors who write modern prose only, so the accomplishment is understandably limited. But under the tutelage of the two elder sisters, she will mature gradually. Literary Star 68 (May 20, 1963); reprinted in Carefree Wandering (Taipei: Jiuge, 2000), 45–58, translated by Paul Manfredi.

26. Lower the Flag to Half-Mast for May Fourth! yu gua ngz hong

T

he great May Fourth is dead. Let us lower the flag to half-mast in an expression of mourning. Let us line up to pay our respects. Although her children, Mr. Democracy and Mr. Science, have gradually grown up, and although

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her third child, vernacular writing, has been alive for more than forty years, May Fourth herself is dead. At the very least, amid the sounds of the golden bugle and silver drums of modern literature and art, she is dead, and has been dead for years—pale May Fourth, suffering from serious heart disease. With Hu Shi’s collapse in Nangang [at Academia Sinica], the first chapter of new Chinese literary history came to an end. The brushes that will write the second chapter are held by the generation under forty. While it is true that there are a few old loyalists from the May Fourth era, their balding brushes have lost their strength and vitality. At the very most, when this day comes around each year, they can only reminisce. Their brushes can only add a few annotations to the first chapter; they cannot write the title of the second. May Fourth is dead. The old matriarch of new culture is dead. Let us lower the flag to half-mast in mourning. Let us line up to pay our respects. Afterward, we will raise the great banner of modern literature and art and set off from in front of her tomb toward the horizon. Burying her in this manner does not imply the slightest disrespect. For she truly is ancient, even though many children are still obsessed with her youth. Now that we officially and openly hold the funeral, the current generation of young people should no longer retain any psychological dependence, and the marching tune of modern literature and art, following on the plaintive dirge, will sound all the more brightly and thunderously. May Fourth has her significance as an epoch; in literary history, she will always maintain her historical stature. The greatest achievement of May Fourth remains in the area of language. The greatest achievement of May Fourth literature also lies in the liberation of language, not in artistic innovation. Liang Qichao, Wang Guowei [1877–1927], and Hu Shi smashed the Confucian tradition of Chinese literature and elevated fiction and drama, which were closer to the spoken language, to a status equivalent to that of poetry. This was an unprecedented, bold move in Chinese literary history. When we look at the historical development of Western literature, every time an old literature reaches rigidity and even corruption, some visionary young writers emerge to take the old literature and plunge it into a new language, to rejuvenate it, letting it grow and mature again. Dante for the Renaissance, Wordsworth for the romantic movement, Hemingway for the modern novel, T. S. Eliot for modern poetry—none is an exception. However, there is a fundamental distinction between the four men mentioned above and Hu Shi. And that is: they not only banished the old written language but also created a new one; not only were they revolutionaries of language, but they were also language artists. What Hu Shi achieved was only the former. Spoken language in its unadulterated form is nothing more than healthy material. The task of the writer lies in selecting and processing it, and turning it into a work of art of the utmost purity and refinement. The reason the Western new literature movement was able to succeed was because its leading figures were not only revolutionaries but also great artists. But Hu Shi was not

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a language artist—he lacked artistic temperament and talent; he could not have written The Divine Comedy, “Fragments of Narcissus” [by Paul Valéry], A Farewell to Arms, or The Waste Land. For works such as these, we will have to rely on the brushes now writing the second chapter. May Fourth writers once cried out that they wanted to implement westernization. But their knowledge could not keep pace with their slogan. In terms of art and music, they barely knew what impressionism was all about; they didn’t know what happened after Monet and Debussy. In poetry, they were barely aware of the poetry scene after symbolism. Liberal writers seemed to only know romanticism, only Shelley and Goethe. Left-leaning writers seemed to only be aware of naturalism and realism, only Zola, Gorky, and Ibsen. Their westernization of literature and art was not sufficiently thorough. Their westernization was insufficient and their reevaluation of Chinese classical literature was incorrect. Left-leaning writers wanted to use the critical lens of class struggle to view our great tradition; the extreme inaccuracy of this perspective does not merit discussion. Other writers, too, more or less blindly negated the quintessence of tradition. In their zeal to reform society, they overemphasized social significance and neglected aesthetic value. Hu Shi was enthusiastic about Bai Juyi’s poetry of social consciousness, but he disliked “Autumn Meditations” [by Du Fu]; he often said that it is ungrammatical and nothing but a skeleton. In Chinese literature, Hu Shi was unable to appreciate Du Fu’s exquisiteness; in Western literature, his lack of appreciation for T. S. Eliot is thus to be expected. He had occasionally heard Mr. Ye Gongchao [1904–1981] mention that Eliot liked to use allusions, so he assumed that Eliot was a neoclassicist. He never did understand that the reason Eliot became the master craftsman of Western modern poetry and verse drama is because he harmonized the modern vernacular and the classical written language. It was in just this sort of semivacuum, completely out of touch with their surroundings, that the May Fourth writers endeavored to establish China’s New Literature. Generally speaking, they failed. Yes, they became famous, but they did not succeed in art. The English Renaissance succeeded in large part because Chaucer, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, introduced the new literature of France and Italy into England. But the overseas students of the May Fourth era were not diligent in introducing Western—especially modern—Western literature. Mr. Hu Shi and Mr. Lin Yutang [1895–1976], who both spent many years in America, Mr. Chen Xiying [1896–1970] and Ms. Ling Shuhua [1900–1990], who are still in England, and Ms. Su Xuelin, who returned from study abroad in France, all seem to have never taken notice of the modern literature and art of these countries. For some, not only was this the case, but in addition to misunderstanding, they attacked the modernist movements in China or bestowed excessive praise on second- or third-rate works. Mr. Luo Jialun [1897–1969], who has been living at home for years, went so far as to start writing classical-style poetry. These May Fourth figures were once the

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idols young people revered; they were also once the targets of my envy as a high school student. In some respects, I still hold them in esteem today. My disappointment with them is from the point of view of the history of New Literature as a whole. Literary Star 79 (April 15, 1964); reprinted in Carefree Wandering (Taipei: Jiuge, 2000), 13–17, translated by Valerie Levan.

27. Message from the Editors l in he ngtai

I

t is clear now that May Fourth no longer holds any significance for us. We can regard it as a thing of the past, just like the Tang and Song dynasties. We dare make this claim because poetry now is unlike anything that has come before. Through painful revision, even negation, of its past, poetry has entered an insular era, but an era that discloses the vital creativity of the young generation. Put quite simply: this generation finally has its own poetry. It is time to celebrate. Enough said. But what exactly is this poetry? Or, what poetry has this era produced? Where does it stand? What makes it special? Much work of critical winnowing in the important service of preserving national culture and guiding readers’ tastes remains to be done before such questions can be answered. Yet those willing to do such work are few indeed. With this in mind, and recognizing our limitations, we resolve to rise up and take action. We initiate the following three special columns to bring this work to fruition. 1. In the Shade of the Bamboo Hat. In this column, we introduce and critique individual poets, one per issue. For the sake of historical continuity, it might seem appropriate to start with senior poets. But because our journal’s archive is new, and its contents are meager, we shall begin with poets for whom we have more complete information. We trust that you, the reader, will understand. Our ultimate ideal is to create appreciation for all our country’s poets, each in turn. However numerous they are, we will pursue this task unflaggingly. Our greatest regret is the incompleteness of our archive. We thus solemnly appeal to esteemed and beloved poets nationwide to help enrich our archive by sending to us either your poems (handwritten manuscripts not excepted) or any poetry journals you have edited.

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idols young people revered; they were also once the targets of my envy as a high school student. In some respects, I still hold them in esteem today. My disappointment with them is from the point of view of the history of New Literature as a whole. Literary Star 79 (April 15, 1964); reprinted in Carefree Wandering (Taipei: Jiuge, 2000), 13–17, translated by Valerie Levan.

27. Message from the Editors l in he ngtai

I

t is clear now that May Fourth no longer holds any significance for us. We can regard it as a thing of the past, just like the Tang and Song dynasties. We dare make this claim because poetry now is unlike anything that has come before. Through painful revision, even negation, of its past, poetry has entered an insular era, but an era that discloses the vital creativity of the young generation. Put quite simply: this generation finally has its own poetry. It is time to celebrate. Enough said. But what exactly is this poetry? Or, what poetry has this era produced? Where does it stand? What makes it special? Much work of critical winnowing in the important service of preserving national culture and guiding readers’ tastes remains to be done before such questions can be answered. Yet those willing to do such work are few indeed. With this in mind, and recognizing our limitations, we resolve to rise up and take action. We initiate the following three special columns to bring this work to fruition. 1. In the Shade of the Bamboo Hat. In this column, we introduce and critique individual poets, one per issue. For the sake of historical continuity, it might seem appropriate to start with senior poets. But because our journal’s archive is new, and its contents are meager, we shall begin with poets for whom we have more complete information. We trust that you, the reader, will understand. Our ultimate ideal is to create appreciation for all our country’s poets, each in turn. However numerous they are, we will pursue this task unflaggingly. Our greatest regret is the incompleteness of our archive. We thus solemnly appeal to esteemed and beloved poets nationwide to help enrich our archive by sending to us either your poems (handwritten manuscripts not excepted) or any poetry journals you have edited.

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2. Historical Materials. Here we present not cuisine ready for the dining table, but the hard work and failed experiments of the kitchen. This column puts into print the experiences of the production process. Our archive wholeheartedly welcomes manuscripts of this sort, too. 3. Collective Critiques. The main goal of this special column is to present seminar-style critiques of the poetic works published in Bamboo Hat. However, our journal cannot publish very many poems. This is due less to a lack of space than to a sincere desire to grant each poem the greatest, most generous amount of room on the page. Making this work means we will only be able to publish one poem for each poet, for we believe that open space is as essential to poetry as rests are to music. This is our guiding editorial principle. Many of the periodicals we see tend to squeeze the works of many writers onto one page, or they publish many poems by one author all at one go. We eschew mishmash editing of this sort, and thus hope that you, dear poets, before sending us your single finest poem, will choose with care. Although the journal may well be mocked as haughty, this editorial standard will, in all likelihood, be endorsed by all!

In addition to the aforementioned three special columns, our journal also welcomes the following types of submissions. 1. Review essays of Chinese poets from the current generation. The journal does not, however, accept essays that begin with an investigation of a poet’s household registration and end with a catalog of, or notes on, a poet’s works. 2. Critical essays on contemporary poems. Let it be known that we absolutely will not publish unsympathetic, abusive essays directed at poets. Our reasoning here is that, given the current situation, where certain newspaper editors think poetry is something to be shoehorned in to fill blank space, and booksellers look with cold indifference upon poetry books and journals sold on consignment in their shops, we cannot countenance any additional senseless torture for poets. 3. Essays that critique critiques. We welcome such essays most of all, because, while bad poetry has never harmed anyone, there is nothing more damaging than bad criticism. One cannot, then, be too careful when engaging in critique. Our journal especially welcomes such essays, and in particular critiques of the criticism published here. Even negative appraisals will be accepted without question.

Bamboo Hat 1 (June 1964): 5, translated by John A. Crespi.

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28. Postscript to Carefree Wandering yu gua ngz hong . . . In works like “Carefree Wandering” and “Dreary Rain,” I genuinely wished to forge in the smithy of the Chinese written language a tablet of immortality. In these sorts of works, I attempted to compress, flatten, stretch, and sharpen Chinese, to dismantle it before putting it back together, to rend it and fold it, in order to test its velocity, density, and elasticity. My ideal is to allow the Chinese written language, as it undergoes syntactical changes, to form an orchestra, with every character following the writer’s brush like the conductor’s baton in a symphony. China’s modern writers need only see how the essays of Lin Yutang [1895–1976] and others have remained in monotonous and rigid syntax, swaying in a strangely desolate dance of “eight-legged prose,” then they would instantly realize that a revolution of the essay form is long overdue. I collected these essays under the name Leisurely Journey, because it was at hand as the title of one of the pieces. Also because musically it fuses assonance and end rhyme, and because this is an account of how I battled, torn between recollection and expectation, to conquer my feelings of hesitation on the eve of the present trip to America. And even more importantly, because it commemorates how unexpectedly fortunate I was, in a time when it is so difficult for Chinese people to travel, to be able to make a leisurely journey to a foreign land. For Chinese people in America to succeed in overcoming the bustle and the loneliness, to overcome the loneliness of the bustle and the bustle of the loneliness, and furthermore to preserve their souls on the verge of collapse, is beyond difficult. Since coming to America again, it has been almost nine months, and I am still able to continue to write, so it seems there is salvation for my soul after all, oh Muse! June 6, 1965, in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania Leisurely Journey (Taipei: Jiuge, 2000), 261–63, translated by Valerie Levan.

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29. Toward a New Departure in Modernism: Thoughts on the Recent Production of Waiting for Godot che n yingz hen

F

or years I have been critical of literary modernism. Having attended several showings of Waiting for Godot put on by Theater magazine, now I can reexamine my long-standing views. I have corrected some of my misapprehensions about modernism on the one hand, and on the other hand, have come to feel that modernism is about to make a new departure—particularly literary modernism here at home. Literature reflects its era. Indeed, a particular historical era and its social conditions produce literary works of a particular nature and content. It is quite natural that this era and this society we call modern, which not only is complex but also has never before existed, should produce modernist literary art. Hence, there is nothing amiss when modernist literature reflects modern humanity’s degeneracy, immorality, angst, licentiousness, perversity, nihilism, anemia, absurdity, defeatism, violence, alienation, despair, rage, and ennui. When it comes to Taiwan’s modernism, the two qualities below ought to be criticized, at the very least. First, Taiwan’s modernism is derivative in nature. One of the conditions that have contributed to its derivative nature is. . .the lack of an objective basis for modernism. Modernist literature is the product of a modern society. The degree of Taiwan’s modernization and the gap between the reflected image and the actuality—namely, the problematic nature of modernization—fully explain why modernist literature here lacks the feel of true experience, and why it so meaninglessly embodies the skeleton of modernity and an insubstantial, elusive spectacle, that even modern humanity’s pain and suffering seem artificial. The soil is fallow, yet they want to plant what others have planted even when the soil is not suitable; what grows is necessarily brown, desiccated, and wormeaten. Modernism in Taiwan is not just the tail end of Western modernism; it is twice removed from the tail end. In chronology, Taiwan’s modernism is almost half a century behind; in substance, it not only lacks the natural environment I pointed out earlier, it also does not have the umbilical cord connecting it to its Western maternal progenitor—the literary, musical, and artistic works that truly reflect the spiritual plight of the modern West. Consequently, Taiwan’s modernist literature resembles that in all backward regions and former colonies; one sees only bad influences—decadent, corrupt, and distorting—on a derivative culture. The second [ feature] is the symptom of philosophical and intellectual feebleness. Nothing demonstrating thought or knowledge is visible in Taiwan’s

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modernist literature. One really cannot find another place on Earth where the impotence of literary people in thought and intellect is so universal. The result is that our modernists simply play around with pallid tastes in language, color, and sound; pile up building blocks of form, like children; and chatter endlessly about some metaphysical theories and philosophies that even they find intimidating and confusing. In sum, our modernist literature has become a bag of tricks that has lost all contact with real life and real problems. Sadder still is that these tricks are played by a small minority who are intellectually weak. Thus, our modernist literature, when not vainly playing around with deceptive matters of form, wallows in juvenile sentimentality centered on that puny object we call the self. When not taking the worst elements of modernism as the content—degenerate nihilism, sexual perversion, rebellion without a cause, mystification through obscure language, and so forth—it shrinks and wraps itself in a yellowed ivory tower and waves a frayed white glove. Therefore, our modernism has no inner vitality and no capacity to grow on its own, improve itself, and absorb new ideas. The author of this short essay believes that the writers of Taiwan’s modernist literature must come to grips with this problem: its impoverished nature. Only when they understand the whole history of deception, flimsiness, and immaturity can they move toward renewal and start self-rehabilitation. To say that our modernists have no redeeming qualities would be going too far. For quite a few years, they have had some definite accomplishments, in their own styles, in terms of linguistic innovations and ways of reflecting modernity. However, we refuse to accept that the current form of modernism represents the direction of Chinese literature of the present, the future, and tens of thousands of unborn generations. Based on our familiarity with the peculiarities of Taiwan’s modernism, namely, (1) its derivative nature and (2) its intellectual and philosophical impoverishment, we affirm that new development of modernism must at the very least be founded on the two bedrock principles discussed here. 1. Return to reality. The inferiority of our modernism today is visible in its transplanted and imported nature, always being on the receiving end. These characteristics naturally deprive it of any basis in reality. We see deficient, distorted imitations of Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, Mallarmé, Baudelaire, Sartre, and so forth. A return to realism has two ramifications. First, because literature is a reflection of reality, literature by nature is inseparable from reality. Literature of a particular type is produced only by a particular basis in reality. Modern literature cannot escape this rule. Only literature that has roots in reality and gets its nutriment from reality has vitality. Without that, it is just an inferior copy of foreign culture, like life preserved in an oxygen tank, frail and unhealthy. Second, some say that departing from reality, escaping it, is a major characteristic of modernism.

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But we must understand this: even in escaping or departing from reality, there has to be a reality to begin with for that escape to be valid, comprehensible, and authentic. 2. Building knowledge and thought. In truth, modernism often expresses a grotesque kind of knowledge. Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot struck an aristocratic pose with their classical learning and scholarly knowledge. Setting aside critiques of such a stance, our modernists seem quite ignorant of the erudition of their progenitors. A thinker is not necessarily a writer. But a writer, particularly a great writer, must be a thinker. And note, above all else, that deep thinking must not be some fanciful, outlandish metaphysics, but a humane kind of thought with the body temperature of living humanity, bearing love, sadness, anger, sympathy, and so forth for human life and society. An artist must be first and foremost a person of warmth, who ponders life while full of human feeling, who, before becoming a writer, embraces all the good and evil of humanity. To name some exemplary modernists: Fellini, Camus, and Sartre; they not only deeply reflect, dissect, and weep over modern humanity’s spiritual oppression in their art, but also deploy their individual passions and furies, their action and sharp thinking to live in the center of reality—even the underground during Nazi occupation—and to leap ahead and keep moving forward ceaselessly.

Theater 4 (1965); reprinted in Selected Works of Chen Yingzhen, ed. Liu Shaoming (Hong Kong: Little Grass, 1972), 373–80, translated by Jeffrey C. Kinkley.

30. The Girl with Long Black Hair: The Author’s Preface ouyang zi

C

ollected in this book are the short stories I wrote during my junior year at NTU. I had started to write in middle school. However, my earlier works, which included modern poetry, essays, and short stories, not only were ornate in language and immature in content but also suffered from an even bigger flaw: they were too sentimental. This flaw, sentimentalism in English, is a common, and the most intolerable, shortcoming among Chinese writers. Therefore, I was reluctant to include those early works in this collection. The thirteen stories here are arranged chronologically. Readers may find the first piece “Little Nan’s Diary” still tinged with sentimentality. In addition, it lacks depth, due to the constraints of the material. This story was published

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But we must understand this: even in escaping or departing from reality, there has to be a reality to begin with for that escape to be valid, comprehensible, and authentic. 2. Building knowledge and thought. In truth, modernism often expresses a grotesque kind of knowledge. Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot struck an aristocratic pose with their classical learning and scholarly knowledge. Setting aside critiques of such a stance, our modernists seem quite ignorant of the erudition of their progenitors. A thinker is not necessarily a writer. But a writer, particularly a great writer, must be a thinker. And note, above all else, that deep thinking must not be some fanciful, outlandish metaphysics, but a humane kind of thought with the body temperature of living humanity, bearing love, sadness, anger, sympathy, and so forth for human life and society. An artist must be first and foremost a person of warmth, who ponders life while full of human feeling, who, before becoming a writer, embraces all the good and evil of humanity. To name some exemplary modernists: Fellini, Camus, and Sartre; they not only deeply reflect, dissect, and weep over modern humanity’s spiritual oppression in their art, but also deploy their individual passions and furies, their action and sharp thinking to live in the center of reality—even the underground during Nazi occupation—and to leap ahead and keep moving forward ceaselessly.

Theater 4 (1965); reprinted in Selected Works of Chen Yingzhen, ed. Liu Shaoming (Hong Kong: Little Grass, 1972), 373–80, translated by Jeffrey C. Kinkley.

30. The Girl with Long Black Hair: The Author’s Preface ouyang zi

C

ollected in this book are the short stories I wrote during my junior year at NTU. I had started to write in middle school. However, my earlier works, which included modern poetry, essays, and short stories, not only were ornate in language and immature in content but also suffered from an even bigger flaw: they were too sentimental. This flaw, sentimentalism in English, is a common, and the most intolerable, shortcoming among Chinese writers. Therefore, I was reluctant to include those early works in this collection. The thirteen stories here are arranged chronologically. Readers may find the first piece “Little Nan’s Diary” still tinged with sentimentality. In addition, it lacks depth, due to the constraints of the material. This story was published

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in the United Daily literary supplement. “Vase” was published in Zhongwai Magazine in Hong Kong. The other eleven stories all appeared in the quarterly Modern Literature. I have made some minor revisions to many of them recently. I have always been most interested in the subtle, complex human mind. I love to analyze and explore the motivations behind human behavior. Therefore, my stories often narrate and probe how people react and what kind of decisions they make under certain circumstances and facing certain problems. There must be some logic for a person to react this way or make that decision, and we can trace and analyze it from the person’s environment, history, and natural disposition. Precisely because my short stories focus mostly on the invisible inner life, I do not provide much concrete description of the outside world, nor do I depict much of a character’s physical appearance. Each of my stories has at least one major scene. In that scene, the main character’s inner life collides with the outside world, which leads to the climax. I think that Henry James’s “scenic method,” in which the scene and the narrative are interwoven, is an important secret to fiction writing. Aristotle touched on the three unities when he analyzed Greek tragedies. I am fascinated by this. I find that many of my own stories fit the theory of the three unities perfectly. For instance, in such stories as “Web,” “Half a Smile,” “The Girl with Long Black Hair,” “Vase,” “The Loafer,” and “The Last Class,” except for the characters’ recollections and the descriptions of the background, all the stories occur in one day (unity of time), one place (unity of place), and one plot (unity of action). I don’t presume that my works are therefore classical, but I have always striven toward this goal, doing my best to give a unified form to my stories. I pay great attention to succinctness when I write short stories. If it is not something that must be said, I do my best not to say it. Digressions that have no crucial connection to the theme of the story are avoided. I employ the plainest vernacular and rarely use proverbs or allusions. I caution myself against all clichés. Whenever possible, I avoid building my plot around accidents. In “Half a Smile,” the protagonist Wang Qi falls off a cliff, which is an “accident.” Although it could happen in everyday life, it is not very likely. Since that piece, I have rarely employed this type of accident in my writing. The tone of a story represents the author’s attitude and perspective toward the subject matter and the main character. In most of my works, the tone is even, meaning that I don’t harbor any bias toward the material and the characters. However, in three stories, “The Wooden Beauty,” “Mrs. Bei’s Morning,” and “Meirong,” readers can detect a satirical tone, sometimes strong, sometimes light. This expresses my satirical attitude toward the characters and the themes of these stories.

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Except for a few, such as “Approaching Dusk” and “Meirong,” my stories are written solely from the protagonist’s point of view. Furthermore, I am extremely careful to maintain my objectivity. Except for those times when I use tone to imply my personal attitude, I always avoid criticizing or judging the characters in the stories. Thus, the protagonist’s view does not necessarily represent my own and is definitely not necessarily the right view either. Readers should think for themselves when judging these characters and draw their own conclusions. March 22, 1967, Austin, Texas The Girl with Long Black Hair, 2nd ed. (Taipei: Dalin, 1984), 1–4, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

31. The Evolution of Modern Poetry in Taiwan hua n fu THE TWIN ROOTS OF POETRY According to Ji Xian, he was the one who delivered the torch of the Chinese New Poetry renaissance when he landed at the Base for National Revival at Jilong on November 29, 1948, the torch itself being the poetry journal Heresies, which he had edited and published in October of that year. Ji Xian’s Heresies represented a continuation of four periods of New Poetry in mainland China: the germination period of a dozen years or so from the May Fourth movement to the 1930s; the growth period from Xu Zhimo’s death [in 1931] to the folding of the journal New Poetry; the slow period during the eight-year-long War of Resistance; and the renaissance period, which Ji Xian initiated in 1948. Ji Xian thought that Taiwan did not have a poetry scene or literary world to speak of, and that by bringing the torch he was single-handedly establishing poetry there, making possible China’s second harvest of New Poetry in 1951–1956. But in fact, aside from the root of poetry that Ji Xian brought over from the mainland, modern poetry in Taiwan was already growing from the root of New Poetry planted during the Japanese occupation. This second root—which Lin Hengtai introduced to the core of Ji Xian’s organization just as Ji was launching a revolution with the founding of the Modernist School—stimulated the creation of a modernist mainstream on the poetry scene whose extreme avant-garde consciousness exceeded Ji Xian’s expectations. At that time, Ji Xian depended on Lin Hengtai’s modernist poetic theory. Their close collaboration is self-evident.

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Except for a few, such as “Approaching Dusk” and “Meirong,” my stories are written solely from the protagonist’s point of view. Furthermore, I am extremely careful to maintain my objectivity. Except for those times when I use tone to imply my personal attitude, I always avoid criticizing or judging the characters in the stories. Thus, the protagonist’s view does not necessarily represent my own and is definitely not necessarily the right view either. Readers should think for themselves when judging these characters and draw their own conclusions. March 22, 1967, Austin, Texas The Girl with Long Black Hair, 2nd ed. (Taipei: Dalin, 1984), 1–4, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

31. The Evolution of Modern Poetry in Taiwan hua n fu THE TWIN ROOTS OF POETRY According to Ji Xian, he was the one who delivered the torch of the Chinese New Poetry renaissance when he landed at the Base for National Revival at Jilong on November 29, 1948, the torch itself being the poetry journal Heresies, which he had edited and published in October of that year. Ji Xian’s Heresies represented a continuation of four periods of New Poetry in mainland China: the germination period of a dozen years or so from the May Fourth movement to the 1930s; the growth period from Xu Zhimo’s death [in 1931] to the folding of the journal New Poetry; the slow period during the eight-year-long War of Resistance; and the renaissance period, which Ji Xian initiated in 1948. Ji Xian thought that Taiwan did not have a poetry scene or literary world to speak of, and that by bringing the torch he was single-handedly establishing poetry there, making possible China’s second harvest of New Poetry in 1951–1956. But in fact, aside from the root of poetry that Ji Xian brought over from the mainland, modern poetry in Taiwan was already growing from the root of New Poetry planted during the Japanese occupation. This second root—which Lin Hengtai introduced to the core of Ji Xian’s organization just as Ji was launching a revolution with the founding of the Modernist School—stimulated the creation of a modernist mainstream on the poetry scene whose extreme avant-garde consciousness exceeded Ji Xian’s expectations. At that time, Ji Xian depended on Lin Hengtai’s modernist poetic theory. Their close collaboration is self-evident.

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In a postscript to Poems of the Beautiful Island, a Japanese translation of modern poetry from the ROC published in Japan in 1958, an editor from the Bamboo Hat Poetry Society wrote: “It is no accident that New Poetry in Taiwan has been able to move so rapidly from germination to growth during the two short decades following Taiwan’s return to China. Looking back, one can see that its development was fostered by the roots of preexisting poetry.” We can think of these two roots as originating in two different places. Most people believe that the root directly linked to the blossom comes from the Modernist School promoted by the likes of Dai Wangshu and Li Jinfa, and brought over from mainland China by Ji Xian. That style is a product of French symbolism and American imagism. As a member of the school, Ji Xian extended the modernist lineage. His editorship of the Modern Poetry Quarterly became a turning point for Taiwan’s New Poetry. The other source originates in the modern spirit of New Poetry as practiced in the Japanese colonial period by poets like Yano Houjin, who were influenced by the Japanese literary scene. The minority of poets who inherited the modern spirit—such as Wu Yingtao [1916–1971], Lin Hengtai, and Jin Lian [1928–2013]— straddled the Japanese and Chinese languages. Taiwan’s mainstream of modern poetry was formed when this root fused with that of the Modernist School brought over from the mainland by Ji Xian. . . . The two decades or so between the May Fourth movement and the year 1937 are what Ji Xian refers to as New Poetry’s period of germination and growth. One can discern a number of specific characteristics shared by the poetry of mainland China and Taiwan during this period: (1) an emphasis on theory or reason when describing love for humanity, love for nature, the meaning of life, and ideological content; (2) the idea that poetry should possess musical beauty, painterly beauty, and architectural beauty, but not to the point of pursuing beauty in the form of meaningful mental images; and (3) application of symbolist techniques to emotions such that metaphor dominates poetic art. Due to the influence of Japanese colonialism on Taiwan, however, Taiwanese poets differ from mainland poets in their attitude toward the pursuit of poetry, namely, in (1) the belief that writing can only stand on its own when, from a position of absolute freedom, it sheds slave mentality through the expression of individuality; (2) a firm rejection of aristocratic poetry in favor of poetry of the people; and (3) an emphasis on human nature and the fulfillment of individual personalities. These three features were introduced into the thinking of Taiwanese poets through the world literary scene as mediated by Japanese modern literature; mainland poets had yet to experience them in a practical sense. . . . Mainland poets pursued only artistic techniques of poetry, its linguistic structure assembled from syllables, rhetorical flourishes, lines, and stanzas, as if their main spiritual work were the writing of poems. In addition to such aesthetic pursuits, Taiwanese poets struggled with the pain of being colonized by expressing the absolute freedom of personality as found in the meaning of

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human existence and ideology. One might say that because Taiwanese poets took on themes naturally present in their environment, they were able to explore them more deeply. Bamboo Hat 99 (November 1970): 38–42, translated by John A. Crespi.

32. Epigraph to the Inaugural Issue che n fa ngming We bang our own gong, beat our own drum Dance our own dance of the dragon. (What’s happening?) Still we bang and we drum and we Dance our own dance of the Dragon Clan. Dragon Race Poetry Journal 1 (March 1971): n.p., translated by John A. Crespi.

33. On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets gua n ji e ming

L

et me start off with an episode that was both embarrassing and illuminating. One day, I was reading Modern Chinese Poetry: Poets from Taiwan, 1955–1965, edited and translated by Ye Weilian. In the midst of it, I stepped out of my office on an errand and left the open book on my desk. When I came back, a graduate student of mine was paging through the book, and the first thing he said to me was: “I didn’t know there are so many Chinese poets writing in English.” I told him that those were English translations. Seeing the incredulous look on his face, I reassured him that the originals were all written in Chinese. After the student left that morning (I had hoped that he would not make any wild comment on the mode of expression), I reflected on what he had said. I have since read the anthology twice and come to realize how accurate and irrefutable the student’s remark was. Those poems do

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human existence and ideology. One might say that because Taiwanese poets took on themes naturally present in their environment, they were able to explore them more deeply. Bamboo Hat 99 (November 1970): 38–42, translated by John A. Crespi.

32. Epigraph to the Inaugural Issue che n fa ngming We bang our own gong, beat our own drum Dance our own dance of the dragon. (What’s happening?) Still we bang and we drum and we Dance our own dance of the Dragon Clan. Dragon Race Poetry Journal 1 (March 1971): n.p., translated by John A. Crespi.

33. On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets gua n ji e ming

L

et me start off with an episode that was both embarrassing and illuminating. One day, I was reading Modern Chinese Poetry: Poets from Taiwan, 1955–1965, edited and translated by Ye Weilian. In the midst of it, I stepped out of my office on an errand and left the open book on my desk. When I came back, a graduate student of mine was paging through the book, and the first thing he said to me was: “I didn’t know there are so many Chinese poets writing in English.” I told him that those were English translations. Seeing the incredulous look on his face, I reassured him that the originals were all written in Chinese. After the student left that morning (I had hoped that he would not make any wild comment on the mode of expression), I reflected on what he had said. I have since read the anthology twice and come to realize how accurate and irrefutable the student’s remark was. Those poems do

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human existence and ideology. One might say that because Taiwanese poets took on themes naturally present in their environment, they were able to explore them more deeply. Bamboo Hat 99 (November 1970): 38–42, translated by John A. Crespi.

32. Epigraph to the Inaugural Issue che n fa ngming We bang our own gong, beat our own drum Dance our own dance of the dragon. (What’s happening?) Still we bang and we drum and we Dance our own dance of the Dragon Clan. Dragon Race Poetry Journal 1 (March 1971): n.p., translated by John A. Crespi.

33. On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets gua n ji e ming

L

et me start off with an episode that was both embarrassing and illuminating. One day, I was reading Modern Chinese Poetry: Poets from Taiwan, 1955–1965, edited and translated by Ye Weilian. In the midst of it, I stepped out of my office on an errand and left the open book on my desk. When I came back, a graduate student of mine was paging through the book, and the first thing he said to me was: “I didn’t know there are so many Chinese poets writing in English.” I told him that those were English translations. Seeing the incredulous look on his face, I reassured him that the originals were all written in Chinese. After the student left that morning (I had hoped that he would not make any wild comment on the mode of expression), I reflected on what he had said. I have since read the anthology twice and come to realize how accurate and irrefutable the student’s remark was. Those poems do

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read like English—or, more precisely, American—poetry. I explain to myself that this means that Ye Weilian is a skillful translator. There are quite a few examples in the anthology to prove that he is very creative and has a solid command of English. But there are also many poems, especially those written by Yip himself, that read just like English poems. In the end, I must admit that my student’s seemingly random remark hit the nail on the head; I was simply reluctant to see it. I have limited knowledge of modern Chinese poetry. The first time I came into contact with it was six years ago, when I was staying in Cambridge. Someone asked me if I had read the work of the famous Chinese poet Xu Zhimo. They say that, inspired by the muse, he often sat on the bridge of the Cam in deep thought. So I went to the library and checked out his work. However, even under those circumstances, where one would especially take pride in being Chinese— a common experience for overseas Chinese—I could not bring myself to read his poems other than those describing Cambridge. The poems that I did read seemed to me to be heavily influenced by the English poet Thomas Gray. So I left Xu Zhimo on the bookshelf, next to the predecessor of romanticism of the eighteenth century. Although I subsequently came to revise my rash opinion on Xu Zhimo, I still don’t think what he did for modern Chinese poetry is positive. He, and many others, introduced a trend that, instead of receding, seems to be stifling all the creativity that would have made New Poetry intelligible and beloved to Chinese readers. In view of the fact that Xu was writing during a transitional period, the case may be understandable. But Chinese poets today are still in the same predicament. Since May Fourth, all literary movements were modeled on Western paradigms. Although these westernizing movements have gone through different phases, whenever modern Chinese poetry is mentioned, we cannot help but think of Anglo-European influences. Most young Chinese poets gain their literary knowledge by reading such masters as Keats, Flaubert, Dostoyevsky, Ezra Pound, and T. S. Eliot; yet they know nothing about the poets and novelists of their own country. This situation goes against the norm of great literature. One can tear down an old Chinese-style house and rebuild it in a Western style, but the theory does not apply to literature. So long as Chinese people still use Chinese, a language that is markedly different from European languages, it is foolish and meaningless for writers to ignore Chinese literature and devote exclusive attention to Anglo-European literature. Unfortunately, many of our writers are doing exactly that. Chinese writers try to meet Western criteria at the expense of their own tradition. Although doing so may avoid the danger of imitation, what they gain is but a mishmash of poorly digested novelties imported from European and American ports. Although they don’t have the flaws of old forms and old techniques

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of Chinese literature, what they offer are obscure experiments. To create a true Chinese literature, one must reject the idea of looking for the new. Yet, it is impossible to simply return to the heritage of Chinese literature, whose fate is inextricable from Western literature. This is the predicament for all serious Chinese writers. . . . It is ironic that while Ezra Pound and other modernist poets drew inspiration from classical Chinese poetry and influenced the global poetry scene, many Chinese poets either show disdain for classical Chinese poetry or talk up what some famous American avant-garde poets say about it. I suspect that Chinese poets would not so gladly accept and endlessly discuss the subject were it not filtered through the Americans. What’s even more absurd is that while Western writers are anxious about their lack of traditional literature and culture, Chinese writers cannot wait to sever their ties with traditional Chinese literature and float on the sea of world literature and internationalism. (In my view, these terms are euphemisms for westernization.) . . . With a few exceptions, there has not been much discussion of the past on the contemporary Chinese poetry scene, and what is being produced nowadays is a hybrid that is neither horse nor donkey, something that only those overwesternized writers find meaningful. It is time that our poets sat down and took a good look at themselves and asked themselves about motivation and goals. Regardless of its quality, the recently published Selected Essays on Modern Chinese Poetry [1968] is a record of contemporary attitudes. From the viewpoint of social criticism, this book is a product of literary colonialism. From an aesthetic point of view, it is a literary trompe l’oeil conjured up by a group of people. Based on these two points, the critical essays can only lead to a tense relationship between the poet-critics and Chinese readers. Therefore, in my view, our Chinese poets have learned the wrong things from Western writers and run the risk of being permanent disciples. They are always imitating, copying, and parroting. We should see the West as a path to rediscovery of the Chinese cultural heritage and as nourishment for the modern tradition. Unfortunately, our poets have sacrificed themselves and their art when they take the path to the West. Maybe we can say without exaggeration that, with few exceptions, the state of modern Chinese poetry today is that it is under the same influences that dominated Chinese politics and economy in the early twentieth century. This is the poets’ fault. But, to be fair, we should acknowledge that their writings (and Ye Weilian are among the best known) are just the result but not the cause of the paralysis of contemporary Chinese poetry, and paralysis is a social product of moral degradation, intellectual sterility, and increasing foreign influence against the confining tradition. China Times literary supplement, February 28–29, 1972, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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34. On the Special Issue of Retrospect ye sha n 1 The coinage of “modern poetry” as a general term for New Poetry has a history of less than twenty years. When we reflect on the history of modern poetry over these two decades, we recognize many problems on the one hand, but, on the other hand, from a historical point of view we realize that the development and transformation of modern poetry represents the most challenging phenomenon in recent literary history. As a rule, innovation in literature begins with innovation in poetry. When we examine the rebirth of Chinese literature in the last twenty years, we conclude that the modernization of poetry has served as the most important impetus. Of course, if we pursue it further, the factors behind the modernization of poetry came from outside. Poetry is not biologically programmed to morph radically. Generally speaking, the invention of new forms and discovery of new content are often based on the poets’ resistance. Resistance comes from their suspicion of the inherited recent tradition and their discontent as a result of such suspicion. In the past two decades, modern poets have been influenced by three literary sources. The first is old (or classical) Chinese literature. The impact may be invisible, but it is thicker and hotter than blood. Anyone who is born Chinese cannot escape an awareness of tradition. The second influence is New Literature (or literary reform) of the May Fourth movement. The goal of New Literature is to search for new forms. In subject matter and content, even in terms of imagery, modern poetry is not yet independent of traditional literature. The third influence is Western (or foreign) literature. Compared with the poets of May Fourth and the ensuing three decades, modern poets today embrace this literature even more passionately and sincerely. The above three strands intermingle and take turns ebbing and flowing. Together they constitute the modern Chinese poetry of the last two decades, some of it dazzling, some of it dismal. New Poetry in the early 1960s did not show any obvious breakthroughs in the three decades following the May Fourth. The emigré poets active in the New Poetry Weekly in Taipei had pen names that were reminiscent of earlier poets who had studied in Japan, and their works smacked of Japanese nostalgia and echoed the Chinese language tanka written by local Taiwanese poets, whose imagistic epiphany overrode structural innovation. Poetry tossed about on the stormy sea, either sadly buried in a rigid

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structure or diluted by empty political slogans. The same could be said of its sister arts during this period, including fiction, drama, prose, painting, and sculpture. The pulse of New Literature was weak. With the founding of the Modern Poetry Society and the Blue Star Poetry Society, New Poetry finally found its path in the dark. On the one hand, local poets and emigré poets began to communicate with one another through these organizations. This is demonstrated by the diversity of the contributors to the early issues of the Modern Poetry Quarterly. On the other hand, young poets who identified with Anglo-American poetics and techniques started interacting with those middle-aged poets who derived their aesthetics from French poetry in Japanese translation. This is best seen in the Blue Star salon, where mutual stimulation took place. However, young poets did not owe their rise solely to academic nurturing. Many came from the military. A group of smart and imaginative young men were scattered in the armed forces as a result of war. Deprived of a formal education, they had the blood of homesickness, the bones of exile, and a life nourished by idealism. These young beating hearts had their share of hardship in life, yet they never gave up the desire to learn. They found poetry when they stood guard and submitted poems to the journals of the two poetry societies mentioned earlier. Finally, they pawned their watches and bicycles to start their own journals, among which the most accomplished was Epoch. They were joined by local young poets who had received a Japanese and Chinese education and inherited the sense of alienation from having been colonized by a poetry-loving foreign people. To the feeling of loneliness they added a shining layer of old Chinese civilization. They too started submitting poems to the three journals. They too founded a few poetry societies, among which the most unique was Bamboo Hat. . . . By the mid-1960s, modern poetry had established an almost orthodox position on the literary scene. A leader of new literature and arts, it had the most solid theoretical foundation and the largest number of publications. It had won the trust of the public, and the sales of poetry books rose. Modern poets enjoyed social recognition. What was troubling the poets then was how to instill an element of tradition in the spirit of the avant-garde. Thus, the mid-1960s witnessed a divergence among the creative paths that the poets were taking. To wit, difference existed between those who regarded tradition as a rich mine and those who saw tradition as nothing but dregs. One group identified with the techniques of modern Western poetry, whereas the other group reevaluated the classical spirit of the Tang and the Song, aspiring to be well versed in both without being obsessed with either. By the end of the 1960s, the dust had settled. Generally speaking, most believed that classical Chinese poetry and prose were a rich source that should not be recklessly abandoned. The establishment of this position helped the thwarted development of modern poetry. In recent years, we have witnessed a renaissance, as seen in the launch of such journals as Dragon Race and Mainstream. They feature new poets under thirty. Dignified and undaunted, they carry on the youthful spirit of Star Dust, Ocean, and Vertical and

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Horizontal. They testify to the rebirth of modern poetry and are likely to play, in the 1970s, the same role that Blue Star, Epoch, and Modern Poetry used to play, thus opening up a new prospect for modern poetry. Modern Literature 46 (March 1972): 5–10, translated by Michelle Yeh.

35. Not Our Paradise ta ng we nbi ao

T

he Man from Wuling [by Zhang Xiaofeng] will be on stage soon. Before it opens, we have the good fortune of reading the entire script in the Chungwai Literary Monthly, which is a great boon indeed. These days, in the precarious world of theater, few continue to make efforts for this genre, increasing the ardency and urgency of our hopes for The Man from Wuling compared with any other work. Not only in terms of artistry, but also in content—and its intellectual ramifications—we fervently hope that theater, closer to readers than any other art form, can speak for us and lead us down new avenues of exploration. Unfortunately, once we have read the script, we cannot help but sigh; it seems that a modern Guan Hanqing [ca. 1241–1320] or a Chinese T. S. Eliot or Arthur Miller, has yet to be born, that it will require more work. We see how poorly put together this script is, how its dramatic effect and force are lackluster and meager, that its intellectual dishonesty drives us backward; we must speak out. Carrying on this way, we feel, would be worse than doing nothing at all. To borrow a line from the play, it looks as if our young playwright’s “ambition is destroyed by some artificial paradise.” The author has too much on her mind, and so the play manages to express too little; she believed that she could suggest the milieu, explicate the theme, and even characterize every philosophical turn in just a sentence or two. Frankly, we, the audience, don’t yet have that kind of soaring imagination. So for much of the author’s intent, we have to go by the booklet The Man from Wuling, which has been apportioned in cafés. Based on the explanation and summary of how the play was written, it is reasonable to believe that the booklet was probably by the author’s own hand, or at least was done with her approval. It’s regrettable that we have not been able to preview the performance, but since the script has appeared in a literary journal, it can be discussed as a work of literature. I take this opportunity to ask my friends for advice. In this essay, I raise several questions of principle: What is this script trying to say? In terms of its technique, what potency does it possess, and is it

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Horizontal. They testify to the rebirth of modern poetry and are likely to play, in the 1970s, the same role that Blue Star, Epoch, and Modern Poetry used to play, thus opening up a new prospect for modern poetry. Modern Literature 46 (March 1972): 5–10, translated by Michelle Yeh.

35. Not Our Paradise ta ng we nbi ao

T

he Man from Wuling [by Zhang Xiaofeng] will be on stage soon. Before it opens, we have the good fortune of reading the entire script in the Chungwai Literary Monthly, which is a great boon indeed. These days, in the precarious world of theater, few continue to make efforts for this genre, increasing the ardency and urgency of our hopes for The Man from Wuling compared with any other work. Not only in terms of artistry, but also in content—and its intellectual ramifications—we fervently hope that theater, closer to readers than any other art form, can speak for us and lead us down new avenues of exploration. Unfortunately, once we have read the script, we cannot help but sigh; it seems that a modern Guan Hanqing [ca. 1241–1320] or a Chinese T. S. Eliot or Arthur Miller, has yet to be born, that it will require more work. We see how poorly put together this script is, how its dramatic effect and force are lackluster and meager, that its intellectual dishonesty drives us backward; we must speak out. Carrying on this way, we feel, would be worse than doing nothing at all. To borrow a line from the play, it looks as if our young playwright’s “ambition is destroyed by some artificial paradise.” The author has too much on her mind, and so the play manages to express too little; she believed that she could suggest the milieu, explicate the theme, and even characterize every philosophical turn in just a sentence or two. Frankly, we, the audience, don’t yet have that kind of soaring imagination. So for much of the author’s intent, we have to go by the booklet The Man from Wuling, which has been apportioned in cafés. Based on the explanation and summary of how the play was written, it is reasonable to believe that the booklet was probably by the author’s own hand, or at least was done with her approval. It’s regrettable that we have not been able to preview the performance, but since the script has appeared in a literary journal, it can be discussed as a work of literature. I take this opportunity to ask my friends for advice. In this essay, I raise several questions of principle: What is this script trying to say? In terms of its technique, what potency does it possess, and is it

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borne out by the script? From the reader’s perspective, for whom is this script speaking—God or man? Does it have anything to say about our contemporary conditions, or does it run counter to the historical progress of humankind?

1. A P E R S O N L E S S M E T H O D The script has but one theme: that humankind must not relinquish its yearning for paradise. Yearning for paradise is indeed a fine subject, with what is recorded in the Bible about Jesus being one example, and Tao Yuanming’s dream of the Peach Blossom Spring being another. The problem, however, is all in the expression. The playwright’s method of expression is straightforward and simple: she makes the protagonist find the legendary Peach Blossom Spring, but he soon realizes that it is a second-rate bliss and wants to go back to the tribulations of life in Wuling, where he can yearn once again for paradise. I like straightforward and simple expressions, but simplicity is not force-feeding to the degree of alienating the reader, nor is simplicity rashness. My first reaction after finishing this script was that it could never be a director’s script, because no director could possibly add his own interpretation to such monotony. Nor is it an actor’s script, because with one exception, all the roles in the play are just moving props. Even the protagonist Huang Daozhen is tasked with nothing more than reciting poetic lines, without growth, transformation, or aging, let alone the opportunity to express any development of personality. Everything is just passed over in words, with nothing at all left to the plot or the performance of the actors. Lastly, it is not a script for readers or an audience, because it has no climax and offers no possibility of investing the audience with any mood, tragic or comic. In fact, before the audience or reader even has a chance to absorb the plot of one scene, the playwright is already forging ahead and beginning the next scene. In scene 2, for example, while the reader is probably still in the midst of being enthralled by the blissful scene of Peach Blossom Spring, the protagonist is already champing at the bit to ask whether it really is bliss after all. Well, even if it is not, you have to at least provide a bit of psychological space through some concrete events or scenes, so the reader can begin to doubt at the same time as the protagonist does: Is this bliss after all? Drama, in the end, is an expression of something, not an explanation with words. . . .

3. THE PROBLEM OF THE SO-CALLED CHOICE BETWEEN WULING AND THE PEACH BLOSSOM SPRING What does Wuling signify, then? What are the tribulations of Wuling? The following passage appears in that other booklet.

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In order to reject the spirit-benumbing second-rate bliss and the ambitiondestroying replica of paradise, the character Huang Daozhen resolves to return to the tribulations of Wuling, and says: “We who inhabit this planet are a race of thirsty men, and Peach Blossom Village is indeed boundless as the ocean. True, we may be led to believe that we have plunged into paradise, but once we open our mouths, we find that we are in the midst of an endless expanse of saltwater, with nothing to drink at all.” Such a passage could indeed describe many Chinese people who find themselves adrift on foreign shores, living in modern Peach Blossom Springs, purchasing bliss piecemeal, which may in the end be an effective placebo for some. So, shall we say that Wuling is Taiwan, and Peach Blossom Spring the United States or some other such place? In that case, the playwright‘s metaphor loses in the turns what it gains in the straights, since it lacks a firm grasp on reality. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, America is a sanctuary for many. But for the American people, to say they live in second-rate bliss would be rather unfair, as Americans have been cultivating the New World for the sake of their ideals for four hundred years, and what happens today is the fruit of several hundred years of perseverance, not something that can be summed up as second-rate goodness. Or should they get on the Mayflower and head back to England? Although America today is still far from ideal, with growing inequality between the rich and the poor, black people still suffering from serious discrimination and undereducation, and a foreign policy defined by rampant use of force, still, so long as they exist, so long as they still have the courage of Vikings and the spirit of the Boston Tea Party, the people of America will have a bright future. As for overseas students, the issue of the Chinese adrift on foreign shores is not located in whether or not America offers second-rate bliss. If America were in fact a first-rate paradise, would that make it problem-free? No, even if the Peach Blossom Spring were not an ocean of saltwater, and foreign shores were indeed paradise, this would not change the problem of overseas students, and their errors would still be assailable. There are two fundamental errors that plague those studying abroad. First, they unfairly seize on the fruits of others’ labor, putting forth no effort for the modern civilization they enjoy in the United States or other countries. Instead, they just hang around and get something for nothing. This betrays the principle of shared struggle upon which our ancestors built human history; it is not the way the world works. Second, none of those who study overseas seem to have realized that their presence on foreign shores today is not simply the result of their own scholarships, their private tutors, their rote memorization, their passing of the College Entrance Exams, their high scores on the TOEFL, or even their waiting tables and scrubbing pots and pans. Rather, their lives in Taiwan or Hong Kong, where they attended high school and college, lived and grew up in a stable and secure environment, were made possible by a nurturing society sustained with the hard work of thousands

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of fellow citizens from all walks of life. Because of our policy of selecting the worthy and able, of course, we pick them to be sent abroad for higher education according to the principle of division of labor. But now, when they go off to America or Canada and do not come back, they turn their backs on their brothers and sisters who still work together under the social contract of division of labor, and for no purpose, other than their own selfish pleasures and motives, without any willingness to contribute to society—this is their biggest mistake. Because of this, it doesn’t matter whether America is first- or second-rate bliss, or what kind of paradise they should be yearning for, since selfishness of that order forecloses whatever else they might do with their lives. If our playwright thinks that the mention of second-rate bliss will bring them all back, she is being naive; it cannot be done. Plus, we can build our own Peach Blossom Spring, and we don’t need any special help from them. They want to know the feeling of getting first-rate, top-rate, special-rate, whatever-rate-you-want bliss, let them have it. We have our own bliss right here. So if Huang Daozhen really wants to go back to Wuling, well, he will have to know what the tribulations of Wuling are, and where they are, since just going back to Wuling to face these tribulations and yearn for paradise is not going to cut it. And it does not look like Huang will pass this test.

4 . W H AT I S H E C H O O S I N G W H E N H E CHOOSES WULING? . . . Going back to the tribulations of Wuling is great, but from what vantage point is he making his choice? Obviously, as he says not a word of doing anything for the sake of anyone else in Wuling, he is only considering himself, yearning for paradise amid the turmoil of Wuling, instead of heading back to that turmoil to engage in the common struggle with his elders and brothers and sisters. So when he goes back to Wuling, what is he going to do? What does Wuling get out of this? I am afraid that it is all too easy to imagine him with the countenance of a highfalutin modern intellectual, a Manchurian bureaucrat from The Travels of Old Can, some sort of puritan able only to see others for their flaws, constantly shooting his mouth off about how uncorrupted and pure he is, while his eyes show disdain for everyone in Wuling, criticizing them for being unrefined, uncouth. . . . Huang Daozhen represents the thoughts of a minority of intellectuals of the current generation. In their overdone individualism, they think only of their own little problems—existence, self-knowledge, the meaning of life, whither paradise, and other such abstract issues all the livelong day—but with no knowledge of human history or the responsibilities passed on by society at large: if you want society to progress better and more quickly, work for greater democracy and more freedom around the world, so that all people can live with greater

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comfort and more happiness. In fact, so long as you invest yourself in working for the greater good, these pale symbols of gloom and doom will resolve themselves. And as for the intelligentsia, I believe the only way to bring these issues to resolution is to give up the conceited and pompous posturing of the intellectual, and start working earnestly and practically. As Jesus said long ago: Woe unto you, lawyers! for ye have taken away the key of knowledge: ye entered not in yourselves, and them that were entering in ye hindered. —Luke 11:52

All knowledge is social, and intellectuals are nothing more than the workers tasked with overseeing it, employing it in the spirit of service, giving it back to society, sharing it with society in all its bitterness and sweetness. It is not for them to claim knowledge for themselves, or to use their authority to turn it into something with which to bludgeon other members of society. Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 8 (December 1972): 53–84, translated by Lucas Klein.

36. Benchmarks in Fiction Criticism: Reading Tang Jisong’s “Autumn Leaves by Ouyang Zi” bai xi a nyong

I

t has been close to a century since the novel was formally recognized as a serious art form. Today in the West, the novel enjoys the same distinction throughout the scholarly world as do poetry and drama, and it is an object of study by scholars and critics alike. But this distinction did not come lightly. On the contrary, the trials and challenges were considerable. Throughout the past century the novel sustained numerous attacks and even lawsuits before ascending the ranks of the literary world to acquire legitimacy. Flaubert’s Madame Bovary was the object of a lawsuit, while Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure similarly suffered harsh public criticism. Both authors were charged with immorality by the society of the time. In the present day, nonetheless, these two novels are universally regarded as nineteenth-century masterpieces. The former, in particular, is acclaimed as the forerunner of the modern novel and for some time has been held up as the supreme example of literary excellence. . . . The novel is a serious art form with separate dignity and worth. But this concept has not yet taken root either in Chinese society or the scholarly world.

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comfort and more happiness. In fact, so long as you invest yourself in working for the greater good, these pale symbols of gloom and doom will resolve themselves. And as for the intelligentsia, I believe the only way to bring these issues to resolution is to give up the conceited and pompous posturing of the intellectual, and start working earnestly and practically. As Jesus said long ago: Woe unto you, lawyers! for ye have taken away the key of knowledge: ye entered not in yourselves, and them that were entering in ye hindered. —Luke 11:52

All knowledge is social, and intellectuals are nothing more than the workers tasked with overseeing it, employing it in the spirit of service, giving it back to society, sharing it with society in all its bitterness and sweetness. It is not for them to claim knowledge for themselves, or to use their authority to turn it into something with which to bludgeon other members of society. Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 8 (December 1972): 53–84, translated by Lucas Klein.

36. Benchmarks in Fiction Criticism: Reading Tang Jisong’s “Autumn Leaves by Ouyang Zi” bai xi a nyong

I

t has been close to a century since the novel was formally recognized as a serious art form. Today in the West, the novel enjoys the same distinction throughout the scholarly world as do poetry and drama, and it is an object of study by scholars and critics alike. But this distinction did not come lightly. On the contrary, the trials and challenges were considerable. Throughout the past century the novel sustained numerous attacks and even lawsuits before ascending the ranks of the literary world to acquire legitimacy. Flaubert’s Madame Bovary was the object of a lawsuit, while Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure similarly suffered harsh public criticism. Both authors were charged with immorality by the society of the time. In the present day, nonetheless, these two novels are universally regarded as nineteenth-century masterpieces. The former, in particular, is acclaimed as the forerunner of the modern novel and for some time has been held up as the supreme example of literary excellence. . . . The novel is a serious art form with separate dignity and worth. But this concept has not yet taken root either in Chinese society or the scholarly world.

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Instead, social morality continues to be the yardstick and critical framework for both readers and critics. If a work does not comply with the prevailing ethical norms, it is invariably devalued. The novel had a humble beginning as a form of entertainment for the urban middle class and was held in contempt by aristocrats, the educated upper-class. Content that violated the ethical practices of the society of the day invariably led to recriminations by those who upheld traditional values and deemed it an evil force that breached morality. At the end of the day, the ethical norms of a society are not absolute but change as the objective social conditions change. Today, in the 1970s, few individuals believe that there is anything particularly immoral about the above-mentioned Western novels. They are more ethical, in fact, than the Hollywood movies shown in the local cinemas. In China, Dream of the Red Chamber and Water Margin have long been household reading matter, and sections from the two novels that model excess and banditry are even included in the Chinese literature textbooks at Taiwan’s middle schools. In the past decades, radical changes have taken place in the ethical values in China and abroad. As a consequence, it is not feasible to use moral standards as a benchmark for literary criticism. In the West, the field of literary criticism is highly advanced, and there are numerous theories and schools. But in China, the field unfolded piecemeal and has not yet developed into a tradition. If we pull together the various theories, we can sum them up as three criteria for determining the value of a novel. The first is whether the linguistic skills and the form and structure successfully convey the content and theme of a work. This is a basic touchstone in literary criticism. There has never been a great novel in which the language is slipshod and the form and structure are defective. There are many reasons why Dream of the Red Chamber is a masterpiece, but the basic one is Cao Xueqin’s exquisite prose that portrays to great effect the novel’s profoundly complex world. . . . The second criterion is whether or not the worldview has depth and breadth and is fully developed. By this I mean the world that the author constructs in the work, which reflects the fact that at times there is not an exact fit between the author’s personal views on life and those in a work. The novels of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Cao Xueqin contain an elaborate fictional world that encompasses all corners of the earth. The vast scope of this world allows us to consider the novel great. . . . The third criterion is whether an author possesses a strong understanding of human nature. An author writes about people and must be examined as to whether his or her understanding of human nature is good. In great works of fiction, the central characters are “round characters.” Modulations in personalities are possible, and good and evil can coexist in a single character. The conflicts include those between humans and God or the universe, individuals and society, one individual and another, and many others. . . . On May 19, 1972, the China Times published Mr. Tang Jisong’s “Ouyang Zi’s Autumn Leaves.” As a piece of criticism, I feel there are areas in the article that

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are open to discussion. At the outset, Mr. Tang acknowledges that the form of “Autumn Leaves” is flawless and that the technique is skillful. Thus, Ouyang Zi’s story meets the first criterion. On this point Mr. Tang does not elaborate further. Rather, the subsequent argument focuses on the story’s moral values and its analysis of human nature, the second and third criteria mentioned above. Mr. Tang maintains that his criticism is half grounded in moral values and half grounded in national culture. He does not clarify the former, but instead quotes from the Confucian classics, thus seeming to refer to traditional ethical belief. He comments that he is different from the Song neo-Confucians and is not allied with the Boxers. Nonetheless, in his critique of the first piece in the collection, he comments that the relationship between the male and female protagonists does not accord with the traditional virtue of “refraining from looking, listening, acting, and speaking with impropriety.” . . . “Autumn Leaves” is a story about a mixed Chinese-American boy who has feelings for his young Chinese stepmother. The American mother of the boy ran off with someone else, so he has been without maternal love since he was young. The stepmother, in turn, lost her husband when she was young and her second marriage is loveless. The two confess their suffering and acknowledge empathy for one another, which is the most moving aspect of the story. The foundation of Ouyang Zi’s ethical values is her belief in the inestimable value of empathy. Ultimately, the stepmother conforms to ethical mores and rejects the young boy’s love for her. Confucius was very strict in the areas of self-cultivation and the regulation of the family, but I believe his literary views are quite lenient. In The Book of Songs a lot is written about erotic love, some of which does not align with conventional rules of behavior. Nonetheless, Confucius accepted love as “thought without evil” and even tolerated the “decadent music of Zheng” without deleting it from the text. He states: “Ballads from the States are joyful without being licentious; Minor Elegances are soulful without being slanderous.” It seems that Confucius believed that literature was primarily meant to express feeling and should be tolerated as long as it is not overrun with wanton sentiment. Later, traditionallyminded individuals imposed far-fetched interpretations on The Book of Songs, treating it as a classic on ethics. Their way of looking at it distorted Confucius’ view of the work. Mr. Tang has written a similar critical review of “Test.” He comments . . . that the female protagonist lacks national pride and throws herself at Paul, the American in the piece. . . . I am afraid that Mr. Tang lacks a full understanding of the story. The female protagonist does indeed possess a great deal of national pride, which is why she ultimately does not become involved with Paul. Various statements reflect the fact that she is indignant about the decline of Chinese culture, but she does not disparage it. Indeed, what she says complies in many ways with historical fact. Prior to the Song dynasty, Chinese culture led the rest of the world. But in the nineteenth century, we fell far behind Western culture and suffered the disaster of the Opium Wars. What was the reason for

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this? Was it not because we were excessively complacent, narcissistic, and disdainfully shut our doors to the outside world? Nowadays, other than Taiwan, where Chinese traditional culture struggles on alone, everywhere else it has either been destroyed or put in a museum. Mr. Tang’s passionate patriotism deserves our sympathy, but we must also acknowledge our cultural backwardness. Only through acknowledging our backwardness can we finally begin to make progress. Mr. Tang criticizes Ouyang Zi’s glorification of Western culture and ambivalence toward traditional culture. He claims to find evidence of this attitude in the westernized temperament, thinking, and even the language of the fictional characters. Mr. Tang’s assessment may be correct, but it does not apply to Ouyang Zi alone. Since the May Fourth period, all Chinese intellectuals have been affected by a cultural identity crisis that originates in the glorification of Western culture and ambivalence toward traditional culture. During the past several decades, Chinese intellectuals have been bombarded by many cultures, Chinese and Western, old and new. Our cultural identity crisis continues to deepen, and the fever has not yet abated. There is a saying that goes, “Ice three feet deep did not result from one cold day.” On the contrary, the morbid state of affairs developed throughout the past century and is not the fault of any single person. The fact that Ouyang Zi’s characters are westernized in personality, thought, and language is due to the fact that she writes about people in contemporary Chinese society. It is inevitable that their personality, thought, and language are westernized to varying degrees. Let us take a look at Taiwanese society, in particular the urban centers. We wear Western suits and skirts, eat ice cream, drink CocaCola, live in Western-style apartments and houses, and ride on buses and trains. Which of these—clothing, food, habitat, and transportation—is not a product of westernization? We practice a parliamentary political system, advocate freedom of choice in love, and watch television and movies, all of which derive from the West. . . . We lament that our literary and martial cultures, as well as clothes and caps, differ from the past, but this is not an obstacle when it comes to writing fiction. There is value in writing about Chinese who have become westernized, because their identity crisis is even more severe. It is precisely because the thoughts and personalities of the characters in Ouyang Zi’s stories are westernized that they appear complex and real. They appear this way because they truly are contemporary Chinese people. Mr. Tang also critiques “Approaching Dusk.” He states, “Choosing this topsyturvy topic is like swapping gold for iron. The gains cannot offset the losses.” He adds that if Ouyang Zi “retained the slightest idea about ethics,” she would also refrain from the subject matter in “Witch.” Both stories are about women who are mothers and engage in illicit affairs. Even so, one cannot determine moral values from the subject matter alone. In principle, one can write about any topic, but it is the author who determines moral values and inscribes ethics into a work. Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary portray

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women in a profound way and both concern women who are mothers and have affairs. In short, the writers exercise sound judgment in their depiction of the female characters and the societies in which they live. . . . Autumn Leaves has a total of thirteen stories, and Mr. Tang critiques them one by one. In a nutshell, one can say that what aggrieves him the most is that Ouyang Zi mercilessly exposes the ugly side of human nature. In actual fact, views about human nature encompass both positive and negative, and no absolutes exist. Mr. Tang refers to Ouyang Zi as a doctor of the soul. With her surgeon’s scalpel in hand, she takes aim and exposes to full view the heinous workings of the human heart. The reference to doctor of the soul is appropriate. Casting the eye over the naked human form, shunning no affliction, and dissecting the human body in order to look within, a surgeon proceeds with fortitude and considerable know-how. Ouyang Zi’s dissection similarly entails know-how and strength of mind. With her X-ray–like vision, there is nowhere to hide. Her style, which is rational, analytical, unforgiving, and merciless, is the strong point of her work, and there is a kind of resilience in her work, without a hint of sentimentality. A good doctor not only has good medical skills but also must have ethics. This means that he or she must care and show compassion. I believe that Ouyang Zi is a surgeon with good medical ethics. No matter how unforgiving she may be in exposing the truth of the human soul, in the end she still feels compassion for her characters on account of their humanity. To be human is to be born with emotions and desires, as well as to suffer because of these emotions and desires. As we read her stories, we are similarly overcome, because the emotions and desires are none other than what we ourselves possess. A fearless inventory of our own musings over a twenty-four-hour period would reveal thoughts almost as abhorrent as those in “Witch.” Novels invariably involve ethical issues, which is due to unrealistic expectations and concerns when it comes to the impact of fiction. In the nineteenth century, the mass media was still undeveloped, and novels exerted considerable influence on social mores. But in the 1970s, mass media of all forms prevails, and the influence of television, film, and newspapers on the lives and thoughts of people is one hundred times greater than that of the novel. We can see the power of the new media merely by examining the extent to which Hollywood movies and television programs influence young people’s behavior and thinking. Nowadays, people seldom sit down to read a novel of three or five hundred pages, let alone examine the ethical values in a work. Instead, they read newspapers and watch television, which are faster and more straightforward, not to mention the fact that the ethical issues in novels are fictitious anyway. What purpose, in the end, does fiction serve? Undoubtedly, its practical function will decline and it will no longer have much impact on individual self-cultivation, the regulation of families, or social reform. Guidance for young people that is individually put into practice is ultimately more effective. If one has to name a function for fiction, its greatest value lies in its potential for psychological

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education. Reading great novels can improve the maturity and acuity of our emotions and deepen our understanding of life. Individuals with a deep understanding of Dream of the Red Chamber possibly possess a rich insight into the emotional world of Chinese people and Chinese culture. Perhaps fiction, that is, works of artistic value and not popular novels, will gradually take on the status of a pure art form. The respect that fiction ought to enjoy is tantamount to what we feel for Tang poetry and Song landscape paintings, two artistic achievements that manifest to the highest degree the nation’s spiritual life. There is no doubt that in the seventeenth century, Cao Xueqin established a landmark in the realm of Chinese art, and the creation Dream of the Red Chamber is our national icon. This great novel has considerably deepened our spiritual culture. California, 1972 China Times literary supplement, July 16–17, 1972; reprinted in Suddenly, Looking Back (Taipei: Erya, 1978), 33–53, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

37. Qideng Sheng’s “Polio” Style l i u shaoming DEAR ELDER BROTHER XX, Since my return from Taiwan, aside from teaching classes and grappling with the long-winded and intricate sentences of Henry James and Joseph Conrad, I have been reading the New Poetry and fiction published in Taiwan in the past five or six years whenever I have the time. I draw my salary from the English Department, but my research is on Chinese literature, a condition that calls to mind, to borrow an inappropriate metaphor, “my body may be imprisoned in Chu, but my heart is with the Han.” . . . The reason I have not read Taiwanese authors closely in the past (my friends and classmates being the exceptions) is because I suffer from a kind of prejudice. I believe that if a fiction writer can’t even comprehensibly use language, what’s the point of discussing it as art? That was the case in 1965 or 1966, when I was teaching in Hawaii. One day, having just received issue 25 of Modern Literature, I opened it excitedly only to be dumbfounded upon reading its fiction selections. 1. “Exchanging looks of surprise; a Sunday afternoon express bus sped southward along the coast, Tugeise ran into a classmate named Ma from his student days . . . ” (Qideng Sheng, “First Sight of Dawn”)

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education. Reading great novels can improve the maturity and acuity of our emotions and deepen our understanding of life. Individuals with a deep understanding of Dream of the Red Chamber possibly possess a rich insight into the emotional world of Chinese people and Chinese culture. Perhaps fiction, that is, works of artistic value and not popular novels, will gradually take on the status of a pure art form. The respect that fiction ought to enjoy is tantamount to what we feel for Tang poetry and Song landscape paintings, two artistic achievements that manifest to the highest degree the nation’s spiritual life. There is no doubt that in the seventeenth century, Cao Xueqin established a landmark in the realm of Chinese art, and the creation Dream of the Red Chamber is our national icon. This great novel has considerably deepened our spiritual culture. California, 1972 China Times literary supplement, July 16–17, 1972; reprinted in Suddenly, Looking Back (Taipei: Erya, 1978), 33–53, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

37. Qideng Sheng’s “Polio” Style l i u shaoming DEAR ELDER BROTHER XX, Since my return from Taiwan, aside from teaching classes and grappling with the long-winded and intricate sentences of Henry James and Joseph Conrad, I have been reading the New Poetry and fiction published in Taiwan in the past five or six years whenever I have the time. I draw my salary from the English Department, but my research is on Chinese literature, a condition that calls to mind, to borrow an inappropriate metaphor, “my body may be imprisoned in Chu, but my heart is with the Han.” . . . The reason I have not read Taiwanese authors closely in the past (my friends and classmates being the exceptions) is because I suffer from a kind of prejudice. I believe that if a fiction writer can’t even comprehensibly use language, what’s the point of discussing it as art? That was the case in 1965 or 1966, when I was teaching in Hawaii. One day, having just received issue 25 of Modern Literature, I opened it excitedly only to be dumbfounded upon reading its fiction selections. 1. “Exchanging looks of surprise; a Sunday afternoon express bus sped southward along the coast, Tugeise ran into a classmate named Ma from his student days . . . ” (Qideng Sheng, “First Sight of Dawn”)

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Qideng Sheng? What a weird name! “Exchanging looks of surprise” — what kind of sentence is this? It is an English adverbial clause. “Tugeise”— is this a Chinese or Japanese name? That was my initial reaction, which may be described as one of revulsion. 2. “This feeling was always one of a servile crowd of mourners in a line, after each one had filled their weary hearts with grief, pulling their bodies as if they were extraordinarily heavy and following the unbroken, prolonged sound of a screeching howl, sluggishly advancing forward . . . ” (Shi Shuqing, “Porcelain Guanyin”) Such strange syntax. Then I read another selection. 3. “When Mo Luoya delivered the express package to the village primary school, Chu Qin and Song Dafu were holding up a lamp among the crowd, the world forgotten, digging for the primary school student buried at the bottom of the stream . . . ” (Bai Huamu, “Farewell, Linliu!”) “The world forgotten”—is this an adverbial clause? Doesn’t the “di” create an adverb in Chinese when added to a clause? My curiosity piqued, I flipped to another piece. 4. “The wind is squeezed in your smile. Everything is everything. I go there to look for you . . . ” (Wang Yongzhe, Letters) What does “Everything is everything” mean? Everything is everything? Doesn’t this sentence have a flair of Zen? After I read these examples, my prejudice against the current generation of young writers only increased and I felt more and more alienated. Since 1965, however, works like these by Qideng Sheng and others, which I found unintelligible, have proliferated not only in Modern Literature, but appear regularly in other reputable journals, such as the Literary Quarterly. Therefore, I wondered to myself: Is it possible that the perspectives and tastes of the editors are fallacious, or is it something else? Perhaps they have lost their glasses . . . At that time, I had just received a letter from Professor Wolfgang Franke at Hamburg University asking me to write a short introductory essay on Taiwanese literature for China Handbook [1974], which he was compiling. As a result, for the past few months I have been tenaciously doing my homework, including reading Qideng Sheng and “Everything is everything.” This time, instead of randomly reading whatever struck my fancy, I employed the same method it takes to read Dubliners and tried to discover the writer’s world in every sentence he wrote. I succeeded in making a preliminary discovery: the sentences in Qideng Sheng’s fiction are afflicted with polio and unable to stand on their own feet. Not just his sentences but his stories also suffer from this condition. Reading just one or two individual works leaves one with the feeling of exchanging looks of surprise. However, with patience and resolve to endure his agonizing writing and to look at it in groups, one may discover

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that the power of his imagination and his affective world is similar to that of Kafka or Ionesco. That is to say, we cannot use logic to assess this style of writing. What sets Qideng Sheng apart from those two authors is a fuller sense of compassion. But this is only my preliminary appraisal and should not be considered unimpeachable. However, what still troubles me is this question, on which I hope you may shed some light. Is Qideng Sheng’s language deliberately ostentatious or is it naturally so? When he was in school, did he write homework in Qideng Sheng–style Chinese? This letter, written in an afternoon, should come to a close. But before I conclude, I want to tell you something. In the past several years, many extraordinary authors have emerged in Taiwan; among them, those young writers who were born and raised on the island have accomplished the most. Such works as Chen Yingzhen’s “My First Case” and Huang Chunming’s “A Flower in the Rainy Night” are both first-rate. Reading their work, I cannot help but sigh over the thought that, were it not for the upheaval in our nation, Chinese could perhaps be a universal language like English. Alas! Perhaps I should start a class right here and now on “Recent Chinese Fiction from 1950–1970.” Next week, I am teaching the eighteenth-century English eccentric, Laurence Sterne. (After Qideng Sheng, rereading Sterne is like having faced fear—one no longer knows fear.) After I complete my official duties (spending one day in an English department is enough to drive one to seek therapy in a discussion of Chinese literature), we will continue our conversation on the fiction of Huang Chunming and others. Letters from the Spirit Pavilion (Taipei: Sanmin Bookstore, 1972), 38–43, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

38. Take Pains to Read, Take Care to Evaluate Family Catastrophe ya n yua ns hu

S

ome of Wang Wenxing’s fiction I’ve read includes his short stories like “The Black Gown” and the novella Dragon Inn. They made a terrible impression on me. To me, a work like Dragon Inn reads like something squeezed out forcefully, with little talent and even less authenticity. When the Chung-wai Literary Monthly was launched, Wang Wenxing was finishing the manuscript of Family

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that the power of his imagination and his affective world is similar to that of Kafka or Ionesco. That is to say, we cannot use logic to assess this style of writing. What sets Qideng Sheng apart from those two authors is a fuller sense of compassion. But this is only my preliminary appraisal and should not be considered unimpeachable. However, what still troubles me is this question, on which I hope you may shed some light. Is Qideng Sheng’s language deliberately ostentatious or is it naturally so? When he was in school, did he write homework in Qideng Sheng–style Chinese? This letter, written in an afternoon, should come to a close. But before I conclude, I want to tell you something. In the past several years, many extraordinary authors have emerged in Taiwan; among them, those young writers who were born and raised on the island have accomplished the most. Such works as Chen Yingzhen’s “My First Case” and Huang Chunming’s “A Flower in the Rainy Night” are both first-rate. Reading their work, I cannot help but sigh over the thought that, were it not for the upheaval in our nation, Chinese could perhaps be a universal language like English. Alas! Perhaps I should start a class right here and now on “Recent Chinese Fiction from 1950–1970.” Next week, I am teaching the eighteenth-century English eccentric, Laurence Sterne. (After Qideng Sheng, rereading Sterne is like having faced fear—one no longer knows fear.) After I complete my official duties (spending one day in an English department is enough to drive one to seek therapy in a discussion of Chinese literature), we will continue our conversation on the fiction of Huang Chunming and others. Letters from the Spirit Pavilion (Taipei: Sanmin Bookstore, 1972), 38–43, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

38. Take Pains to Read, Take Care to Evaluate Family Catastrophe ya n yua ns hu

S

ome of Wang Wenxing’s fiction I’ve read includes his short stories like “The Black Gown” and the novella Dragon Inn. They made a terrible impression on me. To me, a work like Dragon Inn reads like something squeezed out forcefully, with little talent and even less authenticity. When the Chung-wai Literary Monthly was launched, Wang Wenxing was finishing the manuscript of Family

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Catastrophe, which he had spent seven years working on. My associates at the journal thought no matter how Family Catastrophe would turn out, it would be worth publishing in the journal. It was, after all, what he had to show for seven years of painstaking devotion, let alone the fact that the author was a widely recognized fiction writer, even though he had not published anything for years and no one had even discussed his published work up to that point. You could say that we signed a contract with Wang Wenxing to serialize his Family Catastrophe out of consideration for his effort rather than the result. We published the novel in installments from number 4 through number 9. Since I was not personally well disposed toward his previous work, when the serialization began, I didn’t put much energy into reading it, especially because the style was such a strain that after two or three installments I didn’t want to go on anymore. But the contract was signed, so we had to serialize it for better or worse. However, readers of the journal did read it, and their responses poured in. Looking back, I think 99 percent of the responses were thumbs-down. Many readers said they couldn’t stand it any more and wanted the journal to drop it. One friend I respect very much even scolded us, saying that he was astonished that we would publish something so unintelligible. With reactions going from bad to worse, the Chung-wai Literary Monthly had an obligation to offer some explanation to its readers. It was then that I decided to read the entire novel to find out what it was all about. Before I did, I said to Wang Wenxing, “I am going to write a review of your Family Catastrophe, so I want to let you know up front.” Because I assumed that I would not have anything good to say about it, I was prepared to lose him as a friend. I simply didn’t know how to greet him in the future when I bumped into him in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures [at NTU]. Worse still was the fact that his wife was a pillar of the department. On the other hand, if I was going to write a review, I could only do it with a clear conscience and not agonize over whatever sacrifices it might entail. That was my mind-set before I read Family Catastrophe and after I agreed to review it. I assembled all six issues of the Chung-wai Literary Monthly, took them home, asked my wife to brew a large pot of coffee, and stayed up late into the night. I spent four evenings reading the novel. The more carefully I read it, the sweeter the sensation. Reading painstakingly, I felt the novel deserved a closer reading, and the closer the reading, the more I was astonished by how exquisite it was. All along I had imagined that Family Catastrophe was something as miserable and barren as Dragon Inn, but now I would say that Family Catastrophe is a masterpiece in modern Chinese literature, one of very few masterpieces! Family Catastrophe has three distinctive features: precise wording, exquisite style, and well-chosen details. Beyond these three features, its use of recurrent motifs, unified structure, and vivid characterization is equally praiseworthy. Overall, my impression of Family Catastrophe can be summed up by the word “authentic.” Read closely, every word and every line is authentic and true to life. James Joyce’s fiction is most admired for its “sense of immediacy,” and the same

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sense of immediacy permeates Family Catastrophe. What more can one ask of literature than authenticity? For the past few days I fretted over how to convey this impression to readers in my discussion of Family Catastrophe. In the end, I have decided to focus on the relationships among the characters as the best way to begin. Family Catastrophe is the story of a family, a very small one, with only four members, and the relationships among these four people constitute the fabric of the book. Apart from this, the mental maturation of the protagonist, Fan Ye, is also an important development. (The author uses the third-person narrator, but it is usually Fan’s viewpoint.) These elements, together with the three achievements mentioned above, the characterization, and so on, can be revealed by tracing the relationships among the four characters. For this reason, I will begin with these relationships in Family Catastrophe, between Fan Ye and his father Fan Minxian, Fan Ye and his mother, Fan Ye and his second elder brother Lunyuan, and Fan Ye’s mother and father. Other relationships have their significance too and are depicted with liveliness and insight. Let’s start with the relationship of Fan Ye with his father. If we take Family Catastrophe in the simplest terms, the story is a history of conflict between father and son. This conflict begins when Fan Ye is quite young. His father says several times, half in jest and half in earnest, that Maomao (Fan Ye’s childhood name) will be an unfilial son: “Too true, too true,” Father shook his head despondently. “They’re all the same. This child will no doubt turn rebellious like the rest of them.”1 (chapter 9) Why does Fan Ye’s father say “all the same”? Is he saying that all three of his sons are rebellious? Or is this what all fathers say about their sons, that they are all rebellious? Maybe both answers are correct? Zeus was a rebellious son. Adam rebelled against his Heavenly Father. Maomao will eventually drive his aged father out of his home. . . . Now I will take up the question of language in Family Catastrophe. It is the language of Family Catastrophe that aggravates readers the most and fascinates me the most. Starting at a fundamental level, the primary criterion for literature is authenticity. Authenticity should be taken as a universal and immutable value. Can inauthentic literature still be called literature? For literature to be authentic it requires authenticity of language. To put it another way, the authenticity of literature lies in the authenticity of language; the authenticity of language is the authenticity of literature. But how does language become authentic? What is it authentic to? Language becomes authentic by being faithful to the object it depicts, that is, it shows an object with words that are unimpeded by distance from it. In other words, when language is faithful to an object, language is the object. (What is called object here is, of course, an object as it is represented through the writer’s consciousness, which is to say

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that what lies within the writer’s consciousness acts as a medium between the outer or inner world on the one hand, and language on the other.) The medium may distort the object, but let us assume that the medium has clarity, a mirror-like mentality, which T. S. Eliot calls depersonalization or extinction of personality. To me, Wang Wenxing in Family Catastrophe is a medium, a mind that is near total clarity. It is not that difficult for a writer to have a clear recognition or understanding of objects in the external world. Difficulty lies in how to present what is seen or known. Presentation is an issue of language. . . . For most authors, written presentation usually involves conventional modes of expression. They imitate as closely as possible a style with which people are familiar. When it is well done, we may call it “round as a pearl, smooth as jade.” Following a traditional style or mode of expression always comes at the cost of originality, but most writers and the vast majority of readers are comfortable with traditional styles and modes of expression, which constitute a world of mutual understanding, even though it lacks precision. For thousands of years, writers (e.g., Horace) have pointed out that words are organic, that they age and die off. Words may wear out with use and grow stale in the mind of the user, no longer capable of evoking vivid intensity. (Of course, there are some words that never die!) What I mean by vivid intensity is to offer up an object alive with both hands. It is the “sense of immediacy.” When you read a text, you can hear the sounds and see the characters and objects. However, this sense of immediacy is weakened by cowhide-tough traditional modes of presentation. For this reason, writers must create new modes of presentation to establish relationships between words and objects and to intensify the sense of immediacy. Among British and American writers, James Joyce conveys the strongest sense of immediacy. Hemingway also had this in mind when he said that in order to expand the expressive scope of language he wrestled with words with his whole body. In our country, most people are accustomed to and take delight in traditional modes of expression, which is what gentlemen of the press refer to as readability. That’s why they regard “round as a pearl and smooth as jade” as the highest virtue in writing. Granted, pearls are round and jade is smooth, but with what degree of precision does this describe a particular pearl or piece of jade? Yet this is never taken into consideration. If you are the type of reader who admires round pearls and smooth jade, you will naturally be infuriated when you read Family Catastrophe. However, if you value the sense of immediacy, if you think language should grasp the essence of an object, if you seek authenticity of presentation rather than beauty of expression, . . . then you will admire Family Catastrophe. You will respect the exquisite craftsmanship that went into Wang Wenxing’s work and you will be astonished by its strong sense of authenticity. . . . The structure of Family Catastrophe lays out developments during two time periods. One is the past, introduced by headings in arabic numerals that narrate Fan Ye’s growing up, changes in the family, and the evolving relationships

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among the members of the family. These developments are the main story line. Passages introduced by alphabetic letters depict Fan Ye’s search for his father in the present. They are more fragmentary and constitute the secondary story line. The developments in the main story line lead to the father’s disappearance. Wang Wenxing makes subtle use of techniques from detective fiction. The story begins with the father leaving home. Why does he leave? The entire book provides an answer that is carefully laid out, and it is not until the third passage from the end of the novel that the truth is revealed. The shifting progression of the main story line is varied and complex. As a whole, it is driven by the underlying Oedipus complex and the theme of economic dependence versus autonomy. Many passages also depict Fan Ye’s literary and spiritual growth. The novel may be seen as a combination of D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers and James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. On account of Fan Ye’s economic autonomy and coming of age, he now occupies and runs the household that he once wanted to flee, while his depressed father cedes his position in favor of his more capable son and leaves. The search for the father, introduced by alphabetic letters, offers little development, but its significance is profound. In the beginning, Fan Ye is quite active in looking for his father, but later he wants to save the money for posting a newspaper ad for missing persons and only pays for one at long intervals. In the end, when all hope is lost for finding the father, a new life begins for mother and son, symbolized by Fan Ye’s radiant face and his mother’s regained vigor. The two story lines finally merge, and a family catastrophe turns out to be a new life. Closely interrelated motifs resonate throughout Family Catastrophe. As mentioned above, the decisive departure of the father at the start of the story parallels his despair over his son and his desire to become a monk, which is only revealed at the very end of the book. Fan Ye’s nastiness and stinginess in the latter part of the story is the result of his family’s poverty in the past, when his mother and father had to pawn things and borrow money at the beginning and end of each month, and counted out their paltry funds in the bedroom. It is no wonder that having grown up under these circumstances, Fan Ye values even a penny. Moreover, the motif of ghosts and spirits finds echoes in chapters 25 and 110. The former depicts little Maomao’s fear of ghosts, while the latter describes grown-up Fan Ye’s skepticism about ghosts and spirits. Another recurring motif is the father waiting for his son to come home and the son waiting for his father. By chapter 125 the father waits for his son to come home at night only to be scolded. Long before chapter A, when the father leaves home, Fan Ye doesn’t bother waiting for him. In summary, whether set closely together or spaced wide apart, the motifs are interwoven throughout the novel. Apart from a few minor flaws in chapters 122, 126, and 129, the linguistic innovation of Family Catastrophe, the power of the sense of immediacy, the authenticity of the feelings, the exquisiteness of details, and the suggestive subtlety of the style make the novel one of a few masterpieces in modern

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Chinese literature. In conclusion, I will sum it up with one word: Family Catastrophe is “authentic.” Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 11 (May 1973): 60–85, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

note 1.

Translations of passages in Family Catastrophe are from the translation by Susan Dolling (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1995).

39. Looking Forward to a New Kind of Literature ya n yua ns hu . . . Literature on Taiwan today is an inadequate reflection of the age. It lacks social consciousness; at least this is the case with most writers. We can divide commonly seen works into two categories: the remote and the introspective. The remote gives outlet to homesickness [ for the mainland], while the introspective seems to weave dreams. True, dreams and homesickness can be excellent material for literature, but what gets left out between the two? What is left out is life in the present. . . . Literature has many functions, one of which ought to be helping readers to comprehend their surroundings. Perception hampered by habituation is a common failing of humanity. Lacking insight and reflection, people are lulled into drifting along with the flow. Literature of social consciousness is a whetstone. It sharpens readers’ senses and observation, and deepens their understanding of the world around them. Literature of social consciousness is a microscope that enables readers to observe things that are minute but important. Literature should help readers to heed social phenomena and make keen observations. Literature of social consciousness may be mistaken for a lesson in contemporary political science, economics, or sociology. Indeed, these constitute its foundation, but it is not limited to them, because it has an independent and complete ethos. Literature of social consciousness should depict behaviors and responses based on eternal human nature as it relates to contemporary society. Human nature never changes; what changes is society. In a changing society, unchanging human nature takes on varying expressions. This is the object that literature of social consciousness captures. Some say that literature of social

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Chinese literature. In conclusion, I will sum it up with one word: Family Catastrophe is “authentic.” Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 11 (May 1973): 60–85, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

note 1.

Translations of passages in Family Catastrophe are from the translation by Susan Dolling (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1995).

39. Looking Forward to a New Kind of Literature ya n yua ns hu . . . Literature on Taiwan today is an inadequate reflection of the age. It lacks social consciousness; at least this is the case with most writers. We can divide commonly seen works into two categories: the remote and the introspective. The remote gives outlet to homesickness [ for the mainland], while the introspective seems to weave dreams. True, dreams and homesickness can be excellent material for literature, but what gets left out between the two? What is left out is life in the present. . . . Literature has many functions, one of which ought to be helping readers to comprehend their surroundings. Perception hampered by habituation is a common failing of humanity. Lacking insight and reflection, people are lulled into drifting along with the flow. Literature of social consciousness is a whetstone. It sharpens readers’ senses and observation, and deepens their understanding of the world around them. Literature of social consciousness is a microscope that enables readers to observe things that are minute but important. Literature should help readers to heed social phenomena and make keen observations. Literature of social consciousness may be mistaken for a lesson in contemporary political science, economics, or sociology. Indeed, these constitute its foundation, but it is not limited to them, because it has an independent and complete ethos. Literature of social consciousness should depict behaviors and responses based on eternal human nature as it relates to contemporary society. Human nature never changes; what changes is society. In a changing society, unchanging human nature takes on varying expressions. This is the object that literature of social consciousness captures. Some say that literature of social

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consciousness will turn into political propaganda or counterpropaganda. I say that any writing that is propaganda or counterpropaganda is not literature at all. Literature of social consciousness does not adopt a narrow standpoint or hack a narrow path through the intricate complexities of politics and economics. Literature of social consciousness uses its transcendent position to faithfully record and analyze life. . . . I also want to present two slogans of mine: “literature is a dramatization of philosophy” and “literature is a criticism of life.” The former is my own invention, whereas the latter is a word of wisdom from Matthew Arnold. . . . Will a literature based on contemporary social consciousness live only in the present with no lasting legacy? Its legacy can and should be permanent. For literature of social consciousness is none other than the understanding of eternal human nature as it is displayed in a particular time and space. This is the fundamental of all great literature. Isn’t Du Fu a good example? Shakespeare was, after all, very much part of the Elizabethan age. For now, let us give up the absurd and strange, the lofty and remote, and the inaccessibly deep self. Let us focus our eyes on the present, the past five years, the past ten, the past twenty, and this way we can surely produce a literature relevant to the contemporary era. Yes, relevance is what we demand and long for. We look forward to a literature written on bustling sidewalks and in farmhouses in bamboo groves. Still, we should remind ourselves that literature of social consciousness is literature, not reportage or social critique. Literature of social consciousness grasps “concrete universals,” which is the fundamental requirement of all literature. Whatever satisfies this requirement is genuine literature. Chung-wai Literary Monthly 2, no. 1 (1973): 4–7, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

40. Two Kinds of Spirit in Taiwanese Literature: A Comparison of Yang Kui and Zhong Lihe l in z ai jue 1 . . . Beginning in March 1924, Zhang Wojun published a series of articles in Taiwan People’s Daily. They were “A Letter to the Youth of Taiwan,” “The Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan,” “Weeping for Taiwan’s Literary Scene,” “Please Unite to Dismantle the Decrepit Hall in the Thicket of Weeds,” and “The Unique Significance of the Collection of Striking the Jar.” The essays attacked traditional

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consciousness will turn into political propaganda or counterpropaganda. I say that any writing that is propaganda or counterpropaganda is not literature at all. Literature of social consciousness does not adopt a narrow standpoint or hack a narrow path through the intricate complexities of politics and economics. Literature of social consciousness uses its transcendent position to faithfully record and analyze life. . . . I also want to present two slogans of mine: “literature is a dramatization of philosophy” and “literature is a criticism of life.” The former is my own invention, whereas the latter is a word of wisdom from Matthew Arnold. . . . Will a literature based on contemporary social consciousness live only in the present with no lasting legacy? Its legacy can and should be permanent. For literature of social consciousness is none other than the understanding of eternal human nature as it is displayed in a particular time and space. This is the fundamental of all great literature. Isn’t Du Fu a good example? Shakespeare was, after all, very much part of the Elizabethan age. For now, let us give up the absurd and strange, the lofty and remote, and the inaccessibly deep self. Let us focus our eyes on the present, the past five years, the past ten, the past twenty, and this way we can surely produce a literature relevant to the contemporary era. Yes, relevance is what we demand and long for. We look forward to a literature written on bustling sidewalks and in farmhouses in bamboo groves. Still, we should remind ourselves that literature of social consciousness is literature, not reportage or social critique. Literature of social consciousness grasps “concrete universals,” which is the fundamental requirement of all literature. Whatever satisfies this requirement is genuine literature. Chung-wai Literary Monthly 2, no. 1 (1973): 4–7, translated by Edward M. Gunn.

40. Two Kinds of Spirit in Taiwanese Literature: A Comparison of Yang Kui and Zhong Lihe l in z ai jue 1 . . . Beginning in March 1924, Zhang Wojun published a series of articles in Taiwan People’s Daily. They were “A Letter to the Youth of Taiwan,” “The Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan,” “Weeping for Taiwan’s Literary Scene,” “Please Unite to Dismantle the Decrepit Hall in the Thicket of Weeds,” and “The Unique Significance of the Collection of Striking the Jar.” The essays attacked traditional

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literature and officially launched the New Literature movement in Taiwan. Taiwan People’s Daily printed modern literary works. In December 1925, the literary journal Everyman (two issues in total) also commenced publication. . . . In the early phase (1923–1931) of the New Literature movement, Taiwanese writers were on a steep learning curve and groped about in the dark. Their vernacular was clumsy, and their form and style were simple. Nonetheless, the colonial context made the historical significance of their work all the more meaningful. At the very least, the writers laid the foundation for Taiwan’s new literature and enabled new sprouts to grow. More importantly, their efforts in language, form, and technique represented a big step forward. The majority of the more outstanding writers in Taiwan’s literary world were nurtured during this period. During the middle phase (1931–1936), Taiwan’s new literature entered a period of full flowering. One after the other, societies of literary arts were set up. There were more writers and more critics, and better literary works. The period of Taiwan Literary Arts and New Taiwanese Literature proved to be an especially significant time in Taiwan’s literary history. At the end of 1936, Yu Dafu paid a visit to Taiwan, and although his visit was brief, it provided a big stimulus for Taiwan’s literary world. In fact, during 1936–1941, Taiwanese literature became firmly established, and its direction was mapped. Works by Yang Kui (“The Newspaper Boy”), Lü Heruo (“Oxcart”), Long Yingzong (“Town of Papaya Trees”), and others were published one after the other in Japanese journals. Unfortunately, when the Pacific War broke out, Japan clamped down on local thought and literary activity. A further blow came in the form of the policy termed Literature of Imperial Subjects. Taiwanese literature came to an abrupt halt, and all previous efforts were destroyed. After Retrocession, writers faced linguistic obstacles, ideological differences, and the turbulence of the times. Many faltered and fell by the wayside. In 1948, Yang Kui and several others initiated the debate on new developments in Taiwanese literature. Nonetheless, a swiftly moving current cannot retain reflected images, and the discussion ended soon after. The consequence was indeed tragic for that generation of writers. The younger generation of the postwar period severed the umbilical cord and charted a new course into unknown territory. One must acknowledge the social consciousness of such young writers as Huang Chunming and Yang Qingchu. But even so, were the tradition to carry on, it would be to the credit of the previous generation, for instance, Wu Zhuoliu, who established Taiwan Literary Arts. In his collected critical works, Ye Shitao repeatedly reminds us of the traditional spirit of Taiwanese literature. . . . Lai He [Lan Yun] was the forefather of Taiwanese literature. He was also the pioneer of the vernacular and set the standard for the emergence of the tradition. With each stroke of the pen, he wrote down after the manner of realism the feelings, intellectual merit, and virtue or otherwise of the people around him. Lai’s essential spirit was informed by a passion that sought social progress.

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They knew neither the place where they were nor what direction to take. Whether the place where they stood was solid ground or the surroundings dangerous was also unclear. The pitch-black on all sides rendered their eyes useless. Their memories were blank, but they felt no fear, nor did they expect comfort from anyone. They were governed only by an instinct, which was to advance! —Lan Yun, “Advance”

This was the side of Lai He that was strong and razor-sharp. His fighting will and compassionate heart had a great influence on the following generation of writers. Yang Kui and Zhong Lihe, in turn, epitomized two types of spirit that they brought to perfection. Yang Kui represents the spirit of resistance and Zhong Lihe the spirit of universal compassion and quiet forbearance.

2 . . . Yang Kui believed that intellectuals are the backbone of society, in particular, individuals who are aware of the ugly side of society and who embrace passion and ideals. This idea is understandable. The future can only be realized through intellectual enlightenment, the pursuit of justice, and unwavering effort. In “Spring Cannot Be Confined” and “Sprouts,” Yang Kui makes use of two significant symbols. The first is a rose under a mud brick. The rose is pressed down firm, but from a little crack a sprout emerges to bear a thumb-sized bud. The second is the joy involved in seeing plants put forth buds. The blossoming of buds implies that, no matter how bad the environment, intellectuals and their conscience remain the hope of a society. This is not a random sentiment in Yang Kui’s works. In fundamental ways, Yang believes that infusing emotion into works can transform readers’ feelings into will—the will to harmonious social relations. Pity and sentimentality are passive and superficial, and cannot transform readers’ feelings into action (“Questions and Answers About True Stories”). When Yang Kui was the editor in chief of the literary section of a newspaper, he opened up a special section on “true stories.” In “Questions and Answers About True Stories,” he mentions two submissions that availed him of the opportunity to convey his views. q: What do you think is the way to write so that it is both profound and positive? a: This is more than a question of how to write. Fundamentally, the answer lies in one’s attitude to life. The author of “Where Did Flat Head Go?” is sympathetic to Flat Head. The author of “Two Worlds” feels even more sympathy toward prisoners. But in both pieces, we can see that the authors

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are mere observers of Flat Head and the prisoners. The characters have little to do with the authors themselves. The authors also have absolutely nothing to do with society. Even less is there any connection between the characters and society. The characters in these works are isolated, and the authors’ attitude is that of a third party or bystander. The problem is that, as a third party or bystander, the author is unable to rise above sentimentality. Naturally, the impression that the reader gets is limited to sentimentality. If authors go one step further and investigate the past history of characters such as Flat Head and the prisoners, including their relationships with society and the factors causing them to be the way they are, a strong bond can then be forged between authors and characters. Pity can develop into rage, and sentimentality into passion. For the sake of the future, one cannot merely vent. Works can thereby transform readers’ feelings into will—the will to harmonious social relations. This kind of attitude is the reason that there exists this type of work. Yang Kui’s spirit of resistance is rooted in an attitude that is straightforward and rock-solid. From a sociological point of view, the social changes that take place in a colonized society derive from the changes that take place separately in the psychology and attitude of the ruling class. The changes take shape in the form of a transformation that evolves from the internal to the external and from bottom to top. Oppression and repression by the colonial government is effective in the system and administration alone. But where the evolution of society is concerned, intellectuals are the real leaders. This is precisely the situation in Taiwan. The oppressive exploitation by Japanese imperialism prompted the people to resist. The intellectuals, in turn, created movements that were opposed to colonialism, oppression, and forms of darkness, and fostered a new culture. The changes in thinking, psychology, and economics compelled the people to change their attitude and to accept the new culture. In so doing, they triggered noticeable social changes. Yang Kui’s stories portray in an appropriate way the role of the intellectuals during that period and express high hopes for them. The spirit of resistance that his works seek to justify and the act of resistance embodied in them are worthy of commemoration in Taiwan’s literary history.

3 . . . Zhong Lihe dealt with all manner of setbacks with a calm and unruffled attitude. He made use of an objective and realist approach to portray social developments. In his stories, we do not see characters tightening their fists, clenching their teeth, or roaring revolt. This is not because resistance is absent in his works. Rather, the author uses a dispassionate and tolerant attitude to examine society’s inequities and evils. “Story of Money” describes the attitude

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toward money of two characters from different social classes. One is gloomy and miserable, while the other plays cards and squanders money. In “Tobacco Hall” he writes about the time when Lianfa’s father lost his land. Later on, the landlord took away this piece of land that we had plowed for nearly ten years. For a full year at dawn or dusk, when there was no one in the fields, I often saw my father walk to that piece of land that was no longer ours and pace back and forth. He stroked the rice plants with his hand. How he yearned for that island of land! For his entire lifetime, my father never stopped thinking of the land and labored hard in order to acquire a tiny piece of the land. During his lifetime he enjoyed less free time than an ox. But no matter how much he longed for the land that he had plowed for his entire life, he never managed to own even an inch. The author uses a dispassionate tone to describe the pain of losing one’s land. Ye Shitao comments insightfully, “As a writer, he [Zhong Lihe] does not express opinions loudly, nor does he criticize. As a result, the vicissitudes of an era flow through his stories like a gentle stream. . . . In the midst of chaos, Zhong Lihe attained peace after much travail. He records in detail the nitty-gritty of people’s actions, their loves and manipulation, but it is done with no hard feeling, despair, or disparagement” (Ye Shitao on Writers, 16).1 As mentioned above, Zhong Lihe is far from passive. Under his pen, characters persevere with persistence and a strong fighting will, even if it comes to nothing. Through them, a picture emerges of Sisyphus pushing his giant rock. The tragedy of Sisyphus and his futile labor stemmed from the fact that he revealed the secret of the gods and suffered their absurd persecution. The gods do not allow anyone to expose their hypocrisy. Instead, they used their incomparable power to inflict a cruel and unreasonable punishment on that powerless, righteous man. His face furious yet calmly determined, Sisyphus flexes his muscles and exerts his strength to push the giant rock. By virtue of his painstaking endeavor we sense that the gods are ashamed. In fact, Sisyphus uses his dignity to defeat the gods. In Yang Kui’s stories we see the furious face of Sisyphus. In Zhong Lihe’s we see the calmly determined face of Sisyphus. When we flounder and are lost, living day after day in a world with only a minimal amount of reason, we find a source of maternal love in the spirit of resistance and forbearance. Because of this, we no longer feel intimidated and no longer feel alone. This is because we have acquired dignity. Chung-wai Literary Monthly 2, no. 6 (December 1973): 4–20, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

note 1.

Ye Shitao on Writers (Gaoxiong: San Xin Publishing, 1973).

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41. Author’s Preface hua ng chunming

O

nce when passing through a small town, I saw a hand that was the spitting image of the Chinese pictograph for the word “hand”: ᡻. Its owner was a young boy of about ten. He was squatting on the ground and using his hand like a rattle-drum, repeatedly flipping it back and forth, back and forth. After standing there for a while, I finally heard the tinkle of a few coins dropping into his lunch box. When I left town, the sound of the rattle-drum followed me quietly on my journey. On my way back a few days later, I passed through the small town again, and there, as before, was the hand. The young boy was still flipping it like a rattle-drum. This time I was taken aback. His hand had been painted multiple colors: starting from his thumb, the fingers were red, green, white, blue, and yellow. Someone told me that a drunken painter had given him the idea. Back and forth the hand flipped, over and over: red, green, white, blue, yellow, yellow, blue, white, green, red . . . That is when I settled in that small town. Later I came to know the painter, who, when he was not drunk, was a straightforward fellow. Naturally I also got to know the little boy and the other people in town, including Boy Esteem, the simple-minded gong-beater; Prosperity Jiang, whose entire family had ringworm; Ah Cang, who was apprenticing for the old carpenter; Plum Blossom, the prostitute; and Kunshu, the mobile advertisement man. What is more, there were Uncle Gangeng from the nearby hamlet, Old Cat Ah Sheng, Uncle Green Tomato, and many others. I was constantly moved by their good-heartedness. I thought to myself: no more drifting for me; this was a complete world that lacked nothing. It was, I discovered, the place I had always been searching for. My worry about life after death was superfluous. After all, there is a graveyard here where one can comfortably lie looking at the sky. And here is where Old Cat Ah Sheng lies. March 22, 1974 Preface to Gong (Taipei: Crown, 1985), 3–4, translated by Christopher G. Rea.

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42. She Is a True Student of China: On Reading Zhang Ailing on Reading z hu xining . . . Zhang Ailing [1920–1995] is the only contemporary fiction writer who has no relation to the May Fourth movement. This is a point I make in several speeches that I have given at universities. But if we use May Fourth as a periodizing concept, it only has meaning in terms of time. We could just as easily say “since the founding of the Republic” or “since Cao Xueqin’s time.” When we refer to May Fourth, it is more than chronology. Just as New Youth disavowed and tried to destroy the Chinese theater, traditional literature, and other aspects of the national heritage and national essence in the name of Mr. Science and Mr. Democracy (see Chen Duxiu’s “In Defense of the Crimes of New Youth”), Zhang Ailing’s “traditional ideas” would surely be disparaged by May Fourth supporters of wholesale westernization. On Reading tells us what stories she had read from childhood through adulthood, stories that continued to interest her. Written on Water and Uncollected Writings [by Zhang Ailing] and Evening Visits with Zhang Ailing by Shuijing reveal that the influences on her work bypass May Fourth and the 1930s but come from China’s traditional fiction. This is especially true of her collection of stories Romances, which even in its mode of expression is Chinese. Although her writings appeared at the end of the 1930s, she seemed to have ignored, even looked down on, the two groundbreaking eras of the New Literature movement and to have gone beyond the pale of westernization. For me, this unique aspect of her work makes it unimaginable to place Zhang Ailing in the category of “writers since May Fourth.” On the other hand, we should not see Zhang Ailing as a native writer either. She is a descendant of two prominent families, the Zhang and the Lee families, who were high officials closely related to the westernizing self-strengthening movement in the late Qing. Her father signed all of his foreign language books in his English name, Timothy C. Chang. Her mother and aunts were westernized enough to be considered “high-class Chinese.” Her childhood name was only one character, Ying (with the fire radical), but when she started school, her mother carelessly transcribed her English name “Eileen” in two characters “Ai-Ling.” More important, she is fluent in English. She wrote The Rice-Sprout Song first in English. It is hard to believe that a person like her, who was shaped by a westernized, prominent family, would go beyond westernization. What she shows us in her work is the real China with no traces of the West, which makes her work both difficult and important. This fact alone provides an important clue for studying Zhang Ailing and her work. While new Chinese literature

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searched to no avail for a new direction for half a century, [Zhang Ailing] has pointed to a path for three decades. China Times literary supplement, May 11, 1974, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill.

43. Should the Ban on May Fourth and 1930s Writings Be Lifted? z hu xining

I

n my preface to the fiction section of the Compendium of Modern Chinese Literature, I tried to account for the thriving of literature in Free China. Referring to both the earlier generation and the current crop of writers, I argued that for intellectuals who fled the turmoil of war and landed in Taiwan and other places abroad, the endless sufferings they endured—the cauldron of war, heartbreaking exile, destruction of country and family, and other historical calamities—have converged to form an incomparably powerful and stark, yet rich and concentrated, sustenance for living. For fiction writers who are part of the intellectual class, they are fortunate to have such life experience. It can be no coincidence that in the calm after the storm, intense self-examination, deep contemplation, and reawakening have led to a flowering of outstanding writers and works. As for the new generation, due to temporal and geographic limitations, they hope to expand and extend the time and space of their lives and existence through literary creation. When we speak of the recent generation and the new generation of both literary creators and readers in terms of their relationships to the writings of May Fourth and the 1930s, a generation gap clearly shows the differences between the two generations. Rather than what is normally considered conflict or friction, there is little rebellion and disavowal between them. It is no secret that, aside from Zhang Ailing (who lives outside China), virtually no writers or readers of the recent generation can escape the influence of May Fourth and the 1930s, whether they are conscious of it or not. This fact is revealed in their attitude toward literary creation and their interests and habits when it comes to appreciation of literature. The new generation, however, is almost completely cut off from May Fourth and 1930s literature. Except for the output of a small number of writers who either are not affiliated [with Communist China] or died young, like Xu Zhimo, Zhu Ziqing, and Yu Dafu, most of the literature of the earlier period is banned from publication and distribution. One might think that the influence of May Fourth and 1930s literature on the recent generation

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searched to no avail for a new direction for half a century, [Zhang Ailing] has pointed to a path for three decades. China Times literary supplement, May 11, 1974, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill.

43. Should the Ban on May Fourth and 1930s Writings Be Lifted? z hu xining

I

n my preface to the fiction section of the Compendium of Modern Chinese Literature, I tried to account for the thriving of literature in Free China. Referring to both the earlier generation and the current crop of writers, I argued that for intellectuals who fled the turmoil of war and landed in Taiwan and other places abroad, the endless sufferings they endured—the cauldron of war, heartbreaking exile, destruction of country and family, and other historical calamities—have converged to form an incomparably powerful and stark, yet rich and concentrated, sustenance for living. For fiction writers who are part of the intellectual class, they are fortunate to have such life experience. It can be no coincidence that in the calm after the storm, intense self-examination, deep contemplation, and reawakening have led to a flowering of outstanding writers and works. As for the new generation, due to temporal and geographic limitations, they hope to expand and extend the time and space of their lives and existence through literary creation. When we speak of the recent generation and the new generation of both literary creators and readers in terms of their relationships to the writings of May Fourth and the 1930s, a generation gap clearly shows the differences between the two generations. Rather than what is normally considered conflict or friction, there is little rebellion and disavowal between them. It is no secret that, aside from Zhang Ailing (who lives outside China), virtually no writers or readers of the recent generation can escape the influence of May Fourth and the 1930s, whether they are conscious of it or not. This fact is revealed in their attitude toward literary creation and their interests and habits when it comes to appreciation of literature. The new generation, however, is almost completely cut off from May Fourth and 1930s literature. Except for the output of a small number of writers who either are not affiliated [with Communist China] or died young, like Xu Zhimo, Zhu Ziqing, and Yu Dafu, most of the literature of the earlier period is banned from publication and distribution. One might think that the influence of May Fourth and 1930s literature on the recent generation

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would indirectly impact the new generation. However, although those prominent, mainstream writers of the recent generation may have been influenced by May Fourth and 1930s writers, the historic transition and social transformations, along with the recognition of the eternal nature of humanity, have led them to reject the bias, extremism, imbalance, and other flaws that are found in May Fourth and 1930s literature in a transitional period. All of the flaws are, in fact, the defining characteristics of New Literature. What the new generation has inherited from recent writers, then, has very little to do with May Fourth and the 1930s. Moreover, a new wave of Western influence has led [the new generation] down another track of development and even further away [ from May Fourth and the 1930s]. The current development is that many writers are returning to their native culture. It is an entirely different path and a new style of writing. Exactly because the new generation is turning around looking for the other shore, they pay attention to May Fourth and 1930s literature and try to decide whether that may be the shore they are seeking. The demand for opening up May Fourth and 1930s literature is inevitable. Recent writers are surely familiar with May Fourth and 1930s literature from their readings in the past. Whether through browsing or research, the works must have left a deep impression on the writers. It is important to remember that the call of May Fourth literature for wholesale westernization and disavowal of traditional Chinese culture came from an effort to create a new spirit and experiment with the unknown. The authors could not help but sound immature and shallow. In comparison, literature of the 1930s began to show more awareness and looked more to Chinese culture. In addition, faced with the reality of proletarian attacks, those authors couldn’t help but take the route of realism. As soon as they did so, they could not avoid a return to nationalism. Despite the return, however, they were primarily concerned with the use of new material and language. They had yet to gain confidence as a nation. Moreover, if recent writers compare their works with the earlier works, they will see that the literature that has developed in Taiwan over the past two decades is more mature and has exceeded May Fourth and 1930s literature in attitude, level of understanding, thought, and technique. The question of whether or not to lift the ban, then, seems to be of little importance to recent writers. The same is not true, however, for the new generation of writers and readers. For the latter, May Fourth and 1930s literature is only an abstract concept. Overseas Chinese scholars and foreign scholars who study Chinese literature always treat writers from the earlier period as representatives of modern Chinese literature. Their scholarship is a seductive advertisement for the new generation of writers and readers, who have heard of those works but have never actually read them. We cannot overlook the fact that the human mind is naturally curious about things it has never experienced and that a sense of mystery only intensifies the desire and determination to seek it out. Therefore, the works of May Fourth and the

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1930s will see their value changed to that of historical monuments and relics. Those who have seen them won’t think much of them, but those who have never seen them will itch to go. If for the time being we set aside the quality of the literature of this period or the question of evaluation (issues that cannot be addressed with a few words of praise or criticism), we can see that the recent generation of writers and readers should not turn their backs on these famous historical sites and relics or prevent the next generation from appreciating or studying these sites and relics just because they don’t think highly of them. Of course, the decision to lift the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature cannot be based solely on these weak reasons. Moreover, the decision cannot be made solely for the sake of the new generation of writers and readers. Many solid reasons may be used to argue the case. What I have said so far is simply a thumbnail sketch of today’s literary scene. When considering whether or not to lift the ban, we must give serious thought to issues of timing, objective conditions, subjective needs, and the essence [of the works]. As someone who has been writing fiction for two decades, someone who is both a reader of May Fourth and 1930s literature and a cultural administrator, I believe that in principle, it is good to lift the ban. Of course, I am not strongly committed one way or the other, but I offer a few reference points on why I believe that pros outweigh the cons. 1. Cultural transmission and inheritance must not be broken. Literary development depends on each generation continuously succeeding and exceeding its predecessors. The older generation does not worry whether its achievement is the pinnacle or trash. Rather, it serves as the mother and a stepping-stone for the next generation. Without [the older generation], there is nothing to succeed and exceed. May Fourth writers, for example, predicated their works on the disavowal of the mother and the steppingstone available to them and only followed the grafted-on path of wholesale westernization. . . . 2. The political situation has changed, and certain stopgap measures are no longer necessary. The ban on the publication and distribution of May Fourth and 1930s literature was instituted right after the Chinese Communists had seized the mainland. . . . But after more than a decade of implementing [this policy], the Cultural Restoration movement thrived in Taiwan, while the Cultural Revolution bent on destroying Chinese culture rolled through the enemy territory. Given the cultural movements, which go beyond politics, issues of literary art as the pinnacle of a culture can no longer be avoided and should be taken up for discussion. This is even true when we consider that with the exception of a small number of writers such as Guo Moruo [1892–1978] and Zang Kejia [1905–2004], virtually all writers from May Fourth and the 1930s are labeled Communists, whether they are members of the CCP, outliers, or were forced to follow the

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Communists. . . . Presented with these circumstances, we cannot remain silent and pretend we are deaf and dumb. Even if we do not immediately lift the ban on writers who are trapped in this predicament, we should at least have an open discussion. . . . At the very least, under the leadership of President Chiang Ching-kuo, with his enlightened and liberal policy, the question of whether or not to lift the ban should be put up for public discussion. 3. May Fourth and 1930s literature should be submitted for fair criticism. If we look closely at the patriotic May Fourth movement, we see that its “love of the country” did not include love for the government, a central part of a nation-state. (Indeed, it was not easy to love the warlord government back then.) And the movement’s call for “love of the people” did not include love for traditional culture, a central part of the people. Although the intention behind the May Fourth movement was good, it was marred by ignorance, and it damaged the nation and its culture, which should not be summarily glorified or dismissed. As for literature from the 1930s, its main characteristic is a return to the people. Although many of the works were exploited by the CCP, they reached deeply into the culture of the people and delighted readers. They called attention to the traditional arts that had been rejected by May Fourth writers. For these reasons, 1930s literature is often at odds with the May Fourth spirit. Although it may have biases and imbalance, the underlying influences from Chinese culture enabled it to contribute to cultural development. Although some of the ideas expressed in the literature were anathema to art and inflicted considerable harm on our nation, each work had merits and failings. . . . Therefore, the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature should be lifted, so the new generation of writers and readers not only can read it but also can give it a fair assessment through discussion and examination. 4. It should not be a concern if we include ample annotations [to the literary texts] in accord with the lift of the ban. For a representative May Fourth writer like Lu Xun, all of his fictional writings were completed during the rule of the warlord government and had nothing to do with the fact that he later joined the [Chinese] League of Left-Wing Writers. Although his technique was more innovative and mature than other writers of the period, it was inevitable that most of his works exhibited the same problems found in other May Fourth writers, such as extremism, shallowness, and immaturity. . . . When facing the realism and sense of disenfranchisement in 1930s literature, the government [on Taiwan] must accept what is reflected in them and take responsibility for current reform. It need not feel that it is responsible for all the missteps of earlier times. In particular, the government should not see [the literature] as an attempt to lay filth on its doorstep or construe the expressed dissatisfaction with reality as dissatisfaction with the [current] government. If thorough annotations on the historical reality,

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political situation, nature of the society, and spirit of Chinese culture are part of lifting the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature, then it will prove helpful for the new generation of writers and readers to get to know, appreciate, and study the works. 5. Banned books have an allure far greater than best sellers. Throughout history, it has been a much better approach to offer readers guidance than to ban books. The ban on the publication and distribution of May Fourth and 1930s literature is limited to Taiwan, Penghu, Jinmen, and Mazu, but in regions as close as Hong Kong, Macao, Japan, and parts of Southeast Asia, books from those eras are edited and published by the CCP. Even libraries in Europe and the United States hold many original editions of the works. . . . When people go abroad to study, conduct business, or travel, it is extremely easy to see these works, and some will find pleasure in reading them. Therefore, it is futile to ban the works only in Taiwan. . . . Faced with these realities, we must acknowledge that the only enlightened choice is to lift the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature after it has been submitted for fair critical assessment and objective annotation. Why not do it with pleasure? . . .

The literature from the two eras will definitely have a place in the history of Chinese literature. Rather than leaving it to later generations to gather this literature across a gulf of time, it is better to organize what we have now and hopefully leave behind a richer and more reliable history. Chinese Cultural Renaissance Monthly 7 (1974); reprinted in Zhu Xining, Insignificant Words, 2nd ed. (Taipei: Three-Three Bookstore, 1981), 187–95, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill.

44. Grassroots Manifesto lu o qing a nd li nan

8

E

ven as the debates over the nature of New Poetry have raged on over the past fifty or more years, poets have never lost sight of their enthusiasm and aspirations for poetry. They have worked to the best of their abilities and left a

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political situation, nature of the society, and spirit of Chinese culture are part of lifting the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature, then it will prove helpful for the new generation of writers and readers to get to know, appreciate, and study the works. 5. Banned books have an allure far greater than best sellers. Throughout history, it has been a much better approach to offer readers guidance than to ban books. The ban on the publication and distribution of May Fourth and 1930s literature is limited to Taiwan, Penghu, Jinmen, and Mazu, but in regions as close as Hong Kong, Macao, Japan, and parts of Southeast Asia, books from those eras are edited and published by the CCP. Even libraries in Europe and the United States hold many original editions of the works. . . . When people go abroad to study, conduct business, or travel, it is extremely easy to see these works, and some will find pleasure in reading them. Therefore, it is futile to ban the works only in Taiwan. . . . Faced with these realities, we must acknowledge that the only enlightened choice is to lift the ban on May Fourth and 1930s literature after it has been submitted for fair critical assessment and objective annotation. Why not do it with pleasure? . . .

The literature from the two eras will definitely have a place in the history of Chinese literature. Rather than leaving it to later generations to gather this literature across a gulf of time, it is better to organize what we have now and hopefully leave behind a richer and more reliable history. Chinese Cultural Renaissance Monthly 7 (1974); reprinted in Zhu Xining, Insignificant Words, 2nd ed. (Taipei: Three-Three Bookstore, 1981), 187–95, translated by Michael Gibbs Hill.

44. Grassroots Manifesto lu o qing a nd li nan

8

E

ven as the debates over the nature of New Poetry have raged on over the past fifty or more years, poets have never lost sight of their enthusiasm and aspirations for poetry. They have worked to the best of their abilities and left a

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rich legacy. With China now divided, massively split in time and space, people shudder in fear and desolation. And yet, even under political division, the poetry movement must carry on. Sadly, poets on the mainland no longer enjoy creative freedom, so the poetry scene there languishes in silence. Fortunately, Free Taiwan is the center of the overseas Chinese literary world, and a new generation of writers from Hong Kong and Southeast Asia return constantly to this homeland to learn and create. Poets who continue to write in Europe and America also frequently submit their work for publication in Taiwan. It is on this stable and prosperous foundation that we of the new generation, born in the early 1930s and after—you might call us the “postwar generation”— have been developing rapidly. Having reviewed the past and set a course for the future, we have resolved to undertake the mission of carrying the poetry movement forward for the sake of everyone committed to New Poetry. In the face of this solemn duty, we sincerely contribute our feeble efforts and present our manifesto.

Spir it and At tit u de 1. In an era of a divided China, we cannot but express concern as we reflect honestly and profoundly upon the future and fate of the nation. 2. Poetry is diverse; so is life. We don’t believe that poetry must critique life, but firmly maintain that poetry must accurately reflect life and thereby accurately reflect the nation. We need major works that throb with the pulse of this great era, but we also happily accept lyrical poems spanning the range of individual emotion, as long as they move us with their sincerity and engage us within their art. 3. Through personal experience, we have observed that the popularization and professionalization of poetry are two sides of the same coin. The boundary between the two depends on the handling of subject matter and the orientation of artistic techniques. We are willing to see each expressed in its own right in a complementary, balanced manner. As long as a poem is consummate in execution and deeply sincere in content, we will support it, regardless of apparent complexity or simplicity. We believe that poets have a duty to probe the inner souls of all people, not just the souls of intellectuals. To probe the interior from within is certainly one approach. But that which lies within can also be discovered from without and from other angles. Generous latitude should be allowed in terms of approaches and themes. 4. We respect the past but are not in thrall to it. Toward the future we are cautiously confident. We embrace tradition but do not reject the West. Neither excessive embrace nor excessive rejection is normal. Our stance is to understand first, and only then absorb, digest, and create. Creation is our ultimate goal. We know, too, that it takes single-minded fanaticism to suc-

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cessfully create and are willing to devote this spirit to the land we have now: Taiwan. Let those who know the city write of the city, those who know the countryside write of the countryside, without embellishment or bias. Our feet firmly planted in sincerity and song pouring from our warm hearts, we critique the conditions through which we have lived, while discovering the past and drafting plans for the future.

Wr iting and Th eory 1. Poetic thought is the precondition of poetic language and poetic form. We neither put blind faith in language nor do we neglect form. Only a change in poetic thought can fundamentally change a poem, with language, imagery, music, and form changing in response. Any attempt at change limited either to form, music, imagery, or language alone can achieve nothing more than temporary, superficial alterations; it cannot possibly open up intrinsically new configurations. 2. We need not ask poetry to adhere to grammatical rules, but new-forged phrases should avoid fragmented conundrums and precious affectation. Naturalness is not the same as blandness, and bold innovation is not a matter of surface appearance. We don’t shun parallelism or any other specifically Chinese features of poetry; we ask only that these be used naturally, forcefully, and as demanded by art. Neither do we reject allusions; we accept them gladly, as long as they enhance poetic effect by flowing seamlessly into the poem itself. 3. Whatever type of poetry one chooses to write, we do not forsake musicality. We are willing to do our utmost to promote Chinese musicality, intrinsic or extrinsic, as long as it complements poetic thought and feeling, accords with a poem’s natural tendencies, and does not harm the author’s intent. 4. Free verse, metrically regulated poetry, stanzaic poetry and, among these categories, miniature poems, concrete poems, combat poems, ballads . . . we refuse none. Through inheritance and research, correction and exposition, we will continue to investigate, test, and create forms for New Poetry. We believe that in certain situations the requirements of poetic thought and subject matter call for a merger of poetry and song that can help develop new folk songs. . . .

10 We are deeply aware that experiments are not finished products, and creation is not a pursuit of the bizarre. We believe that all subject matter and life experience can be transformed into poetry through art and creativity. As long as

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we are dealing with the results of sincere, meticulous observation, there is no meaningful difference between wartime and peacetime. Each era has its unique character—if we don’t grasp it, who will? . . . We are the grassroots: on the mountaintop, in the deep valley, on the vast plain, in the narrow alleyways of concrete and asphalt. We have arrived, sending down roots that intertwine, sending up blooms, each unique. We are grasses of all kinds: some for grazing, some curative, some with wondrous blossoms and exotic leaves, but never plastic, painted, or cut from paper. We are organic, stubborn yet adaptable, on rooftops, in potted landscapes, on roadways, and in nature, striving to live wherever we are able. For all in the end becomes history, history in the end becomes ruins, and ruins will, in the end, be occupied by us. Nothing that is not organic shall sprout and grow among us. All that is rotten and corrupt, as long as it can serve as fertilizer, we are willing to analyze and absorb to help make new blossoms. We are the newborn generation, the postwar generation. But we would prefer to become the “link” generation, the generation whose poetry completes our elders’ unfinished work by bonding the “era of revolution” with the “era of transition,” the China of the past with the China of the future. Grass Roots Poetry Journal 1 (May 4, 1975): 7–9, translated by John A. Crespi.

45. The Past Decade of Taiwanese Literature (1965–1975)—with Remarks on Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe li u shaoming . . . Taiwanese fiction, or more broadly, Taiwanese literature, is Chinese fiction written in Chinese script by Chinese people in Taiwan. Ever since the New Literature movement in China, the emergence and reputations of authors have relied on the patronage of newspaper supplements and literary journals. Until the day comes when someone in the publishing world is willing to publish a novel as a single volume that has never been serialized before, newspapers and journals will continue to be the most important medium for the dissemination of literature. This system of serializing fiction in newspaper supplements and journals has persisted as the result of tripartite interests. Readers look for fiction to read. Authors want to make some money before they publish a work as a single volume. And publishers base their decisions on the novel’s popularity during serialization.

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we are dealing with the results of sincere, meticulous observation, there is no meaningful difference between wartime and peacetime. Each era has its unique character—if we don’t grasp it, who will? . . . We are the grassroots: on the mountaintop, in the deep valley, on the vast plain, in the narrow alleyways of concrete and asphalt. We have arrived, sending down roots that intertwine, sending up blooms, each unique. We are grasses of all kinds: some for grazing, some curative, some with wondrous blossoms and exotic leaves, but never plastic, painted, or cut from paper. We are organic, stubborn yet adaptable, on rooftops, in potted landscapes, on roadways, and in nature, striving to live wherever we are able. For all in the end becomes history, history in the end becomes ruins, and ruins will, in the end, be occupied by us. Nothing that is not organic shall sprout and grow among us. All that is rotten and corrupt, as long as it can serve as fertilizer, we are willing to analyze and absorb to help make new blossoms. We are the newborn generation, the postwar generation. But we would prefer to become the “link” generation, the generation whose poetry completes our elders’ unfinished work by bonding the “era of revolution” with the “era of transition,” the China of the past with the China of the future. Grass Roots Poetry Journal 1 (May 4, 1975): 7–9, translated by John A. Crespi.

45. The Past Decade of Taiwanese Literature (1965–1975)—with Remarks on Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe li u shaoming . . . Taiwanese fiction, or more broadly, Taiwanese literature, is Chinese fiction written in Chinese script by Chinese people in Taiwan. Ever since the New Literature movement in China, the emergence and reputations of authors have relied on the patronage of newspaper supplements and literary journals. Until the day comes when someone in the publishing world is willing to publish a novel as a single volume that has never been serialized before, newspapers and journals will continue to be the most important medium for the dissemination of literature. This system of serializing fiction in newspaper supplements and journals has persisted as the result of tripartite interests. Readers look for fiction to read. Authors want to make some money before they publish a work as a single volume. And publishers base their decisions on the novel’s popularity during serialization.

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In maintaining the basic functions of literary activities, newspaper supplements have done a great service. However, when it comes to raising the quality of literature, the newspaper supplement is the most nefarious adversary. Any author who wants to write a 200,000-character story will ask himself even before setting pen to paper, “Will I submit my work to a newspaper supplement or a journal? Will I risk seeking an unconventional publisher after its completion?” These considerations naturally influence the novel’s structure and composition. If an author submits his work to a newspaper supplement for serialization, 200,000 characters will be divided into two hundred sections, with each designed to grab the reader’s attention. Publishing the story in a magazine may be a bit simpler. A novel is usually divided into chapters, with each chapter printed per issue. In this respect, serialization in a magazine does not impact the integrity of the novel. . . . Before the China Times supplement was expanded to include an overseas column, most fiction writers submitted their works to either the Central Daily or the United Daily. Two decades ago, these two literary supplements were the catalysts for contemporary Taiwanese literature, to which they made a lasting contribution. In 1956, the late Professor Xia Ji’an at NTU founded Literary Review to advocate realism. But generally speaking, few pieces of realist fiction published during Professor Xia’s tenure as editor may be considered brilliant, a condition due to the constraints of the subjective and objective conditions at the time. (For example, those who had just come from the mainland did not consider Taiwan their home, while few among the generation of writers born and educated in Taiwan attended university.) In 1960, less than six months after Professor Xia left for America, several students at NTU who had served as apprentices and published their work in Literary Review founded Modern Literature. The inaugural issue was devoted to Kafka, and was followed by a series of special issues, each devoted to a different Western author. The editorial principles of Literary Review and Modern Literature were strikingly dissimilar. When Professor Xia founded Literary Review, he was only forty years old and, moreover, his tastes were relatively staid and conservative. (Among the Western critics he admired were Matthew Arnold of the nineteenth century and T. S. Eliot of the twentieth.) Thus, even though he had read the works of the Danish philosopher Kierkegaard as early as the mid-1940s (see The Diary of Xia Ji’an),1 as far as I know, in both his remarks and writings, he rarely promoted existentialism, which was to become fashionable in Taiwan’s literary circles in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Literary Review never published a special issue introducing a Western author. In the years of 1956–1959, most of the invited essays in Literary Review focused on Chinese literature. I don’t know whether this was because Professor Xia’s busy schedule (Literary Review was published monthly) left him unable to prepare special issues on Western literature or because his conservative tastes made him reluctant to play the role of a pioneer.

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The reasons that Modern Literature emphasized Western literary theory and creation are not hard to discover. In the initial stage, the editorial committee and staff writers were uniformly students in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures. When the journal was launched, those in charge of the actual editing, such as Chen Ruoxi, Bai Xianyong, and Wang Wenxing, were still juniors. What they read and studied on a daily basis was Western literature, much of which, moreover, was avant-garde literature, so the magazine they edited inevitably reflected their taste. Though the editorial principles and interests of Literary Review and Modern Literature were different, their enthusiasm in cultivating new talent and promoting literary creation was equally strong. Professor Xia not only encouraged young writers to submit their work, but he took great pains editing it. Whether the editors of Modern Literature edited the submissions they received, I do not know, but they differed from Professor Xia in their way of encouragement. In general, this had to do with the fact that they were young and thus more open than their teacher to young authors’ stylistic and ideological heresies. They published the work of Qideng Sheng. (He and Wang Wenxing, the author of Family Catastrophe, are the two biggest heretics in contemporary Taiwanese literature, a point I will discuss later.) Under the principle of “the more the merrier,” the editors of Modern Literature established a fine model for Taiwan’s literary scene. Modern Literature introduced such authors as Kafka, Camus, and Joyce, so it is to be expected that they would “reap what they sow.” To cite several regular contributors to Modern Literature as examples, we can see how popular existentialism, the stream of consciousness, and nihilism were on Taiwan’s literary scene in the early 1960s. Before she went to the United States, Chen Ruoxi, whose early work had been realist and whose language had been smooth, suddenly came out with “Bali’s Journey.” Ye Weilian became a “Ulysses in Taipei.” Cong Su [b. 1939], who had come into prominence with her work in Literary Review and whose language was fluent and elegant, was caught in a “White Net.” Even Bai Xianyong abandoned his universally appreciated refinement for a while in favor of the stream of consciousness in such essays as “Hong Kong—1960.” Someone once made a cautionary remark, “When foreigners catch a cold, Chinese people sneeze.” It is an apt description of Taiwan’s literary scene at that time. . . . In literature as in philosophy, even after a trend has passed, resonance lingers. If we are to point out one negative influence from the imports mentioned above, it is how they overwhelmed writers who held immature worldviews and were still groping for a direction. In effect it was like placing the cart before the horse. In other words, authors who had no idea which “ism” to put their faith in suddenly heard the gospel of existentialism or nihilism, whether in the original or in translation. They were fascinated. They talked about nihilism and wrote about existentialism, but they didn’t know the problems they were facing or their own country and culture. It really was a case of sneezing when someone

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else has a cold. When your head is full of imported “isms” and styles, where is room for your own thought and language? All diligent writers, however, must go through a period of imitation. Authors with true potential will soon realize that others’ ideologies and sentence structures are incompatible with their own and will free themselves. Between the Chen Ruoxi of “Mayor Yin” and the Chen Ruoxi of “Bali’s Journey” is more than a simple change of heart. From the Wang Wenxing who wrote “The Happiest Thing” to the Wang Wenxing who wrote Family Catastrophe was a process of total metamorphosis. Despite the fact that not all imported ideologies and styles were useful to the nation, and the fact that their negative influences outnumbered the advantages, they still needed to be introduced to China. Different perspectives can broaden the scope of our literature. In thought and form, Chinese literature has always been conservative. Chinese writing once benefited from the translation of Buddhist scriptures. It is also possible to benefit from translations of Western classics. For this reason, whether it is existentialism, Dadaism, or surrealism, it’s fine to introduce them to readers and writers. Even if in the end all the “isms” are rejected through the process of natural selection, the efforts are still worthwhile. Perhaps certain aspects of these “isms” are absorbed by one or two writers of potential and have exerted an influence on them, even though they may be unaware of it. . . . Let me cite another example of the benefits of introducing foreign literary thought to Taiwan. Without Modern Literature and other journals’ promoting [ foreign literature] and psychologically preparing Taiwan’s readers, the idiosyncratic thinking of Qideng Sheng or the “heterodoxy” of Wang Wenxing (Family Catastrophe in particular) would probably not find the kind of reception they enjoy today. Over the past seven or eight years, I have rarely inserted English sentences in my critical essays. This time, in order to avoid misunderstanding in translation, I am forced to make an exception and hope that readers will pardon me. In my view, Qideng Sheng and Wang Wenxing are the products of the absurd and the existential imagination, respectively. I will elaborate this point. Literary Review folded in 1960. Important literary periodicals that appeared after Modern Literature include Literary Quarterly (1966) and Pure Literature (1967). These two journals published critical essays in practically every issue, but their major contributions lay in creative writing. The mid-1960s may have been Taiwanese literature’s season of bumper harvests. Bai Xianyong’s first Taipei character, “The Eternal Snow Beauty,” came out in 1965. The year 1967 was especially exciting, with the publication of Chen Yingzhen’s “My First Case,” Zhang Xiguo’s “Earth,” Huang Chunming’s “A Flower in the Rainy Night,” Wang Zhenhe’s “An Oxcart for Dowry,” Qideng Sheng’s “I Love Black Eyes,” and Shi Shuqing’s “Descendants of Job.” Lin Huaimin’s “Cicada” and Yang Qingchu’s “Virgin Boy” were both written in 1969.

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At the start of the 1970s, three journals that serious authors relied on ceased publication one by one for economic reasons: Literature Quarterly in 1971, Pure Literature in 1972, and Modern Literature in 1973. Once they folded, the literary scene was thrown into a recession. Even if newspaper supplements were willing to accommodate writers like Qideng Sheng, how could the editors divide his disjunctive writing into sections [ for serialization]? Understanding the meaning of his work is hard enough when one reads it in its entirety, let alone reading a thousand characters a day. Besides the technical issue, newspaper supplements did much harm to fiction due to an innate limitation. They could only publish interesting works. (That the Central Daily literary supplement published Shui Jing’s “Man Without a Face” and “Hililihili” was truly because of the editor’s moxie.) It is sad indeed to leave the responsibility of literary journals to promote serious literature to newspaper supplements. Modern Literature and Literary Quarterly can accept “heterodox” manuscripts, but newspaper supplements cannot. Even if the editors are willing to publish this kind of work, their bosses are not. Even if the bosses are willing, readers are not. No wonder then that the next important work of Taiwanese fiction would have to wait until the founding of the Chung-wai Literary Monthly in 1972. And the work was Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe. In language, structure, and conception, Family Catastrophe is the most innovative and psychologically terrifying work of fiction in the past twenty years of Taiwanese literature. I used the terms “heretical and heterodox” to describe this book, terms that do not overstate the case at all. . . . Family Catastrophe terrifies us to the point that we dare not reread it, perhaps because it lays bare secrets that many proper sons don’t want to admit even to themselves. . . . In order to write this book, Wang Wenxing created numerous new syntactic structures and, where necessary, used phonetic symbols to imitate animal sounds. I don’t want to be redundant on this point, as many essays have already discussed it. (“The Structure and Syntax of Family Catastrophe”2 by Ouyang Zi is the most insightful piece.) As I have stated, content determines form and language. The content of Family Catastrophe is unorthodox and rebellious, so the idiosyncrasy of its language is a matter of course. To write a farce, one uses comedic language. To express feelings, one uses lyrical language. To write a satire, one uses satiric language. Wang Wenxing wanted to deal with unpleasant subject matter; thus he created a language that produced unpleasant sensations in readers. The language of Family Catastrophe is awkward and unreadable. If my guess is correct, it is possible that even Wang Wenxing felt the chills and stuttered when he wrote about the topic. In my study of Taiwanese literature, I have misjudged Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe the most. When the novel was initially serialized in the Chung-wai Literary Monthly, I read the first two installments and found the language repulsive. At the end of the serialization and after Yan Yuanshu’s essay had appeared, I read

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the entire novel in a single sitting, but my impression remained unchanged. I thought that Yan was excessive in his praise, and I wrote him a letter in protest, in which I accused Wang Wenxing of parroting Western literature. Over the last few months, I didn’t have to teach and thus had ample time for rumination. As a result I questioned many of my arrogant and long-standing views on literature. Now I believe that I originally dismissed Family Catastrophe because my taste in literature was too conservative, too traditional, and too pragmatic. I could not accept the book’s subversive thinking and thus failed to understand that the language was the product of the ideas contained in the novel. Subsequently, I have come to realize one point, not only can a realist writer not detach himself from the social environment, but the critic cannot either. If a critic hopes to do more than scratch the surface, he must be familiar with the context in which the author he studies lives. Fiction and Drama (Taipei: Hungfan Bookstore, 1977), 3–26, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

notes 1.

The Diary of Xia Ji’an (Taipei: Yanxin Publishing Company, 1975).

2.

Ouyang Zi, “The Structure and Syntax of Family Catastrophe,” Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 12 (May 1973): 50–67.

46. The Pursuit and Disappearance of Utopia bai xi a nyong 1 The birth name of Chen Ruoxi is Chen Xiumei. A native of Taipei, Taiwan, she was born in 1938. Her father and grandfather were both carpenters, so one can say that she is a true daughter of the proletariat. After graduating from the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at NTU in 1961, she went to the United States. She studied at Mount Holyoke College and later at Johns Hopkins University, where she majored in English literature and received a master’s degree. In 1966, she traveled to mainland China via Europe and spent the first two years in Beijing, waiting for work assignment. This was during the high tide of the Cultural Revolution and she witnessed the astonishing “great linking-up” of the Red Guards in the city. She spent the next five years teaching

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the entire novel in a single sitting, but my impression remained unchanged. I thought that Yan was excessive in his praise, and I wrote him a letter in protest, in which I accused Wang Wenxing of parroting Western literature. Over the last few months, I didn’t have to teach and thus had ample time for rumination. As a result I questioned many of my arrogant and long-standing views on literature. Now I believe that I originally dismissed Family Catastrophe because my taste in literature was too conservative, too traditional, and too pragmatic. I could not accept the book’s subversive thinking and thus failed to understand that the language was the product of the ideas contained in the novel. Subsequently, I have come to realize one point, not only can a realist writer not detach himself from the social environment, but the critic cannot either. If a critic hopes to do more than scratch the surface, he must be familiar with the context in which the author he studies lives. Fiction and Drama (Taipei: Hungfan Bookstore, 1977), 3–26, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

notes 1.

The Diary of Xia Ji’an (Taipei: Yanxin Publishing Company, 1975).

2.

Ouyang Zi, “The Structure and Syntax of Family Catastrophe,” Chung-wai Literary Monthly 1, no. 12 (May 1973): 50–67.

46. The Pursuit and Disappearance of Utopia bai xi a nyong 1 The birth name of Chen Ruoxi is Chen Xiumei. A native of Taipei, Taiwan, she was born in 1938. Her father and grandfather were both carpenters, so one can say that she is a true daughter of the proletariat. After graduating from the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at NTU in 1961, she went to the United States. She studied at Mount Holyoke College and later at Johns Hopkins University, where she majored in English literature and received a master’s degree. In 1966, she traveled to mainland China via Europe and spent the first two years in Beijing, waiting for work assignment. This was during the high tide of the Cultural Revolution and she witnessed the astonishing “great linking-up” of the Red Guards in the city. She spent the next five years teaching

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English at East China Hydraulics College. It was during this time that she was sent to a labor farm. In 1973, Ruoxi left the mainland and stayed in Hong Kong briefly, before moving with her family to Vancouver, where she still resides today [1977]. Chen Ruoxi was a classmate of mine in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at NTU. With several classmates, we launched the magazine Modern Literature. After a reunion on the American East Coast in 1964, twelve years passed, during which time we did not see each other at all. We met again in 1976, when I invited her to give a lecture at the University of California at Santa Barbara. That summer, she came with her entire family to travel in California, and we again had an opportunity to exchange ideas and express our feelings. One day when Ruoxi and I were chatting in my backyard, I asked her about the scenery on the mainland. She had been to Hangzhou and Xi’an and had crossed the loess plateau. I had expected her to play up the scenery of the ancient land, to describe the West Lake at Hangzhou and the historic sites of Xi’an. But to my surprise, she replied, “The scenery on the mainland is not as nice as I expected.” In my memory, the ancient land was beautiful; the mountains and rivers were majestic, and every place was beautiful. Of course I had seen the Three Gorges, the West Lake, and the scenery along the Shanghai-Nanjing train line right after the defeat of the Japanese in the War of Resistance, when the entire nation was rejoicing. Ruoxi visited Xi’an in the midst of the Cultural Revolution. The two occasions were different, so were our thoughts and emotions. If it was in Shaanxi Province where such a frightening story as “The Execution of Mayor Yin” took place, how could she have played the role of the tourist? The truth is, when great changes are happening in the human world, mountains and rivers stay the same. It was just that before Ruoxi went to the mainland, she had been full of utopian ideals, but once she was there, she witnessed the earthshaking tragedy of the great proletarian Cultural Revolution. Through no fault of her own, the sun and the moon lost their brilliance, and the mountains and rivers changed their shapes. My students asked Ruoxi why she left the mainland, and she replied, “As with religion, I had lost faith in Marxism.” Sometimes disillusionment with religious or political belief can bring relief and the beginning of a new life. But for her, I’m afraid it was not so easy. There are so many people like [her characters] Geng Er, Ren Xiulan, and Yin Feilong. Like a cross, they will always carry the dark suffering on their backs. Having witnessed the pain and helplessness of one’s compatriots and their families is, as Teacher Chen describes in “Ren Xiulan”: “a feeling so deep-rooted in my heart that it is like a knot I can never untie in this life.” Since antiquity, human beings have not stopped looking for utopias and constructing utopias, whether it is Christianity’s Garden of Eden, Buddhism’s Sukhavati of West Heaven, Confucianism’s commonwealth, or Daoism’s

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Garden of Peaches of Immortality. Countless politicians and revolutionaries have proposed utopias and driven people in a mad pursuit of a beautiful vista. World War I and the global economic crisis led the intellectuals in the West to lose their hope for the capitalist industrial society. Many leading intellectuals then became intoxicated with Marxism and harbored illusions about the proletarian utopia paraded by the Soviet Union. The famous English poets W. H. Auden and Stephen Spender and the renowned novelist Christopher Isherwood all leaned to the left. Spender even joined the Communist Party and took part in the Spanish Civil War. Across the English Channel, the literary giant André Gide was also known for his leftist position. Of course, these major writers were thoughtful and observant. As leftists, they had romantic yearnings for social reform and humanism on the one hand, and on the other hand, as a result of the relentless propaganda of the Soviet Union, they portrayed Russia as a proletarian paradise. Despite news of Russia’s agricultural failure, great famine suffered by the farmers, and Stalin’s slaughter of dissidents and his reign of terror, it was not until 1939 that the secret pact between Stalin and Hitler to carve up Eastern Europe was revealed and the true face of Russian Communism was uncovered. Western intellectuals awoke one after another. Some, like Spender, broke away from the Party; some turned around to attack the Soviet Union. For example, in Retouches a mon retour de l’U. R. S. S. [in 1937] Gide had no qualms about criticizing Communism. This was Western intellectuals’ first major disillusionment with a Marxist utopia. Ruoxi’s intellectual journey in pursuit of a utopia is similar to the journeys of Gide, Auden, and the like, but her agony after the disillusionment is perhaps deeper than theirs. The tragedy witnessed by Gide and the rest ultimately occurred in a foreign country. It was inevitably a case of watching a fire from the other side of a river. But Ruoxi had experienced purgatory firsthand; she felt the pain more keenly. Luckily, she can write, record, and bear witness to the great calamity that was the Cultural Revolution. After Solzhenitsyn left Russia [in 1974], at a symposium he convened in France, he predicted that in twenty to thirty years the Chinese and Vietnamese versions of The Gulag Archipelago would appear. It didn’t take that long. The first island of the Chinese Communist gulag archipelago, The Execution of Mayor Yin, is already here.

2 Back in college days a long time ago, Chen Ruoxi began writing fiction. Her early work was mostly published in Literary Review and Modern Literature. She was in a trial stage and experimented with several styles. Among these, such stories as “Xin Zhuang” and “The Last Performance” had an unadorned, realist style, which became the characteristic of her mature work, and expressed

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sympathy for the characters suffering in the lower echelon of society. Ruoxi lived on the mainland for seven years and experienced the Cultural Revolution, which led to a radical change in her vision. Her view of life became more profound. After coming out [of mainland China], she took up her pen once more. With a level and sincere voice, she wrote stories, the first being “The Execution of Mayor Yin,” which portrayed the tragedies of human nature and human relationships under the severe testing the Chinese people endured under the totalitarian dictatorship of the CCP. The Execution of Mayor Yin was Ruoxi’s first collection after she left the mainland and consists of six stories. When they were first published in newspapers and journals, they attracted wide attention and provoked debates among Chinese readers in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and overseas. Several leftists overseas attacked Ruoxi and accused her of slandering the CCP and having an incorrect standpoint. According to Ruoxi, the characters and incidents in the stories are all true; she didn’t even change the name of the character Ren Xiulan. As a matter of fact, during the Cultural Revolution, there were countless tragic stories. There was no need for her to fabricate anything, as she had unlimited material from which to choose. As to her standpoint, to cry out at injustice is the responsibility of the intellectuals. During the Cultural Revolution, she witnessed many events in which right and wrong were turned upside-down and defied logic. Of course she criticized the Chinese Communist system, but the main reason why The Execution of Mayor Yin produced such a controversy was because Ruoxi is an outstanding writer. With sharp observations and fine techniques, she transformed her terrifying experiences in the Cultural Revolution into art. The Execution of Mayor Yin brings together the best of her work, such as the title story and “Geng Er in Beijing.” They transcend reportage to become literature that elucidates universal humanity. Their convincing power is of a higher order than run-of-the-mill anti-Communist literature. The main characters in the six stories in The Execution of Mayor Yin fall into two categories: old cadres and intellectuals. Ruoxi took these two types as the main characters because they suffered the greatest injury during the Cultural Revolution. Guilt by association with old cadres such as [CCP Chairman] Liu Shaoqi and [mayor of Beijing] Peng Zhen led pell-mell to the persecution and elimination of tens of thousands of trusted aides after they had outlived their usefulness. Intellectuals were implicated even more broadly. Such famous writers as Lao She [1899–1966], Fu Lei [1908–1966], and Wu Han [1909–1969] died violent deaths. Many who did not die were maimed. The Cultural Revolution was an unprecedented catastrophe for Chinese intellectuals. Naturally, Ruoxi had a great deal of sympathy for them. . . . One afternoon as we talked on the beach, Ruoxi suddenly brought up Buddhism, in particular the Buddhist idea that all is nothingness. I remarked that this sort of idea easily came when one experienced radical change. She sadly

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replied, “I now understand how sensible the Buddhist notion of infinite compassion is.” Having gone through the catastrophe of the Cultural Revolution, it is likely that people on the mainland can only find salvation through the mercy of the Buddha. The Execution of Mayor Yin (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1976), 29–42, translated by Michael Martin Day.

47. Random Thoughts: Author’s Preface che n r uoxi

D

uring those years I spent in Nanjing, I could not have imagined that I would pick up a pen to write fiction again. At the time, I never even dreamed that I would leave [the mainland] someday. But things in this world are unpredictable. Unexpectedly, I arrived in Hong Kong one day. On the train from Shenzhen to Kowloon, I watched the colorful signs along the way and thought I was dreaming. At first I did not want to talk about the past; I just wanted to make do and idle away the rest of my life. But living in Hong Kong, where people were as impenetrable as walls, I felt so lonely that I missed my friends on the mainland. I had lived there for seven years and it did not feel that I had accomplished anything. When it came to farming, I could hardly feed myself. When it came to teaching? I played my part in misleading the children. The only accomplishment I could think of was that I had gained a better understanding of my compatriots. Previously, being a Chinese seemed a matter of course, something that came naturally and inevitably with one’s birth. After those years [on the mainland], I finally realized that Chinese people are both sad and magnificent, both endearing and respectable. Even the most common people embody the millennia-old history and culture and have their own dignity, something that a totalitarian political system cannot take away. Of course, I did not know that many people, but I thought of them like my old family in Taiwan and felt a deep warmth toward them. To express this sentiment, I made an effort to take up the pen once more. With the exception of “Checking Residency Cards,” the stories collected here have all been published in the Ming Bao Monthly in Hong Kong. In the hope of learning from readers in my homeland, I added quotation marks and deleted or changed some words. At times, even I got confused when I read my writing.

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replied, “I now understand how sensible the Buddhist notion of infinite compassion is.” Having gone through the catastrophe of the Cultural Revolution, it is likely that people on the mainland can only find salvation through the mercy of the Buddha. The Execution of Mayor Yin (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1976), 29–42, translated by Michael Martin Day.

47. Random Thoughts: Author’s Preface che n r uoxi

D

uring those years I spent in Nanjing, I could not have imagined that I would pick up a pen to write fiction again. At the time, I never even dreamed that I would leave [the mainland] someday. But things in this world are unpredictable. Unexpectedly, I arrived in Hong Kong one day. On the train from Shenzhen to Kowloon, I watched the colorful signs along the way and thought I was dreaming. At first I did not want to talk about the past; I just wanted to make do and idle away the rest of my life. But living in Hong Kong, where people were as impenetrable as walls, I felt so lonely that I missed my friends on the mainland. I had lived there for seven years and it did not feel that I had accomplished anything. When it came to farming, I could hardly feed myself. When it came to teaching? I played my part in misleading the children. The only accomplishment I could think of was that I had gained a better understanding of my compatriots. Previously, being a Chinese seemed a matter of course, something that came naturally and inevitably with one’s birth. After those years [on the mainland], I finally realized that Chinese people are both sad and magnificent, both endearing and respectable. Even the most common people embody the millennia-old history and culture and have their own dignity, something that a totalitarian political system cannot take away. Of course, I did not know that many people, but I thought of them like my old family in Taiwan and felt a deep warmth toward them. To express this sentiment, I made an effort to take up the pen once more. With the exception of “Checking Residency Cards,” the stories collected here have all been published in the Ming Bao Monthly in Hong Kong. In the hope of learning from readers in my homeland, I added quotation marks and deleted or changed some words. At times, even I got confused when I read my writing.

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Thanks to several senior figures on the literary scene who cleared the way, this collection was finally published in Taipei. I would like to express my sincere respects here. March 1976, Vancouver Mayor Yin (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1976), 43–44, translated by Michael Martin Day.

48. Starting from the Flaws of Taipei People: On the Method and Practice of Literary Criticism ouyang zi

A

bout half a year ago, when my series of critical essays on Taipei People was published in Book Reviews and Bibliographies, the editor, Mr. Yin Di, wrote me one day about readers’ responses and ideas. He told me that, in general, readers thought my critique was convincing. They also acknowledged that Taipei People was indeed a rare and excellent work. The question was: Aren’t there any flaws in the work? In a literary work, as there are merits, there must be flaws, right? Why didn’t Ouyang Zi discuss the shortcomings of Taipei People? Therefore, Yin Di suggested rounding out the series of essays, that after discussing the individual stories in Taipei People I should write another essay focusing on the flaws in the work. I wrote Yin Di back right away. I said that, rather than calling the articles literary criticism, it would be better to label them interpretation and analysis. The aim and scope of my discussions was to interpret the profound and complex meanings in Taipei People. I also analyzed the techniques the author used to convey those meanings. In other words, I started out by unconditionally accepting the views of life and the world expressed in the stories, which were not necessarily the author’s personal views. Then, from an aesthetic perspective I went on to study and discuss how the language in each of the stories powerfully, adroitly, and logically presented to us this unique world of fiction. Thus, it was completely irrelevant whether or not my personal worldview corresponded to the world presented in Taipei People. The fact is, in quite a few aspects, the imaginary world that Bai Xianyong created in Taipei People neither matches nor is permitted in the modern world as most of us experience it. From the perspective of today’s general public and with a rational approach, I offer the following criticism of the world and moral values of Taipei People.

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Thanks to several senior figures on the literary scene who cleared the way, this collection was finally published in Taipei. I would like to express my sincere respects here. March 1976, Vancouver Mayor Yin (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1976), 43–44, translated by Michael Martin Day.

48. Starting from the Flaws of Taipei People: On the Method and Practice of Literary Criticism ouyang zi

A

bout half a year ago, when my series of critical essays on Taipei People was published in Book Reviews and Bibliographies, the editor, Mr. Yin Di, wrote me one day about readers’ responses and ideas. He told me that, in general, readers thought my critique was convincing. They also acknowledged that Taipei People was indeed a rare and excellent work. The question was: Aren’t there any flaws in the work? In a literary work, as there are merits, there must be flaws, right? Why didn’t Ouyang Zi discuss the shortcomings of Taipei People? Therefore, Yin Di suggested rounding out the series of essays, that after discussing the individual stories in Taipei People I should write another essay focusing on the flaws in the work. I wrote Yin Di back right away. I said that, rather than calling the articles literary criticism, it would be better to label them interpretation and analysis. The aim and scope of my discussions was to interpret the profound and complex meanings in Taipei People. I also analyzed the techniques the author used to convey those meanings. In other words, I started out by unconditionally accepting the views of life and the world expressed in the stories, which were not necessarily the author’s personal views. Then, from an aesthetic perspective I went on to study and discuss how the language in each of the stories powerfully, adroitly, and logically presented to us this unique world of fiction. Thus, it was completely irrelevant whether or not my personal worldview corresponded to the world presented in Taipei People. The fact is, in quite a few aspects, the imaginary world that Bai Xianyong created in Taipei People neither matches nor is permitted in the modern world as most of us experience it. From the perspective of today’s general public and with a rational approach, I offer the following criticism of the world and moral values of Taipei People.

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1. The past is not necessarily so beautiful, so full of vigor and glory, nor is the present necessarily so ugly, with only decay, defeat, and death. With regard to this point, it is the same whether one explains it with examples from the culture, society, nation, or individuals. Let us take a cultural issue as an example. The world of Taipei People rejects Western science and technology. However, machines and sciences have their own kind of beauty and have brought countless benefits to humanity. 2. Although humans can never escape from the fate of birth, aging, illness, and death, there are many affairs in the world whose direction of development can be altered solely through our will and hard work. Isn’t it weakness to just sigh and take no action? 3. Body and soul need not be diametrically opposed. Under normal circumstances, love and lust beget each other rather than being in conflict. In fact, it is difficult to draw a clear line between body and soul. Furthermore, there is no necessary connection between love and youth. Those who are no longer young can still find true love. People born and raised in contemporary Taiwan are also capable of Platonic love. 4. Reality is not necessarily ugly and despicable. Desperately clinging to illusions that will never become reality, or idealism not rooted in reality, does not make a person noble and dignified. 5. There is too much superstition in the world of Taipei People. . . .

Looking back on the critiques of Taipei People generated by the critics’ circle in recent years, those who denigrated the book did not go beyond the five points listed above. In other words, the defects or flaws in Taipei People obviously did not reside in the artistic quality of the work but, rather, they were found in the attitude toward life expressed by the author. But is criticism of the author’s philosophy of life literary criticism? Or, more generally, is such criticism relevant to literary criticism? The answer depends upon how one interprets “literature.” Some believe that literature is a means. Some believe that it is both a means and an end. Still others believe that literature is an end in itself. This is an argument that can never be settled. The answer we seek differs according to which view of literature we hold. Thus, the scope of so-called “literary criticism” has as yet no clear definition. In terms of its literal meaning, literary criticism can even be defined as any criticism about literature. This is certainly too vague. Therefore, I sincerely hope that readers identify my Swallows in the Houses of the Powerful, a collection of articles about Taipei People, clearly and precisely as “an interpretation and analysis of a literary work.” Let us return to the issue at hand and assume that the philosophy of life expressed by a writer in a literary work affects to some degree the artistic merit of the work. However, when one applies criticism rooted in conventional morals

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or values to the appreciation of a literary work, some irresolvable problems arise in one’s critique. Allow me to elaborate on this point. The first problem concerns whether one is right or correct. We Chinese have a moral dictum that says: “Right and wrong must be clearly distinguished.” This righteous, straightforward statement is extremely difficult to practice. Oftentimes, there is no clear demarcation between right and wrong, good and evil. It all depends on the angle of one’s approach. . . . Then, is there a critical method with stable criteria not based on one’s personal view that can be used to precisely evaluate the success or failure of a work and that can possibly convince all readers that the final conclusion does not depend on different points of view? I know one such method. But in order to accept it as the method for literary criticism, there has to be a presumption. Namely, we must treat a piece of literature as a pure work of art. If we do, we can then evaluate whether the form of the work is aesthetically perfect. We can then analyze the language in detail to see whether it expresses the author’s intent and presents the created world beautifully, vividly, fittingly, and logically. A work that has the integrity of artistic form is successful; if it does not have integrity of form, then it is not so successful. If the form is incoherent, then the work is a complete failure. Of course, many people are unwilling to accept the aesthetic view of literature. But I think that aside from people in Communist China who use literature purely as a propaganda tool, the great majority will admit that there are many artistic elements in a literary work, even though they may not accept literature as a pure work of art unconstrained by conventional morality. Therefore, although the critical method proposed above cannot be taken as the method of literary criticism, one can at least say that, among various alternatives, it is one that has the most reliable and agreed-upon criteria and is least affected by such factors as people, place, and time. Many, probably most, readers of literature believe that a literary work is indeed a work of art, but they also believe that literature, besides its basic artistic qualities, should serve an educational function or, at least indirectly, should make the society better. Nothing sounds more legitimate than this view. However, when one engages in literary criticism from this perspective, one can encounter unexpected difficulties. When we introduce into literary criticism an established view of morality, that is, moral values accepted as correct by the majority of contemporary people, we not only encounter the difficulty of having no criteria at all but also face another dilemma, which is that artistic qualities and educating society may well be mutually exclusive. A writer can (or should be permitted to) observe and present life from any angle. However, unless the perspective that a writer employs happens to correspond to one that is conducive to the well-being or improvement of contemporary society, it is impossible to mind both artistic qualities and social edification. Under these circumstances, if a writer willfully injects didactic elements into a

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work in order to cater to public expectations, he is likely to ruin the integrity of the art form. . . . Many have said that Taipei People is too pessimistic and too negative, that it only presents the desolate and deteriorating side of life but fails to present the happy and healthy side. Doesn’t the book overly generalize? Is life really like that? These comments are all correct, and I concur with them too. However, they have nothing to do with the success or failure of the work. Take dawn and dusk for example. If the backdrop of a story is dawn, we do not demand that the writer must also depict dusk, or that he or she must write another story with dusk as the backdrop. By the same token, both life and death are inevitable. If a writer chooses to describe the sorrow of death, on what grounds are we to demand that he or she also write about the joy of birth? Swallows in the Houses of the Powerful (Taipei: Erya, 1976), 323–32, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

49. Looking Back bai xi a nyong . . . After being admitted to the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at NTU, my wildest hope was to be published in Literature Review, because my classmates’ fiction appeared in it frequently. Our Chinese literature professor often encouraged us to submit to Literary Review. In a composition class, the professor asked us to write a short story. I thought to myself that the opportunity to display my learning had arrived, so in no time I submitted three stories. When the thick stack of paper was returned to me, I flipped through the pages without finding any comments. At first I thought that it must have been the professor’s oversight, but then I thought that was impossible. I had submitted three works; at least one of them would have been read! Surely the professor did not appreciate them and could not be bothered to write even a single comment. Immediately my face felt hot and stinging. I quickly stuffed the large stack of paper into my bag and was terrified that someone might notice it. With a start I was woken from my dream of becoming a writer. However, the idea was not completely dead. I still felt that I had not found a true admirer who could recognize my talent. Then I went to visit Professor Xia Ji’an. At first I was too embarrassed to take out my writing. I pretended that I had gone to ask him to correct my English compositions. After a couple of visits, I was able to put one of my

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work in order to cater to public expectations, he is likely to ruin the integrity of the art form. . . . Many have said that Taipei People is too pessimistic and too negative, that it only presents the desolate and deteriorating side of life but fails to present the happy and healthy side. Doesn’t the book overly generalize? Is life really like that? These comments are all correct, and I concur with them too. However, they have nothing to do with the success or failure of the work. Take dawn and dusk for example. If the backdrop of a story is dawn, we do not demand that the writer must also depict dusk, or that he or she must write another story with dusk as the backdrop. By the same token, both life and death are inevitable. If a writer chooses to describe the sorrow of death, on what grounds are we to demand that he or she also write about the joy of birth? Swallows in the Houses of the Powerful (Taipei: Erya, 1976), 323–32, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

49. Looking Back bai xi a nyong . . . After being admitted to the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at NTU, my wildest hope was to be published in Literature Review, because my classmates’ fiction appeared in it frequently. Our Chinese literature professor often encouraged us to submit to Literary Review. In a composition class, the professor asked us to write a short story. I thought to myself that the opportunity to display my learning had arrived, so in no time I submitted three stories. When the thick stack of paper was returned to me, I flipped through the pages without finding any comments. At first I thought that it must have been the professor’s oversight, but then I thought that was impossible. I had submitted three works; at least one of them would have been read! Surely the professor did not appreciate them and could not be bothered to write even a single comment. Immediately my face felt hot and stinging. I quickly stuffed the large stack of paper into my bag and was terrified that someone might notice it. With a start I was woken from my dream of becoming a writer. However, the idea was not completely dead. I still felt that I had not found a true admirer who could recognize my talent. Then I went to visit Professor Xia Ji’an. At first I was too embarrassed to take out my writing. I pretended that I had gone to ask him to correct my English compositions. After a couple of visits, I was able to put one of my

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creative writings on his desk without embarrassment. I remember he was wearing a sweatshirt that day. He flipped through my manuscript as he sucked on his pipe, making a puffing sound. As he did so, my heart was pounding fast, as if I were waiting for the judge to sentence me. If at that time Professor Xia had sentenced my writing to death, my writing career would have ended, because I revered him and I had no confidence whatsoever in myself. His praise or criticism of me, a novice writer, would have made a world of difference to my future. Then Professor Xia lifted his head and said with a smile: “Your writing is mature and full of vigor. We will publish it in Literary Review.” The story was “Madame Jin” [1958], the very first piece I published officially. I went on to publish “Let’s Go See the Chrysanthemums” [1959] (originally titled “Hospitalized”) in Literature Review. I had originally planned to submit “Rolling Thunder” [1959] to the journal, but before it was finished, Professor Xia left for the United States after reading only half of it. Although he had only taught me for one semester, his direct and indirect influence on my writing was immense. Of course, the most important thing was his encouragement when I first emerged on the scene. Furthermore, I benefited a great deal from his analysis of my writing style. He believed that the biggest problem Chinese writers had was their unrestrained romantic zeal and maudlin language. He asked me which authors I had read and did not make a sound as I named some. However, when I mentioned Maugham and Maupassant, he said, “The writings of these two men will have a positive influence on you. Their language very much eschews emotion.” I had read a large number of works of romanticism, so my language sometimes was tainted by sentimentality. Professor Xia made a point of mentioning these two writers, probably because he wanted me to learn from their sober, analytical style. His appreciation of literature was unusually rational and objective. Also, his personality was so sanguine that I mistakenly thought that he had transcended the world early on in his life and could not be bothered by social conventions. It was not until I later read The Diary of Xia Ji’an that I discovered that he had in fact experienced many rugged patches in life. He was once a romantic; therefore, he was acutely aware of the flaws of romanticism. In my junior year, several classmates and I established Modern Literature. Once I had my own territory, it became so much easier to publish. Good ones, bad ones—they were all presented to the market. In the first issue, I even used two pen names to publish two stories “Moon Dream” [1960] and “Jade Love” [1960]. Professor Li Liewen [1904–1972] asked: “Who wrote ‘Jade Love’? It is skillfully done. I doubt that it is one of you students.” Pleased with myself, I quickly replied, “I wrote it.” He was somewhat surprised and sized me up for a moment. At that time, he probably thought that I was too young and ambitious. Looking back, most of the stories that I wrote before I went abroad were unpolished; their structures were incomplete, and the emotions were too obvious. I did not know how to exert control and was still an apprentice. Nevertheless, the themes for the most part were set and did not go beyond birth, aging, illness, and death—the eternal reality

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of human life. Still, it is interesting to look back after many years and wonder how I could have written some of those pieces. One year Sister Zhi returned from abroad and we talked about the past at home. She mentioned one of her former nannies, who was pretty and cute and liked to wear white earrings. The nanny later left and lived with her adoptive brother. I had never seen the nanny, but the pair of white earrings fascinated me. I thought that when the kind of woman who wore white earrings loved someone, she would do so to within an inch of her life. That woman was Sister Yuqing in “Jade Love.” One day when I was at the military police academy, I attended a map-reading class. I had never had a good sense of direction and could never distinguish east, west, north and south. I listened without hearing as I covered the manuscript paper with a map and wrote “Lonely Seventeen.” I had a relative who came from a family of low status and did poorly at school. He was so lonely that he would call himself on the phone. I thought for sure that the boy was on the verge of losing his mind; otherwise he would not talk to himself like that. Once, I watched an artist do an oil painting of a naked youth. Against a semi-abstract background, the top of the painting showed a white molten sun and the bottom a burning bright beach. The youth was full of life and leaping as if he wanted to fly away. I thought that the painting clearly symbolized youth, and I got to thinking that no man could hold on to youth permanently, that only when youth was transformed into art could it last forever. . . . I could not write a word when I first went to the [Iowa Writers Workshop in the] United States. My surroundings had changed abruptly, and my mind was in turmoil. I was unable to write anything. The dormitory was closed during Christmas, so I went to Chicago and stayed by myself in a small hotel by Lake Michigan. One day at dusk, I walked down to the lake. Snow was drifting in the air; Heaven and Earth were boundless, and the lake was expansive. Lights could be seen in thousands of homes in the lakefront skyscrapers. Christmas carols sounded on all sides, and signs of the last days of the year quickly slipping away were everywhere. I stood on the windbreak and experienced a sudden wave of strange impulse. That feeling was one of sorrow and joy, of the infinity of Heaven and Earth. In an instant, without notice, my chaotic mind cleared up. In an abrupt turn, the twenty-five-year-old me became a blur slowly disappearing. I felt as if I had been reborn, and all of a sudden I had aged many years. Huang Tingjian’s [1045–1105] poem [came to mind]: “Abroad for ten years, aging has depleted my youthful heart.” I did not need ten years; just one year was enough, especially in a place like Chicago. When I returned to Iowa, I began to write again. My first story was “Death in Chicago.” I learned many things at the Iowa Writers Workshop: I came to understand the importance of the narrative point of view. Percy Lubbock’s classic work The Craft of Fiction enlightened me. He made evident two basic techniques of fiction: the narrative method and the dramatic method. He discussed several great novelists. Some, like Thackeray, were skillful in the former method; some, like Dickens,

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were proficient in the latter method. He believed that the key to good fiction was to know when to use the narrative method and when to use the dramatic method. Dramatization means constructing a scene and using dialogue. I discovered that the proportion of narration to dialogue is crucial in a short story. I also discovered that Chinese writers are mostly good at the dramatic method. Dream of the Red Chamber, Water Margin, Plum in the Golden Vase, and The Scholars—every one of these novels excels at creating a scene and dialogue. There are not many lengthy descriptions or tedious analyses. All the great fiction writers I have studied have superb craftsmanship. The techniques of fiction are not trifling skills; rather, they are the basic tools for presenting subjects of great depth. During that time, the most important influences on my writing were selfdiscovery and pursuit. Like many overseas students, I suffered from culture shock and experienced an identity crisis after I left my country. I had to reevaluate all of my fundamental values and beliefs. I was studying Western literature in the classroom but borrowing stacks of books on Chinese history, politics, philosophy, and art from the library, along with novels from the May Fourth period. I was inflicted with a fear of hunger. I began to wolf down those Chinese histories and literary works. I read modern Chinese history extensively. When I read about the Battle of Taierzhuang [1938] during the War of Resistance, I even planned to ask my father upon returning home what the actual circumstances were. One summer day, at Little Carnegie Hall in New York, I saw a Chinese history film shot and edited by a foreigner. From the death of Empress Dowager Cixi [1908], to the Republican Revolution [1911], the Northern Expedition [1926–1927], the War of Resistance against Japan, and the conflict with Chinese Communists—more than half a century of Chinese history passed before my eyes. The Nanjing Massacre [1937] and the bombing of Chongqing [1938–1943] were no longer historical terms. Rather, they were the bodies of Chinese people being trampled on, humiliated, ripped apart, and burned. They were strewn across Chinese soil that had turned black from the tears and blood of bitter hardship. I sat in a dark corner in the theater. Wave after wave of uncontrollable trembling sent shivers down my spine. When I walked outside, there was still an endless stream of traffic in Times Square. I was in the midst of the pedestrian world and the neon lights pierced my eyes sharply. I floundered onto the streets of New York and for a while I did not know where I was. That was the first time after arriving in America that I experienced such a deep sense of bewilderment derived from defeat and loss of my country and my home. The longer I lived abroad, the more I longed for my native culture. That was when I started to write the collections New Yorkers and Taipei People [1971]. California, 1976 China Times literary supplement; Bai Xianyong, Looking Back (Taipei: Erya, 1978), 65–78, translated by Lloyd Sciban and Shu-ning Sciban.

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50. Preface to Three-Three Journal z hu ti a nwe n The first flow of spring tide The sun, the moon, and the star rise from waves of brilliance Ah— It is the third day of the third month Three-Three Journal may as well be the North Star Polaris Maybe it is a coincidence, maybe it is inevitable, maybe it is human will, maybe it is the will of Heaven Or maybe it is none of these Maybe you will be surprised —Better still for you to smile Brilliance descends quietly on the beach A star in the Milky Way yearns for the mortal world Unwittingly you pick it up with your hand And listen to it telling stories of Heaven Fine if you think Three-Three lays out vertically the hexagram of Heaven, or horizontally the hexagram of Earth Fine if you think Three-Three aspires to the [poetic] modes of exposition, comparison, and association of the Chinese tradition Fine if you think Three-Three aims at the Three Prominent Virtues Or Fine if you think Three-Three tells the story of “One engenders two, two genders three, three engenders ten thousand things” Fine if you think Three-Three tells the story of the true God of the Holy Trinity Fine if you think Three-Three tells the story of Three People’s Principles Or Fine if you think Three-Three is nothing more than Three-Three A star that yearns for the mortal world Quietly descending on the beach Lapped by the tide for eternity Why don’t you lift your head and gaze At the infinite revelation of the bright starry sea that is Three-Three Our hope is that your thought will be its wish. Three-Three Journal (Taipei: Crown Magazine, 1977), n.p., translated by Michelle Yeh.

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51. It Is Realist Literature, Not Nativist Literature— A Historical Analysis of Nativist Literature wa ng tu o

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n the past few years, although we do not know exactly when it started, the phrase “nativist literature” gradually began appearing on the pages of newspapers and magazines and in the speech of many enthusiasts of literature; moreover, it slowly became a major trend in literary creation. As far as I know, there are differing opinions among authors and readers as to whether or not it is an appropriate tendency, and no matter whether they agree or disagree, perhaps all of them have both literary and nonliterary reasons for their opinions. Now that it has been bandied about for some time, what exactly is nativist literature and how should it be defined? It seems that it is still unclear; as yet, nobody has given a precise explanation. I believe that before discussing this issue, providing a preliminary review of the many significant changes in the political, economic, and social situation in Taiwan from 1970 through 1972 will help us understand the issue. I have always believed that we can only gain a clear picture when we analyze literature against its objective social and historical background. The period from 1970 to 1972 is one in which Taiwan has undergone the most significant impact in the recent past, and it has left a clear mark on the cultural and intellectual circles and on young students.

1. TA I W A N E S E S O C I E T Y F R O M 19 7 0 T H R O U G H 19 7 2 During this period, several major events of great impact occurred. These are set out chronologically as follows: 1. The Diaoyutai Incident, which began in November 1970. 2. Taiwan’s withdrawal from the United Nations on October 25, 1971. 3. The U.S. President Richard Nixon’s visit to Beijing on February 21, 1972. 4. The severing of relations with Japan in September 1972. . . .

2 . A L O O K AT TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E S I N C E 19 4 9 . . . The [Nationalist] government retreated to Taiwan in 1949, and due to the dramatic changes and unrest in politics and society, in the first few years afterward,

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Taiwanese society practically existed in an ideological vacuum. In literature, those authors who followed the government to Taiwan had long suffered the torment from the civil war; the unsettled nature of their lives and the political situation caused them either to enter the academy and become detached from reality or to write dry, stereotypical, official literature. There were few accomplishments worth mentioning. As for native Taiwanese authors during this period, such as Yang Kui, Wu Zhuoliu, Zhong Lihe, and Zhong Zhaozheng, because they had received a Japanese colonial education, they would need to make a new effort before they could write in Chinese. For this and other objective reasons, almost all of them remained silent during this period. After the Korean War broke out, a massive amount of American aid poured into Taiwan, and political stability gradually brought economic vitality. With the help of the economic and material aid, a new class of merchants rose in society to form the upper middle class. The Japanese, who had previously invaded China wearing military uniforms and carrying weapons, changed into Western suits and carried James Bond–type briefcases on their reentry into Taiwan, to engage in a new kind of —economic—aggression. Under the economic imperialism of America and Japan, Taiwan traded cheap labor and agricultural goods for a certain degree of economic growth and prosperity. In the intellectual and philosophical circles, Confucian thought of traditional China was being promoted and upheld by the state. Although they still stubbornly held on to an empty shell, in reality they could not ward off the influx of individualism and democratic values that came along with Western capitalist economy. Under the global Cold War policy being promoted and led by America, intellectuals living in Taiwan began to accept Western thinking on a large scale, as expressed in such binary oppositions as: individual versus collective, freedom versus totalitarianism, democracy versus dictatorship. Yet in so doing, they cut off and ignored the Chinese nationalist tradition of resisting imperialist aggression! Writers living in Taiwan were thus cut off vertically from their own national tradition, and horizontally they wholeheartedly accepted Western capitalist thinking and values, leading them to blindly imitate and copy Western literary trends. . . . And under the American and Japanese imperialistic economy and the American-style education system, writers in Taiwan unknowingly learned the feelings and mode of thinking of Westerners, following their decadent fin-desiècle worldview; imitating their numb, absurd, and sickly posturing; endlessly covering newspapers and magazines with introductions to T.  S. Eliot, Kafka, Sartre, Camus, and D.  H. Lawrence. They also used the theory and methodology of Western literary criticism to explain how works like The Waste Land, The Castle, and The Stranger are masterpieces; they then turned around to use Western literary theory and methodology to standardize and evaluate works that had grown up in native Taiwan. This phenomenon caused the widespread lack

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of vitality and masculinity in literary works in Taiwan and the prevalence of pretentious, moaning imitations of Western literary works that were confused, pale, and lost. Moreover, they declared themselves the upper class in society, proudly holding the common man who could not understand their great works in contempt. However, even in this social and literary atmosphere, there remained a group of people who tenaciously persevered on the soil they grew up on, honestly representing the reality of the society and life they were familiar with against the backdrop of the native soil they lived on, even attempting to use the native soil as background to set off the trials and tribulations of the Chinese in recent history. For example, Wu Zhuoliu’s The Orphan of Asia and Zhong Zhaozheng’s Sinking from his Taiwanese Trilogy both used much space summarizing the progress of history to emphasize the hardships of our people and the joy and sorrow of individuals. Zhong Lihe provided an honest reflection of the difficulties of real life, bursting with the power of realism to move people. The use of national history and individual lives as material, the realist depiction of real life against the background of the native soil as the creative approach—it is understandable why it did not receive much attention in the literary field in Taiwan at the time, when imitating the spirit and techniques of the West to reflect the degenerate, decadent, numbing, and deranged life of the middle class was the mainstream. However, we cannot ignore the quiet, latent energy that was always present. When change occurred in the objective conditions of society, it would slowly but surely replace those dead, hypocritical literary fads and become the mainstream in literature, helping us proceed more quickly onto a healthier, more correct path. Post-1970 Taiwanese society provided the necessary conditions in which this kind of realist literature would mature. . . .

3. I T I S “ R E A L I S T L I T E R AT U R E , ” N O T “ N AT I V I S T L I T E R AT U R E ” . . . As far as I know, many people understand “nativist literature” to be “rural village literature” and believe that it is only that which takes rural society and the lives of villagers as subject matter and uses a great deal of Hoklo. But according to the above analysis, the reason this literature is commonly accepted and widely appreciated and valued is rooted in the sentiment and mind-set that oppose imported culture and social inequity. Therefore, the so-called nativist literature contrasts sharply with westernized literature, which blindly imitates Western literature, is removed from the realities of Taiwanese society, and idolizes [pure] literature. In this sense, although it is not completely unreasonable to see nativist literature as rural village literature (the logic behind this is given above), it easily causes conceptual confusion and misleading emotions. First, it may cause people to think that the countryside and the city are diametrically opposed, and

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to mistakenly believe that only works depicting rural villages and the lives of villagers can be called nativist literature, and to exclude works about the city and urbanites. If this is the true meaning of nativist literature, then it is way too narrow, limited, and exclusionary. It would not be able to take on the important duty of resisting westernized literature and constructing our national literature. Secondly, the villages still primarily speak Hoklo, and part of the reason that representative works of nativist literature are valued is that their authors are skillful at imitating Hoklo. Of course, this greatly helps and contributes to making Mandarin richer and livelier, but if we overemphasized it, people would easily fall into the trap of the concept and sentiment of narrow, separatist localism. Third, under the influence of mechanical civilization and the invasion of industrial and commercial economy, some characteristics of rural society will inevitably decline and disappear; for example, horse-drawn carts will be replaced by automobiles and trains, oxen will be replaced by tractors, oil lamps will be replaced by electric lights, superstitious shaman medicine will be replaced by advanced [modern] medicine, and so on, followed by changes in thinking and emotions as a result of material civilization. These are all objective patterns of historical and social development, not to be altered by subjective human desires. If [a literary work] embraces rural society and villagers so emotionally that it ignores the objective facts of historical and social development, it is easily mired in a nostalgic, sentimental mood, becoming a “literature of homesickness.” In terms of the more representative writers of nativist literature, earlier ones such as Wu Zhuoliu, Yang Kui, Zhong Lihe, and Zhong Zhaozheng, or later ones such as Wang Zhenhe and Huang Chunming, although a number of their representative works use villages as the background and the lives of villagers as the main object of depiction, plus mature techniques in the use of dialect, what they want to represent is not limited to local customs and sensibilities. The value of their works does not lie in these superficial characteristics, but rather in the way they reflect the emotions of people and their human reactions in real life, their sorrows and joys, their struggles and desires. Through these works, we come to have a greater understanding of and more concern for this society and the people. If we use the expression “nativist literature”—or “rural village literature”—to summarize it, I don’t think it is inappropriate at all. Mr. Zhong Zhaozheng, who is considered a representative of the first generation of nativist literature writers in postwar Taiwan, once said, I believe that it is impossible to give a precise definition to nativist literature. There is no such thing as nativist literature. Looking at it from a more general point of view, all literature is native soil; no literature can be removed from the native soil. I have read many foreign and Chinese works, and ninety-nine percent of them have a native-soil flavor, because when writing, an author needs a foothold, and this foothold is precisely the native soil. Or, it is perhaps better to call it a local feeling. . . . When

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thinking about “native soil,” everyone focuses on “native,” saying it is of the village, or rustic. I cannot agree with this approach. Then what about local feeling? There can also be a local feeling in a city; no matter what cosmopolitan style your work may be in, it cannot be separated from local feelings. (The Publisher, no. 52 [Nov. 1976]: 64) The “native soil” Mr. Zhong refers to here, if I have not misunderstood, should refer to the broad social environment in Taiwan and the reality of people living in it; it includes the countryside and does not exclude the city. The “nativist literature” born from “native soil” is rooted in the land of Taiwan and reflects social reality, as well as people’s lives and their desires. It is not only a rural literature that describes the lives of villagers against the backdrop of rural villages; it is also an urban literature that describes the lives of urbanites against the urban backdrop. This literature not only reflects and portrays farmers and workers but also describes and depicts indigenous businessmen, small merchants, freelancers, government employees, teachers, and all kinds of people who struggle to make a living in an industrial and commercial society. In other words, any kind of person, event, and phenomenon in this society is what this literature reflects and describes, what the authors of these works want to understand and care about. I believe this literature should be called “realist literature,” not “nativist literature.” Moreover, in order to avoid confusing readers conceptually and misleading them emotionally, I believe it is necessary to change the name of nativist literature to realist literature. Cactus 2 (April 1, 1977); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 100–19, translated by Krista Van Fleit Hang.

52. Introduction to the History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan ye shi tao TA I W A N E S E U N I Q U E N E S S A N D CHINESE UNIVERSALITY For mosa, t he Beautiful I sl a nd Taiwan is situated in the typhoon belt of the subtropical zone. The surging Japan Current circulates through the ocean on all sides. Consequently, rain is plentiful, the four seasons are summer-like, and vegetation is lush and verdant. No

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thinking about “native soil,” everyone focuses on “native,” saying it is of the village, or rustic. I cannot agree with this approach. Then what about local feeling? There can also be a local feeling in a city; no matter what cosmopolitan style your work may be in, it cannot be separated from local feelings. (The Publisher, no. 52 [Nov. 1976]: 64) The “native soil” Mr. Zhong refers to here, if I have not misunderstood, should refer to the broad social environment in Taiwan and the reality of people living in it; it includes the countryside and does not exclude the city. The “nativist literature” born from “native soil” is rooted in the land of Taiwan and reflects social reality, as well as people’s lives and their desires. It is not only a rural literature that describes the lives of villagers against the backdrop of rural villages; it is also an urban literature that describes the lives of urbanites against the urban backdrop. This literature not only reflects and portrays farmers and workers but also describes and depicts indigenous businessmen, small merchants, freelancers, government employees, teachers, and all kinds of people who struggle to make a living in an industrial and commercial society. In other words, any kind of person, event, and phenomenon in this society is what this literature reflects and describes, what the authors of these works want to understand and care about. I believe this literature should be called “realist literature,” not “nativist literature.” Moreover, in order to avoid confusing readers conceptually and misleading them emotionally, I believe it is necessary to change the name of nativist literature to realist literature. Cactus 2 (April 1, 1977); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 100–19, translated by Krista Van Fleit Hang.

52. Introduction to the History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan ye shi tao TA I W A N E S E U N I Q U E N E S S A N D CHINESE UNIVERSALITY For mosa, t he Beautiful I sl a nd Taiwan is situated in the typhoon belt of the subtropical zone. The surging Japan Current circulates through the ocean on all sides. Consequently, rain is plentiful, the four seasons are summer-like, and vegetation is lush and verdant. No

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wonder the Portuguese sailors who navigated the Taiwan Strait on their way to Japan cried out with admiration: “Illa! Formosa!” [Island! Beautiful!] Taiwan has been called Formosa by Westerners ever since. The unsurpassable natural beauty and the subtropical climate have certainly exerted a profound influence on the people who have lived on this land for generations and have molded their unique dispositions: hardworking, frank, upright, persevering, patiently amenable, and highly virile. In my research on the history of nativist literature, I definitely regard Taiwan’s natural environment and ethnic characteristics as important and determining factors. Because of its picturesque natural environment and abundant crops, Taiwan has been coveted since ancient times by ethnic groups on four sides. In the Paleolithic, there were pygmies, Siamese banished from the Yangtze River basin, Han Chinese from north China, and other ethnic groups living here. Entering the Neolithic, Oceanic groups, such as Polynesians and Melanesians, Malays from the south, and indigenous groups from China came one after another. Many ethnicities with different languages, cultures, and religions inhabited the island. Some survived and became the ancestors of the indigenous tribes in Taiwan. It seems that these ethnic groups had a rather high level of civilization; one only needs to look at the cultural relics of painted and black pottery and the vestiges of the ancient megalithic Empire of the Sun in eastern Taiwan to understand this.

C hinese Influe nce Nonetheless, throughout the island’s history, the Chinese from mainland China across a narrow strip of water have exerted the greatest influence. The reason that Taiwan’s indigenous peoples could go beyond the Neolithic into the Iron Age was without doubt due to the influence of the mainland. (It is possible that even the practice of smoking tobacco came from the mainland!) Scattered prehistoric records are found in Chinese history books. Nevertheless, since the beginning of written history, Taiwan has suffered trampling and domination by different ethnic groups, one after another. There is a verifiable history of oppression and devastation. Because Taiwan is isolated by the sea, cultural exchange with mainland China is sometimes cut off. Hence, even though Taiwanese culture is predominantly Chinese, it cannot avoid mixing with other cultural elements left behind throughout history. If we examine Taiwan’s society, economy, education, architecture, painting, music, and legends, it is not difficult to discover exotic features that distinguish Taiwan from orthodox Chinese culture. In isolation, Taiwan has formed a strong nativist character different from mainland China by melding various cultures in the furnace. On the other hand, Taiwan’s unique nativist character is not so distinct from Chinese culture that it can stand by

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itself; it is a tributary of Chinese culture. Even if a rich and strong nativist character is expressed in the institutions and arts, it is still inseparable from Chinese culture. Taiwan has always been an indispensable member of the Chinese cultural sphere, because it has never created a distinctive spoken and written language. Therefore, when we review the history of Taiwan’s nativist literature, we must consider its origin and the diverse factors of ethnicity, natural environment, social customs, history, and so on. There is no doubt that these diverse factors have made Taiwan unique, with its intense colors, unpretentious character, abundant resources, and intellectual influences from faraway lands, like the Japan Current surging onto the shore.

“ TA I W A N C O N S C I O U S N E S S ”— T H E F O C U S OF SPIRITUAL LIFE FOR CHINESE PEOPLE I N TA I W A N U N D E R I M P E R I A L I S M Si gnificance of Taiwanese Nati v ist Li ter atur e After all is said and done, what is Taiwanese nativist literature? Which ethnic group has created it? What should be its themes? Is it a literature that writes only about Taiwan as a narrow region but rejects internationalism? Does it pursue universal human nature or is it limited to descriptions of Taiwanese particularity? The definition the South African writer Nadine Gordimer given at the beginning of The Black Interpreters: Notes on African Writing aptly applies to nativist literature in Taiwan. She says: “. . . African writing is writing in any language done by Africans themselves and by others of whatever skin colour who share with Africans the experience of having been shaped, mentally and spiritually, by Africa rather than anywhere else in the world.”1 Obviously, Taiwan’s nativist literature should be written by Taiwanese (Han Chinese and indigenous peoples residing in Taiwan). However, because of Taiwan’s historical experience, having suffered more than a century of bitter and illegal occupation by such different races as the Dutch, the Spanish, and the Japanese, the history of nativist literature includes works about Taiwan that are written in foreign languages. Taiwanese writers have even used an occupier’s language to write. One has only to think back to the works of many Taiwanese writers during the period of Japanese rule to understand the situation.

“Taiwan C onsciousness” Although nativist literature is not restricted by skin color and language, there is one prerequisite: nativist literature should have Taiwan as the center. In other words, it should be works that view the world from a Taiwanese perspective.

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Although Taiwanese writers are free to choose any material and write about anything that interests or appeals to them, they should have a deep-rooted Taiwan consciousness. Otherwise, would not Taiwanese nativist literature become some kind of exile literature? We think of some writers who study in the United States. No matter how moving their accounts are of their American experiences of adventure, hardship, drifting, and alienation, if they do not have a strong Taiwan consciousness, their writing does not qualify as Taiwanese nativist literature, because their works have no connection whatsoever with the common experience of contemporary Chinese people in Taiwan. It is no different from foreign literature written in Chinese. Furthermore, this Taiwan consciousness must reflect things closely related to the lives of the masses. As the history of social change in Taiwan is a history of oppression and devastation, what we call Taiwan consciousness, that is, the common experience of Chinese people living in Taiwan, is none other than the common experience of having been colonized and oppressed. In other words, what is reflected in Taiwanese nativist literature is surely the common experience of anti-imperialism and antifeudalism, as well as an account of shared hardship in the course of cultivating wilderness and struggling against nature. It is absolutely not work that is based on the ruler’s consciousness and betrays the will of the people.

TA I W A N U N D E R I M P E R I A L I S M A N D F E U D A L I S M Why has nativist literature in Taiwan been anti-imperialistic and antifeudalistic all along? The logic is obvious. Throughout history, Taiwanese people have continually lived in pain under the iron hooves of the invaders. Except for the rule of three generations of the Ming-loyalist Zhengs and two centuries of the Qing rule, we were directly ruled by colonizers, the Dutch and the Japanese. . . .

The Dutch C olonial Per iod . . .

The Ming-Zheng Military G ov er na nce . . .

The Q ing D yna sty . . .

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Late Q ing to J apanese Rule . . .

T H E R E A L I S T P AT H F O R N AT I V I S T L I T E R AT U R E I N TA I W A N . . .

Re al ism in Taiwanese Nat iv ist Li ter atur e The realist techniques in Taiwanese nativist literature are not the inexhaustible abnormality of corporeality and spirituality that modern Western writers wantonly pursue in their writings. Because Western writers’ consciousness has been eroded by the insanity of the capitalist society, which worships money, it is a deformed world at a dead end and runs counter to the historical experience of our nativist literature. Our realist literature would rather write about the tip of the iceberg on the surface of the sea. As for the part that lies beneath, it is still within our grasp. Although we accept the existence of deep psychology, it is not our primary object of description. Proust, D. H. Lawrence, and James Joyce only offer images of destruction; this kind of literature leads us to the abyss of death and annihilation. Therefore, our realist literature should be one of critical realism. We should learn from and model ourselves after such great nineteenthcentury writers as Balzac, Stendhal, Dickens, Tolstoy, Pushkin, and Gogol. We must depict the suffering of our nation with objective and comprehensive descriptions of reality and form unity with peoples who have been colonized and shackled by feudalism. We need to realize that realism can only show its true value through the tension derived from rebellion and antiestablishment. Realist techniques contain two constant dimensions: bright and dark. The dimension of light is succinct, clearly defined, and full of poetic meaning, whereas the dimension of darkness is satirical, indirect, fantastical, and gruesome. Only when realist literature unifies the bright and the dark dimensions does it qualify as an ideal national literature. China Wave 14 (May 1, 1977); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 69–91, translated by Lloyd Sciban and Shuning Sciban.

note 1.

Nadine Gordimer, The Black Interpreters: Notes on African Writing (Johannesburg: SPROCAS/RAVAN, 1973).

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53. The Blind Spot of Nativist Literature xu na ncun

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ecently I had the pleasure of reading “Introduction to the History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan,” a powerful piece by Mr. Ye Shitao. I feel deeply that this fine essay is outstanding among the contributions of the past two years, one the likes of which I have not seen since the 1950s, and one that uses new historical science to discuss literature. In this essay, Mr. Ye points out that Taiwan has its own special characteristics due to its geography, history, and spiritual life; yet at the same time it has the general character of China. Mr. Ye also finds that in the pre-1945 social and economic history of Taiwan, the greatest sources of oppression in the real lives of the Chinese people in Taiwan were imperialism and feudalism. Therefore, themes opposing imperialism and feudalism were the main focus and concern of Taiwan writers throughout that period. Mr. Ye proceeds to note that historically the tradition of realism in Taiwanese literature—unlike decadent naturalism, which writes realistically for the sake of writing realistically—is realism with a clear reformist consciousness, a powerful, spontaneous, focus-driven realism, like that in the works of Balzac. However, an important point in the essay, namely the author’s term “Taiwanese nativist literature,” is not clearly defined. The title of the piece, “Introduction to the History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan,” creates the impression that Taiwan has other kinds of literature, such as folk literature, urban literature, and so forth, and that the author is writing a history of a particular category— “nativist literature”—hence the preface. However, from what one reads in the introduction, the author includes all major writers and works from before the 1940s, from Yu Yonghe to Wu Zhuoliu, so that in reality it is a literary history of modern Chinese literature in Taiwan. In which case, his History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan is really a History of Chinese Literature in Taiwan. Mr. Ye at least considers pre-1945 Taiwanese literature to be nativist literature. The social environment in which Taiwan’s new literature emerged was a colony and capitalist society in the developmental stage of being formed. In this society, old-style feudal landholding relations were coming to an end, while semifeudal agricultural smallholder landholding relations coexisted with Japan’s modernized monopoly capitalism. Japanese monopoly capitalism in Taiwan was mainly invested in the sugar industry. The sugar-processing industry was deeply intertwined with agriculture. At the time, one-third of Taiwan’s farmers were sugarcane growers who provided their surplus labor to Japanese sugar-processing companies. In other industries, there were hardly any factories hiring more than five hundred workers, and most of those were closely related to the agricultural production sector. Therefore, agrarian villages and

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farmers became the focal point of material—and thus human—contradictions in Taiwanese society under Japanese imperialism at the time. Mr. Ye’s statement that Taiwanese writers during the period of Japanese rule concentrated their attention on rural villages and farmers precisely reflects this concrete reality. So, if most Taiwanese writers during the period of Japanese rule took rural villages and farmers to be the subject matter of their creative work, it did not come from the writers’ subjective preferences, but from a literary duty that stemmed from specific, concrete conditions in a specific historical period. If Mr. Ye wants to call Taiwanese literature of the Japanese colonial period nativist literature because it features villages and farmers, I fear this leaves out the more substantive things above and beyond native soil. . . . Wang Tuo opposes nativist literature to westernized literature of the last twenty years in Taiwan. He contrasts the former to westernized literature’s lack of national spirit, remoteness from concrete social life in Taiwan, and westernized language and form; nativist literature expresses Chinese national feelings and concrete Taiwanese social life. From the widely used language of the masses, it seeks out resplendent linguistic treasures. Wang Tuo even goes a step further, explaining nativist literature in terms of the domestic and international political and economic conditions of the era that produced it in the late 1960s and early 1970s, thus seeing it as an integral part of Chinese realistic literature. Indeed, when we cast our gaze more widely toward all the small and weak nations bullied by capitalist imperialism in the nineteenth century, all literatures of resistance bore their respective national characteristics, and because they reflected the real conditions of these agricultural and colonial societies, all took rural economic and human problems as the focus of their concern and their resistance. The distinctive character of Taiwan and its nativist literature disappears in the midst of the colonial literatures of all of Asia, Central and South America, and Africa, but it unites with all modern Chinese literature, with its distinctive modern Chinese anti-imperialist, antifeudal character, becoming one of its glorious and indivisible links. Taiwan’s New Literature was influenced by the vernacular literary movement that was closely tied to China’s May Fourth movement of enlightenment, and throughout its development has been closely related to China’s anti-imperialist, antifeudal literary movements; it is thus also a link in the political, cultural, and social movements that take China as the national identity. Mr. Ye should show concern for the Chinese characteristics of Taiwanese literature in its age of resistance, yet one feels that this excellent essay of his is not so strong on this point. Unless one emphasizes the Chinese characteristics of Taiwanese literature in its age of resistance, the problem of a “Taiwan position” raised in the essay appears equivocal and hard to understand. The original meaning of “Taiwan position” was simply geographical. It corresponded to the social and economic conditions of a self-sufficient China, whose basis was in agriculture and handicraft production, before the modern,

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unified Chinese nationalist movement, and as such it existed universally throughout China. However, after Japan occupied Taiwan, causing Taiwan to become a completely colonial society, “Taiwan position” took on a political meaning. Taiwan’s social contradictions became unified with its national contradictions under colonialism. Regarding nationality, the great majority of Taiwan’s socially and economically exploited agricultural, working, and urban classes were the Han people of Taiwan, and the capitalists who were in the position of exploitation and domination were overwhelmingly Japanese. The oppressed took a Taiwanese position in opposition to the Japanese position. This argument has been put forward: after Taiwan fell into Japanese hands as a colony, Japan carried out a capitalist reconstruction of Taiwanese society and economy. Taiwan went from the semi-feudal society that it was before it was occupied by Japan into a capitalist society during the period of Japanese rule. As a capitalist society formed, new modern cities sprang up, in which were concentrated a class of urbanites with absolutely no connection to the old, feudal Taiwan. Their feelings and thinking being unrelated to Taiwan’s rural and feudal traditions, their connection with rural, feudal Taiwan’s point of origin—China—was severed. A modern, metropolitan, urban class culture met the needs of imperialist Japan’s capitalist remaking of Taiwan and of the newly rising urban class that was produced in the process. Thereupon a new consciousness—the so-called “Taiwanese consciousness”—was born. Those who so argue trace it back to Taiwanese cultural nationalism, proposing that although the Taiwanese are Han in nationality, for the reasons noted above, they have developed a cultural nationalism of their own, apart from China. This is a carefully thought-out separatist argument. Let us first look at the substance of the capitalist transformation of Taiwan during the period of Japanese rule. Japan’s postoccupation rectification of land registers; national management of forests and marshes; tax code reforms; civil engineering construction projects; commodification of agricultural products— Hōrai [Taiwan] rice, sugarcane, and sweet potatoes; subordination of the landlord class under the central government and destruction of their feudal authority— that is, capturing the independent political, legal, and economic authority the landlords used to have locally; monopolization of the sugar-processing industry by Japanese capital, turning farmers into hired laborers; .  .  . these measures did cause Taiwanese society to enter a separate stage from that of society in mainland China during the same period. Nevertheless, we ought to note the colonial nature of all these changes. Basically, there was an upper limit to Taiwan’s transformation into a capitalist society, because within the economic ambit of Japanese imperialism, Taiwan was constrained by the rule of industrial Japan, agricultural Taiwan. Hence, during the period of Japanese rule, Taiwan’s industry generally did not develop and, moreover, was generally tied to agricultural production. For instance, the biggest

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industry at the time was the Japanese capitalized sugar-processing industry; its factories were not large and were separate from the large sugarcane production sector. A Taiwanese sugar-processing industry was unimaginable. As for capitalists of Taiwanese origin, according to the research of Yanaihara Tadao [1893–1961], most arose from the transformation of their feudal landed capital. The only capitalists unconnected to landed capital were traitors serving the Japanese and opportunists who speculated in stocks. More importantly, native Taiwanese capitalists took only shares of the profit; they did not have the right to directly manage and operate firms. From this perspective, in Taiwan during the period of Japanese rule, the Taiwanese village economy, not the urban economy, played the major role in the overall economy. And villages were the most stubborn bases of Chinese consciousness. In the cities, since Taiwanese capitalists also were economically and politically oppressed by Japanese colonialists, they had anti-Japanese ideas and activities. The anti-Japanese movements that this urban petty bourgeoisie participated in and led, generally speaking, took Chinese consciousness as the basis for national liberation. This is acutely appreciated by anyone familiar with Taiwanese nationalist movements and literary movements in the period of Japanese rule. Hence, Taiwan consciousness at this stage, in addition to the anti-imperialist, antifeudal realities that Mr. Ye so tirelessly and steadfastly points out, had a nationalist character oriented toward China that really cannot be overlooked and is indivisible from Taiwan’s anti-imperialist and antifeudal nationalist, social, political, and literary movements. If Mr. Ye’s schema of Taiwan consciousness takes for its content the multifarious anti-imperialist, antifeudal, spiritual odysseys of Chinese people in the region of Taiwan during the historical stage of colonial society, then it was, first of all, part of the movement in modern Chinese history in quest of Chinese independence and the thoroughgoing freedom of the Chinese people. When one looks at the problem narrowly, as resistance to Japanese invaders, there was a Taiwan consciousness that resisted the Japanese and domestic Taiwanese feudal forces collaborating with Japanese domination; but from the standpoint of China as a whole, the basis of Taiwan consciousness was an unswerving and unbounded “China consciousness.” . . . For more than half a century, Chinese new literature in Taiwan, even in a field of brambles and thorns, has tenaciously branched out and blossomed. In the last twenty-five years, the new generation of Chinese literary writers in Taiwan, after temporarily being cowed by an onslaught from American and Japanese literature, has recently begun to reevaluate and recognize the older generation of Taiwanese writers of the colonial period. The sense of historical responsibility of the older generation of writers; their spirit of determination as they engaged in high-stakes battles against the barbaric and dark reality of their day; and the social, national, and realistic traditions of their subject matter, combine with the new generation’s somewhat firmer grasp of Chinese language

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and dialects. We can be completely optimistic that Taiwanese literature will reap an even greater harvest and that we will make our proper contribution to the body of Chinese literature. Given all that, we simply cannot understand Mr. Ye’s not fully thought out and yet alarmist pessimism about the future of nativist literature in the hands of writers of the new generation. Taiwan Literary Arts (new edition) 2 (June 1977); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 93–99, translated by Jeffrey C. Kinkley.

54. Where Is Literature Without Human Nature? p e ng ge 1 . . . Since the beginning of the year I have read several articles on literature. I believe that some contain incorrect, even harmful, analysis and discussion and are in need of clarification. Under the premise of patriotism and love of literature, literary enthusiasts share the responsibility of overcoming small differences in pursuit of common ground, debunking fallacies, and expounding valid reasoning. In their surface meanings, “realist literature” and “nativist literature” may not sound problematic. The issue is, we cannot be deluded by these names and neglect to analyze their contents and underlying theories.

2 Some authors discuss literature and the arts alongside economy, politics, or society. Of course this is one method of researching literary history. Unfortunately, placing them alongside one another leads to the tendency to arbitrarily assign value and randomly accept or reject, therefore giving rise to biased or distorted views. These views are not only harmful to the nation, they are also harmful to the goal of developing humanity and guiding society by way of literary works. For example, when it comes to Taiwan’s economic construction, after thirty years of laborious management, its accomplishment today has won acclaim around the world, and we rightly take pride in it. It seems that some people ignore many facts of this progress, just as Mr. Wang Tuo says in his analysis

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and dialects. We can be completely optimistic that Taiwanese literature will reap an even greater harvest and that we will make our proper contribution to the body of Chinese literature. Given all that, we simply cannot understand Mr. Ye’s not fully thought out and yet alarmist pessimism about the future of nativist literature in the hands of writers of the new generation. Taiwan Literary Arts (new edition) 2 (June 1977); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 93–99, translated by Jeffrey C. Kinkley.

54. Where Is Literature Without Human Nature? p e ng ge 1 . . . Since the beginning of the year I have read several articles on literature. I believe that some contain incorrect, even harmful, analysis and discussion and are in need of clarification. Under the premise of patriotism and love of literature, literary enthusiasts share the responsibility of overcoming small differences in pursuit of common ground, debunking fallacies, and expounding valid reasoning. In their surface meanings, “realist literature” and “nativist literature” may not sound problematic. The issue is, we cannot be deluded by these names and neglect to analyze their contents and underlying theories.

2 Some authors discuss literature and the arts alongside economy, politics, or society. Of course this is one method of researching literary history. Unfortunately, placing them alongside one another leads to the tendency to arbitrarily assign value and randomly accept or reject, therefore giving rise to biased or distorted views. These views are not only harmful to the nation, they are also harmful to the goal of developing humanity and guiding society by way of literary works. For example, when it comes to Taiwan’s economic construction, after thirty years of laborious management, its accomplishment today has won acclaim around the world, and we rightly take pride in it. It seems that some people ignore many facts of this progress, just as Mr. Wang Tuo says in his analysis

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of nativist literature [in “It Is Realist Literature, not Nativist Literature”], “In Taiwanese society in this period [the 1970s], the impact of major international events and extremely unequal development of the domestic economy have led to a strong opposition to imperialism and a national social consciousness against the colonial, comprador economy. We must love the nation and the people, we must care about issues in the lives of the masses in the society.” In our fight for freedom and for its very existence as a united nation, antiimperialism is first and foremost resistance to the Red imperialism of Communism. The evil power of the CCP poses a challenge for us. If one talks about anti-imperialism without mentioning anti-Communism, one fails to grasp the focus of the global situation. If anti-imperialism only refers to resisting foreign capital from the United States and Japan, is it not a misguided shift of target? Is our economy really a colonial economy? Is our economy in the hands of compradors? What are the pros and cons of foreign capital in our economic development? These should be analyzed objectively by economists. In terms of politics, the government of the ROC is founded on the constitution and adopts the Three Principles of the People as the basic direction. China’s War of Resistance against Japan, abolition of unequal treaties, revocation of extraterritoriality, and persistent opposition to Communism despite great challenges represent concrete anti-imperial behavior and will save our nation from peril. In the economic boom in the ROC, to call it colonial economy or comprador economy is not only unfair to the government but also insulting to our countrymen, who expend every effort to expand it. Mr. Wang’s line of reasoning is incorrect and his method is problematic. He wrote another article using the pen name Li Zhuo. In this piece, except for a large number of quotations from his own published works, all the materials he uses to discuss Taiwan’s current economy are taken from a work by the Japanese author Miyake Takao. Taiwan’s medical profession was severely censured for not using Chinese to discuss patients’ conditions and for using foreign languages to write medical cases. However, when a Chinese person living in Taiwan discusses contemporary economic and social issues in the ROC, he does not refer to materials provided by the Chinese government or officials in charge; quote from the research findings of domestic academic institutions, scholars, and experts; or cite newspaper articles, statistics, and columns. He relies solely on a Japanese whose words he trusts. This scholarly attitude not only lacks fairness and honesty, it also makes people question Mr. Wang’s patriotism. Mr. Wang’s problems lie in a lack of training in social sciences and absence of clear cognition; as a result, his ideas are biased. I believe that, with his talent, if he examines himself with modesty and studies hard, he will have a great future.

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3 Because of his incorrect and inadequate analysis of the contemporary economy and society, Mr. Wang believes that in order to resist the minority of oligarchic capitalists who monopolize social wealth, literary workers should criticize and attack all the unreasonable phenomena in the current economic system and give more sympathy and support to those of low income in the society. On the surface, it seems that his remark is quite logical, but if we analyze more deeply, we find a significant drawback. Is it true that Taiwanese society has been monopolized by a minority of oligarchic capitalists? Not so. As an author, Mr. Wang’s sympathy and support are not based on the distinction between good and evil, right and wrong; rather, it is based solely on income. From a literary perspective, this is a departure from the ideas of identification with the people, broad compassion, and universal love. Taking income rather than morality as the criterion creates confusion in one’s thought process. It is natural for literature and literary writers to give more sympathy and support to people of low income in society, but the distinction between good and bad, right and wrong, is more important than that between rich and poor. Besides measurable things, people hold values and standards. Although in today’s society not many can put into practice all the virtues of loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, love, faithfulness, righteousness, harmony, and peace, they are still values and standards to most people, and they are still a significant influence and force of restraint. One should evaluate from the standpoint of human values rather than using personal income as the only yardstick. There will never be social justice if we do not emphasize morality. When economy instead of humanity is used as the standard, [Mr. Wang’s] argument falls into the trap of class antagonism and binary opposition. When his bias extends to literature, vagueness, heartlessness, ruthlessness, and hatred appear. . . .

4 Literature is a reflection of the author’s personhood as a whole; therefore, his or her work not only reveals his or her attitude toward present-day society but also reflects his or her views of life and the world. Every writer is limited by personal, subjective experiences; it is difficult to avoid a one-sided understanding of life. Therefore, a writer must observe life with sincerity, which means calmly observing the totality of life. Making an arbitrary evaluation without observing the whole situation is unfortunate for both the author and society. If an author uses a particular

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formula, he or she turns writing into a tool. Even as propaganda, its effects are limited. Mr. Chen Yingzhen (who uses the pen name Xu Nancun in his essays) serves as an example. Chen Yingzhen quotes his father’s words as a guide for morality, action, and writing. His father once said to him: “Son, you are first the son of God, second the son of China, and only third are you my son.” Always keeping these words in mind, he gives people the impression that he is an author who “pursues love and freedom.” However, there is a hidden side to his heart, and it is revealed in his writing. “On Chen Yingzhen,” written by Mr. Chen under the pen name Xu Nancun, seems to be an attempt to step outside the self to perform self-analysis, to define himself as a “petty intellectual from a small town.” A more common expression would be bourgeois or petite bourgeois intellectual. And what is Mr. Chen’s evaluation of petite bourgeois intellectuals? He says, “In today’s stratified society, petite bourgeois intellectuals occupy the middle position. In times of prosperity and opportunity, they easily move upward and receive significant benefits from the upper echelon. But in times of recession, when opportunities are few, they inevitably sink to the lower echelon of society. Therefore, when the upward path is smooth, they are high-spirited and full of pride, but on their descent they are usually depressed, filled with indignation, and aimless.” This is formula one. Based on his own experience, Mr. Chen believes that there are few opportunities for advancement for petite bourgeois intellectuals, but many for descent. So he says: “He fails to comprehend that the fall of petty urbanites in the process of fluctuating accumulation of capital in an industrial, commercial society, especially in developing countries, is the typical fate.” This is formula two. What Mr. Chen does not say, or does not know, is that the so-called typical fate actually only exists in the class theory of Communism. This formulation comprises neither historical development nor the rule in real life. Mr. Chen completely denies individual value and significance, attributing a person’s rise and fall, success and failure, to social stratification. To classify social phenomena by using personal experience and then describe intellectuals as pathetic, gloomy, and hopeless is to erase the numerous positive contributions that intellectuals make to society. Such inference is something with which fair- and open-minded intellectuals cannot agree. . . . According to Mr. Chen, for those unfortunate souls to have been born as petty intellectuals, where can they go besides up or down, whom can they engage in practice? Since reformism is a dead end, where can self-reform begin? . . . Writing with these rigid formulas, it is no wonder that Mr. Chen creates a fictional world that exhibits only dark clouds of misery. In his own words, even sunlight looks weak, ridiculous, and absurd. It is as if, shocked by his own choice of gloomy colors, the artist forces himself to add a few bright strokes. It is not difficult to see how much effort he expends to achieve the effect of “bitter colors.”. . .

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Mr. Chen Yingzhen probably feels that in his role as an author he cannot fully express his misery, so he has to become another person, Xu Nancun, to explain his own work. But no matter how much he explains, the only impression he gives to the reader is that of a false prophet. On the one hand, he proclaims in false alarm the inevitable decline of the old world; on the other hand, he cannot say what exactly the so-called new world will be or what it is that appeals to him and makes him look forward to it. I hope Mr. Chen can turn around and examine himself sincerely, observe the world modestly, and abandon those limiting formulas. What he calls the only path to salvation is a path that he has no idea how to take. United Daily literary supplement, August 17–19, 1977; reprinted in Peng Ge, Where Is Literature Without Human Nature? (Taipei: United Daily, 1978), 3–24, translated by Krista Van Fleit Hang.

55. Xiangtu Wenxue: Its Merits and Demerits wa ng we nxing 1. R E A L I S M A N D X I A N G T U W E N X U E In Taiwan, the term xiangtu wenxue has a somewhat different meaning from that prevalent in most other countries. While logic suggests that the term denotes literature that focuses on life in the countryside, in Taiwan xiangtu wenxue also includes portrayals of city life. The primary requirement is that the work be realistic in nature. Given this fact, it would be helpful to first take a look at the development of realism itself. The movement known as realism began in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when writers in the West sought to depart from romanticism in pursuit of freedom in writing through innovations in subject matter and technique. . . .

2 . F A I L U R E O F P R O L E TA R I A N L I T E R AT U R E While realism prevailed in the twentieth century, in Communist countries there has developed a kind of writing with realism as its basis but with political ideology as its aim. Works of this type have come to be known as “proletarian literature” in the West, and gong-nong-bing [worker–peasant–soldier] literature in China. Forced to toe the ideological line, writers did not have freedom to express

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Mr. Chen Yingzhen probably feels that in his role as an author he cannot fully express his misery, so he has to become another person, Xu Nancun, to explain his own work. But no matter how much he explains, the only impression he gives to the reader is that of a false prophet. On the one hand, he proclaims in false alarm the inevitable decline of the old world; on the other hand, he cannot say what exactly the so-called new world will be or what it is that appeals to him and makes him look forward to it. I hope Mr. Chen can turn around and examine himself sincerely, observe the world modestly, and abandon those limiting formulas. What he calls the only path to salvation is a path that he has no idea how to take. United Daily literary supplement, August 17–19, 1977; reprinted in Peng Ge, Where Is Literature Without Human Nature? (Taipei: United Daily, 1978), 3–24, translated by Krista Van Fleit Hang.

55. Xiangtu Wenxue: Its Merits and Demerits wa ng we nxing 1. R E A L I S M A N D X I A N G T U W E N X U E In Taiwan, the term xiangtu wenxue has a somewhat different meaning from that prevalent in most other countries. While logic suggests that the term denotes literature that focuses on life in the countryside, in Taiwan xiangtu wenxue also includes portrayals of city life. The primary requirement is that the work be realistic in nature. Given this fact, it would be helpful to first take a look at the development of realism itself. The movement known as realism began in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when writers in the West sought to depart from romanticism in pursuit of freedom in writing through innovations in subject matter and technique. . . .

2 . F A I L U R E O F P R O L E TA R I A N L I T E R AT U R E While realism prevailed in the twentieth century, in Communist countries there has developed a kind of writing with realism as its basis but with political ideology as its aim. Works of this type have come to be known as “proletarian literature” in the West, and gong-nong-bing [worker–peasant–soldier] literature in China. Forced to toe the ideological line, writers did not have freedom to express

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themselves and proletarian literature in the West ultimately ended in failure. In China, gong-nong-bing literature has met the same fate. Today, if a literary work is praised as a masterpiece of proletarian literature, most likely it was written before the movement became a national literary policy and was not produced under such a directive. The writer, rather than creating a work in accordance with the policy of the day, would be held up as an exemplar after the policy came into play. Prominent examples are Maxim Gorky in the Soviet Union, Lu Xun in China, and John Steinbeck in the United States. Writing literature to comply with a policy almost guarantees failure. The number of successful Soviet writers can be counted on one hand, among them, Ivan Bunin, Boris Pasternak, Vladimir Nabokov, and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. But not a single one of them belongs to the proletarian school. They were either exiled or, if they resided in the Soviet Union, protested fiercely against the authoritarian regime and the proletarian literary ideology.

3. PESTO WORKS OF XIANGTU WENXUE BUT TOTO DOGMA The question remains as to exactly what type of realism is xiangtu wenxue in Taiwan. Is it gong-nong-bing literature? The answer is: some works clearly are not while others share some similarities with the genre. While I am not in a position to make a definitive judgment on the issue, which some institutions may do, my purpose here is to discuss xiangtu wenxue from a literary point of view and examine its characteristics. Before we begin, I wish to make clear my first standpoint, that is, that the present debate over xiangtu wenxue should not focus on the works per se but rather on literary theory. The reason is that as far as writing is concerned, there is only the question of whether a work is well written or poorly written. With literary theory, however, the issue of right and wrong comes into play. The artistic quality of a work is irrelevant to our present discussion. It is the issue of right and wrong that must be settled once and for all. The second standpoint is that my chief concern is with the merits and demerits of the xiangtu wenxue movement. Insofar as it portrays realistically the lives of the characters, I believe the movement is a positive contribution to literature. If we include such writings in Taiwan in the last thirty years, whether they are well written or not, they have definitely contributed to Taiwan’s literary development on the whole. There is no denying their value. The literary dogma of xiangtu wenxue, on the contrary, is almost completely fallacious. Therefore, my conclusion is that I am all for the writings of xiangtu wenxue, but I am absolutely against its literary autocracy.

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4. F O U R F A I L I N G S O F X I A N G T U W E N X U E a . Liter at ur e Must S erv e Soc i ety My strongest objections to the theory of xiangtu wenxue fall into four categories. The first is the insistence that the aim of all literature is social reform. This view has led theorists to accuse writers of lacking in social conscience and sympathy for the masses. In fact, sympathy for humankind is one characteristic all authors share; otherwise they would not have taken up writing at all. It is hard to believe that a compassionate writer is lacking in social sympathy. Just as we take it for granted that all people with eyes have irises, the few who do not are rare exceptions. By the same token, no writer who is compassionate is without social conscience. Many, however, choose to express their concern for humanity not through literature but through action. . . . One might argue that since the task of a writer is to depict life, he or she has the responsibility to portray the plight of the poor. While this view is undeniably right, we must remember that a writer should also portray life in all forms, including the lives of ants, plants, and fish. The writer’s mission is to write about all life. One might further argue that a writer’s sensitivity and perceptivity should enable him or her to be particularly attuned to the sufferings of the poor. I agree that a writer is perhaps more perceptive than most, but I think his or her sympathy should not be limited to the poor, which is only one of a writer’s concerns. For this reason, the American novelist John Steinbeck, who is widely regarded as an exemplar of proletarian literature and whose works express profound sympathy with the lower classes, also created such works as East of Eden, which has nothing to do with social concerns. Even his most famous classic of proletarian literature, The Grapes of Wrath, should be regarded as a work combining politics and art. Steinbeck’s ultimate goal is to create an artistic masterpiece; the elements of political life and action in the novel are means to a literary end. Other examples exist throughout history. Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, together with the works of George Orwell and Arthur Koestler, all employ politics as a path to artistic achievement. None uses literature to attain political ends. What, then, is the purpose of literature? Should literary works be acts of social service? The typical answer to the first question is that literature broadens and enriches life experience, that through literature, readers can achieve a deeper understanding of life. My own simpler answer is that literature brings us happiness. I hasten to add that this is no small matter, and it encompasses service to others. To bring happiness is by no means an easy matter. A doctor’s work, which elicits admiration and praise, is chiefly to alleviate patients’ pain, to make them happier. A construction engineer builds homes for people to live in, and by so doing brings them happiness.

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Literature fulfills the same purpose. The total number of readers of Shakespeare through the ages surely surpasses the patient count of any famous doctor; therefore, more people are affected by literature than by doctors. Now, let us see whether literature that professes to serve society has achieved the goal of bringing readers happiness. First of all, whom are these works supposed to serve? Laborers? That is most unlikely in my opinion, because the majority of workers would not find such works to their taste. The types of readers targeted by popular magazines provide ample evidence. In general, serious literature would not attract laborers even though it portrays their daily lives. They tend to prefer material that allows them to escape, as far as possible, from the daily grind. In fact, George Orwell made an unfortunate prediction in 1984: that all proletarian literature after 1984 would be pornographic; only pornography, written not by humans but by machines, would appeal to the masses. Some may argue that literature that serves social ends may be a way for intellectuals to absolve themselves of their “guilt.” I doubt this is true. Any intellectual worthy of the name should be able to see for himself the conditions prevalent among the general population and among the poor. To say that intellectuals should read proletarian literature as a means of selfredemption underestimates their intelligence and discernment. Besides, in a story’s depiction of characters and events, a writer often pretends to tell the truth under the guise of political lies; any conscientious reader may see through the falsehood. To inspire intellectuals to become more concerned about social ills, a much more effective medium than literature is journalism. The American writer James Agee is a good example. He wrote a book of reportage detailing the plight of the poor in the American South, which, in its truthful account of the social conditions, probably went a long way toward effecting social reform. Rather than promoting a particular type of social fiction, perhaps encouraging investigative reporting is a more effective way to raise social awareness.

b. D umbing Down of Li ter atur e The second shortcoming of the xiangtu wenxue movement, in my view, is its call for streamlining of literary works, reducing them to a level that is easily readable and understandable. In fact, this call for simplicity is more an opposition to profundity and complexity than a desire for clarity. It is assumed that because a reader finds it difficult to understand the works of James Joyce, Franz Kafka, or T. S. Eliot, he has the right to take a stand against them. The undeniable fact is that a hierarchy exists in art and literature; otherwise, there would be no need to establish literature faculties in colleges and universities, and language classes at the primary school level would be sufficient. To understand and appreciate first-rate literature takes discipline and hard work.

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Just as with musical compositions, no one is born with the ability to appreciate classical music. A common misunderstanding prevails that any person with a degree of literacy can automatically understand literature. Writing is not equivalent to literature; only a trained reader can achieve the knowledge and insight necessary for comprehending a literary work. To oppose something simply because one does not understand it is counterproductive; one only ends up hurting oneself. One might also argue that even if we accept the existence of a literary hierarchy, truly perceptive readers, or literary “aristocrats,” are still a small minority. We should therefore stop serving the few in the interest of the many and make literature useful to the latter. Proponents of such a view seem to have forgotten the right of each and every reader to demand and aim for higher levels of competence. Any beginning reader has the right to read and enjoy works beyond his or her present level of understanding. A reader in his early teens, for example, might envy those who find pleasure in the poems of Du Fu and Xin Qiji and hope for the day when he can read Records of the Grand Historian or Songs of the South. Such is the reader’s natural desire for improvement. Those with advanced proficiency require readings of higher quality. Their needs cannot be ignored simply because they are a minority. In a world that increasingly caters to the masses, those who enjoy high-quality literature demand spiritual sustenance more than material gratification. As it is in the medical profession, doctors do not refuse to treat a patient merely because he or she has a rare disease. Some might think that highbrow readers only read Western literature or classical Chinese literature, so Chinese writers today need not produce high-quality works for them. If that is the case, if high-quality literature is not held up as a model for all writers, how can we expect them to raise the quality of their writing? If their works do not improve, how can the demand of ordinary readers for improvement be met? Besides, most readers are more interested in reading contemporary works that depict contemporary life. Furthermore, if the desire is for simple works of literature, how simple should they be? High school level, junior-high level, or primary school level? The vast majority of the members of our society are probably junior-high graduates. Does this mean that our literature should cater to their reading level? What about people with a primary school education? Should we not serve their needs as well? Such reasoning demands that literature serve every single person in society; if that is the case, it should be reduced to the reading level of infants, because children under six years of age presumably make up 2 percent of the population in Taiwan, by no means a small number. When we pursue this line of argument, we find that only works written in baby talk can satisfy everyone’s needs. What about writings that both highbrow and lowbrow readers can find pleasure in, some might ask. Why not write works that satisfy all tastes? First of all,

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I personally do not think such works exist. Li Bai’s “Quiet Night Thought” is often cited as an example. Actually, different readers experience the poem in different ways based on their sensitivity. Likewise, Dream of the Red Chamber draws different levels of interpretation from readers. Some focus on the main characters and never look beyond Jia Baoyu and Lin Daiyu; others go deeper to appreciate the depictions of the vicissitudes in life, the portrayal of human nature, and religious philosophy. Even if we accept the existence of works that appeal to all tastes, why not allow both types? Highbrow literature for aristocratic readers, lowbrow works for the less discerning. This would satisfy all tastes in a more effective and practical way. As to the fear that there would come a time when only highbrow literature would exist, while lighter works for general readers would disappear, I would answer that such a scenario is highly improbable. The former type of literature is not so easy to write, and throughout the ages there have been only a small number of top-notch works. Most writers may strive to be the finest, but only a tiny minority attain that goal, with most writers churning out lightweight fare. Therefore, I believe the fear of quality literature taking over the entire field of literary endeavor to be unfounded. In other words, works catering to all tastes would still prevail. What about some writings published in newspaper literary supplements, some might ask, that are so enigmatic as to be almost totally incomprehensible? I admit that such works do exist. But not only common readers find them inaccessible, even trained and perceptive readers cannot penetrate their abstruseness. These works are not of high quality; they are merely unintelligible. I, too, am against senselessness. Whether highbrow, middlebrow, or lowbrow, literature must make sense to its respective readers.

c. For mul aic Wr iting The third shortcoming of xiangtu wenxue, in my view, is its demand for a blueprint, that all writers must sing the praises of the gong-nong-bing while reviling other groups. This formula actually flies in the face of its alleged goal of true-tolife portrayal, because any restriction of subject matter is in direct contradiction to realism, which renders the truth more faithfully than any other style. If a writer wants to write about the gong-nong-bing, that is fine, as long as he or she does it without any suppression of the truth. Reality should not be tailored to fit prescribed formulas. Take, for example, the Red Cavalry, a collection of short stories written by the Russian author Isaac Babel. He describes the bravery of the Cossack guerrillas, but he also writes about their barbarity. He describes the defeat of the Russian aristocracy, but he also writes about their nobility and courage. A classic of realism, Babel’s book is exemplary of authentic gong-nong-bing literature. It is no wonder that the author fell out of favor with the Soviet regime and disappeared from the literary scene. Another example that comes to mind

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is Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence. In the novel, an elderly capitalist named Thomas Skrych, who is depicted as a gentle and loving man, is one of the most moving and sympathetic portrayals among Lawrence’s characters. The author was definitely no lover of the post–Industrial Revolution capitalist society, but his personal inclination did not prevent him from depicting a member of the capitalist class objectively and expressing the truth as he saw it. Writing to formula is the bête noire of literature; the two are mutually incompatible. For years, writers in Taiwan have fought against formulaic writing and abhorred propaganda. It is ironic that today a movement to advocate a different form of propaganda is making inroads on the literary scene. The success of the movement would be a fatal blow to Taiwanese literature.

d. Intoler ance The fourth failing of xiangtu wenxue is its bias against all other types of literature. As any reader realizes, literature falls into many categories: romantic, mythological, children’s literature, and so on. Proponents of xiangtu wenxue often cite the poet Wang Wei as a target of their scorn, their chief reason being that Wang belonged to the leisured class. Any poem written by a member of this class should be considered evil, because such a creation is built upon the pain and suffering of the oppressed. Following this line of reasoning, the famous scientist Isaac Newton would clearly qualify as a man of leisure—daydreaming under an apple tree while other people were working their fingers to the bone. It would then follow that his creation, the law of universal gravitation, was a product of the rich and the idle and should be similarly denounced. (Would anyone be willing to jump from a tenthstory window in defiance of the laws of gravity?) In fact, whether or not Wang Wei was a member of the leisured class has nothing to do with the artistic merit of his poems. Despite the line “Man idle, osmanthus flowers fall” in “Birds Calling in the Ravine,” I don’t believe that he was “idle” at all. On the contrary, composing poetry is extremely difficult work, quite different from the easy, carefree, and amusing affair many people believe it to be. His poems are the result of labor, albeit labor of the mind and spirit. When condemning Wang Wei, we should bear in mind that there are a number of people in society who do not have to work, nor do they undertake any form of productive creativity, not to mention those idlers who neither work nor create but castigate those who do.

5. OBJECTIVITY OF AESTHETIC EXPERIENCE One of the works that advocates of xiangtu wenxue often cite to stress their point of view is the Tang poem “Night Mooring at Maple Bridge.” It opens with these lines:

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Under the setting moon, crows cry in the frosty sky; By the maples on the shore, fishing lights disturb my sleep.

How can a reader in good conscience enjoy the beauty of the fishing lights, xiangtu wenxue diehards point out, knowing that the object of their appreciation is the result of fishermen laboring at night to earn a meager living? The first time I encountered this line of reasoning, put to me by a Taiwanese student in the United States, I responded by asking him what he, upon seeing a photograph of the Great Wall (widely circulated in the media when Secretary of State Henry Kissinger visited China), thought of the ancient structure. “Majestic!” was his answer. Well, I replied, how can you admire the wall knowing that thousands of laborers lost their lives building it, not to mention Meng Jiangnü, who, according to legend, wept for her dead husband until a section of the wall collapsed? To reject the beauty of the fishing lights or the majesty of the Great Wall is to misunderstand the nature of aesthetic experience. The perception of beauty is an absolutely pure sensation. The moment it occurs, communion is achieved between the observer and the object observed. The sight of twinkling fishing lights elicits an aesthetic response to their beauty. Whether these lights belong to the fishermen, royalty, or capitalists is beside the point; their appeal is by no means unnatural. It is perfectly reasonable, of course, to feel sympathy for the fishermen while enjoying the sight, but such emotion is entirely outside and different from the aesthetic experience and would be better expressed in another poem. Although Zhang Ji’s [ca. 767-ca. 830] poem does not call for the reader to sympathize with the fishermen, it does not preclude the reader from doing so. Morally speaking, “Night Mooring at Maple Bridge” is totally uninterested in moral judgment, and as such, it cannot be censured for failing to commiserate with the supposedly suffering fishermen. To impose an emotional identification on aesthetic experience is not only anathema to artistic creation but also a form of self-inflicted torment. No appreciation of beauty would then be possible. The sight of a beautiful mountain, for instance, cannot be enjoyed because the observer might be reminded of poverty-stricken dwellers on the mountainside. Likewise, on seeing a river, one would think of the boatmen toiling in its upper and lower reaches and cease to take pleasure in the scenery. To those who cannot free themselves from such associations, my suggestion is to carry the emotional identification one step further. Going back to the example of fishing lights, if you feel so deeply for the poor fishermen, why not think about the fish? Are they not even worse off? Since the cause of their suffering is the fishermen, they are not worthy of sympathy. Then you would be free to enjoy the poem. China Tide 23 (February 1978); reprinted in Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 515–46, translated by Chu-yun Chen.

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56. Impressions Gleaned from the Conference on Literary Arts Organized by the Armed Forces: The Bugle of Unity ze ng xi a ngduo

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n 1978, the sixty-seventh year of the ROC, the Conference on Literary Arts organized by the armed forces was held for two days, on January 18 and 19, in Taipei. Among those attending the conference were writers from the armed forces and distinguished guests, totaling more than four hundred. It was quite a gathering. I was honored to have been invited. . . . The various discussions and proposals have already been summarized in the conference’s announcement, so I need not go into detail. What made the deepest impression on me were the concluding remarks on the afternoon of the nineteenth by General Wang Sheng [1917–2006], Head of Political Warfare in the Ministry of National Defense. His impromptu speech lasted an hour and brought the conference to a climax. He began by speaking of the nation’s tragic past, the chaotic state of the world, the fall of Vietnam and Cambodia, and our nation’s trials and tribulations. Many times he spoke with agitation and righteous indignation, causing everyone in the audience to be visibly moved and to respond with thunderous applause numerous times—this was one of the best speeches I have heard in recent years. Mr. Wang spoke of existentialism and its pseudo-liberalism, pointing out that the existentialism of Sartre, “It Is Right to Rebel,” is incompatible with the current conditions of the Chinese people. At the same time, he spoke specifically about the Communist Party’s strategy of creating divisions. Mr. Wang raised the following question: “Why did the Republic of Vietnam fall?” He believed that there was no reason whatsoever for Vietnam to fall, because in terms of population, territory, and resources, South Vietnam was greater than North Vietnam; moreover, it had powerful international support led by the United States. Nonetheless, Vietnam in the end did fall—what was the reason for this? He pointed out: “The most important reason was that the interior was divided by the Communists. For example, internally the Buddhists and the Catholics were engaged in constant struggle with one another, making the situation worse day by day, until it became unmanageable.” He said that back then he spoke with President Ngo Dinh Diem [1901–1963] and pointed out those dangerous conditions. Unfortunately, because of President Ngo’s excessive self-confidence on the one hand, and his accident on the other hand, he did not have time to resolve the political crisis that led to the tragedy of Vietnam. From the tragic fall of Vietnam and the experience of the [ROC] government on the mainland, Mr. Wang came to this conclusion: “To deal with the

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Communists, the most important thing is internal unity.” He proceeded to talk about the current discussions and criticisms in domestic and overseas publications of the so-called worker–peasant–soldier literature and nativist literature. Mr. Wang asked: “Should our literature depict workers and farmers? Workers and farmers are extremely great and make great contributions to society. Certainly they ought to be depicted and praised; but we must absolutely not go the route of the Communist Party’s worker–peasant–soldier literature, for that is not true literature but is something that harms our nation and people and is a tactic for inciting class struggle.” He pointed out that on the eve of the War of Resistance the League of Left-Wing Writers of the 1930s had dissolved in the tide of the people’s resistance against Japan. In 1942, Mao Zedong at Yan’an put forth the slogan of worker–peasant–soldier literature, which was to become the doctrine after the CCP established their sham government. This was the “five daggers” that persecuted the writers, but some followed it blindly, believing that it would truly help the workers, peasants, and soldiers to achieve liberation. However, now the cruel truth of twenty-eight years of Communist rule on the mainland is displayed before everyone—have the workers, peasants, and soldiers been liberated? The fact is the exact opposite: the citizens of the whole country have been trampled on by the Communist Party, with the workers, peasants, and farmers even more down on their luck, while only a small minority of the Communist Party has become a new class. Those writers who supported the worker-peasant-farmer line have not only brought harm to themselves but are passing it on to their descendants. This moral is important for everyone to keep in mind. As for nativist literature, Mr. Wang said that originally he was not prepared to discuss it, but because a lot of people had discussed it in general sessions, he would talk about it too. He said that there was nothing wrong with pure nativist literature, and basically we should bond together in our homeland. Loving one’s native land is a natural human feeling; when extended, love for one’s native land is love for one’s country—this is a noble feeling and should not be opposed. Even if some young nativist writers are a little radical from time to time—they oppose the aggression of imperialism, oppose things passed down from the past that are out of step with the times, oppose darkness and injustice in society—it probably comes from the innate sense of righteousness of young people. So long as their motive is pure, we ought to listen, understand, exchange views with good will, form unity with them, and not put them down as leftists and label them as Communists. In truth, I know that some nativist writers are not like this at all. Mr. Wang immediately emphasized: “However, I want to offer a serious piece of advice to our young friends who write nativist literature: you must take extreme care, not to intentionally spread propaganda for the Communist Party

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on the one hand, or to be used inadvertently by it. Writers of the 1930s are a mirror. If damage is done to the nation, you might think that you can run away first (but in truth that is impossible), but where can ordinary people run? So I implore our young friends to act with a pure motive, exhibit compassion, and use your wisdom and talent, sense of righteousness, and imagination for the people and the nation. You must value the freedom of Free China and not abuse that freedom.” Mr. Wang pointed out: “This world has many things that are good at the root, such as existentialism, neopositivism, liberalism, and nativist literature. If the Communist Party did not exist, there would be no problem whatsoever; but as the Communist Party does exist, one must take care not to be used. The Communist Party seeks any gap so as to divide us; it resorts to hundreds and thousands of schemes, and there is nothing it would not do to achieve the goal. There are so many tricks. Just now at the conference someone handed out a letter of extortion. I believe it is a plot to divide us. Yesterday, we saw the documentary about the fall of Vietnam and Cambodia, which was made by reporters who risked their lives on the Vietnamese and Cambodian frontlines. Every inch of the film is true and filled with blood and tears. With this bitter example before us, we cannot fall for the enemy’s plot of division again. We must emphasize unity; only when we have unity are we able to generate strength; only when we are closely united can we secure the means of survival, and the golden city surrounded by a boiling moat, and the wide, open road from which to recover the mainland and rebuild China.”. . . China Magazine 175 (February 1978); reprinted in Yu Tiancong, ed., Essays on Nativist Literature (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 846–50, translated by Ihor Pidhainy.

57. Notes on the Publication of Essays on Nativist Literature yu ti a ncong

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lthough the love of the native land is a magnificent tradition in Chinese literature, even in world literature, in the past year [1977–1978], Chinese literature written in Taiwan about love of homeland has been subjected to false accusations never before encountered. The kind of muckraking described below has appeared in newspapers and magazines nearly every few days. There is a small group of wolves in men’s clothing in our literary circles. In the name of nativist literature, they peddle the poison of elitist literature. They fight tooth and nail the motto of gong-nong-bing literature. In their arrogance and insolence,

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on the one hand, or to be used inadvertently by it. Writers of the 1930s are a mirror. If damage is done to the nation, you might think that you can run away first (but in truth that is impossible), but where can ordinary people run? So I implore our young friends to act with a pure motive, exhibit compassion, and use your wisdom and talent, sense of righteousness, and imagination for the people and the nation. You must value the freedom of Free China and not abuse that freedom.” Mr. Wang pointed out: “This world has many things that are good at the root, such as existentialism, neopositivism, liberalism, and nativist literature. If the Communist Party did not exist, there would be no problem whatsoever; but as the Communist Party does exist, one must take care not to be used. The Communist Party seeks any gap so as to divide us; it resorts to hundreds and thousands of schemes, and there is nothing it would not do to achieve the goal. There are so many tricks. Just now at the conference someone handed out a letter of extortion. I believe it is a plot to divide us. Yesterday, we saw the documentary about the fall of Vietnam and Cambodia, which was made by reporters who risked their lives on the Vietnamese and Cambodian frontlines. Every inch of the film is true and filled with blood and tears. With this bitter example before us, we cannot fall for the enemy’s plot of division again. We must emphasize unity; only when we have unity are we able to generate strength; only when we are closely united can we secure the means of survival, and the golden city surrounded by a boiling moat, and the wide, open road from which to recover the mainland and rebuild China.”. . . China Magazine 175 (February 1978); reprinted in Yu Tiancong, ed., Essays on Nativist Literature (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 846–50, translated by Ihor Pidhainy.

57. Notes on the Publication of Essays on Nativist Literature yu ti a ncong

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lthough the love of the native land is a magnificent tradition in Chinese literature, even in world literature, in the past year [1977–1978], Chinese literature written in Taiwan about love of homeland has been subjected to false accusations never before encountered. The kind of muckraking described below has appeared in newspapers and magazines nearly every few days. There is a small group of wolves in men’s clothing in our literary circles. In the name of nativist literature, they peddle the poison of elitist literature. They fight tooth and nail the motto of gong-nong-bing literature. In their arrogance and insolence,

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they dismiss the world as nothing. It is mostly newspaper editors-in-chief who are writing this stuff, plus some so-called columnists and self-proclaimed “liberals” and “reasonable” scholars and professors. A General Critique of Contemporary Literary Issues (edited by Peng Pinguang and with a preface by Yin Xueman) published by the Qingxi Literary Society contains the most complete selection of this type of writing. Like any other type of literature, nativist literature can be criticized. However, criticism must be based on fact; it should not be distorted or fabricated. [Otherwise,] it would not be difficult to find a pretext to incriminate anyone. But that is not the way to solve the problem and promote social solidarity and progress. If supporters of nativist literature and their views are truly as their critics say, the biggest cause of chaos in society today, won’t dealing with them directly according to the law eliminate the problem? However, for nearly a year now, nativist literature has endured abuses and attacks. Supporters of nativist literature have suffered irreparable harm. There are fewer and fewer outlets where they can publish their works and give speeches. Yet, this situation does not seem to have produced any benefit for society. On the contrary, amid the attacks on nativist literature, we continue to hear language and views similar to the following. 1. Unity is not necessarily superior, division is not necessarily inferior. 2. Promoting nationalism through nativist literature leads to the concern that the tragedy of the Boxers will be repeated. 3. Opposition to westernization is opposition to culture. 4. Rice farmers contribute little to economic growth. 5. Income disparity in contemporary society is an unavoidable phenomenon. 6. It is irrational to sympathize instinctively with the poor in society.

The literary debates that have taken place reveal some terrible things. Some people use the criticism of nativist literature to complacently shirk responsibility. Some use the criticism of nativist literature to oppose nationalism and promote wholesale westernization after the history and culture of the people are uprooted. There are even some who, by means of critiquing nativist literature, twist the meaning of [Sun Yat-sen’s] Three Principles of the People and use them as instruments in defending the monopoly of foreign capital and comprador capital. Further, they insult farmers, workers, fishermen, and soldiers who work hard all day long by saying that they make few contributions to economic growth. These statements are downright separatism and treason. Therefore, exactly as China Tide (no. 24) said, “It is not that one cannot criticize the art of nativist literature, but one cannot insult its national spirit. Nevertheless, the guy from Champagne, Illinois, who wants to marry San Francisco, the guy who curries favor with the traitor Hu Lancheng, and

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those who receive funding from the CIA, what right do you have to come here and insult nativist literature?”1 Therefore, the discussion of nativist literature merits our attention. If we compare it with reality, we can see its significance more clearly. For example, when our tourism industry was being condemned, a travel agency run by someone called Lin Xiuge published an announcement in a Japanese newspaper to rebuke and shame those in Japan for continuing sex tourism in Taiwan. But surprisingly, some of our own writers censured Huang Chunming’s Sayonara, Zaijian and The Little Widow [which critiqued the same phenomenon]. Just when every corner of the country was criticizing the increasing worship of all things foreign, our own writers were sympathetic with fake foreign devils and reproached Wang Zhenhe’s “Little Lin” who came to Taipei and “shockingly developed wrinkles of fury.”2 Between these two camps, which leaves us more bitterly disappointed? Although reality trumps debate, misinterpretations will not be eliminated, and the truth will not be clear without discussion. Therefore, discussions of nativist literature can shed light on cultural construction of the future. Because of this, we need to organize and publish this discussion. Essays on Nativist Literature, ed. Yu Tiancong (Taipei: Yuanjing, 1978), 1–5, translated by Lloyd Sciban and Shu-ning Sciban.

notes 1.

The Man from Champagne is the title of a novel written by Peng Ge in 1970. “Marry San Francisco” is quoted from a poem by Yu Guangzhong. Hu Lancheng (1906–1981) worked for the puppet government during Japanese occupation of Nanjing. “The man who curries favor with the traitor Hu Lancheng” refers to the fiction writer Zhu Xining, who admired Hu’s erudition and literary style. The people who receive funding from the CIA refers to, among others, Zhang Ailing, who was briefly married to Hu Lancheng.

2.

“Little Lin Goes to Taipei” is Wang Zhenhe’s fictional work. “Shockingly developed wrinkles of fury,” and “leaves us bitterly disappointed” allude to Yin Zhengxiong’s [b. 1952] “Where Does the Sound of the Bell at the Cemetery Come From?” published in Cactus in 1977. Yin’s was the first essay to criticize nativist literature and sparked the debate in Taiwan. Taking Wang Tuo’s “The Sound of the Bell at the Cemetery” as an example, Yin charged that works of nativist literature had changed from being fresh, pure, and compassionate to showing wrinkles of hatred and rage.

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58. Two Types of Literary Mind: On Two Short Stories That Won the United Daily Fiction Contest z ha n hongz hi T H E AU T H O R ’ S P R E F A C E When I wrote the following essay at the end of 1980, I did not anticipate at all that the essay would bring me four years of tireless criticism and blame; it even sparked a polemic on the “status of Taiwanese literature.” What I expected even less was that my so-called rhetorical hyperbole was the reason for my indictment. For example, I said: “If someone wrote a history of Chinese literature three hundred years from now and, in the last chapter, used one hundred words to describe us during these three decades, what would he say, and which names would he mention?” What I asked in this passage was, of course, with a certain detachment from our time and space, what the essence of these thirty years of literary activity would be, and who the representative authors of this period would be? Critics, however, reproached me: Why make a judgment three hundred years from now? Why a history of Chinese literature instead of a history of Taiwanese literature? Why the last chapter (as though we did not deserve more)? And why the hundred words? At the time, I did not realize that I had unintentionally touched a nerve in some people and offended them. Although I did not provide a conclusion to the essay, my critics jumped to their own so as to make a target out of me. During the four-year polemic, I remained silent. I felt that the subtext of the polemic was a debate between the “China Complex” and the “Taiwan Complex.” I had not reflected on this matter systematically enough to support one position or the other. After my essay, I have included an essay by Song Dongyang (pen name of Chen Fangming) here. I believe that, among the criticisms directed against me during the past few years, his essay is the clearest and most representative. After Song’s essay, I have attached another essay of mine that was published overseas. Although this particular essay appeared before Song’s, it is, in a sense, a response to his position. (Appended January 1986.)

F R O N T I E R L I T E R AT U R E Sometimes my heart is heavy with worry. I worry whether our literary endeavors in the past thirty years would be all in vain. If someone wrote a history of

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Chinese literature three hundred years from now and, in the last chapter, used one hundred words to describe us during these three decades, what would he say and which names would he mention? The fiction writer Dong Nian once said to me: “All this, in the future, can only count as frontier literature.” Frontier literature. The term stirred me. For it suggests being far away from the center, China, from Chinese issues and feelings. Full of exoticism, it offers all but the material for fantasy, as in the cheering and singing of the little boy in Immensee [by Theodor Storm, 1848], “To India, to India!” Suppose we could continue to be part of China, because of blood relations. Suppose, three centuries from now, the hundred pages we would “deserve” set us apart from China. Such historical assessment would come to nothing more than a circus. All the men and women of letters come and go in multitudes, on a literary scene of never-ending festivity and diligent endeavors of creativity— wouldn’t all this be a mirage of abundance? . . . What I mean is, of the literary works that many consider to be the best and the most important in the past thirty years in Taiwan, I am afraid too many are doomed to be weathered by time. On the one hand, writers often write from the perspective of a particular place, a particular time; they forget that time always moves on and that the shackles of social and political realities, too, are broken in the annals of history. On the other hand, like the tragic course of history, like King Oedipus, we are powerless against the fate of becoming a “tributary,” and we carry on whether or not we know what we are doing. [This is] reflected in the editing of the Annual Selection of Short Stories of 1980. How I wish this work would not become another instance of wasted effort; however, most of it is inevitable. It is possible to “prewrite” history only when the material is present. Yet, how difficult it is to witness truly great literary minds in Taiwan! Therefore, the editing of literary chronicles this year is no different from that in the past. We cannot do much for history, but we can serve the present. Such pessimism is not meant to criticize, but to clarify: whenever I or other critics who are more conscientious say that the work of so-and-so is such-andsuch, we only lend the transient insight of the present and have no high hopes of giving timeless testimonies. . . .

TWO KINDS OF LITERARY MIND . . . Sir Isaiah Berlin describes two types of academic thought in his seminal essay “The Hedgehog and the Fox.” Alluding to Aesop’s Fables, Berlin divides great scholars into two types: the former displays comprehensive knowledge of even the smallest details, while the latter develops an integrated system of thought in place of comprehensive knowledge. Similarly, the economist F. A.

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Hayek has written an essay entitled “Two Types of Mind,” in which he describes two types of scientific thinkers. The master of a subject is the perfectionist of the academy, who commands scientific theories of the past and present, statistical figures, definitions, terminologies, jargon, and even gossip. The puzzler, on the other hand, cannot and does not want to rely on the systems of others, and prefers to integrate all the data himself or herself. He or she reorders and expresses the data in his or her own way. Hayek identifies himself with the latter type. I sensed a long time ago that the process of creating literature is also driven by two forces, but I hesitated to offer an account that was not free of my own biases. Please allow me to do my best here. The ideological author writes with moving imagery and mature techniques. His work, however, clearly has a theme—more specifically, a set of propositions, a value system. He hopes that people will not only read his novels but also accept his viewpoints. The work of the impressionistic author perhaps contains an ideology as well, just as “Sangke has something to say”1 too, but. . . she does not fully understand what she wants to express and does not express anything completely. Her strength lies in her power of observation and attention to everyday details and emotions. She describes details with the precision of an X-ray machine. The former author, clearly, posits the way through language, while the latter author perceives the way through the senses. The latter is full of emotions, to be sure, but whether she finds the way is less certain. Two works in the United Daily competition this year reflect the two literary attitudes, respectively. “In-Laws Next-Door” belongs to the ideological type, while “One’s Own Sky” exemplifies the impressionistic type. . . . In terms of prose writing, I venture to say that Yuan Qiongqiong’s “One’s Own Sky” is superior to Liao Leifu’s “In-Laws Next-Door.” However, in terms of literary attitude, I prefer the ideological type over the impressionistic type. In my opinion, impressionistic prose is the author’s private exercise in writing, while ideological prose belongs to society at large. Both ideological and impressionistic short stories, when they are well written, are equally capable of moving the reader. Yet only ideological prose could inform the reader’s subconscious memory, while impressionistic prose could not. If one accumulated thirty years’ or a century’s worth of prose writing, one would discern the helplessness of purely impressionistic prose. Of course, I object to unconditional support of solely ideological prose, because the fundamental duty of writing as an art is to art itself. At the same time, I object to the muddled criticism that any artwork with an ideological focus must be labeled as dogma, must be impure art, or must lack emotional depth. Clearly, such critics equate the entire corpus of ideological prose with inferior samples. One can sense the value of ideological prose in the history of classical Chinese literature. For example, the beautiful description of scenic landscapes in The Travels of Lao Can [by Liu E, 1857–1909] conceals the melancholic foreboding of a dying country and the plight caused by corrupt politics. “The Last Glimpse of an Empire,” as it is called, is, in retrospect, the Apocalypse Now of the time.2

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In essence, classical Chinese prose is relatively free of the opposition between ideology and impression. Even the emphatic expression of an ideological theme does not necessarily compromise the impressionistic qualities of the prose, such as narration at an apt pace and the development of characters and plots. For example, Story of the Stone is based on the emotional lives of many characters, both male and female, but the novel as a whole functions as an allegory of human life, thus realizing the ultimate fusion of the two literary attitudes. The above examples serve to illustrate a general level of social concern in Chinese prose writing. The Chinese have always understood such a distinction: personal emotion tends to manifest itself as poetry, while social critique tends to manifest itself as prose. The Chinese have been a nation of poets, because poetry is an instrument for expressing personal feelings in everyday life. As a form of communication, poetry declares aspirations on the one hand, and records events on the other—in this case, the appropriation of language is personal. Even more so, however, the Chinese are a nation of storytellers. In medieval Europe, prose writing replaced religious scriptures and assumed the responsibility of civic education. As for the uneducated Chinese, their understanding of Chinese thought and Chinese ways of life, and even their self-understanding as a people, may very well have come from The Three Kingdoms or Journey to the West—in this case, the appropriation of language is social. If one accepts this distinction of literary attitudes, one will then presume that impressionistic narrative is only a sufficient condition for good prose; however, an ideological position is actually the necessary condition. During the past thirty years, Taiwan has seen many modernist prose works that, generally speaking, suffer from a lack of ideology. This lack of ideology is equivalent to the bankruptcy of values: Would it not be horrible, if, one hundred years from now, such a literary trend came to nothing or had nothing to say? Why did I mention my groundless worry at the beginning of my essay? Unless we could reflect on our own literary activities from a historical point of view, much of our efforts would be in vain. If literary awards, which come back in vogue year after year, cannot attain historical foresight, then they are nothing but smoke and mirrors or quixotic battles with windmills. Book Review and Bibliography 93 (January 1, 1981); reprinted in Zhan Hongzhi, Two Types of Literary Mind (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 41–60, translated by Chris Tong.

notes 1.

Sangke Has Something to Say (Taipei: China Times Cultural Publishing Co., 1980) was

2.

“The Last Glimpse of an Empire” is the subtitle of Jian Jinsong’s abridged adaptation of

written by the woman writer Zhang Xiaofeng. Sangke is one of her pen names. Liu E’s The Travels of Lao Can.

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59. Ten Years of Flowing River l in hai yin EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS On November 1, 1953, I was appointed editor in chief of the literary supplement to the United Daily. I left the post on April 24, 1963, after almost a decade. . . . Although I took over the editorship on November 1, I reported to the newspaper on December 1. Before my tenure began, the United Daily supplement had emphasized miscellaneous subjects but not literature. In a newspaper of six pages—two fewer than its original size—the supplement alone comprised ten columns, the contents of which were varied and sundry, including films, plays, comics, short stories, essays, anecdotes, women and family, knitting and crochet. He Fan [my husband] and I shared a love for newspaper supplements. Both of us had worked part-time at newspapers or published in them before we even graduated from college. After graduation, both of us worked as journalists and have stayed in the profession ever since. After I decided to take over the editorship of the United Daily supplement, I started to come up with a blueprint for its goals and contents. When I negotiated with the newspaper, we had agreed on the condition that the supplement would publish a daily column penned by He Fan. Regardless of the size of the supplement, his column would be the lead article, a practice that probably dated from the earliest days of the ROC. The writer for the lead column was on contract, not selected from other contributing authors, and the column had a fixed location in the supplement, rather than being used to fill a gap. While the lead essays were certainly indicative of the writer’s distinctive style, they also displayed his knowledge, uprightness, persuasive power, and appeal to and influence on readers. He Fan met all of these criteria, because he had done it way back when he was a newspaperman in Beijing. His popularity dated from those days. . . .

COMMISSIONED WRITERS To enhance the literary quality of the supplement, besides publishing more creative works, such as prose and fiction, I also believed that we needed to introduce more foreign literature and include more reporting about the international literary scene. Only one principle applied: literary works to be translated should be by contemporary writers and reporting should cover the latest events on the international literary scene. Works would be done by writers commissioned

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specifically for these purposes. I asked He Fan to translate European and American literature and Shi Cuifeng to translate Japanese literature. Shi was the first young writer to transition from Japanese to Chinese after the Retrocession of Taiwan. It was no small feat that he had a perfect command of Chinese. He and Shi were diligent in both translations and their own writing. They read broadly and were resourceful in finding material for translation. They also reported on and translated good works that they had read. As for creative works, I invited many writers who were already publishing in Taiwan to contribute. Those of the older generation, such as Fang Shiduo, Liang Rongruo, Chen Jiying, and Qi Rushan, gladly contributed essays and commentaries on various topics, such as classical literature and historical anecdotes concerning folk customs. Their essays were learned and cultivated. Among women writers, I invited Xie Bingying, Zhang Xiuya [1919–2001], Guo Lianghui, Wang Yanru [1914–2005], Xian Si, Meng Yao [1919–2000], Ai Wen [1923–2009], Qiu Qiqi [b. 1928], Liu Fang [1919–2008], Qi Jun [1917–2006], Bi Pu [b. 1922], and others. Women writers had been active and had occupied an important place on Taiwan’s literary scene since 1951. By the time I invited them to write for the United Daily supplement, they already had a large following. I would also like to mention a friend of women writers in Free China, Wu Yueqing, who was the editor-in-chief of the Women and Family section of the Central Daily. There were relatively few articles on practical matters in Women and Family. Wu published many literary essays and short stories by women writers on personal matters, family ethics, topical issues, and so on. The abovementioned women writers mostly submitted their pieces to Women and Family. I got to know them and became close friends, so I had no difficulty inviting them to write for me. Even Wu Yueqing herself was invited to translate several works for the United Daily supplement. . . . One important reason that the United Daily supplement was able to publish good stories continually was that we created a space to serialize novellas. While short stories are considered the supreme form of pure literature, novellas, in structure and narration, give writers more space to exercise their talents. The brief summary above shows how I designed the contents and invited submissions when I first took over the editorship. The United Daily supplement went on to reap an abundant harvest of stories and discovered many fine young writers. . . . With regard to content, there is another feature worth mentioning, as it lasted for ten years. It was Selected Cartoons. By “selected” I mean that they were all taken from foreign cartoons and comic strips. The majority were single frames. Cartoons and comic strips were very popular in Europe, the United States, and even Japan. Years ago, Lin Yutang translated the English word “humor” into youmo in Chinese. It could not be more fitting, and the term has been in use for more than half a century. Lin’s youmo may be defined as jokes with a human touch rather than malicious satire. Surely there is a line

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between humor and satire! The translations of selected cartoons and comic strips were published anonymously, but they were all done by He Fan. Imagine, one cartoon a day. In ten years he translated more than three thousand! Besides, foreign cartoons often came without captions. He Fan had to come up with a fitting and humorous caption for each of them, which was no easy task, because the cartoon itself was humorous and could elicit a knowing smile from the reader. If you added a not-so-humorous caption in Chinese, it might backfire, and you might ruin the effect. Almost all the cartoons targeted human foibles. American cartoons usually centered on the boss and the secretary, the nurse and the patient, husband and wife, children, drunkards, maids, a trip or a deserted island, eating and drinking, and so on. They had nothing to do with politics. Cartoons concerning politics and current events were a different category. After having had your fill of serious essays, a cartoon would certainly provide some relaxation. However, even those cartoons with a human touch incurred several inquiries by the oversensitive authorities, which were totally uncalled for. . . .

TEN YEARS OF FLOWING RIVER . . . At the beginning, authors of commissioned and submitted works were mostly mainlanders, because not too many Taiwanese writers could write fluent Chinese, with the exceptions of Shi Cuifeng, Liao Qingxiu, Zhong Zhaozheng (pen name Zhong Zheng), and Wen Xin. . . . Although the United Daily supplement put more emphasis on literature, it could not exclude such nonliterary columns as Light and Easy, Food for Thought, Folk-Sayings, Chitchat, and so on. However, we always strove to broaden the reader’s mind and avoid frivolous entertainment. . . . Halfway into 1954, I could comfortably say that I had become quite efficient in editing the supplement. There was no shortage of works to publish, and all the published works, whether commissioned or submitted, were solid. In terms of serializing novels, we always maintained the practice of publishing one original work followed by one translation. . . . My teacher Cheng Shewo [1898–1991] was especially supportive. Using Yige as his pen name, he wrote a column under the title of “Chats from Home About Newspapers.” The column started on June 14 and appeared once every few days. Mr. Cheng was from the older generation of journalists. When he was in China, he had managed the Civilian Journal published in Beijing, Nanjing, and Shanghai. After he moved to Taiwan, he no longer ran newspapers; this meant that he had more time to study domestic and international trends in journalism. His column published short topical essays, personal insights, and reports on current events. His observations were apt and his language lighthearted. Specialists and laymen alike benefited greatly from reading his column. . . .

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We started the column Journal from America on September 29. The writer Jin Fu was none other than Wang Hongjun. He had gone to the United States to pursue advanced study and used the opportunity to observe America with the keen eyes of a journalist. His observations touched on all aspects of the United States, which provided him with inexhaustible material. He contributed nearly a hundred essays to the column before completing his studies and returning to Taiwan. The publishing industry was underdeveloped back then, so the articles were never collected in a book. What a shame! . . . The Nobel laureate in literature this year [1958] was Albert Camus of France. We immediately located his short story “The Guest,” which He Xin translated into Chinese. It was published in Fiction of the Week on January 26. Readers responded exceptionally well to this outstanding writer. . . . Shi Cuifeng got hold of the Japanese version of Camus’ The Stranger; his translation was serialized in the United Daily supplement and greatly appreciated by readers. . . . We started to illustrate serialized novels in 1958. . . . In August, there was another important translated novel, Harada Yasuko’s Elegy, translated by Zheng Qingmao. Harada Yasuko was a woman writer in post–World War II Japan and at the time was considered a rare talent in Japanese literary circles. Elegy was a best seller in Japan and also commanded a large readership in Taiwan. Since we are both Asian, our moral views and customs are similar; therefore, Chinese readers, myself included, had always enjoyed Japanese novels. . . . This year [1958] Boris Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago was banned in the Soviet Union, although it was very popular outside the Iron Curtain. Pasternak was likely to be nominated for the Nobel Prize, which the United Daily supplement had reported much earlier. . . . However, when Pasternak won the Nobel Prize, the book that was more sensational and more popular in the United States was Lolita, the story of a middle-aged man falling in love with a young girl, which naturally triggered a controversy about morality. All of this was reported by the United Daily supplement. At the beginning of 1959, I published a novella titled The Legend of the House of Hui’an. This was the first in a series of stories in which I planned to use my childhood as background and tell stories of the adult world from a child’s point of view. . . . In the literary circles of Free China, whether it was newspapers or magazines, the works of women writers were indispensable. This was a phenomenon unique to Taiwan. The Hong Kong writer Yi Jin, who wrote a daily column titled Biting Words from Outside the Curtain, had a large readership. He specialized in reporting what was going on, especially culturally, behind the Iron Curtain of China. Because Hong Kong was adjacent to the mainland, news was constantly leaking from behind the Iron Curtain, where Chinese men of letters had been persecuted for twenty years, long before the Cultural Revolution and the Gang of Four. . . .

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Xu Cheng was an author who cared very much about literary criticism. He pioneered translating and introducing literary criticism from overseas. It led to an evolution of the United Daily supplement from publishing creative works to publishing literary criticism as well. Of course, it also meant that readers needed to progress from reading to critiquing. . . . Just as the supplement was reaping a rich harvest of literary works, especially fiction, Zhong Lihe, who had attracted much attention with his increasingly refined work, died on August 3 after a protracted battle with tuberculosis. This ill-fated yet passionate writer was only forty-four-years old. His death was a major event for the supplement. As editor, I wrote a eulogy that was published on August 12 and moved many people. Whether they had known him or not, many readers and writers sent in essays mourning his passing. . . . On September 1, the supplement started serializing Zhong Lihe’s Rain posthumously. I appended an editor’s note titled “Sympathy in the Mortal World: To Readers Regarding Rain” saying that Zhong collapsed while revising this novella and the novel was therefore only half-finished. . . . On February 24, I published another “To Readers,” announcing the serialization of Zhong’s Lihe’s full-length novel Lishan Farm. The announcement read: “The reason this supplement serialized Rain first is that it was the author’s last work before he passed away. This time we are serializing his Lishan Farm because it is his earliest work.” Lishan Farm was dear to Zhong’s heart, and it garnered the first place award from the Chinese Literature and Arts Prize Committee in 1956. The prize was the last one given by the committee before it was disbanded. As a result, this full-length novel was not published. Subsequently, Mr. Zhong revised the novel several times to perfect it. By the time the United Daily supplement serialized it, he had three drafts at his home. The novel was about the farm, love, and marriage, showcasing the author’s native Taiwanese style. . . . Hemingway’s suicide shocked the world. He died on July 2, and He Xin’s article on Hemingway appeared in print by July 4. Shortly afterward, Chen Zhifan wrote for the United Daily supplement for the first time; his first work was “The Lost Age and Hemingway.” He went on to write many lasting essays, such as “Science and Poetry,” “Eternal City,” and “The Ark and the Fish,” and enjoyed a huge following among our readers. . . . Gradually, the United Daily supplement established a distinct position and style, attracted much attention, and became popular among readers. As editor, how could I not work with even more effort and care? In 1962, I had been on the job for [nine] years. By then, Taiwanese society had made progress and the economy was booming; mandatory education was available to all children, and the infrastructure was completed. There were so many advertisements in the newspaper that they often borrowed some space in the supplement. The United Daily supplement had no rival at the time; why then was I being so cautious?

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Because as readers’ expectations rose, I had to read all the newspapers, magazines, and books in print. If we published a plagiarized work, it would be pointed out right away. When readers had different opinions, they immediately wrote to me. The works published in the supplement were all thought-provoking, not entertaining, so readers always benefited from reading them. However, after [nine] years of relentless effort and extreme care to uphold high standards, I was burned out. . . . On February 24 [1962], Hu Shi died of a heart attack while attending a meeting at Academia Sinica. The United Daily published many eulogies, by Su Xuelin, Liang Shiqiu, Qin Zihao, Zhong Dingwen, Liang Rongruo, Cao Xudong, and Zhu Xin. They were Hu’s friends and students, reporters, poets, and readers. Based on his correspondence with Hu Shi, Chen Zhifan wrote ten commemorative essays, with the first published on March 8. Although these were personal letters, they discussed issues of culture and literature and were well worth reading. Later, Chen’s best seller In Spring Breeze collected mostly essays that he had published in the supplement. . . . The Nobel Prize in Literature this year [1962] was awarded to the American writer John Steinbeck, whom readers in Free China were familiar with and fond of. Before the announcement came out, the United Daily supplement had already predicted that he would win. . . . I spent my last days at the United Daily supplement from January to April 1963. As mentioned above, I felt burned out. There was an increasing number of good literary works. Although I was meticulous, I often woke up with a start in the middle of the night and wondered if there was anything amiss in the articles I had filed for the supplement. I became overly sensitive and often agitated. . . . I left the United Daily supplement at the end of April and it created quite a stir in literary circles and among journalists. Everyone everywhere was wondering, “Who caused the trouble?” Several writers even wrote to me asking: “Did I cause you the trouble?” Even Xu Xu [1908–1980] in faraway Hong Kong wrote, “Was it me that caused you the trouble?” Oversensitivity, it seems, was contagious. As I reach the end of this essay, I let out a long sigh. I put down my pen and look at the clock on the wall. It is already four in the morning. I tidy up the manuscript papers on my desk. I want to reread what I have written to see if there are any errors or omissions, but I am so tired and sleepy. I will just roll it up and give it to [my successor] Ya Xian to read tomorrow. Let him suffer instead of me, as he is the one who says: the longer, the better. June 1981 Evening Readings by the Window, Lin Haiyin (Taipei: Youmuzu wenhua, 2000), 111–43, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

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60. Foreword to Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay yang mu 1 According to my observations, the essay as a literary genre enjoys singular prominence in the Chinese tradition. Western literature comprises mainly poetry, drama, and fiction. True, throughout its history, some essays were distinguished by structural integrity and artistic flourishes. In view of their outstanding art and intellectual appeal, they may constitute a genre. However, in the West, the conditions that qualify the essay, whether long or short, as literature are uneven and weak. To use English literature as an example, intellectual appeal typically has to do with the author’s cogent reasoning; precise observations on literature and art, in particular, make an essay memorable. Examples are Thomas Carlyle and John Ruskin. The so-called artistic flourishes refer to the way the author departs from linear discursiveness to engage in fictional writing with a plot. Examples are John Lyly and Samuel Johnson. Whether a short tale, lyrical allegory, or an argument, the true essay as an independent work of art is rather rare in English literature. If we apply the Chinese criteria, there are few essayists in English, with the exceptions of Francis Bacon and Charles Lamb. . . . The essay is one of the most important genres in Chinese literature and enjoys a status much higher than its counterpart in the West. The reason lies in the range of substance and style. The Chinese essay combines and highlights the characteristics of both literature and writing, neither dominated by subjective thinking nor limited by objective devices. When traditional writers compose essays, they dip their brushes in ink and let them run freely, whether to tell a story, record travel, argue a point, or express feelings. Their ideas and techniques differ and are far from monolithic. However, literary essays, whether short or long, never lack illumination and flair, conveyed and embellished with ever-renewed techniques. The philosophical insights of Carlyle, the keen observations of Ruskin, the undulating rhetoric of Lyly, and the satiric allegory of Johnson—all abound in Chinese prose. As for essayists like Bacon and Lamb, they are legion in China. Chinese literati dash off pieces of writing in their leisure time, after a cup of wine or tea. Moreover, the ocean of Chinese essays encompasses the solemnity of the classical canon, the imagination of Zhuangzi and Liezi, and the truthfulness of historiography. The masters of the Tang and Song dynasties draw from them all, left and right, up and down. The personal essays in the Song and Ming dynasties represent a new path; their styles and spirit have exerted an enormous influence on the modern essay. . . .

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2 By the modern essay, we mean prose written in the vernacular since the early twentieth century, which practices new thinking, develops new art, and expresses to the fullest the sensibilities, insights, and observations of the time. In conceptualization and structure, it inherits the spirit of the classical Chinese essay and synthesizes the essences of Western and Japanese prose with a unique flair. Moreover, insofar as it represents a new genre of modern literature, it is reasonable to expect the essay to serve as a model for future generations. The modern essay originated in the early twentieth century, in the few years surrounding the May Fourth movement and the vernacular language reform. To date, it has a history of at least seventy years. We believe that the rise of any literary genre has its own historical and social background; the modern essay is no exception. To put it in a nutshell, the development of the modern essay is influenced by the great tradition mentioned above. It seeks models among the best that classical essays have to offer and never loses sight of the heritage of literary art. In particular, it is directly indebted to two strands of the tradition: classical fiction since the Song and Yuan dynasties and the lyrical essay since the late Ming. The first laid the foundation while the second inspired prose in the modern vernacular. Essayists of the early twentieth century derived their self-confidence from the shining accomplishments of Shi Naian and Cao Xueqin. Strictly speaking, it had little to do with the idea of making it accessible to illiterate old women, then advocated by some professors at Peking University. Besides, their disdain for late Qing fiction written in classical Chinese only added to their confidence in cultivating a new world—such is the negative contribution of the so-called mandarin ducks and butterflies fiction. Essayists employ the vernacular to write about their personal thoughts and observations. In form, they are closest to the personal essay and miscellaneous notes of the late Ming and the Qing, the most influential writers being the Yuan brothers, Zhang Dai, Li Yu, Yuan Mei, and Shen Fu. In addition, the influences of Western and Japanese prose are discernible (albeit not indispensable) and should not be neglected. As far as social conditions are concerned, the abolition of the civil service examination system in 1904, during the reign of Emperor Guangxu, might have exerted a significant impact on the literati. Determined to be broad and versatile in learning, they devoted themselves to literary development. Forthright or despondent, the writings of their predecessors sowed the seeds that led to a blossoming. Uninhibited and dedicated, they have transformed the genre in modern literature. The essay in the early twentieth century has traveled a long way and yielded spectacular results. It has developed paradigms that will last. The modern essay can be divided into seven categories: (1) the personal essay originated by Zhou

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Zuoren; (2) the narrative essay pioneered by Xia Mianzun; (3) the allegory exemplified by Xu Dishan; (4) the lyrical essay developed by Xu Zhimo; (5) the expository essay demonstrated by Lin Yutang; (6) the argument represented by Hu Shi; (7) the miscellaneous essay perfected by Lu Xun in tone and expressiveness. Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay, ed. Yang Mu (Taipei: Hongfan Bookstore, 1981), 1–9, translated by Michelle Yeh.

61. Preface to Thirty Eventful Years: The Predicament Facing the Newspaper Literary Supplement in Taiwan at Present and a Way Out ya xi a n

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he fukan [literary supplement] is a distinguishing feature of the Chinese newspaper. In Britain and the United States, or in the Asian countries of Japan and Korea, newspapers may publish serialized fiction, along with columns devoted to cultural news, film reviews, and book reviews, but they have never produced anything comparable to fukan in either form or content. Fukan, from its beginnings as the newspaper’s “tail end” to its current richness in content and diversity in layout, has become a defining feature of the Chinese newspaper and a major accomplishment in world journalism. . . . Just as literary criticism came about after literature had developed to a certain level, so journalism emerged after newspapers had been developing for years. Therefore, at first, newspapers were run almost exclusively by literati. At the time, not only were there no journalism schools, but journalism as an academic discipline was undeveloped and the professional newspaperman did not as yet exist. With just a few newspapers in the early period, there was little competition and pressure. Literati who edited newspapers could do their work in Shanghai garrets. After they had written up the day’s news, if they still had the energy (or if there was not enough news, as was sometimes the case), they would write a literary piece or two to fill up some space. This was the origin of fukan. As its name implies, the fukan, or supplement, was an auxiliary; an attachment to the newspaper; an accessory, not a focus of attention. It provided material for casual conversation after a meal, nothing more. For these reasons fukan was in all instances regarded as surplus to the newspaper proper. The content of fukan was comprised largely of either fiction in the “scholar and beauty” genre or lachrymose poetry, nothing that could be called serious literature, much less anything that would stimulate readers’ thinking or transform their demeanor in

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Zuoren; (2) the narrative essay pioneered by Xia Mianzun; (3) the allegory exemplified by Xu Dishan; (4) the lyrical essay developed by Xu Zhimo; (5) the expository essay demonstrated by Lin Yutang; (6) the argument represented by Hu Shi; (7) the miscellaneous essay perfected by Lu Xun in tone and expressiveness. Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay, ed. Yang Mu (Taipei: Hongfan Bookstore, 1981), 1–9, translated by Michelle Yeh.

61. Preface to Thirty Eventful Years: The Predicament Facing the Newspaper Literary Supplement in Taiwan at Present and a Way Out ya xi a n

T

he fukan [literary supplement] is a distinguishing feature of the Chinese newspaper. In Britain and the United States, or in the Asian countries of Japan and Korea, newspapers may publish serialized fiction, along with columns devoted to cultural news, film reviews, and book reviews, but they have never produced anything comparable to fukan in either form or content. Fukan, from its beginnings as the newspaper’s “tail end” to its current richness in content and diversity in layout, has become a defining feature of the Chinese newspaper and a major accomplishment in world journalism. . . . Just as literary criticism came about after literature had developed to a certain level, so journalism emerged after newspapers had been developing for years. Therefore, at first, newspapers were run almost exclusively by literati. At the time, not only were there no journalism schools, but journalism as an academic discipline was undeveloped and the professional newspaperman did not as yet exist. With just a few newspapers in the early period, there was little competition and pressure. Literati who edited newspapers could do their work in Shanghai garrets. After they had written up the day’s news, if they still had the energy (or if there was not enough news, as was sometimes the case), they would write a literary piece or two to fill up some space. This was the origin of fukan. As its name implies, the fukan, or supplement, was an auxiliary; an attachment to the newspaper; an accessory, not a focus of attention. It provided material for casual conversation after a meal, nothing more. For these reasons fukan was in all instances regarded as surplus to the newspaper proper. The content of fukan was comprised largely of either fiction in the “scholar and beauty” genre or lachrymose poetry, nothing that could be called serious literature, much less anything that would stimulate readers’ thinking or transform their demeanor in

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any way. The gathering storm of the May Fourth movement, however, exerted a gradual influence on fukan. Editors could no longer do their work in the isolation of Shanghai garrets, oblivious to the world. Such fukan editors as Sun Fuyuan of the Morning Post and Xu Zhimo, who edited Poetic Engravings and The Stage, brought about wide-ranging reform of fukan, ensuring that they began to attract the attention of the literary world. These men enriched the content of fukan by adding not only works of new literature of greater depth, but also intellectual and scholarly essays. Guided by the times, they took the lead in publishing work that championed the cause of the new ideology, and this quickly moved fukan to the vanguard of the New Culture movement, putting fukan in a position to call the shots. With the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War, fukan became even more politically and socially engaged, directly taking on the important responsibility of arousing the people to resist Japanese aggression and save the nation. By this time, fukan were publishing almost all literary forms, from fiction to poetry, to nonfiction prose, to reportage, and so on, all being vehicles for expressing authors’ ideas and ideals. Many literary men worked for fukan; for example, Dai Wangshu, Shen Congwen, and Liang Shiqiu, among others, all edited fukan. Most editors of fukan at the time were not regular employees of newspaper companies but were guest consultants. The fact that established writers were invited to edit fukan was confirmation of the gradually increasing importance of fukan; it also put fukan in a position to exert a great influence on the literary world. Fukan became the literary scene made manifest. Writers who became popular by writing for fukan were almost always sure to be taken seriously in the wider literary world. As the contents of fukan became more serious and more varied, and as the level of education and cultural refinement of fukan editors rose, the era of the Shanghai-style, escapist fukan came to an end, and fukan gradually established an independent identity, with marvelous results for the literary and cultural worlds. In the thirty years since the government relocated to Taiwan, development on each of several fronts has proceeded by astonishing leaps and bounds for all the world to see; the tremendous advancements in the newspaper industry were particularly visible. The number of pages in each section grew; newspapers changed from black and white to color; and press runs rose from one hundred or one hundred and fifty thousand to as many as one million. Most importantly, because the government made education a priority, not only did higher education expand rapidly, but a policy of a nine-year mandatory education was implemented and laid the foundation for producing a more educated populace of higher quality. Illiteracy was virtually eradicated; everyone was now able to read a newspaper. Newspaper readership, once composed of a small number of intellectuals, grew into what it is today, a great majority of the educated masses. In the past, the transportation network on the mainland was undeveloped, and the circulation of any given newspaper rarely went over two hundred thousand copies. Even in its prime, Shanghai’s Shenbao, which claimed to be the

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largest newspaper in the country, sold only one hundred fifty thousand copies. Moreover, in large part, only the literati and intellectuals read newspapers; the ordinary folk seldom read newspapers (either they were illiterate or they had no access to newspapers). Additionally, the circulation of newspapers was local. Shanghai newspapers were read only in Beijing and Shanghai; it was difficult for people in other places to find them. By contrast, in today’s Taiwan, taking the United Daily as an example, circulation has passed one million copies. As a raw number, this obviously surpasses the circulation of the Shenbao; as a measure of per capita circulation, it leaves the figure for the Shenbao even further behind. Universal education and a flourishing economy have made newspapers affordable and accessible to everyone, giving rise to the educated masses, which include people from all walks of life: intellectuals, restaurant workers, taxi drivers, soldiers, factory workers, and more. All are newspaper readers and all are potential readers of—or even writers for—fukan. All this means that fukan finds itself in a transitional moment of increasing challenges. Put simply, the questions facing fukan are as follows: Can the traditional fukan meet the needs of the educated masses? If it cannot, then how should the modern fukan make a new start so that it may not only attract readers but also take on the responsibility of guiding its readers? I will answer these questions by discussing the three qualities of fukan as follows. First, fukan is a venue for social engagement. . . . Second, fukan is a news outlet. . . . Third, fukan is a lifestyle publication. . . .

To be sure, fukan has assiduously pursued innovation and has tried in many ways to adapt to the environment and improve the product, but it has been unable to avoid new problems: editors have gotten stuck in creative ruts, it has become harder to attract good manuscripts, and literature has taken on socially utilitarian overtones. These are problems that fukan faces as it evolves. In order to give full play to fukan’s versatility and encompass literature in a variety of genres, today’s fukan is typically divided into many columns or sections. Every day, the editor racks his or her brain to come up with clever new ways to package the writing published in fukan. Every new package becomes a new column or section, and this in turn means that writers have no choice but to do their best to write something that fits the needs of a particular column or section. Over time, writers also get stuck in ruts. Writers who are more self-aware start to feel that their imaginations are constrained and their work is no longer as good as it was when they could write freely about anything they wanted. Simultaneously the fukan, adjusting to the above-mentioned changes, has no choice but to make editorial plans well in advance. The more manuscripts one solicits in advance, the less often one can publish unsolicited manuscripts. . . . This is precisely why some lament that the “age of the freelance writer” is over and argue that in the

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current “age of the editor,” fukan is overly dominated by the editor’s subjective ideas. This is also why some writers are nostalgic for their beloved fukan of the early years. Although there was limited space in the old days, it is true that the culture of freelancing fostered the development of a number of young writers and led to the publication of many outstanding works of literature. . . . Some, on the other hand, support change and innovation in fukan and call for the creation of the anti-fukan. This is a rejection of the traditional, purely literary fukan and an argument that fukan should focus not only on literature but also on culture in general, doing more to cover music, dance, the visual arts, and all variety of intellectual and scholarly endeavors. Thus, fukan finds itself going back and forth in response to the expectations and demands of a heterogeneous readership. How to find balance and unity among these contradictions, how to find a way forward that is practical in the moment while also allowing for future development? This is a question demanding the immediate attention of the modern fukan. . . . Times change, after all. No matter how strong our sentimental attachment to the past and no matter how wonderful the things of the past, if we do not strive to make progress and give new life and meaning to old traditions in order to meet the challenges that come at us hard and fast from the times and society in which we live, discontinuation and disappearance will be our inevitable and unavoidable fate. This applies to fukan as well. I hope to be, and consciously try to be, an editor like Sun Fuyuan, but with a readership that today has reached several million and is still rising, why in the world would I try to impose my individual literary judgment on all those readers and try to get them to like what I like? A truly outstanding editor who is a credit to his or her position must make a precise analysis of exactly what his or her readers want, what his or her fukan is able to provide, how his or her fukan might guide readers and enrich them a bit, and how he or she can, in the midst of contradictory demands, find a fair and proper way to conduct his or her work. At present, I am still trying to find the way. The first thing that needs to be said is that I don’t believe that reportage is literature in the purest sense of the word. Reportage is to literature as craft is to art; in each case, the former is too utilitarian. Reportage is often merely a spin-off from an author’s main line of work. For example, both Jack London and John Steinbeck wrote a lot of this sort of thing, but reportage alone is not weighty enough to achieve lasting literary fame. Then why not find a middle way and develop a new genre that takes a real event as source material and creates a purely literary work? This is the origin of “facsimile literature” conceived by the fukan of the United Daily. Put simply, the events are real, but they are fictionalized by the writer, who tells a story that is artistic but realistic and so has both the functionality of news and the timeless value of literature. . . . In this fashion we can meet the needs of the modern fukan to be timely, engaged, and socially responsible, as well as make sure that fukan continues its tradition of publishing works of lasting artistic value. . . .

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The second experiment is the “news poem”—news in verse form. Most poets are subjective and individualistic, and their work mostly gives voice to personal feelings. Few poets sing of society as a whole. In the “news poem” experiment, we ask poets to produce a short poem in short order about a recent event in the news. The poem expresses the poet’s view on the event but also the view of the average person, which guards against the poem taking an excessively subjective approach. The language of poetry is concise and succinct by definition; it is replete with rich and keen suggestiveness, even trenchant satire. The “news poem” allows poets to use their poetry to do what column writers have always done: interpret and critique events of the day. . . . The third experiment is the “micro-story.” The largest problem facing fukan today is that there are just too many professional intellectuals and professional writers. Everything in fukan is now written by well-known authors. It is nearly impossible for average people to get their manuscripts accepted for publication, and so they gradually become daunted by fukan, lose confidence, and stop writing. When this happens, fukan has failed in its social responsibility to foster young writers and inspire ordinary people to pick up the pen and write. . . . But the editor that the times demand can no longer be lazy; he or she must end overreliance on specialists and scholars, look to the general public, find talented new writers, encourage them to develop their potential, and publish a variety of works that cover myriad phenomena and are truly moving. It was with this aim that the United Daily fukan conceived of the “micro-story” feature: short, short fiction of one thousand characters or less, something any and all members of society can write. . . . Still another experiment is the “tape-recorded manuscript.” Tape recorders are ubiquitous these days. People who do not have the habit of writing, who are not comfortable writing, or who know how to write but just cannot seem to get around to writing, may tape-record what they have to say. The world is big, there is no end of things happening every day, and nothing is too strange to be true. We can be absolutely sure that there are many people out there with stories they are dying to tell. These may be stories they have heard or their own experiences of blood and tears. These stories, which are real and have had a profound impact on people, should be read by others; they will strike sympathetic chords in and inspire readers. The plan for the tape-recorded manuscript is to get people to tape record their stories; the recordings will then be transcribed and written into literary works by writers invited by the fukan editor. . . . Regardless of whether our experiments in fukan are successful or not, the literary supplement of the United Daily insists that fukan continues to adhere to balanced principles and remain vital and energetic as it continues to evolve: fukan is purely literary, but at the same time it is engaged, offers realistic depictions of society, and has its finger on the pulse of current events. If, guided by these principles, we continue to work hard, respond to objective circumstances, develop existing editorial policies and come up with

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new policies, then even if we do not achieve a perfect outcome, at the very least we can, through trial and error, find a way forward that brings us closer to our ideal! Thirty Years of Literature from the Literary Supplement to the United Daily: A Compendium may be about the fukan of only a single newspaper, but its publication amounts to nothing less than a retrospective and summation of the Chinese tradition of the purely literary newspaper supplement. In compiling this volume of historical sources, we have taken various steps to highlight the evolution of the editorial philosophy at the United Daily fukan over three decades. What these historical materials teach us is that the establishment of the institution of the Chinese fukan was the result of the blood, sweat, and tears of more people than can be counted! Times change and editors respond to their readers’ demands in new ways, but while the method may vary, the principle remains the same: we should never turn our backs on the literary tradition of the Chinese fukan. Only by meeting our current challenges and finding a way out of our current predicament can we protect this tradition and carry it forward, opening a wider path and creating a brighter future for the Chinese fukan. My ideas for responding to the predicament facing fukan and for finding a way forward are embarrassingly simple, but they demonstrate just how much I, as someone who works for a fukan, care about fukan. Such are my trifling thoughts; I trust more enlightened members of the literary world and the field of journalism will be unstinting with their criticism and corrections. Thirty Years of Literature from the Literary Supplement to the United Daily: A Compendium (Taipei: Lianjing Press, 1982), 33–44, translated by Thomas Moran.

62. Looking Back at the Chinese Literary Arts Association yin xue ma n . . . In 1950, the situation facing our country was still very dire, and the establishment of the Chinese Literary Arts Association certainly gave writers and artists recently arriving in Taiwan from the mainland a lot of encouragement and assistance; at the same time, through their writing and voices, these writers and artists provided the country and society much encouragement and stability. Four Years of Cultivation, edited by the association, describes the establishment of the association and contains the following passage in regard to the social background of the day.

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new policies, then even if we do not achieve a perfect outcome, at the very least we can, through trial and error, find a way forward that brings us closer to our ideal! Thirty Years of Literature from the Literary Supplement to the United Daily: A Compendium may be about the fukan of only a single newspaper, but its publication amounts to nothing less than a retrospective and summation of the Chinese tradition of the purely literary newspaper supplement. In compiling this volume of historical sources, we have taken various steps to highlight the evolution of the editorial philosophy at the United Daily fukan over three decades. What these historical materials teach us is that the establishment of the institution of the Chinese fukan was the result of the blood, sweat, and tears of more people than can be counted! Times change and editors respond to their readers’ demands in new ways, but while the method may vary, the principle remains the same: we should never turn our backs on the literary tradition of the Chinese fukan. Only by meeting our current challenges and finding a way out of our current predicament can we protect this tradition and carry it forward, opening a wider path and creating a brighter future for the Chinese fukan. My ideas for responding to the predicament facing fukan and for finding a way forward are embarrassingly simple, but they demonstrate just how much I, as someone who works for a fukan, care about fukan. Such are my trifling thoughts; I trust more enlightened members of the literary world and the field of journalism will be unstinting with their criticism and corrections. Thirty Years of Literature from the Literary Supplement to the United Daily: A Compendium (Taipei: Lianjing Press, 1982), 33–44, translated by Thomas Moran.

62. Looking Back at the Chinese Literary Arts Association yin xue ma n . . . In 1950, the situation facing our country was still very dire, and the establishment of the Chinese Literary Arts Association certainly gave writers and artists recently arriving in Taiwan from the mainland a lot of encouragement and assistance; at the same time, through their writing and voices, these writers and artists provided the country and society much encouragement and stability. Four Years of Cultivation, edited by the association, describes the establishment of the association and contains the following passage in regard to the social background of the day.

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Thinking back, four years ago the mainland was taken and Taiwan was tumbling in the midst of a storm. At the time, people felt restless in their hearts. Newspapers and magazines were full of poisonous works of leisure; it was not difficult to read between the lines all sorts of psychological expression of escapism and fear of the Communist bandits. As a result, a cloud of dejection overshadowed society. On August 5, 1949, the American Congress issued the white paper on Chinese–American relations; on May 2, 1950, our armed forces withdrew from Hainan Island and society became even more confused and uneasy. The loyal artists and writers who had come from the mainland to Taiwan witnessed the ongoing crisis and felt deeply the importance of rebuilding a psychological defense line and spiritual armament. Therefore, after many meetings, they established the Chinese Literary Arts Association, in the hope of developing the national spirit of righteousness, stabilizing the people and society, and saving [the nation] from devastation and peril through the power of literature and the arts. This action won strong support from many, and a conference organized in cooperation with the cultural and journalistic circles was convened on May 4, 1950, at Sun Yat-sen Hall in Taipei, at which the inauguration of the association was announced. Striking a combative pose, this association stood tall and firm on this free land.1 From this explanation, anyone can see the gravity of the situation the nation faced at that time, and the important responsibility of the association. As expected, after the establishment of the association, the nation became more stable with each passing day and gradually came to walk on a prosperous and thriving path under the leadership of President Chiang Kai-shek. Therefore, years later, when Mr. Zhang Daofan, who had provided much impetus to cultural work in our nation, recollected the circumstances of those times, he said, In my examination, 1950 was the year when the Chinese people left behind pessimistic decadence and rose from the dead back to life; it was the year when our politics went from chaos to stability, from defeat to victory; this was also the year when I devoted the most energy and reaped the most abundant harvest in my life. . . .2 Having written to this point, I think that to look back on the various events of that year thirty-two years later might help us with our future efforts. I once wrote an essay entitled “Fight for Memory.” I hope that from now on our cultural work, at any time and any place, will “fight for memory.” New Literary Arts (November 1982): 145–48, translated by Ihor Pidhainy.

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notes 1.

Four Years of Fieldwork: An Overview of the Chinese Literary Arts Association (Taipei: Chinese Literary Arts Association, 1954), 1.

2.

Zhao Youpei, Zhang Daofan: Pioneer of the Literary Field (Taipei: Chongguang Literature and Arts Publishing, 1975), 299–300.

63. Taiwan Consciousness of the Taiwanese People z ha n hongz hi

TWO TYPES OF CONSCIOUSNESSES CAN EXIST TOGETHER AS WELL AS APART

F

rom my own life experience, I believe that China consciousness commonly exists among Taiwanese people. My father grew up in a fishing village in northern Taiwan, received a Japanese education. He often talks about how we Chinese are like this or like that, even when it is to criticize the Chinese. He might also say, “We Chinese do not take things seriously but the Japanese do.” Even though his tone is respectful toward the Japanese, he definitely identifies with the Chinese. My ordinary Taiwanese father also often talks about how we Taiwanese are like this and like that, but it is usually in contrast to the waishengren [people from other provinces or mainlanders] and the ruling classes. He might say, “We Taiwanese should not wish to become officials. That is for the lads from other provinces.” These everyday observations imply that “Taiwan consciousness” and “China consciousness” can exist together as well as apart. We have reason to believe that, when Taiwanese people bring up the concept of Taiwan vis-à-vis foreigners, Taiwan consciousness and China consciousness are, in fact, two-in-one. Taiwanese resistance movements during the Japanese occupation offer obvious examples: in opposition to Japanese rule, Taiwanese people proposed Taiwanese autonomy, Taiwanese self-determination, and a Taiwan of Taiwanese people. Much evidence suggests that this salient Taiwan consciousness was a

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notes 1.

Four Years of Fieldwork: An Overview of the Chinese Literary Arts Association (Taipei: Chinese Literary Arts Association, 1954), 1.

2.

Zhao Youpei, Zhang Daofan: Pioneer of the Literary Field (Taipei: Chongguang Literature and Arts Publishing, 1975), 299–300.

63. Taiwan Consciousness of the Taiwanese People z ha n hongz hi

TWO TYPES OF CONSCIOUSNESSES CAN EXIST TOGETHER AS WELL AS APART

F

rom my own life experience, I believe that China consciousness commonly exists among Taiwanese people. My father grew up in a fishing village in northern Taiwan, received a Japanese education. He often talks about how we Chinese are like this or like that, even when it is to criticize the Chinese. He might also say, “We Chinese do not take things seriously but the Japanese do.” Even though his tone is respectful toward the Japanese, he definitely identifies with the Chinese. My ordinary Taiwanese father also often talks about how we Taiwanese are like this and like that, but it is usually in contrast to the waishengren [people from other provinces or mainlanders] and the ruling classes. He might say, “We Taiwanese should not wish to become officials. That is for the lads from other provinces.” These everyday observations imply that “Taiwan consciousness” and “China consciousness” can exist together as well as apart. We have reason to believe that, when Taiwanese people bring up the concept of Taiwan vis-à-vis foreigners, Taiwan consciousness and China consciousness are, in fact, two-in-one. Taiwanese resistance movements during the Japanese occupation offer obvious examples: in opposition to Japanese rule, Taiwanese people proposed Taiwanese autonomy, Taiwanese self-determination, and a Taiwan of Taiwanese people. Much evidence suggests that this salient Taiwan consciousness was a

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tactical move. The Japanese government, which opposed Taiwanese nationalist movements, made the following judgment against Luo Fuxing [1886–1914] in the Record of Police Reform in the Office of the Taiwan Governor-General: “Nationalist revolutionary movements maintain close ties with the Chinese revolution or key officials in the Chinese military and government. The most prominent characteristic is their ideological orientation or background, which is based on the Three People’s Principles, especially the principle of nationalism. These revolutionary movements import their strategies from China and routinely receive guidance and support from Chinese military and government officials.”

CHINA CONSCIOUSNESS WITH A TA I W A N E S E B A N N E R During the phase of resistance against foreign colonialists, “Taiwan consciousness” and “China consciousness” differ in name but resemble each other in reality—this is precisely the complexity of Taiwan’s history. (After Retrocession, perhaps because China consciousness waved a clearly Taiwanese banner, the Nationalist government banned most Taiwanese archives at the time, ironically blurring the truth of the matter.) Taiwan consciousness and China consciousness drifted apart, partly because of the shock of the February 28th Incident, partly because of the uneven distribution of political power by the Nationalist government in the initial phase of its rule in Taiwan, and partly because of the threat of the Communist regime in mainland China. When we speak of the divorce between the Taiwan consciousness and the China consciousness of Taiwanese people, the latter no longer signifies the abstract knowledge of a people or culture. It is, in fact, the product of Taiwanese people’s initial experience of chaos under the rule of the central government, combined with their observations of Chinese Communist politics across the [Taiwan] strait. The China consciousness of contemporary Taiwanese people has, in fact, three sources: first, the Han cultural heritage that they experience in everyday life; second, their experience of an administrative government under Chinese law; and third, the “China” across the strait that is internationally known and thoroughly threatening. This multifarious China consciousness is far from mere identification with blood relations or culture, but is appropriated according to actual interests. Likewise, the Taiwan consciousness of Taiwanese people has in part deviated from Han nationalism; it has become a consciousness of resistance that tends toward separatism, reform, and autonomous rule. It is not really a doubt of blood relations (the view that Taiwanese people are not Chinese has not gained general acceptance). Rather, Taiwan consciousness is full of the desire to change the status quo.

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THE SUBJECTIVITY AND OBJECTIVITY OF CONSCIOUSNESS Allow me to elaborate. Because the China consciousness and the Taiwan consciousness of contemporary Taiwanese people have such characteristics, Mr. Taigong Wang proposes “China consciousness before Taiwan consciousness” and “absolute Taiwan consciousness” as two models to distinguish the mentalities of the populace on the island. Furthermore, he uses these models to analyze the feasibility of a peaceful reunification with China. As [the author] Taigong Wang says: “A society based on the middle class tends to be rational, practical, and liberal. . . . Emotions and turmoil absolutely do not gain the upper hand in such a society.” Since the China consciousness and Taiwan consciousness of the Taiwanese people are moving toward practicality, their evolution is absolutely not subjective, but is rather the product of actual circumstances. If the political situation in mainland China were not so dark, and life under authoritarian rule not so unacceptable, the Taiwan consciousness that leans toward separatism would not have a favorable environment in which to grow. Consequently, there would not be a subjective barrier to reunification. My father did not receive much education, but when I was young, he would point to our family genealogy and tell me: “We are from Tong’an County in Zhangzhou Prefecture of Fujian Province. Our ancestors came to Taiwan three hundred years ago, and that’s why we live here.” This mentality of inseparability, the mentality of Taiwan as China, does not guarantee reunification, because authoritarianism and enslavement could drive one to abandon one’s people, even one’s national consciousness. China Times (U.S. edition), December 24, 1982; reprinted in Two Types of Literary Mind (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 72–78, translated by Chris Tong.

64. Influence and Response! From Concern, Engagement, and Action to “We Have Only One Earth” ha n ha n a nd ma yigong

T

he special series We Have Only One Earth received the 1982 Golden Tripod Award from the Government Information Office. It is, naturally, a joy to win an award, but what brings us even greater joy is that the subject of We Have Only One Earth—the protection of Taiwan’s ecology and environment—has

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THE SUBJECTIVITY AND OBJECTIVITY OF CONSCIOUSNESS Allow me to elaborate. Because the China consciousness and the Taiwan consciousness of contemporary Taiwanese people have such characteristics, Mr. Taigong Wang proposes “China consciousness before Taiwan consciousness” and “absolute Taiwan consciousness” as two models to distinguish the mentalities of the populace on the island. Furthermore, he uses these models to analyze the feasibility of a peaceful reunification with China. As [the author] Taigong Wang says: “A society based on the middle class tends to be rational, practical, and liberal. . . . Emotions and turmoil absolutely do not gain the upper hand in such a society.” Since the China consciousness and Taiwan consciousness of the Taiwanese people are moving toward practicality, their evolution is absolutely not subjective, but is rather the product of actual circumstances. If the political situation in mainland China were not so dark, and life under authoritarian rule not so unacceptable, the Taiwan consciousness that leans toward separatism would not have a favorable environment in which to grow. Consequently, there would not be a subjective barrier to reunification. My father did not receive much education, but when I was young, he would point to our family genealogy and tell me: “We are from Tong’an County in Zhangzhou Prefecture of Fujian Province. Our ancestors came to Taiwan three hundred years ago, and that’s why we live here.” This mentality of inseparability, the mentality of Taiwan as China, does not guarantee reunification, because authoritarianism and enslavement could drive one to abandon one’s people, even one’s national consciousness. China Times (U.S. edition), December 24, 1982; reprinted in Two Types of Literary Mind (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 72–78, translated by Chris Tong.

64. Influence and Response! From Concern, Engagement, and Action to “We Have Only One Earth” ha n ha n a nd ma yigong

T

he special series We Have Only One Earth received the 1982 Golden Tripod Award from the Government Information Office. It is, naturally, a joy to win an award, but what brings us even greater joy is that the subject of We Have Only One Earth—the protection of Taiwan’s ecology and environment—has

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gained the attention and support of so many people. We think back to New Year’s Day 1981, when Ya Xian, editor of the literary supplement to the United Daily, who had courageously accepted our proposal, picked that very special day of the first of the year to start running a series of articles about environmental issues and ecological stewardship. This was not the first time a periodical in Taiwan had published work on these topics, but it was certainly the first time any newspaper or magazine had devoted so much space to a systematic discussion of the issues that was allowed to continue for two years without anyone ever telling us to stop. The first article in the series was “The Mangrove Grows Here.” Before its publication, many people had discussed the issue of Taiwan’s mangroves, but we felt that some of the discussion had been too academic, while others barely skimmed the surface or treated the subject too casually. As a result, the large majority of people was left without a clear understanding of a complicated problem; if they did not understand the problem, they were not going to care about it; if they did not care about it, they were not going to get involved; if they did not get involved, nothing was going to change. We agreed that we would put all subjective interests aside and act as a bridge between the worlds of academic specialists and the common people. We are extremely grateful to the many experts who provided us with a constant supply of material and who never grew tired of answering our questions. It was only with their help that we were able to get important information out to the people through the medium of the newspaper. . . . We should be quite gratified by the work of our government policymakers, who from start to finish have supported environmental stewardship. The mangrove incident is a good example. Premier Sun [Yunxuan, 1913–2006] of the Executive Yuan offered consistent support. Ministers without portfolio Gao Yushu and Chen Qilu both came in person to make investigations on the muddy ground of mangrove swamps. Governor Lee Teng-hui said that no one should even think about cutting down a mangrove as long as he was governor. Director General of the Tourism Bureau Yu Wei came out even more often; he contributed funding and effort and took measures to get redress when redress was needed. When illegal abalone ponds were built on the northeastern coast, rather than watching out for his fellow officials, Wei Yong, chairman of the Executive Yuan’s Research, Development, and Evaluation Commission, investigated to find out who was responsible. Zheng Shuizhi, director of the Department of Reconstruction, personally supervised the removal of the abalone ponds; moreover, Minister of the Interior Lin Yanggang, despite the heat of summer, came out in person to check on the progress of the dismantling work. He also looked into possible methods for redress. Had it not been for the strong support of former Minister of the Interior Qiu Chuanghan, Director General of the Construction and Planning Agency [of the Ministry of the Interior] Zhang Longsheng, and former Pingdong County

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Executive Ke Wenfu, the campaign to protect the migratory birds of the Hengchun peninsula would have never taken off the way it did. What made us even happier and filled us with admiration was that seventy-year-old minister without portfolio Fei Hua took a five-hour bumpy car ride over mountain roads and then labored for an hour and a half to walk up a steep and treacherous hiking trail just to make an on-site investigation of the likely impact of the New Central Cross-Island Highway on Batongguan Meadow and Jinmendong Cliffs. There is much that is gratifying, but this does not mean there is no discouraging news. Many of the people’s representatives, who should have taken the side of the public, stood instead with those who built illegal abalone ponds; illegally cut trees and planted crops in national forests, which caused soil erosion; and grabbed up mining rights. If we want to continue to safeguard our rights and interests and those of generations to come, we absolutely cannot betray our environment for the sake of a bribe of a few hundred New Taiwan dollars, a bar of soap, or a jar of MSG. In the chapter “In Cosmic Resonance,” the Song dynasty Neo-Confucian philosopher Cheng Yi wrote: “Wherever there is influence, there is necessarily response. All actions are influences. As there is influence, there is necessarily response. The response becomes influence, and the influence becomes response again, and therefore there will be no end.” The protection of the ecology and the environment depends on this never-ending process of influence and response. Only a wide dissemination of information can create public concern and spur public involvement. We Have Only One Earth (Taipei: Jiuge, 1983), 287–89, translated by Thomas Moran.

65. Footprints, Sort Of: Superfluous Words on the Launch of the Newsletter of Literary Friends z hong z haoz heng

I

never imagined that the Newsletter of Literary Friends would now be reprinted in its entirety in The Literary Realm. When Ye Shitao told me the news and asked me to write a little something about the event, I was astounded. Is this sort of thing fit for publication? Is it worth writing about? After thinking it over, I was unable to answer in the affirmative. Mr. Ye was adamant, however, and I have never been good at saying no when someone insists; I always give in.

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Executive Ke Wenfu, the campaign to protect the migratory birds of the Hengchun peninsula would have never taken off the way it did. What made us even happier and filled us with admiration was that seventy-year-old minister without portfolio Fei Hua took a five-hour bumpy car ride over mountain roads and then labored for an hour and a half to walk up a steep and treacherous hiking trail just to make an on-site investigation of the likely impact of the New Central Cross-Island Highway on Batongguan Meadow and Jinmendong Cliffs. There is much that is gratifying, but this does not mean there is no discouraging news. Many of the people’s representatives, who should have taken the side of the public, stood instead with those who built illegal abalone ponds; illegally cut trees and planted crops in national forests, which caused soil erosion; and grabbed up mining rights. If we want to continue to safeguard our rights and interests and those of generations to come, we absolutely cannot betray our environment for the sake of a bribe of a few hundred New Taiwan dollars, a bar of soap, or a jar of MSG. In the chapter “In Cosmic Resonance,” the Song dynasty Neo-Confucian philosopher Cheng Yi wrote: “Wherever there is influence, there is necessarily response. All actions are influences. As there is influence, there is necessarily response. The response becomes influence, and the influence becomes response again, and therefore there will be no end.” The protection of the ecology and the environment depends on this never-ending process of influence and response. Only a wide dissemination of information can create public concern and spur public involvement. We Have Only One Earth (Taipei: Jiuge, 1983), 287–89, translated by Thomas Moran.

65. Footprints, Sort Of: Superfluous Words on the Launch of the Newsletter of Literary Friends z hong z haoz heng

I

never imagined that the Newsletter of Literary Friends would now be reprinted in its entirety in The Literary Realm. When Ye Shitao told me the news and asked me to write a little something about the event, I was astounded. Is this sort of thing fit for publication? Is it worth writing about? After thinking it over, I was unable to answer in the affirmative. Mr. Ye was adamant, however, and I have never been good at saying no when someone insists; I always give in.

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One could call these the footprints of youth. If in taking the literary road in life I made a mistake, then these footprints would fill me with regret over my wasted youth, or they would now seem steps mis-taken. Yet, these footprints are quite idiosyncratic—although they belong to several literary friends. They will, with the goodwill of many friends at The Literary Realm, become veritable foot-reprints. At this prospect, in addition to being apprehensive, I cannot help but feel gratitude welling up in my heart. But then I had a problem. I did not have any documents at hand. How was I supposed to fish fragments of the past out of my murky memory and write something for this lively occasion? I once had the complete Newsletters, but a few years ago Zhang Liangze came over to the house and said that he could take better care of it, so I gave the collection to him. I have no original copies now. I don’t even remember the dates, much less the circumstances surrounding the writing of a certain piece. Luckily, I remembered that in the Letters volume of the Complete Works of Zhong Lihe were all the letters Lihe sent to me. I started corresponding with Lihe right at the time when the Newsletter of Literary Friends began. I could now at least get the dates right. As I flipped through the letters, memories came rushing back, hitting me with the force of the tide or a storm. I was beside myself. The first letter was dated April 23, 1957, twenty-five years ago. A quarter of a century. A frightening amount of time. I started talking to myself while my wife played with our little granddaughter. She heard me mumbling to myself and asked me what was the matter, the tracks of time etched on her fleshy, startled face. With her sharp memory, my wife started going on about everything that was happening at the time. That was shortly after our eldest daughter was born. My poor wife had to feed her parents-in-law and raise the pigs and chickens with only a few turnips. Once, around that time, the chickens were filched along with the coop and the cage. We reported the loss and the case was solved, as a result of which “A True Account of a Fowl Crime Solved in Three Hours” was written. You were always writing things like a man possessed or clutching a volume in your hand as if there were no tomorrow, she said. Big Sis went on to get married and fly to America. Little Sis, who was two years younger, managed to finish school and graduate. Now my wife has this little granddaughter pestering her. There are tears in her eyes and a bittersweet smile curling slightly at the corner of her mouth. She has a feminine presence, a maternal radiance. I should write something about her in this short essay, but I have to be careful about what I write, because she might flay me. On the other hand, what skin do I have left to flay? There is almost none left on my wizened face. I can’t remember ever mentioning my wife in any work I have written. So let me set a precedent. At least I will permit myself this indulgence just this once. (The above counts as a mention and will have to do as the introduction to this article.)

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I cannot come up with the right word to describe the Newsletter of Literary Friends. It was a little journal, just a couple of mimeographed newspaper-size sheets written in an epistolary format. In terms of content, too, it would hardly qualify as a periodical. But was it not a periodical? It was printed periodically— even though it was only sent to a few “friends in literature.” Actually, I originally planned to make it more like a proper periodical. Every issue was going to include at least an original composition—the friends would take turns writing something for publication—as well as criticisms offered by the friends of the creative works printed in the previous issue. In this way, we would have had the prototype of a periodical. In a word, its greatest, and only, goal was learning from one another and mutual encouragement. At the time, Liao Qingxiu was already famous for his prize-winning Tale of Blood and Tears. Zhong Lihe followed in his footsteps when Lishan Farm won a big prize. The stage was now set for the first generation of native Taiwanese writers to appear after Retrocession in 1945. As for myself, the first time I published anything was in 1951. Over the next six years, although I published stories from time to time, I didn’t win any prizes. It was beyond my ability. But this was of no account. I dared not entertain such a dream. My only gripe was loneliness. I had always lived in the countryside, without the least external stimulation. When writing my first work, I didn’t even know what manuscript paper—the kind with a grid to space the characters—was. Although I felt I had set off on a literary path, I was still alone, ignorant, without a shoulder to cry on, helpless. I longed to have some friends who were doing the same thing. It occurred to me there should be others like me who were writing or had literary aspirations, who were finding their way in loneliness and longed for the intimacy, consolation, and encouragement of friendship. It must have been around this time that my mainlander friend Yang Pinchun (whose pen name was Mei Xun), who was on the Chinese Literary and Artistic Awards Council, to which I had submitted some works, introduced me to Liao Qingxiu, who had already made a name for himself. I was surprised to learn through correspondence with Qingxiu that Zhong Lihe was also Taiwanese (I had not had the chance to read Lishan Farm, so I never expected that the big prize winner was Taiwanese). And the renowned Shi Cuifeng was also Taiwanese. I was getting excited. It seemed to me that to be of service to these native Taiwanese writers of great talent would be an appropriate occupation for someone of such middling talent as myself. The wish to put out an independent publication began to form in my mind. I was teaching, I reasoned, so I had ready wax paper for the stencils, steel printing plates, white newsprint, and so forth. I would just have to spend a bit of time and energy cutting the stencils. The only thing that would require any expense would be envelopes and stamps (at the time the cost of sending a letter by regular mail was forty cents). That’s all it would take to carry on the work. Although I was busy with my job, it wouldn’t be hard to spare a few hours a month.

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My first letter, based on Lihe’s first letter to me, was dated April 23, 1957. In it, I shared my idea with all the native Taiwanese writers I could find. I can no longer remember exactly how many copies I sent out, but there were no more than ten. Three days later, Lihe’s reply arrived. He was living in the hills in Meinong [Gaoxiong County], so it must have taken some time for the mail delivery. He may well have replied immediately after receiving my letter. He also enclosed the form I had asked him to fill out. His letter said: “Your letter arrived out of the blue, giving me more delight than I can describe. Your proposal is excellent. We need this kind of regular messaging system, in order to keep in touch.” Lihe’s enthusiastic response got me excited: we were of the same mind. But another friend hinted that we might break some of the taboos of censorship. He might as well have dumped a bucket of freezing cold water on my head. I would just have to reduce the scope of the periodical, which would have to be in the format of personal correspondence and would only serve to communicate the activities of the “literary friends,” as well as their views on the works we circulated among ourselves. In this way, the monthly work of compiling, printing, and mailing the Newsletter of Literary Friends began. In order of age, the participants were: Chen Huoquan, Zhong Lihe, Li Rongchun, Shi Cuifeng, Zhong Zhaozheng, Liao Qingxiu, and Xu Bingcheng (pen name Wen Xin [1920–1987])—there were just seven of us. Only two of the nine Taiwanese writers I knew to be regularly publishing literary works did not participate. But I must add that in the later issues of the Newsletter, two more friends were introduced into the group, Xu Shanmu and Yang Zijiang. The Newsletter ended in September 1958, a fact I found out reading Zhong Lihe’s Letters. It would be a stretch to say that it lasted for a year and a half. From Lihe’s letters you can tell that for whatever other reasons there might have been, one reason for its demise was that the friends were not active enough. The details, of course, are untraceable. But what should be said is that no matter what the direct motivation for it was, there was no reason to continue this kind of thing indefinitely. Mutual edification and encouragement was its only purpose. When the objective had been met, there was a great reduction in the need to maintain it. Facts speak for themselves. Personally, I had only corresponded and become close friends with Liao Qingxiu before the founding of the Newsletter. The others I befriended through the Newsletter, and over a year and a half we attained to a state of spiritual concord. I remember that we few literary friends got together as a group on two separate occasions. The first time was at the home of Shi Cuifeng. It was all new for me. But although it was the first time we met, I actually felt that we were like old friends—we clicked. The second time was at the home of Chen Huoquan. I vaguely recall that in addition to the friends, there were also some writers of the younger generation. That evening was unforgettably eventful, with a policeman

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conducting a household registration check and some loiterers outside. Recollection of the incident brings a smile to my face. If I were to look over all the Newsletters again, I would surely have a lot of memories worth recording. Fortunately, they are not at hand, and I am therefore pleased to forgo the voluble narration of a bunch of antique anecdotes with colorful personal touches. But I think I should note how the friends are doing now—and naturally I am speaking on the basis of personal contact. So I begin with a disclaimer: I am unable to claim either accuracy or detail. The eldest of the “literary friends” was Chen Huoquan. He was not only the eldest but also had the most drive. But he also had the most hardship in learning Chinese. He kept writing after the Newsletter ended and, shall we say, continued to struggle with rejection until abruptly retiring his pen in 1968 or 1969. Who would have thought that after a whole decade of silence the old fellow would suddenly reappear on the literary scene with a brand-new look to make a splendid comeback? Now he wrote literary essays rather than novels. In just over two years, he had enough material for Three Books of Life, a brilliant achievement. He became a best-selling author. I think this is a miracle and a perfect example of the power of determination. This past spring, his trilogy was honored with a national literary award. The next eldest was the late Zhong Lihe, who has since become a saint of nativist literature. Enough said. But back in the day, he also specialized in rejection. He ran into walls with every single one of his finely crafted short stories. Readers will learn from the Newsletters that his four works of homeland literature were appreciated and praised by all the friends, while in the outside world they all met the same fate: rejection. This is another bit of lore, but I must not let myself get carried away. I should say a word about the Zhong Lihe Memorial Museum. We broke ground over two years ago, but the building is not yet completed. Those of us in charge of the project are weak and incapable, and it has gotten to the point where one should probably just not ask. It is a shame! The third eldest was Li Rongchun, the unluckiest of us all. After he got a subsidy from the Chinese Literary and Artistic Awards Council for his My Country and My Compatriots, a work of seven hundred thousand characters, he wrote two or three other long novels, but he didn’t get to see any of them published. One could say they have gone to waste. The first volume of My Country and My Compatriots was published but is now out of print. I have not fulfilled my responsibility to do my utmost in service to him. I am partly to blame, but sometimes one person’s power is limited. Li is still living in Toucheng [in Yilan County], where he grew up. I can only sigh when I think of how he used to turn down all job opportunities to pursue his passion for writing, only to wind up alone now. Next was Shi Cuifeng, who left the sea of misery (of literary creation) relatively early, shortly thereafter to become a famous professor and scholar. Fifth was the artless yours truly. Twenty-five years later, I am still at my post, playing a minor role. Although I am old and gray now, I still take pleasure in it.

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After me was Liao Qingxiu. For many years now, writing has seemed to be something he does now and then. I recall hearing him say that he has been preparing an epic work for a long time. Perhaps he is hard at work on it. Many of his old friends eagerly await the publication of his newest novel. The youngest of the friends was Xu Bingcheng, whose pen name was Wen Xin. After Taiwan Television Station began broadcasting in 1962, he reluctantly quit writing fiction and prose to become a renowned screenwriter. In recent years, it seems he is no longer getting his hands dirty writing scripts. Could it be that he still has a place in his heart for literary creation? We expect great things from him. Xu Shanmu and Yang Zijiang did not participate until later on, and both retired their pens early on. Xu is now a famous lawyer in Taipei, no longer playing the old tune. I am not in contact with Yang, so I cannot say anything about him. One thing I should add is that all of the above belong to the generation of writers who appeared after Retrocession. To my knowledge, there are two more members of this generation, Lin Zhonglong [1930–2008] and Zheng Huan [b. 1925]. As for Wu Zhuoliu, Ye Shitao, and Zhang Yanxun [1925–1995], they all returned to the literary mainstream after the Newsletter of Literary Friends folded. These friends, as well as many poets, are outside the scope of this article, so there is no need for me to introduce them individually here. In a letter, Ye Shitao said to me: “You have all followed through on your initial aspirations and made names for yourselves. That in itself is laudable. But it is also worth reviewing the outcome of your ambition to develop Taiwanese literature.” That is well said! But you cannot really say we have made names for ourselves, nor is there much to say about the contribution we have made to the development of Taiwanese literature. This is what pains me the most as I look back at the footsteps we have taken as we made our arduous and solitary way over the past quarter of a century. But the course of time cannot be reversed. I can only place my hopes in the many members of the younger generation of native Taiwanese writers. The Literary Realm 5 (1983): 118–23, translated by Darryl Sterk.

66. Eternal Quest (in Lieu of a Preface) wa ng z he nhe

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ith the exceptions of “Little Lin Comes to Taipei” and American Beauties, my fiction has been inspired by characters I have encountered in real life. Their experiences, words, deeds, struggles, sufferings, and absurd

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After me was Liao Qingxiu. For many years now, writing has seemed to be something he does now and then. I recall hearing him say that he has been preparing an epic work for a long time. Perhaps he is hard at work on it. Many of his old friends eagerly await the publication of his newest novel. The youngest of the friends was Xu Bingcheng, whose pen name was Wen Xin. After Taiwan Television Station began broadcasting in 1962, he reluctantly quit writing fiction and prose to become a renowned screenwriter. In recent years, it seems he is no longer getting his hands dirty writing scripts. Could it be that he still has a place in his heart for literary creation? We expect great things from him. Xu Shanmu and Yang Zijiang did not participate until later on, and both retired their pens early on. Xu is now a famous lawyer in Taipei, no longer playing the old tune. I am not in contact with Yang, so I cannot say anything about him. One thing I should add is that all of the above belong to the generation of writers who appeared after Retrocession. To my knowledge, there are two more members of this generation, Lin Zhonglong [1930–2008] and Zheng Huan [b. 1925]. As for Wu Zhuoliu, Ye Shitao, and Zhang Yanxun [1925–1995], they all returned to the literary mainstream after the Newsletter of Literary Friends folded. These friends, as well as many poets, are outside the scope of this article, so there is no need for me to introduce them individually here. In a letter, Ye Shitao said to me: “You have all followed through on your initial aspirations and made names for yourselves. That in itself is laudable. But it is also worth reviewing the outcome of your ambition to develop Taiwanese literature.” That is well said! But you cannot really say we have made names for ourselves, nor is there much to say about the contribution we have made to the development of Taiwanese literature. This is what pains me the most as I look back at the footsteps we have taken as we made our arduous and solitary way over the past quarter of a century. But the course of time cannot be reversed. I can only place my hopes in the many members of the younger generation of native Taiwanese writers. The Literary Realm 5 (1983): 118–23, translated by Darryl Sterk.

66. Eternal Quest (in Lieu of a Preface) wa ng z he nhe

W

ith the exceptions of “Little Lin Comes to Taipei” and American Beauties, my fiction has been inspired by characters I have encountered in real life. Their experiences, words, deeds, struggles, sufferings, and absurd

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behaviors have left an indelible impression on me, such that even ten, twenty, or thirty years later I still can’t forget them. It is as though they have become a part of my life. Take “An Oxcart for Dowry,” for instance. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, my relatives told me a sad but fascinating story about a man who was so hungry that he was compelled to let another man who was financially better off live in his house and share his wife. The most interesting part was that the richer man’s surname was Jian, which in Taiwanese is pronounced “Gan”—fuck. As a result, whenever villagers went to their house and found that the grown-ups were out, they would ask the kids: “Hey, where’s the mother-fucker? Where the hell did the mother-fucker go?” At the time, I thought this was hilarious. Twenty-odd years later, I put this fascinating incident down on paper to share with readers. At the same time, I was impressed and moved by the liveliness and creativity of the local vernacular, how rich it could be in imagination and how precise and subtle in melding ideas. My ears would always prick up like a cat’s whenever I heard members of the older generation speaking Hoklo. When I could not listen, I eavesdropped. I felt a bit like the Irish playwright John Synge, who, while staying in a country inn in an Irish fishing village, bored a hole in the floor and pressed his ear against it to eavesdrop on the conversations of the village fishermen downstairs. That said, I was better behaved and more proper than Synge, since I did not drill holes in the wall or do anything of that sort. I must have angered the Buddha by listening to too much dialect, because I am now punished with a deaf ear. (I can only hear with my left.) But from that point on, I filled my fiction with dialect, hoping to preserve a bit of this vanishing treasure. “Mouse Invites a Guest to Tea,” which appeared in this April’s Literary Quarterly, is also based on a story my wife told me over ten years ago about one of her coworkers who lived in a typical apartment unit. Wife and husband both worked, and grandma stayed home to look after their child, who was about four or five years old. When the couple went to work, the eldest and the youngest members of the family were the only two left at home. One day, the grandmother had a heart attack and was making her way outside to find a doctor or a neighbor to help when she collapsed in the doorway. The boy was so frightened when he saw his grandmother suddenly fall to the ground that he ran into his room and sat on the bed, too afraid to come out. For three or four hours he sat bolt upright on the bed without moving a muscle. Only when his mother came home from work and started calling his name did he get down off the bed and start bawling. This typical apartment incident really shook me up. For over a decade, the story stuck in my mind as persistently as the daily necessity of eating, and I wanted to write it down. At first, I was interested in these unforgettable characters only because of what they had experienced. As I grew older and gained a better understanding of the world, however, I discovered that they possessed their own meaning, although I couldn’t say what it was. Perhaps Eugene O’Neill

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was right that behind every play lies some profound and lasting meaning. It is this ineffable meaning that made me want to write about them. I write about these characters, but I don’t paint them. By this I mean that fiction writing is an act of creation and not portraiture. In Aspects of the Novel, E. M. Forster writes that creation consists of taking facts and adding or subtracting “X,” an unknown quantity that can be added to make a character more vibrant or subtracted to alter his appearance. This is also pretty much how I delineate characters. Another principle I follow is that characters should help, rather than obstruct, the smooth development of the plot. The man who inspired the story “An Oxcart for Dowry,” for example, was fully sound of mind and body, but I thought that, as a protagonist, such a perfect specimen would lack the emotional highs and lows necessary to make an impression on the reader. Such a characterization would hinder plot development (since the reader would not believe that he would act the way he did). As with drama, if the casting is wrong, the audience will remain unconvinced no matter how well the leading actor performs. Thus, playing God—no doubt one of the great pleasures of fiction writing—I made my protagonist deaf and emasculated. One of my other secrets is that I give all of my characters flaws that everyone finds distasteful, such as body odor, impotence, or a fondness for buggery. In Rose, Rose, I Love You, for instance, the protagonist is normal in every respect, except that he farts a lot— anywhere and loudly (though sometimes not that loudly). This approach has two advantages: first, no one will sue you for libel. If someone does, you can point to the character’s flaw and ask: Do you mean you are really homosexual? Do you mean you really fart nonstop? Do you mean you really cannot get it up? I am certain the answer would be no. Second, flawed people are more credible and compelling to the reader. If you make a character too perfect, the reader’s first response will be: doesn’t exist! Once I have the characters and the story, my biggest headache is how to convey them to the reader—what is known in English as presentation. When I begin laying out the plot, I follow the Homeric epic. Homer’s technique [of in medias res] is what I call the cat-catching technique.1 The surest, most suitable way to catch a cat is not to grab it by the tail or the mouth (because it might bite you) or by the paw (because that would give it an even better opportunity to bite your tender hand). The safest way is to grab it by the nape—it never fails. The nape, located below the head and above its torso, is approximately two-thirds of the way along the cat’s entire length. If two-thirds of the way along the body is the safest spot at which to pick up a cat, then two-thirds of the way through the story is the most reliable place to begin a novel. Should you lay the story out in a chronological fashion, it will come across as flat and monotonous, and readers will conclude that the author is either lazy or lacking in skill. Starting from a crucial moment two-thirds of the way into the story (a cat’s neck is probably the same as the human neck in

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that it is the axis between the brain above and the heart below—what Sun Tzu would call a strategic spot)—starting, in other words, from the key moment when the crisis erupts—is a much better way to grab the reader’s interest. If you don’t hook people at the beginning, you cannot expect readers to finish your book, and if they don’t finish your book, you will not get across what you wanted to say. I make my living in television (although I have nothing to do with making television dramas—nowadays everyone complains about the quality of television dramas, but this has nothing to do with me). Although television programs are lousy, they have taught me something: episode one, especially the first ten minutes, must hook viewers; otherwise they will change the channel. Once they change the channel, ratings will plummet, followed by ad revenue! Perhaps it is because I have gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd that I pay extra attention to the opening of my novels and always find some way to hook the readers so they will not change the channel on me. I gear my efforts in this direction, but I don’t know whether or not they have the intended effect. . . . Words are the medium of fiction. Words are also what define an author’s style, which is why I am so fond of experimenting with language. I do not experiment for the sake of novelty, but rather to mix together dialect, classical Chinese, and Mandarin, and I adapt or invert idioms in various ways. Would it be true that doing so allows me to describe things the way I want to with greater specificity and satirize with greater precision? Would sentences create more suspense and tension when the subject is at the end? . . . Finding genuine storytelling voices has always been my main goal. Apart from eavesdropping, which I mentioned earlier, I also seek genuine voices in the works of my literary predecessors. Their labors of love teach me how a genuine voice can shape a character. I am particularly enamored of Cao Yu’s works, many of which I have memorized. Although deeply influenced by Eugene O’Neill, his works are still impressive for having their own unique voices. In his plays, I hear the voices of Beijing residents, how they actually speak their minds and unburden their hearts. I also learn the latest vocabulary from the mouths of children. Sometimes I even bribe them with lollipops and chocolate to get them to tell me more. . . . The problem of tone is one I often struggle with while writing, because getting the tone wrong is as painful on the ear as a diva singing without a score: off-key and out of rhythm. . . . The composition of “An Oxcart for Dowry” is another example. I had already written five thousand words, but I still felt that I was not getting across the bizarreness, absurdity, desolation, and humor I was aiming for. I also felt that the meaning of the work should gradually dawn on the reader during the reading process. Toward that end, I rearranged the order of a few subjects, verbs, and function words, and twisted around a few sentences, and finally the tone I was looking for emerged. When composing

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a piece of fiction, it often takes me months to find the right tone. This is nevertheless imperative, because if you hit the wrong tone, all your Herculean efforts will have been in vain. Before I write a piece of fiction, I always remind myself to adhere to my basic principles and sense of right and wrong. From what position am I speaking? Who deserves concern and sympathy, and who reproach? What can I share with the reader in this piece? Further, what is worth sharing? If a story does not meet these criteria, I will not write it, because to do so would be meaningless. Readers may not apprehend its meaning or consider it significant, but the story’s true meaning needs to be clear to me. . . . Can a writer abandon his or her roots? No, it is impossible to do so, because the people, things, and events he or she describes must be closely tied to life experiences and to the hometown, society, and nation the writer cares about. The moment a writer abandons his or her roots, he or she will have trouble producing good works. The famous American writers William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and Flannery O’Connor each wrote about their hometowns in the American South. The famous Chinese author Lao She wrote about his hometown: Beijing. A writer must have the feelings of the native-born to be able to convey deep solicitude for his compatriots, society, and country. Once, on a trip to Hong Kong, one of my elder classmates, the poet Dai Tian, said something that affects me even to this day. He said, “Zhenhe, you are incredibly lucky to be able to write your own fiction in your own country. This is your great fortune.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but as years went by I came to a deep understanding of his words. A writer living on his native soil is surrounded by things he cares about, and this proximity makes him care about them and want to write about them all the more keenly. How can he produce good works if he leaves his native soil and this connection disappears? . . . In the past, especially in the West, literature was an intellectual tool that enjoyed high status because of its capacity to serve as a witness to an era and to history, and as a means to seek a way out of the human predicament. In the past several decades, however, changing societal configurations and value systems have brought us face-to-face with diverging social values, the information technology explosion, rapid industrialization and commercialization, structuralism, functionalism, and so on. Whether intentionally or not, these complex trends have pushed fiction toward practical utility. Such unprecedented changes will likely make using literary form to seek out comprehensive foresights and perspectives on human life and society an ever more arduous task. This is a major challenge for our generation of fiction writers. How can fiction, which has atrophied to the point that it is measured by its practical utility, recover the lofty status it had in the past as a witness to an era, to propagate human virtues and instill human values? To me, this question deserves our collective attention, reflection, and investigation.

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China Times literary supplement, August 18, 1983; based on a speech delivered on August 17, 1983, during the China Times third annual “Literature Week,” translated by Christopher G. Rea.

note 1.

“In medias res” literally means, in Latin, “into mid-affairs.” It is a literary technique of beginning a story in the middle of action. The Homeric epics are an early example in European literature.

67. The Question of Nativization in Taiwanese Literature at the Present Stage song d ongyang ...

D I S C O U R S E O N F R O N T I E R L I T E R AT U R E : CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES

I

t is obvious that the phrase “Chinese literature in Taiwan” was used widely in the debate on nativist literature. If one were to push such a term to the extreme, then Taiwan would appear as a frontier region and Taiwanese literature a “frontier literature.” Such a concept naturally became the center of controversy. Zhan Hongzhi’s essay, “Two Types of Literary Mind,” sparked exactly such a polemic. . . . Zhan’s pessimistic views seem to expand on the literary theories of Chen Yingzhen. That is to say, Taiwanese literature is a branch of Chinese literature. China is the geographical center, and Taiwan the peripheral frontier. Taiwanese literature could only appear on the last page of Chinese literary history as an entry of a hundred words or so. All of this has caused Zhan Hongzhi much anxiety and worry. He worries about moving further away from the concerns and sentiments of the Chinese people, and worries even more that all our efforts would turn out to be staged illusions. In other words, if the concerns and sentiments of those who have settled in Taiwan were not considered within a Chinese framework, everything would be in vain. Zhan Hongzhi’s views are almost otherworldly. Why must Taiwanese literature appear only in the history of Chinese literature, and why on the last page? Why only one hundred words? Why couldn’t literary works created in Taiwan

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China Times literary supplement, August 18, 1983; based on a speech delivered on August 17, 1983, during the China Times third annual “Literature Week,” translated by Christopher G. Rea.

note 1.

“In medias res” literally means, in Latin, “into mid-affairs.” It is a literary technique of beginning a story in the middle of action. The Homeric epics are an early example in European literature.

67. The Question of Nativization in Taiwanese Literature at the Present Stage song d ongyang ...

D I S C O U R S E O N F R O N T I E R L I T E R AT U R E : CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES

I

t is obvious that the phrase “Chinese literature in Taiwan” was used widely in the debate on nativist literature. If one were to push such a term to the extreme, then Taiwan would appear as a frontier region and Taiwanese literature a “frontier literature.” Such a concept naturally became the center of controversy. Zhan Hongzhi’s essay, “Two Types of Literary Mind,” sparked exactly such a polemic. . . . Zhan’s pessimistic views seem to expand on the literary theories of Chen Yingzhen. That is to say, Taiwanese literature is a branch of Chinese literature. China is the geographical center, and Taiwan the peripheral frontier. Taiwanese literature could only appear on the last page of Chinese literary history as an entry of a hundred words or so. All of this has caused Zhan Hongzhi much anxiety and worry. He worries about moving further away from the concerns and sentiments of the Chinese people, and worries even more that all our efforts would turn out to be staged illusions. In other words, if the concerns and sentiments of those who have settled in Taiwan were not considered within a Chinese framework, everything would be in vain. Zhan Hongzhi’s views are almost otherworldly. Why must Taiwanese literature appear only in the history of Chinese literature, and why on the last page? Why only one hundred words? Why couldn’t literary works created in Taiwan

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be written into a history of Taiwanese literature? Why would the efforts of Taiwanese literature be for nothing if it distanced itself from the center of China? Apparently Zhan has not considered the above questions carefully. . . .

E S TA B L I S H I N G A T H E O R Y O F N AT I V E TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT U R E As discussed earlier, Taiwanese literature is a term that emerged from the debate on nativist literature. Through the challenge of the “theory of frontier literature,” it has come to replace nativist literature, a term widely used in the past. This development represents a progressive step on the part of [literary] workers of Taiwan, because they have freed themselves from the controversy surrounding the term nativist literature and, with more tolerance, accepted the term Taiwanese literature to refer directly to all literature created on the island Taiwan. They have even taken the next step of using historical facts to explain Taiwanese literature in terms of its sources, contents, and characteristics. As a result, Taiwanese literature no longer remains a semantic interpretation but is founded on concrete and objective reality. However, along with the creation of the term Taiwanese literature, two camps have emerged from the ranks of native Taiwanese writers: native literature versus Third World literature. These theories are the origins of the alleged north–south divide. Such rumors have been widespread since 1981, but there is no consensus among the various accounts. As the facts show, writers who give emphasis to native Taiwanese literature tend to center around Literary Realm and Taiwan Literary Arts, while writers who support Third World literature tend to appear in the journals China Tide and Literary Season. Whether this constitutes the so-called north–south divide, only the parties involved could tell. So how did the writers who emphasize native Taiwanese literature develop their theory? A critic of the new generation, Peng Ruijin offers an example: “As long as the literary work sincerely reflects the history and reality of people’s lives in this region of Taiwan and takes root on this piece of land, we can call it Taiwanese literature. Some writers are not born in this region or have left this piece of land for some reason; however, so long as their works and this piece of land share the understanding that they will live and die together, so long as the writers’ sentiments of joy and anger, of grief and delight, are tied to the pulsating rhythm of this piece of land, we will accept them into our camp of Taiwanese literature. On the contrary, those who are born and raised here, if they do not identity with this land and care about the people, or voluntarily detach themselves from the lives of the people, then even the most open-minded Taiwanese literature cannot tolerate them.” Peng Ruijin proposed a very important concept here—that is, Taiwan consciousness. Actually, this concept is an extension of Ye Shitao’s view in his

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“Introduction to History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan.” Only a writer with a strong Taiwan consciousness can take root in the social reality of Taiwan, unveil its inner contradictions, and consequently become the spokesperson of Taiwan’s populace. Peng suggests using Taiwan consciousness as a critical lens to inspect not only Taiwan’s New Literature movement of the past several decades, but also all literary works of the past three hundred years since the rule of the Dutch and Zheng Chenggong. This viewpoint was developed, without a doubt, out of the debate on nativist literature. More precisely: to assess a work of Taiwanese literature, one should begin with the historical context and actual circumstances that are intrinsic and foundational to the work itself. One should not observe and judge Taiwanese literature from grounds beyond the island of Taiwan. However, what is Taiwan consciousness? Writers in Taiwan are already paying close attention to this. From a pessimistic standpoint, Song Zelai offers a correct view: “What are the sentiments of Taiwanese people, or what are they as recorded by Taiwanese literature? I think the sentiments of the colonized are the most appropriate. . . . If this group of people feels what it is to be colonized, then they will definitely exhibit the behaviors of the colonized. These behaviors take on many forms, but the road from being a colony to being independent does not deviate from the path of resistance, rebellion, and liberation.” The sentiments of the colonized have driven native Taiwanese writers to create literary works of resistance and rebellion. According to Song Zelai, Taiwanese writers who have written works of resistance include Lai He, Yang Hua [1906–1936], Wu Zhuoliu, and Zhong Lihe, while Yang Kui rightly represents the rebellious mentality. From an optimistic standpoint, one could view Taiwan consciousness as a product of certain social and economic forces. Chen Shuhong offers the best analysis so far in Taiwan. According to him, Taiwan had not yet developed an island-wide economy before the mid-nineteenth century and stagnated as a settlement-style, self-sufficient economy. As a result, Taiwan only saw a strong Zhangzhou consciousness, Quanzhou consciousness, or Hakka consciousness. After it had occupied Taiwan, Japan facilitated the growth of the colonial empire with capitalist development and promoted corporate expansion all over the island. Taiwanese society and economy, in turn, achieved their initial integration. People across the island became united in a network of production, and, consequently, a Taiwan consciousness based on an island-wide sense of interdependence took shape. This long-term historical progression continued into the 1970s and later, when the development of an integrated economy impacted every aspect of Taiwanese society. Taiwan consciousness transformed into a source of irresistible momentum. As Chen Shuhong points out, the nativist literature movement and the democracy movement in Taiwan in the 1970s were both produced under the impact of the surging Taiwan consciousness. If one synthesized the respective views of Song Zelai and Chen Shuhong, one could view the crystallization of Taiwan consciousness as a consequence of

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not only social and economic constraints placed on the people of Taiwan, but also their will to resist these unjust constraints. Song’s view is static and passive, while Chen’s view is dynamic and proactive. The product of their interaction is what we commonly recognize as native Taiwanese consciousness. A literary work that takes Taiwanese consciousness as its foundation is generally known as nativist literature. The most eloquent argument presented by the advocates of nativist Taiwanese literature is their literary output. To bypass the concrete contents of Taiwanese literature, to label it as part of Chinese literature without any basis, and even to worry that Taiwanese literature would be relegated to the last chapter in the history of Chinese literature three hundred years from now—none of this should be taken seriously. Taiwan Literary Arts 86 (January 15, 1984): 11–40; reprinted in Zhan Hongzhi, Two Types of Literary Mind (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 61–71, translated by Chris Tong.

68. House of Salt—by Way of Introduction shi shu

A

t the end of the 1960s, when Taiwan’s young intellectuals loved to base their thoughts and opinions on existentialism and psychoanalysis, Li Ang was beginning to write fiction. At that time, she adamantly believed that she was trapped in an impossible situation. Besides enduring the difficulty of growing up, she was up against the most boring and yet important choice: the college entrance exam. To her, the choice was between continuing to tolerate the trivial and tedious life in a small village with boundless patience, and going to Taipei, which she imagined to be a world filled with Camus’ strangers. The latter, built on imagination and hearsay, was intoxicating, and, indeed, the Taipei in those days was filled with a lively and noisy band of modernist drummers and bugle players. Very soon, Li Ang would be exposed to their works and come under their spell. So, with the entrance exam fast approaching, between college guides and the words of the masters of the modern soul, she was determined to give it her all to win the battle for the sake of freedom of choice. In retrospect, she says that it felt like warding off an onslaught with one’s back against the sea. In those days she often quoted Camus’ retelling of the Sisyphus myth: once the hero of the absurd accepts the absurdity of his condition, his hard work never ends. Perhaps Li Ang believed that she understood the myth and was willing to accept her own hardship as a similar situation. What is different, however, is that Camus

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not only social and economic constraints placed on the people of Taiwan, but also their will to resist these unjust constraints. Song’s view is static and passive, while Chen’s view is dynamic and proactive. The product of their interaction is what we commonly recognize as native Taiwanese consciousness. A literary work that takes Taiwanese consciousness as its foundation is generally known as nativist literature. The most eloquent argument presented by the advocates of nativist Taiwanese literature is their literary output. To bypass the concrete contents of Taiwanese literature, to label it as part of Chinese literature without any basis, and even to worry that Taiwanese literature would be relegated to the last chapter in the history of Chinese literature three hundred years from now—none of this should be taken seriously. Taiwan Literary Arts 86 (January 15, 1984): 11–40; reprinted in Zhan Hongzhi, Two Types of Literary Mind (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 61–71, translated by Chris Tong.

68. House of Salt—by Way of Introduction shi shu

A

t the end of the 1960s, when Taiwan’s young intellectuals loved to base their thoughts and opinions on existentialism and psychoanalysis, Li Ang was beginning to write fiction. At that time, she adamantly believed that she was trapped in an impossible situation. Besides enduring the difficulty of growing up, she was up against the most boring and yet important choice: the college entrance exam. To her, the choice was between continuing to tolerate the trivial and tedious life in a small village with boundless patience, and going to Taipei, which she imagined to be a world filled with Camus’ strangers. The latter, built on imagination and hearsay, was intoxicating, and, indeed, the Taipei in those days was filled with a lively and noisy band of modernist drummers and bugle players. Very soon, Li Ang would be exposed to their works and come under their spell. So, with the entrance exam fast approaching, between college guides and the words of the masters of the modern soul, she was determined to give it her all to win the battle for the sake of freedom of choice. In retrospect, she says that it felt like warding off an onslaught with one’s back against the sea. In those days she often quoted Camus’ retelling of the Sisyphus myth: once the hero of the absurd accepts the absurdity of his condition, his hard work never ends. Perhaps Li Ang believed that she understood the myth and was willing to accept her own hardship as a similar situation. What is different, however, is that Camus

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firmly believed that the suffering Sisyphus was truly joyful and happy, whereas the battle left Li Ang with a “nameless” game of life whose existence was material for an endless joke but whose right to continue existing could not be denied for any good reason. With eloquent words, she recounts such experience in the seven short stories from “Flower Season” to “The Long-Distance Runner.” “Flower Season” is a self-directed drama that exposes the truth of life in the midst of what could be called the humdrum of everyday life. The plausible life of a sixteen-year-old girl combines traces of the fairy-tale world of the beautiful princess and the prince on a white horse, with burgeoning trepidation about sex. The message of the short story is this: in a world where it is almost certain that nothing new is going to happen, the order of that world dissolves in an instant of desire for rebellion. In the process of actually participating in the design of one’s life, the existential situation becomes clear: the possible combinations of the things and phenomena one encounters; the reorganization, accompanied by fear and confusion, of these things and phenomena into an alternative view of reality; and the subsequent distress and exhaustion as the original order returns and life goes on as before. We can regard this story as a prelude to the drama of Li Ang’s creative life. From the work written in the same period, we can see that her narrative consciousness is basically a search for unresolved situations and experiences of loss of control that evoke the same fear and unease as in “Flower Season.” This tendency, as each story dwells on and investigates a different question, naturally develops into a sleight-of-hand performance pivoted on the psychological realities of everyday life. Taken separately, each story is a disconnected nightmare with its own beginning and ending arising out of exaggerated fragments of internal drama. However, when we consider their central ideas and plot structures, we begin to see that these stories represent the same psychological situation and make up a story cycle. Thus we may say that Li Ang’s writings of this period were caught in a stalemate created by the shadow of the college entrance exam and her attempt to escape. In technique, “Flower Season” attests to the already considerable talent of Li Ang. Her refreshingly detached method of expression, her narrative clarity, and, even more important, her analytic ability to deal with a situation by laying out things and objects and showing how each, when approached from different angles, relates to the whole, makes the story highly persuasive. These characteristics, plus her absorption of the spirit of post–World War II fiction in the West and her continual exposure to existentialism and psychoanalysis, inevitably guided her toward symbolist fiction (which limited her at the same time). This is evident from simply looking at the titles of her stories. Generally speaking, Li Ang’s world is weird and implausible. The characters find themselves in some absurd and unhappy situations, which in turn reveal to us the writer’s worldview and life experience, as in “The Wedding,” “Recollections from Point Zero,” and “The Curvaceous Dolly.” Beyond these, she sometimes mixes in her own interpretations or gives a plausible rationale, such as in “Mixed Chorus”

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and “Sea Voyage.” Stories written in this vein are run-of-the-mill modernist literature fare, with such themes as clash between the self and the external world, suspicions, anguish, fear, and domination. There is no need to further analyze these ideas here; what we need to discuss is the methods by which Li Ang expresses these unhappy experiences and relationships in her fiction. . . . As I said earlier, the stories from “Flower Season” to “The Long-Distance Runner” belong to the same cycle. From the above discussion, we can see that these stories all point to a dark and shadowy situation that is personally related to the protagonist and needs to be resolved. The protagonist did not anticipate such a situation, nor is its resolution up to his or her will. From Li Ang’s persistent return to “will”—what the characters in her stories repeatedly declare as the necessity of destiny—we can see that it reflects her state of mind under the pressure of the college entrance exam. On top of that, the inevitable anxiety and unhappiness during adolescence would have been a nightmare; add to that the guidance and elaboration of the modernist consciousness, and we have a situation that is out of control. Thus, we have this group of stories that begin with truancy and end with the mad dash of the long-distance runner toward the jungle of human morality. In between, we have at times satires against social conventions, at times struggles with the Gospels or some foreign religion; we even pay a scary visit to the abyss of human nature. No matter what the situation, they always revolve around the question of how to resolve a present difficulty, and the protagonists sink deeper and deeper into a state of anxiety and confusion as they are attacked by growing hostility and alienation. What we see then is a marathon into the human mind. With each step, the runner wanders further away from reality as we know it into the world of fiction. At the beginning, we can still recognize familiar things from everyday life, such as a winter day in the countryside, a florist, a crossroads without traffic lights, and so on, but at the end we are totally engulfed in the cultish world of the story, where only psychological realities exist. It is in a world like this, where reality and social order are left behind and the marathon runner, having changed her pose many times, finds her balance and therapeutic healing for the psychological convulsions that were brought about by the pressures of living in the real world. Therefore, at the very end of that world of running, she finds herself back at square one. Her hometown is here. A fantastic infrared handgun writes the logical conclusion to her fantastic psychological journey. The marathon runner’s running-for-dear-life mind-set, brought about by psychological pressures, is manifested in the maze-like structure of the story. Other than the flashback in “The Long-Distance Runner,” several stories begin with ordinary, everyday events with ordinary, believable descriptions that lead the reader along until, all of a sudden, they are replaced, in rapid succession, by weird things and abnormal situations. Suspicion and innuendo are introduced into the narrative to disrupt the sense of certainty with which the story begins. From this point on, the narrative proceeds in suspense, in anticipation

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of something untoward happening. In this inevitable and inescapable state of mind, the first-person narrative, composed of the protagonist’s thoughts and queries, turns into a doubting and guessing activity or a maze of words (écriture labyrinthine). The narrative tries to find a way out by constantly changing direction between anticipation and obstruction until the story ends. The structure echoes the motifs of running and pursuit recurrent in these stories. It, too, reflects Li Ang’s psychological reality at this stage of her creative writing. For this reason, it can only take the form of a nightmare, and its complexities are determined by psychological conditions. Generally speaking, it takes on two basic characteristics: the gradual loss of the sense of time and direction, and repetitions of and variations on a scene. All this takes place in an enclosed environment, such as the loft in “The Wedding,” the hall in “Thorus,” the bedroom and basement in “The Curvaceous Dolly,” and the black forest in “The LongDistance Runner,” corresponding respectively to the recurring female vegetable vendor, chorus, dolly, and punishment, all of which are variations on the same theme. Of all the pieces, “Sea Voyage” is the most representative of the narrative structure. . . . When the suspense is over and everything is in the past, these labyrinthine worlds perhaps represent nothing more than an empty form, but the characters in the stories are still trapped in them, unable to find exits. For them, these labyrinths are terrifying “houses of salt.” There is a description of houses of salt in “The Long-Distance Runner.” Of all the prisons in which the protagonist has been confined, this one is the hardest to bear and most terrifying. According to him, it is a many-sided structure made up of tiny particles of salt: Its interior is narrow and many-sided. It is much brighter than I imagined; from the cracks in the walls, sunbeams seep through and form a web of light. It bounces off the white salt wall and jabs my eyes, causing much pain with its brightness. . . . Through those cracks through which light comes in, I cannot see clearly what is on the outside. Every day, I am faced with the white salt. Tiny though the grains of salt are, they are hard and cruel, greedily sucking water from my body to feed the growing mass and take over more and more space, which oppresses me further. Upon waking each day, I feel that the walls are inching closer and closer and the space in which I can move around is getting smaller and smaller. The sharp corners of the many-sided walls poke me and wound me. No matter how I sit, stand, or lie on my back, they can touch me, penetrate my skin, melt into my body, even as my blood runs out, and make their way into my cells, attacking each and every one of them and causing excruciating pain. While this is going on, I try to escape by using my hands to dig at the grains of salt to try to make a hole, but they seem endless, and I can never dig my way out. . . .

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Such is the house of salt, the prison that both symbolizes Li Ang’s fictional world and her inner world at this stage of her life; its structure and movement govern the development and composition of both. History and society have the power to determine all things. While they rob the younger generation of the opportunity to compose their lives into a marching tune, they reward them with the myth of self-discovery. This is a lonely and endless game that requires patience. The above-mentioned house of salt without an outlet sums up Li Ang’s effort toward this end in the past couple of years. In her work, we witness the contradiction between the self and the conditions reality imposes on it. Having been turned inside out, one either appears inevitably as reverse consciousness or concludes, with no rhyme or reason, in an unresolved, comic mode. Thus, as products of self-discovery, these stories can only exist with the contradiction by reversal, in other words, by sacrificing water to the imaginary house of salt, which possesses an absurd beauty and power, and legitimizing it with this gift. The harmony of breeze and moonlight, the marriage of Heaven and Earth that she seeks in “Moon Chase” later on would certainly not resolve this spiritual crisis, because all she does is cover up her tragic consciousness with the unnecessary rehearsal and happy ending of a comedy. It is all to the good then that she decided to end it here for now. This way, we may see her finally dig her way out of the house of salt of her adolescence that has kept her imprisoned. Li Ang, Flower Season (Taipei: Hongfan Bookstore, 1985), 5–18, translated by Susan Dolling.

69. Flaws and Mercy—Preface to The Mulberry Sea yua n qiongqiong

A

small-scale perfectionist, I have various and sundry ingrained habits. I use only one particular brand of lined paper and use only one particular pattern. I write with only the kind of ballpoint pen to which I am accustomed. I can write only at my own desk, only after one in the morning, and only after drinking two cups of coffee. I am extremely sensitive to certain things: the texture and hue of the paper, the thickness of the pen point, the fluidity with which it touches the paper, the brightness of the lamplight, the color of the table. . . . These all affect my writing. In daily life, I cannot abide coarse sounds or chaotic colors. I cannot abide superficial civilities. Bogged down in

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Such is the house of salt, the prison that both symbolizes Li Ang’s fictional world and her inner world at this stage of her life; its structure and movement govern the development and composition of both. History and society have the power to determine all things. While they rob the younger generation of the opportunity to compose their lives into a marching tune, they reward them with the myth of self-discovery. This is a lonely and endless game that requires patience. The above-mentioned house of salt without an outlet sums up Li Ang’s effort toward this end in the past couple of years. In her work, we witness the contradiction between the self and the conditions reality imposes on it. Having been turned inside out, one either appears inevitably as reverse consciousness or concludes, with no rhyme or reason, in an unresolved, comic mode. Thus, as products of self-discovery, these stories can only exist with the contradiction by reversal, in other words, by sacrificing water to the imaginary house of salt, which possesses an absurd beauty and power, and legitimizing it with this gift. The harmony of breeze and moonlight, the marriage of Heaven and Earth that she seeks in “Moon Chase” later on would certainly not resolve this spiritual crisis, because all she does is cover up her tragic consciousness with the unnecessary rehearsal and happy ending of a comedy. It is all to the good then that she decided to end it here for now. This way, we may see her finally dig her way out of the house of salt of her adolescence that has kept her imprisoned. Li Ang, Flower Season (Taipei: Hongfan Bookstore, 1985), 5–18, translated by Susan Dolling.

69. Flaws and Mercy—Preface to The Mulberry Sea yua n qiongqiong

A

small-scale perfectionist, I have various and sundry ingrained habits. I use only one particular brand of lined paper and use only one particular pattern. I write with only the kind of ballpoint pen to which I am accustomed. I can write only at my own desk, only after one in the morning, and only after drinking two cups of coffee. I am extremely sensitive to certain things: the texture and hue of the paper, the thickness of the pen point, the fluidity with which it touches the paper, the brightness of the lamplight, the color of the table. . . . These all affect my writing. In daily life, I cannot abide coarse sounds or chaotic colors. I cannot abide superficial civilities. Bogged down in

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an occasion when everyone is polite but insipid, I invariably turn around and leave. These many years I have been a direct but ill-mannered person. I clearly show affection for people and things I like, and I clearly let people know when people and things annoy me. I am always dissatisfied with my written works. I love them, but I’m not satisfied, because I know where their imperfections lie. Yet The Mulberry Sea is the first collection with which I am satisfied. The reason I am satisfied is not because it is perfect—in fact it is still not quite perfect—but because I have come to understand that flaws are unavoidable, do what one may. Once I was chatting with [the singer] Cai Qin about my onlooker’s stance toward things and people. Even when it comes to matters concerning me, I have learned through practice to detach myself and avoid anger, obsession, and resentment. Therefore, my emotions are not easily aroused. At this point Ms. Cai asked a direct question: “Do you ever feel mercy?” Mencius said: “If you uncover the true circumstances, then feel compassion but do not be pleased.”1 I have previously quoted this line in a book, but my understanding then was different from my understanding now. At the time, I thought that I understood compassion; I know now that I’ve managed only to “not be pleased.” Knowing where my own flaws lie is undeniably a kind of progress. And I know there are flaws in the world that leave people powerless and unable to manage—I always thought I knew this, but now at last I understand my lack of understanding. I still haven’t reached the serenity of accepting the fact that flaws are everywhere in the world. I have managed only not to be pleased. Yet I hope that tolerance will come in the end. Through accepting flaws, perhaps one day I can understand mercy. The Mulberry Sea (Taipei: Hongfan Bookstore, 1985), 1–4, translated by Sabina Knight.

note 1.

The quotation does not seem to come from Mencius but appears in the Confucian Analects (XIX.19). The passage describes Master Zeng’s advice to a newly appointed official. Blaming moral lapses among superiors for disorder, Master Zeng counsels the official that if he uncovers the circumstances of criminal cases, he should feel compassion but not be pleased with himself.

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70. The Translingual Generation of Poets: Beginning with the Silver Bell Society l in he ngtai F O U N D I N G O F S I LV E R B E L L The Silver Bell Society was active for six or seven years, from 1943 to 1949, which coincided with the defeat of Japan and the return of Taiwan to China. The level of political turmoil and economic collapse in this period had seldom been seen in the history of Taiwan. Yet during those trying years, a group of young people worked diligently and without compromise to create literature. Because of them, this period in Taiwan’s literary history is not a void. Looking back today, we ought to recognize their unique significance. The Silver Bell Society was founded by three classmates at Taizhong First Senior High: Zhang Yanxun, Zhu Shi, and Xu Shiqing. Initially, they would bind all of their drafts together and pass the bound collection around among themselves. Once they each had a chance to read the drafts, they would discuss them. This method is basic and natural for young people who love literature. As economically powerless students, they could not afford to do more—particularly at the end of the Pacific War, when material conditions were extremely dismal. Later, when membership increased to more than ten, they switched to mimeograph and began putting out the journal Fuchigusa, meaning “frontier grass” in Japanese. Although there were altogether ten issues, the only extant issue was published on June 20, 1945, merely two months before Japan’s surrender and Taiwan’s new beginning. . . .

P O E T S O F T H E T R A N S L I N G U A L G E N E R AT I O N For writers, understanding of the world comes through language, and language is the concrete manifestation of the spirit and characteristics of a people. In other words, when you use a particular language, you are identifying with a particular people. Yes, reality cannot be represented directly. Writers must don the tinted lenses of a language with the distinctive characteristics of the people who use that language; otherwise they won’t be able to represent reality. It was precisely because language has such unique importance that Izama Shuji [1851–1917], the first minister of education appointed by the governor-general, rejected the suggestion put forth by the British missionary Thomas Barclay [1849–1935] for a Taiwanese education for the Taiwanese people. Instead, Izama resolutely championed a policy of national language education. As is well known, this

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policy immediately faced armed resistance from the people. On the evening of December 31, 1895, Chen Qiuju led an attack on the city of Taipei. At the Jilong River, they blocked the way and slaughtered the “six gentlemen”—six Japanese instructors at Zhishan School in Shilin—who were on their way down the mountain for the New Year. They were the most capable assistants to Izama Shuji. When the Institute for National Language Training was founded in 1896, the first edict was to “educate [Taiwanese people] in Japanese for use in everyday life, with the chief purpose of cultivating the Japanese spirit.” This edict was the core of Izawa Shuji’s policy. After armed resistance was suppressed, the Taiwanese people used Chinese as a form of resistance, but eventually even Chinese was banned. I remember that the year I enrolled in elementary school was the year when the public school system canceled Chinese classes. I was very disappointed. After this, the greatest form of resistance was to try our best to preserve Taiwanese accents, even though we had to speak Japanese at school. At that time, if a Taiwanese spoke Japanese like a Japanese, people would mock him for having a “dog accent.” Naturally, as soon we got home, we immediately and happily switched to speaking Taiwanese. In this way, we lived what Professor Dai Guohui [1931–2001] has called a “dual linguistic life” (see Dai Guohui, Conversations with the Japanese).1 However, in the last years of the Pacific War, Japan implemented the National Language Household policy, forcing Taiwanese people to use Japanese not only at school but also at home. Families had to speak Japanese throughout the day. The government offered material incentives to lure people into following the policy. A plaque that read “National Language Household” would be hung on the door of any home that complied. Families that received the plaque enjoyed rice, meat, and other food rations on par with the Japanese. Mr. Wu Yongfu [1913–2008] and Mr. Chen Qianwu [Huan Fu] have both written about the changing of names. However, the effect of name change on Taiwanese compatriots was superficial and external. The National Language Household policy, in contrast, sought to use language—that is, fundamental ways of thinking and the structure of the psyche—to transform Taiwanese people in their essence. This was the smartest move. Hence, the happiest moment in my life was when, shortly after Retrocession, I volunteered to teach Taiwanese at a Japanese elementary school. I wanted to teach those Japanese boys and girls, who used to have a superior attitude as conquerors, the very Taiwanese language that they had wanted to destroy. I did it out of a vengeful mind-set. . . . When Taiwan was returned to China, members of the Silver Bell Society were all about twenty years old. Unlike their older peers, who had been exposed to Chinese in their primary education, the Silver Bell generation grew up during the strictest enforcement of policies for Japanese language instruction. For this reason, to cast off the chains of language hegemony and to overcome it, they had to infuse Taiwan consciousness within the Japanese language. However, after Retrocession when they were no longer forced to speak Japanese, they

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faced the loss of a linguistic medium in which they were proficient. Once again they resolved to make another leap—to renew their study of Chinese and make breakthroughs in the expressive capacity of Chinese. This is very difficult, especially for people who are no longer young. This is why I have coined the phrase “the translingual generation” to refer to them. After returning home from his first visit to Taiwan, the Japanese poet Takahashi Kikuharu wrote an essay entitled “Poets of Taiwan,” published in Poetics (September 1967) in Tokyo, with the subtitle “The Translingual Generation of Poets.” However, when this phrase appeared in the essay, he added the well-intentioned explanation that actually they were not a generation that crossed over language so much as a generation that was crossed over by language. In all honesty, they were almost crossed over by these two languages many times, but more and more facts testify that in the end they were triumphant. This is why I propose to call them the generation that crosses over language. Bamboo Hat 127 (June 1985): 230–36, translated by Hayes Moore.

note 1.

Conversations with the Japanese: Japan, Chinese Taiwan, and Asia (Tokyo: Social Thought Society, 1971), 102.

71. Heralding a Taiwanese Dawn: Introducing Lin Shuangbu, Novelist of the New Generation, and Appraising Taiwan’s Enfeebled Fiction song ze l ai THE BARBAROUS EAST AND THE CALL F O R H U M A N R I G H T S I N TA I W A N After the brutal persecutions in early 1947, a long period of anguish and oppression shrouded Taiwan until the end of 1979, when a widespread and incisive reaction to the unjust rule arose. The chain of events and bloodshed that followed radically transformed popular sentiment and thinking in Taiwan. Like a river of blood, the Zhongli Incident [1977], the Formosa Incident [1979], [the 1981 murder of ] Chen Wencheng [1950–1981], [the 1980 murder of the family of ] Lin Yixiong [b. 1941], and an untold number of unjust imprisonments passed before our very eyes, and the public bore witness to these profound tragedies

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faced the loss of a linguistic medium in which they were proficient. Once again they resolved to make another leap—to renew their study of Chinese and make breakthroughs in the expressive capacity of Chinese. This is very difficult, especially for people who are no longer young. This is why I have coined the phrase “the translingual generation” to refer to them. After returning home from his first visit to Taiwan, the Japanese poet Takahashi Kikuharu wrote an essay entitled “Poets of Taiwan,” published in Poetics (September 1967) in Tokyo, with the subtitle “The Translingual Generation of Poets.” However, when this phrase appeared in the essay, he added the well-intentioned explanation that actually they were not a generation that crossed over language so much as a generation that was crossed over by language. In all honesty, they were almost crossed over by these two languages many times, but more and more facts testify that in the end they were triumphant. This is why I propose to call them the generation that crosses over language. Bamboo Hat 127 (June 1985): 230–36, translated by Hayes Moore.

note 1.

Conversations with the Japanese: Japan, Chinese Taiwan, and Asia (Tokyo: Social Thought Society, 1971), 102.

71. Heralding a Taiwanese Dawn: Introducing Lin Shuangbu, Novelist of the New Generation, and Appraising Taiwan’s Enfeebled Fiction song ze l ai THE BARBAROUS EAST AND THE CALL F O R H U M A N R I G H T S I N TA I W A N After the brutal persecutions in early 1947, a long period of anguish and oppression shrouded Taiwan until the end of 1979, when a widespread and incisive reaction to the unjust rule arose. The chain of events and bloodshed that followed radically transformed popular sentiment and thinking in Taiwan. Like a river of blood, the Zhongli Incident [1977], the Formosa Incident [1979], [the 1981 murder of ] Chen Wencheng [1950–1981], [the 1980 murder of the family of ] Lin Yixiong [b. 1941], and an untold number of unjust imprisonments passed before our very eyes, and the public bore witness to these profound tragedies

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and collective tribulations. We were jolted awake and asked ourselves: What was it all for in the end? What did these terrifying episodes teach us? Since 1980, poetry, fiction, and prose in Taiwan have developed along this [line of inquiry]. Indeed, the series of events after 1979 are manifestly significant in the history of Taiwanese literature. Literature was cut open with a knife, as the blood of history erupted, and writers realized for the first time that instead of ink on the desktop, they should dip their pens in the spilled blood in society and on Earth. Individual subjectivity retreated from literature and was replaced with the people’s cries. As Taiwanese writers began writing in this mode, the literature of human rights became the mainstream. It explored two facets of human rights. The first is a diachronic investigation that probes ever more deeply into history and human nature, exposing the truth in one fell stroke. For instance, Shi Mingzheng’s [1945–1988] philosophical poetry addresses the Asian humanity of the mystical yin-yang, the duality of human nature locked in conflict and unfolding with brutal ambivalence, like a hunting dog hiding in the dark waiting to kill a weak and innocent prey. . . . The other kind of human rights literature extends its feelers into everyday life with the intention of collecting evidence of injustice and calling public attention to it, so as to galvanize support. Prominent examples of this kind are the new feminism of Lü Xiulian [b. 1944] and the fiction of Lin Shuangbu [b. 1950]. I have written an essay introducing Lü’s fiction in which I briefly touch on the new feminist literature, so here I will introduce Lin’s fiction. A novelist of the new generation, Lin’s literature of human rights is rooted in the countryside but expands into the world of education and eventually to every level of social politics. Every day it seems to grow more and more robust and is quite spectacular. When citing recent fiction writers, it is impossible not to mention him. Indeed, human rights literature will develop further. But before deepening our understanding of the new generation of human rights writers like Lin Shuangbu, we should pay attention to the various impediments they face. . . .

E N F E E B L E D L I T E R AT U R E I N A C H A O T I C W O R L D Besides the Guomindang [GMD, Nationalist Party], three literary styles pose a barrier to the current human rights literature in Taiwan. . . . I call it enfeebled literature, which consists of three types.

1. The “No Problem” G rou p This group of literati is perhaps best represented by Dai Guohui; they are also referred to as cultural figures with leftist tendencies. However, I take their selfproclaimed leftist ideology to be false. To date, we have not seen Dai and his ilk

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apply leftist thought to the discourse on Taiwanese literature. Their views not only differ from the traditional left wing in Taiwan but even contradict leftist thought. Their most salient feature, I am afraid, is their diligent work on the ideology of unification. But even as a unification theory, theirs does not differ from the kind that says, “There are no Taiwanese problems, there are only Chinese problems.” It is a disgrace for an author to hold this view, and it is especially hard to imagine how anyone who has ever walked on the land of Taiwan can deny problems exist. Even if they overlook history since Zheng Chenggong of the Ming dynasty, surely they must have seen the blood of children. Even if they ignore international opinions, surely they must have seen shackles and chains. How can there be no problems? They have witnessed the people’s suffering with wide-open eyes. In my view, their perspective on the struggle for democracy and human rights in recent years in Taiwan is perverse, lazy, and full of enmity. I cannot detect any criticism that Dai Guohui and his crowd put forth in response to the political trials, murders, and increasingly restrictive administrative structure since the 1980s. Yet, they sharply rebuke the growing consciousness of self-determination and scheme to conflate the human rights– centered self-determination movement with the political movement for Taiwan independence. In each and every aspect, their ignorance of freedom, equality, and justice is obvious. I still cannot figure out, as cultural figures or literary authors, what value systems they espouse and what their goal of existence is. I can discern, however, that they are certainly not on the side of justice and goodness. . . . Unfortunately, they have never walked among the lowest classes in society, having none of the spirit of self-sacrifice seen in Tolstoy in his later years, not to mention Chekhov. They work in the business world and employ a kind of mercantile perspective to play tricks with people’s happiness and reality, unequivocally working to accord Taiwan the status I refer to as “No problem.” If this is not the thinking of a comprador, what is? My words also hold true for Chen Yingzhen. (Writing these words pains me greatly; his support of my writing has been considerable. Nevertheless, I want to remind him that since he regards himself as a humanist writer, he should withdraw from this wicked world and be a true gentleman of justice. . . . ). . . .

2. The C r aven B lowh a r d s This epithet refers to the cheap tricks of the Bamboo Hat clique. Since 1980, this group of old-fashioned literati who formed a meaningless literary society [in 1964] has been an impediment to the burgeoning human rights literature, and we can say that they have done this with conscious effort. The Bamboo Hat Poetry Journal has vilified political poetry—precisely the kind of poetry that is fully committed to the democracy movement and human rights—nonstop since

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1980. Records of the so-called symposia in the poetry journal are innumerable smears and attacks. They take turns mouthing the most filthy and despicable words in such a way that one feels ashamed on their behalf. Their behavior is similar to someone who undergoes self-hypnosis and cannot wake up. It sends two alarming messages: (1) these old-fashioned literati are woefully inadequate in humanistic knowledge and understanding of democracy, and (2) they have a shockingly debilitated mentality. Last year, Bamboo Hat published an utterly senseless essay in the form of a foreword by Chen Qianwu that disparaged the use of the word “Formosa” in my poetry as similar to [the songwriter] Liu Jiachang’s use of “plum blossoms.” If Chen does not love Song Zelai’s poetry, it is a simple matter. He can shout: “Fuck Song Zelai! I hate his poetry, it’s terrible!” You can say it a thousand times. It was not like this, though, as Chen purposefully equated me with the infamous Liu Jiachang. We know language has suggestive implications. Why must he force people to wonder if Song Zelai is a scoundrel like Liu, or if Song writes poetry for profit (or at least for the movies)? . . . In truth, [Chen’s] lies have the sole aim of ingratiating himself with the GMD so as to win back the directorship of the Taizhong Cultural Center. In those stormy days when political poetry was still a fledgling, it was attacked from all directions, while the Bamboo Hat poets repeatedly toadied up to the GMD and declared their stance. They claimed that the great poets of the Bamboo Hat were part of the mainstream of the poetry scene; along with the other two poetry groups, they formed the three leading schools and had nothing to do with those bums who wrote political poetry. . . . But it is not just the poets. In the world of fiction, Ye Shitao is also vigilant toward political literature. Perhaps Ye’s humanistic learning and literary cultivation are no less than those of the Bamboo Hat group, but I don’t think he has a good literary sense. His fatal flaw is that his artistic judgment is coarse and unsophisticated, and he has a vulgar temperament, which is a major inadequacy. As a result, his creative work is not up to par, and his literary history is a hodgepodge of popular literature. He always warns against strong politics. How pitiful that he maintains such a view on recent political literature! . . .

3. The Misty-Flower Pa sser s- by Since 1980, a corrosive trend has emerged in Taiwanese literature. Using print media and television to promote sales, this trend was an overnight sensation. A style characterized by misty flowers and coy giggles has swept across the cultural landscape, fluttered into the hearts of innocent and naive youth, and filled every nook with its corrosive effects. Before and during [the fad], such women writers as San Mao [1943–1991] and Xi Murong [b. 1943] were ubiquitous in bookstalls. We know this literary trend is abnormal. . . . In literary quality and substance,

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these writers are even lower than high school students. Consequently, their works can only numb the students’ power of discernment. High school students are already under much pressure to advance to college and do not have time to think about society. This kind of misty-flower literature further takes away the time they need for contemplation and turns them into mindless children. How pitiful it is that these women who write about wandering and melancholy are all over forty. They have forgotten that the majority of Asian women are still oppressed by the social system and have neglected to write truthfully about wise parenting. Instead, at the advanced age of forty, they spew the cloying words of seventeen year-olds. Young people assume that these are the works of their peers and get hooked on them, sinking into the illusory world of wandering and whispers, unable to free themselves of its spell. . . . On the other hand, such male overseas scholars as Yang Mu continue to employ old conventions and publish effete essays in newspapers and magazines. In my limited understanding, since 1980, almost every overseas Taiwanese scholar has condemned [the violation of ] human rights in Taiwan. Yang Mu is one of the few who have not publicly expressed an opinion. His writing about “interchanges” [in a Taiwanese newspaper column] is characterized by an antiquated mind-set and an ostentatious style. He has been away from Taiwan for almost twenty years and is not familiar with what is going on here. On the subjects of democracy and international affairs, he is not necessarily more knowledgeable than a soybean milk vendor, yet he writes self-deluding, leisurely essays. Why doesn’t he return to Taiwan to learn something instead? He is already forty-five or forty-six, yet we have not seen any masculine qualities in his work. The times are leaving him behind mercilessly, but he is still loafing about. What is frightening is the harm he does to the literary youth with his pubescent literature of misty flowers, and I have never heard him express any objection to it. Literature of misty flowers goes beyond this, since it is promoted by newspapers. Not long ago, the Unitas Literary Monthly (a subsidiary of the United Daily News Group) published some rotten accounts about courtesans and writers. To my surprise, among those who accepted the invitation to attend the gathering were some veteran writers from the period of Japanese occupation. They competed with one another to recount their own romantic past, even claiming that literature and courtesans were inseparable. What did they think they were doing? They should have known that nowadays people view pleasure quarters as indecent. From these published accounts, readers assume that all Taiwanese writers during Japanese occupation were lechers. Over the past few years, have we not been holding Lai He, Yang Kui, Yang Hua, and Wu Zhuoliu up as paragons of incorruptible intellectuals in Taiwanese literature? Taiwan Literary Arts 98 (January 15, 1986): 43–60, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

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72. Sacrificing a Life to Literature Is Nothing to Boast About z hong z haoz h eng

I

t has been exactly ten years since Zhuoliu passed away on October 7, 1976. When I published The Poet of Blood and Iron: Wu Zhuoliu, written by Lü Xingchang, I wrote a short preface with these opening words: Counting on my fingers, I realize that Wu Zhuoliu has been gone for seven and a half years already. During this time, how many painful and heartbreaking moments have I endured? The longer I live, the more pain I feel. Perhaps it is a foreboding of old age. As I remember Mr. Wu’s voice and face, I have too many thoughts and feelings . . . Another two years have flown by; pain and sorrow have increased rather than faded, and I miss this literary giant even more fervently. Fortunately, Mr. Wu’s reputation has grown greater than during his lifetime, and his spirit, his neverfailing struggle for literature, enjoys worldwide recognition and veneration too. To offer but one example, his posthumous work, The Fig, was first published in Taiwan Literary Arts in the April, July, and October issues in 1968 (nos. 19–21). It was immediately banned when Linbai released it as a single volume. But in 1984, it was published in the United States by the Taiwanese community and was widely popular among them. Unexpectedly, a new edition was once again banned last year as it went to press. It must be rare for a book to be published and banned again and again. It also indicates the high regard in which Wu’s book is held. The first time I heard Mr. Wu mention the plan to write The Fig was in 1966 or 1967. At the time, his journal Taiwan Literary Arts (launched in 1964) had been in circulation for two or three years. Although it was hard work to run a magazine, he was immersed in the work with no regard for his own health. His creative output, which had been halted for many years, also suddenly took off. One day, he came by to chat, as he often did, and mentioned that he was ready to write about the February 28th Incident, but he was at a loss as to how to begin. I could not help but be stunned and turned pale when I heard his plan. In those days, one could write about most anything, but the February 28th Incident remained a taboo among taboos. Nobody dared touch it! My generation had lived through that earthshaking catastrophe and suffered in the days of terror that followed in its wake. It was not a lingering memory of horror but a terror whose color had yet to fade. I knew that Mr. Wu had risked his life writing The Orphan of Asia during Japanese colonization. Could it be that the old man was up to his old tricks?

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“Writing something and then stashing it away is meaningless. I believe there will be a way, surely there will be a way. The question is the mode of expression.” To be honest, I did not understand what he was thinking. At the time, for me at least, the thought of writing about the February 28th Incident had never crossed my mind. During the [Pacific] war, I had found myself in places where death lurked waiting for opportunities to strike; I had stayed self-possessed when enemy planes fired shots at low altitudes; without blanching I had seen comrades next to me rendered a contorted mass of blood and flesh in an instant. Now at middle age, did I become cowardly as a mouse? As I mull it over today, this is probably why Mr. Wu is a literary giant. Even now, when I think of that day when he spoke loquaciously, I am all too aware of my own insignificance and timidity. After some time, Mr. Wu visited me again. This time he was visibly happy and excitedly told me that he had a concrete plan and was ready to write the novel. I asked for more details, but he only smiled without answering the question. All he said was that soon he would show me the result. That was the original draft of The Fig, which was serialized in Taiwan Literary Arts. Just as Wu had expected, throughout the serialization things were calm. Mr. Wu himself never encountered any trouble. In fact, my worries were unwarranted. As the novel says in the opening: “Among them, we must reflect on the February 28th Incident.” After pointing out the theme, it goes on to say “[but] in order to understand the truth of the incident, we must investigate the distant causes.” And to get to the bottom, “it is necessary to examine the situation of the Taiwanese people under Japanese rule.” Consequently, based on his own experience, what he had seen and heard, the book begins with the Sino-Japanese War in 1895 and carries on for 100,000 characters. With less than 10,000 characters remaining toward the end, the novel describes the February 28th Incident. In other words, for the sake of a short section of fewer than 10,000 characters, he wrote 90,000 characters about the distant and immediate causes of the incident. I think this is the mode of expression he came up with after much deliberation. It is unfortunate that, while things remained calm throughout the serialization, and the author did not get into trouble, not long after it was issued as a single volume it met the fate of censorship. In October 1977, it had been one year since Wu passed away. Locally, the first anniversary of death is known as Pair Year, an especially solemn day of mourning. [Zhang] Liangze came all the way from Tainan and rushed to my place. He told me that he wanted to make a sacrificial offering to Mr. Wu on the first anniversary. Mr. Wu’s old home was in Damaopu in Xinpu township, not far from where I lived, about a ten-minute bus ride. I gladly went along with him. When we located Mr. Wu’s tomb, we bowed and offered silent prayers. Liangze burned a set of books that he had brought with him. It was the sixvolume Collected Works of Wu Zhuoliu, recently published by Yuanxing Press in September. Liangze was the editor of the collection, and it was clear that he

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worked hard to compile it and bring it to press so expeditiously. To be able to place it on the tomb on the first anniversary was the best offering. I was happy for Mr. Wu. The only imperfection was that the original plan was to publish Complete Works of Wu Zhuoliu; but because it was impossible to include The Fig, and Taiwan Forsythia was unfinished, the collection in the end was incomplete and had to be renamed Collected Works of Wu Zhuoliu when it went to press. Still, for our sad literary scene, such a collection was pretty good. For any Taiwanese who was easily satisfied, there was no reason not to be happy for Wu. . . . Liangze and I also talked about the manuscript of Taiwan Forsythia that day. The first half had already been serialized in Taiwan Literary Arts (nos. 39–45). At the end of the final installment in issue 45 was the word “Unfinished,” but there was no more. In fact, while Mr. Wu was still alive, he had given me the rest of the manuscript, but at that time he was unwilling to have it published. He had given me a photocopy; at the end was half a page written with a ballpoint pen. It recounted the process of writing the story and concluded with this sentence: “Chapters 1–8 of Taiwan Forsythia have already been published in Taiwan Literary Arts, but I leave the remainder for others to publish in ten or twenty years.” He clearly handled the publication of Taiwan Forsythia differently from the publication of The Fig. He sought a publisher for the latter, but the way he handled Taiwan Forsythia was the same as The Orphan of Asia; he would wait for another day to publish it. Taiwan Forsythia still adopts the form of memoir, and the emphasis is naturally the February 28th Incident. I believe that the reason Mr. Wu chose to wait ten or twenty years for the release of the book lies in the fact that in the second half of the book he exposes the base things that some banshan did—because of them, almost all the Taiwanese elite were rounded up in that calamity.1 These are shocking, long-kept secrets. Whether they are true or false, I fear the day will never come for a clear answer. Even so, Mr. Wu committed to writing what he believed to be information from reliable sources, and we cannot deny its persuasive power. In any case, Mr. Wu’s precious record of the historical event alone gives it uncommon value and great importance. Let us call it a coincidence! Recently, some are debunking the false accusations against The Fig and calling for a lift of the ban on the book. I don’t know if this action will receive any enthusiastic response, but I feel in my heart that it really does not matter whether or not the ban is lifted. Mr. Wu’s spirit in heaven will probably respond with a smile. I would rather recall a couplet from one of Wu’s poems in a traditional form. Sacrificing a life to literature is nothing to boast about. Human life is like a dream, and a dream a flower.

Although the poem was written to mourn the passing of Mrs. Wu, it happens to express the essence of his literary aspirations throughout his life. Citing the poem

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on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of Mr. Wu’s death is not without meaning. I hope that our younger generation will continue to “sacrifice life for literature.” April 12, 1986 Wu Zhuoliu, Taiwan Forsythia (Taipei: Nanfang Congshu, 1987), 18–23, translated by Bert M. Scruggs.

note 1.

Banshan refers to those Taiwanese who went to the mainland to fight alongside the Nationalists during the War of Resistance against Japan (1937–1945).

73. A Painful Confession ye shi tao CHAPTER 1 . . . These sixty-some years of my life straddle two completely different periods. From childhood through early adolescence, I was educated and grew up under the giant shadow of Japan’s fascist militarism. Moreover, I completed my limited high school education under imperialistic rule and to the sounds of the fifes and drums of the Pacific War. What’s more, I also served as a second-class imperial soldier. After Japan was defeated, I retired as a first-class soldier, thanks to the Potsdam Declaration. So my life until age twenty was no different from that of Japanese men in their sixties today. The biggest difference is that, from the time I was a child, I was conscious that I was of Chinese ethnicity and that our ancestors came from China. It’s hard to say, though, whether a deep national spirit existed in me. I know only that I was like a person with a split personality. At school and on public social occasions, I had to speak Japanese and act Japanese in every gesture and every movement. Once home, we became different people. We left at the door everything Japanese and lived our traditional lifestyle. We spoke Taiwanese, prayed to our ancestors and gods, burned incense at temples, and occasionally listened to the inherited wisdom and stories that our elders told about the mainland. In 1945, when Taiwan was repatriated, we returned to the bosom of the motherland. This was the beginning of my new life. During the early period of repatriation, I encountered the worst brutality, desolation, and devastation of my life. Yet youth is strong and resilient; I was able to overcome various psychological

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on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of Mr. Wu’s death is not without meaning. I hope that our younger generation will continue to “sacrifice life for literature.” April 12, 1986 Wu Zhuoliu, Taiwan Forsythia (Taipei: Nanfang Congshu, 1987), 18–23, translated by Bert M. Scruggs.

note 1.

Banshan refers to those Taiwanese who went to the mainland to fight alongside the Nationalists during the War of Resistance against Japan (1937–1945).

73. A Painful Confession ye shi tao CHAPTER 1 . . . These sixty-some years of my life straddle two completely different periods. From childhood through early adolescence, I was educated and grew up under the giant shadow of Japan’s fascist militarism. Moreover, I completed my limited high school education under imperialistic rule and to the sounds of the fifes and drums of the Pacific War. What’s more, I also served as a second-class imperial soldier. After Japan was defeated, I retired as a first-class soldier, thanks to the Potsdam Declaration. So my life until age twenty was no different from that of Japanese men in their sixties today. The biggest difference is that, from the time I was a child, I was conscious that I was of Chinese ethnicity and that our ancestors came from China. It’s hard to say, though, whether a deep national spirit existed in me. I know only that I was like a person with a split personality. At school and on public social occasions, I had to speak Japanese and act Japanese in every gesture and every movement. Once home, we became different people. We left at the door everything Japanese and lived our traditional lifestyle. We spoke Taiwanese, prayed to our ancestors and gods, burned incense at temples, and occasionally listened to the inherited wisdom and stories that our elders told about the mainland. In 1945, when Taiwan was repatriated, we returned to the bosom of the motherland. This was the beginning of my new life. During the early period of repatriation, I encountered the worst brutality, desolation, and devastation of my life. Yet youth is strong and resilient; I was able to overcome various psychological

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obstacles, recognize the tendencies of the times, and continue bravely forward. God has protected me, allowing me at last to enter my remaining years like a candle in the wind. . . . I have pursued two kinds of work throughout my life: the public and the private. For my day job, I have worked as a primary school teacher for almost forty years. This work keeps me warm and fed, and provides me with the basic conditions of survival for human dignity. I’m ashamed to say that as a primary school teacher I am nothing to boast about. This is not to say that I’m a bad teacher, only in it for the money, but rather that in the world of primary education, I am just an ordinary, devoted teacher. The environment of primary education these past forty years cannot compare with society’s overall progress. The responsibility of teaching weighs down each teacher like an overloaded old ox that can barely catch its breath. I am now sixty-three, and every week I teach twenty-six hours of natural sciences and assume uncountable extra administrative duties. My patience has been worn thin, but fortunately love endures. When I think of innocent, adorable children, I cannot but drag this exhausted pile of bones to class every day. So as far as my day job goes, I can manage only to fulfill my responsibilities. My subconscious, however, can soar freely, ready at any moment to fight that other battle. My nights are when I can fight my true battles. I have to read myriad newspapers, magazines, and newly published books, and then pick up the pen to express all manner of sensible mumblings or impassioned denunciations brewing in my heart. At the same time, I also write about my research into the development of Taiwanese literature and my fervent dreams about the glorious future of humanity. This nocturnal toil brings me not happiness, but more melancholy, grief, and tears. Yet, I have somehow passed more than forty years of these long nights without ever becoming discouraged. It was an arduous process to switch from the Japanese of my youth to Chinese. It was also a process to cast aside the evil legacy of fascist militarism and accept scientific socialism, to go from scientific socialism to social democracy. In short, it’s as if my soul can only open to new understandings when guided by some kind of philosophy. So these random fragments of recollection should follow the evolution of my literary thought, supplemented by descriptions of the various authors of Chinese and foreign literatures who have enlightened me.

CHAPTER 2 . . . In my senior year of high school I read day and night. I practically read all the foreign and Chinese fiction that could be bought in colonial Taiwan at that time. Of course, Japanese literature was primary and foreign literature was secondary. Alas, this foreign literature included many works of Chinese literature. At the time, we still had to take one hour a week of Chinese. What the Japanese

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instructors taught was nothing but classical texts of loyalty, filial piety, chastity, and righteousness, such as Zhuge Liang’s “Expedition Petition” and Li Ling’s “Reply to Su Wu.” Their contents were for the most part similar to Gems of Classical Chinese Prose. So we had some understanding of classical Chinese literature and literary allusions. Most of the Japanese teachers had a decent level of Chinese and knew a thing or two about Chinese classics and history. At the time, I depended on Japanese translations to read that other area of Chinese literature made up of vernacular fiction. Except for Plum in the Golden Vase, I read all the major works: The Three Kingdoms, The Water Margin, Journey to the West, Quelling the Demons, and Dream of the Red Chamber. Even Lu Xun’s The True Story of Ah Q and Yu Dafu’s “Sinking” had Japanese translations. Even though I didn’t understand much of the late imperial and modern history of mainland China, through these several dozen works of traditional literature and of the 1930s, I could imagine the social situation on the mainland. To be honest, to understand the complex political situation of mainland China through the limited number of books of modern literature was nearly impossible. But the world these literary works evoked was not backward and barbarian as some ignorant Japanese slandered. At least I recognized that recent Chinese intellectuals were just like Taiwanese intellectuals, rich in doubt and reflection and full of concern about humanity’s welfare and future prospects. . . . The result of reading too much fiction was easy to see. Itching to show my skill, I began writing fiction in imitation of the authors I loved. I didn’t like the dominant realist and naturalist currents in recent Japanese literature. I preferred romantic literature with a strong story line, rich in fantasy, and full of vivid personality and individuality. My first piece of fiction was called “The Conquest of Taiwan,” and it used the monologue form to tell the story of the three generations of the Zhengs of the Ming dynasty.1 I worked out the plot by reading Neglected Formosa by the last Dutch governor Frederick Coyett. At the time, Taiwan had two journals of pure literature. The first was Taiwan Literary Arts, edited by the Japanese author Nishikawa Mitsuru; the other was Taiwan Literature, edited by the Taiwanese author Zhang Wenhuan. Of course, these journals were all in Japanese. I sent my manuscript to Taiwan Literary Arts. It wasn’t that I fancied the fact that it was run by a Japanese author, but rather that the journal’s aesthetic and romantic style quite suited my taste. I found the critical realist style of Taiwan Literature uninteresting and gloomy. Of course, as one can well imagine, my great virgin work was forever consigned to limbo. The piece was not published, but I did get to know the editor of Taiwan Literary Arts, the poet Nishikawa Mitsuru, who was a graduate of the French Literature Department of Waseda University. . . . My third piece of fiction was “A Letter from Mr. Lin,” written in imitation of the French author Alphonse Daudet’s short stories. Once again I sent it to Taiwan Literary Arts. This time Mr. Nishikawa Mitsuru showed unusual mercy. In April 1943, it appeared in [the journal]. At the time I was only eighteen. The month the story appeared, I at last graduated from the Second

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High School of Tainan and went to Taipei upon Mr. Nishikawa’s invitation to work as an editor for his journal. July that same year, I wrote another story called “Spring Lament,” which also appeared in Taiwan Literary Arts. This time I imitated not Daudet but André Gide’s La porte étroite (Strait Is the Gate). Under Mr. Nishikawa, I learned the basic conditions for being a writer. A writer must live earnestly, get along frugally, and diligently write until death. In a word, a writer must be a humanist; sacrifice and devotion are a writer’s only reward. Although Mr. Nishikawa belonged to the ruling class and unavoidably had some sense of ethnic superiority, his literature was aesthetic and romantic. His perseverance and spirit of devotion to literature merited praise. However, my literary thought gradually evolved from romanticism’s art for art’s sake toward critical realism. I thus began to have doubts about his advocacy of colonial literature, which saw Taiwanese literature as an extension of Japanese literature. Moreover, the Japanese colonial government planned to draft twenty-year-old Taiwanese youth for military service. So I resigned from the position that so inspired my soul in order to return to Tainan. . . .

CHAPTER 3 . . . After 1948, as the New Life Daily started publishing the Bridge literary supplement, I was able, thanks to Lin Shuguang’s recommendation, to participate in the heated debate about Taiwanese literature sparked therein. This debate already contained the sprouts of crucial issues concerning the future direction of Taiwanese literature that would later become problematic. Was Taiwanese literature autonomous literature? Was Taiwanese literature realist literature? What was meant by nativist literature? Did Taiwanese literature count as border literature? And so on and so forth. These questions later developed into the disputes between China consciousness and Taiwan consciousness. There were already clues to all of these issues. In addition to writing fiction for Bridge of the New Life Daily, I also wrote quite a few reviews and essays for the Sea Breeze section of the China Daily News and for the Tribune. These works were long ago scattered and lost, but they nonetheless recorded the traces of my youth. Alas, after we entered the 1950s, I encountered the frightening period of White Terror and could not but keep quiet out of fear. It was not until the mid-1960s that I resumed writing at the onset of the revival period.

CHAPTER 4 The anti-Communist literature of the 1950s was a blank page for me. Although I never stopped reading, the hardships of livelihood left me no money to buy

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any newspapers or magazines. In order to make a living I moved around among elementary schools in remote places and eked out a living. Even so, I did not completely leave literary circles. I read such anti-Communist novels as Arthur Koestler’s famous Darkness at Noon and André Gide’s Retour de l’U.  R.  S.  S. (Return from the U.S.S.R), testimony to the steady flow of anti-Communist fiction at that time. Regrettably, other than Jiang Gui’s Whirlwind and Zhang Ailing’s The Rice-Sprout Song, I never saw much imaginative anti-Communist fiction. But Jiang Gui’s novel was simply a copy of the traditional talent-meetsbeauty story, quite far from the benchmark for anti-Communist ideology. Zhang Ailing, in contrast, wrote unadorned and exquisite prose, rich in sensual beauty. In the 1950s, I was a passive observer. Having lost our property to land reform, my declining gentry family became so poor that we did not know where to find the next day’s food. Literature became for me no more than an extravagant dream. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, it seemed as if my literary life had ended. Forsaken by society, abandoned by God, I often lived in farmhouses surrounded by vast sugarcane fields and relied on an alcohol stove to cook my food. In the evening, I would light an oil lamp, sip distilled liquor, and read newspaper literary supplements to while away the long night. In this way, I passed the bitter days of being trod upon by others while I was down and out. It wasn’t clear to me that anti-Communist literature was over and a new literary current was rising in Taiwan in the 1960s. At the start of the 1960s Xia Ji’an’s Literary Review, Yu Tiancong’s Written Exchange, and Bai Xianyong’s Modern Literature emerged in quick succession, and Mr. Wu Zhuoliu of the older generation launched Taiwan Literary Arts. All these major events in the literary world were to me like stories happening in a faraway mystical world. I no longer believed that the day had arrived for Taiwanese literature to revive. An environment of abject poverty does not allow a person to have any fancy hopes. What I worried about each day was how to find milk money for my son and how to improve our daily lives when I felt I was at the end of my rope. At the time I had a wife and two sons, and a monthly salary of NT$300, but rent alone was NT$40. No matter how frugal we were with the rest of our money, we still could not eat our fill. At my wit’s end, I had to find a sanctuary. To escape my family’s reproachful looks, I could only take a copy of Rimbaud’s “Le bateau ivre” (“The Drunken Boat”) and hide in the haystack and read aloud until my mood lifted. To this day, I cannot quite understand the reason Rimbaud’s poem could heal my teary-faced exhaustion, but there’s no doubt that it was foolproof, time-tested medicine.

CHAPTER 5 In the fall of 1965, various memories suddenly came to me, just as in Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past). Every time I did a

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given thing, I would distinctly remember past events long covered in dust. I remembered ill-fated friends who died in the upheaval, the romantic love of youth, and the world’s vicissitudes. These impressions were so vivid and strong that they haunted me even in my dreams. I felt that I would die of suffocation if I didn’t manage to express in writing my heart’s nocturnal ramblings. It so happened that at that time an extremely good opportunity arrived, so I sent my wife and children to my wife’s old hometown. I stayed behind to live alone in this dormitory in a grassy field, and the entire night belonged to me. I found a broken desk, a torn rattan chair, several ballpoint pens, and a pile of lined paper, and I was ready to throw myself into battle. Once the war was begun, even if I had wanted to stop, I couldn’t, and I have continued to this day. I have at last made good on my vow to Mr. Nishikawa Mitsuru, my promise to write until I closed my eyes in death. As soon as I resumed writing, it was like a flood breaching a dam; I could not stop writing. For twenty some years now, I have never stopped. My hair has turned white, I am losing my teeth, and my face is full of wrinkles. . . . When I returned to my writing career in 1965, my initial goal was to write a grand national epic using Taiwan’s three hundred-year history as my source material. I attempted to write about how, drawing on their Han cultural inheritance, the Chinese on Taiwan pioneered a paradise in this new land. So initially all I wrote was fiction, over a million characters. But later I realized that I was running up against an iron wall, namely, the language barrier. In all honesty, I lacked the memory of living in a Mandarin environment. I liked to speak in my mother tongue, which is Taiwanese, and I was accustomed to writing in Japanese. Of course, later I abandoned Japanese and switched to Chinese. But as far as absorbing new knowledge, I could only rely on Japanese or English as the medium for transmitting information. So, in the process of writing fiction I realized that unless I was reborn as a Chinese through and through, rather than as a Taiwanese of this heartbroken land repeatedly occupied by foreigners, I could never write elegant and apt vernacular Chinese, let alone a roman-fleuve. So after writing several dozen works of fiction that met with little praise, I had no choice but to switch to writing literary criticism. I have no ambition to be Vissarion Belinsky. If I can just write pertinent and sincere pieces, such as book reviews, then I’ll be content with my lot. People often say that my commentaries are sycophantic, that I only flatter and don’t criticize. Perhaps it’s true. However, this is precisely my goal. I don’t have enough of a theoretical system on which to construct my commentaries. It’s enough if I can explicate and explain in order to help readers understand the meaning of a piece of fiction. In recent years, I have devoted myself to writing a literary history of Taiwan, another project that exceeds my humble abilities. Just imagine, an infirm old guy nested alone in a dim, tiny room, gathering materials, cutting and pasting, then hobbling step by step—how heavy his gait must be. And yet, born as a Taiwanese intellectual, this is the mission to which I am duty-bound. God must

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have had a purpose when he put me on this Earth. Even if I am but an ant among all living things, an ant too must labor to practice God’s will. Since my labor is to write, I must continue writing, until I close my eyes in death. China Tribune 303 (May 10, 1986); reprinted in Ye Shitao, An Infirm Old Writer’s 1950s (Taipei: Vanguard, 1991), 6–29, translated by Sabina Knight with Ling Zhao.

note 1.

“The three generations of the Zhengs” refers to Zheng Chenggong (1624–1662), his father, and his son. Zheng Chenggong was the late-Ming loyalist who defeated the Dutch to lay claim to Taiwan in 1662.

74. Something Out of Nothing: On Improvisation and Theater l ai she ngchuan

I

n the past few years, all of the plays I have had a part in creating went straight to stage performances first and were then followed with written scripts. This may seem strange. It is commonly assumed that a theatrical work begins with a playwright who has written a script, and then the production company finds a director and a designer, selects a cast, and conducts rehearsals. Finally, the play is presented on stage by the cast of actors. This is the traditional method, which is efficient and scientific. It’s not for me to criticize the method, for I have seen many brilliant productions done this way. However, I feel that this process is rather risky; it assumes that a play is composed of many separate components: script writing, directing, performing, lighting, stage design, costume, sound effects, and so on. These components are conceptualized separately before being brought together to combine into a whole. The strength of the method is obvious: a high level of efficiency. Each individual focuses on his or her area of specialty independently to complete the task. But it is risky, because there is too much uncertainty and too much of an element of luck. Would an actor’s personality match his or her character? Would the stage designer’s ideas conflict with the director’s vision? Would an actor’s interpretation of the character clash with the director’s? Would there be good chemistry within the entire team? Would the actors be able to adjust to the makeup and costumes? Would the color schemes of the costume and the stage design coexist harmoniously? More importantly, would the director have a good

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have had a purpose when he put me on this Earth. Even if I am but an ant among all living things, an ant too must labor to practice God’s will. Since my labor is to write, I must continue writing, until I close my eyes in death. China Tribune 303 (May 10, 1986); reprinted in Ye Shitao, An Infirm Old Writer’s 1950s (Taipei: Vanguard, 1991), 6–29, translated by Sabina Knight with Ling Zhao.

note 1.

“The three generations of the Zhengs” refers to Zheng Chenggong (1624–1662), his father, and his son. Zheng Chenggong was the late-Ming loyalist who defeated the Dutch to lay claim to Taiwan in 1662.

74. Something Out of Nothing: On Improvisation and Theater l ai she ngchuan

I

n the past few years, all of the plays I have had a part in creating went straight to stage performances first and were then followed with written scripts. This may seem strange. It is commonly assumed that a theatrical work begins with a playwright who has written a script, and then the production company finds a director and a designer, selects a cast, and conducts rehearsals. Finally, the play is presented on stage by the cast of actors. This is the traditional method, which is efficient and scientific. It’s not for me to criticize the method, for I have seen many brilliant productions done this way. However, I feel that this process is rather risky; it assumes that a play is composed of many separate components: script writing, directing, performing, lighting, stage design, costume, sound effects, and so on. These components are conceptualized separately before being brought together to combine into a whole. The strength of the method is obvious: a high level of efficiency. Each individual focuses on his or her area of specialty independently to complete the task. But it is risky, because there is too much uncertainty and too much of an element of luck. Would an actor’s personality match his or her character? Would the stage designer’s ideas conflict with the director’s vision? Would an actor’s interpretation of the character clash with the director’s? Would there be good chemistry within the entire team? Would the actors be able to adjust to the makeup and costumes? Would the color schemes of the costume and the stage design coexist harmoniously? More importantly, would the director have a good

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grasp of the play? All of these challenges can be overcome, but not without great efforts. More often than not, you have to rely on luck. My plays, such as Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land, That Evening We Performed Comic Dialogue, and The Passerby, turned the traditional method of theater production upside-down. Traditionally, a complete script marks the first step for rehearsals. With my method, the script is the end result of rehearsals. Instead of bringing together individual components toward a complete product, we start with a core idea and move toward a tangible expression organically and holistically; in the process, the various aspects of the work emerge—stage, lighting, characters, dialogue, and so on. The core idea is the anchor of the entire play, typically a profound emotion or a strong guiding conviction. Before we have clearly defined characters and plot, my actors and I together start out from the abstract central idea toward formal expressions on the stage. The script, characters, stage design, and so on are the necessary by-products of this process. They always evolve together as an organic whole, instead of taking shape individually. Our method relies principally on what is called improvisation. Some call our work “collective improvisational creation.” The end result of the method is always fluid; only when the play is performed can we know what it looks like. This may seem like a weakness, but the process produces natural, fluent performances, because it bypasses all the risky elements associated with traditional rehearsals. From the actor’s perspective, one no longer needs to imitate a character or turn into a character after having memorized the lines and trying to put oneself in the character’s mind-set. Instead, one uses all one has and all that one is to create a character, including detailed emotions, gestures, even lines. The actor does not stand outside the character and try to make his or her way into the mind of the character based on the script. From day one he or she is inside the character, inside the core idea, which is the origin of the play. From the inside, from the seed, he or she moves outward and naturally lives as the character. From the perspectives of the designers and technicians, the many obstacles associated with the traditional method disappear as a matter of course, because the conception of the design now takes shape in the process of creation. Communication among team members will no longer be a problem. If the designer participates in the process from the beginning to the end, then stage technicians will have an easier job. During the performance, there is even no need for the stage manager to communicate with various crew members by phone. Lighting and sound technicians can make adjustments on the timing and intensity according to the subtle differences in each performance. Because everyone has been with the team from the start, each is an integral part of the creation upon its completion. Team members adjust to one another at ease, and all of these adjustments reflect the intrinsic need of the whole. The key here is improvisation. This is a method that is often misunderstood. When they hear the word improvisation, many people associate it with spontaneity and even randomness. Some audiences even mistakenly assume that we

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are simply improvising on stage without rehearsals. In fact, our improvisational performance is designed within clearly demarcated parameters, allowing actors enough freedom to stimulate the growth of the work. The creation of my play typically takes three to four months (the planning and conceptualization may take as long as half a year). More than two months are dedicated to creative improvisation. Simply put, my improvisational method involves all kinds of situations in the rehearsal room, which are designed for the actors based on the overall concept of the play and the changing conditions and progress on a daily basis. After I explain the situations, the actors are free to act. No one can predict what will happen. Much like jazz musicians riffing on a theme or a set of chords, the actors develop a given situation. An outstanding jazz musician relies not only on techniques or inspiration, but more importantly on good ears. He or she has to listen well in order to transform the input from his or her partners into a music that is different from the original conceptualization but is even more brilliant. Our actors work in much the same way. Otherwise, improvisational theater will regress to a series of disconnected expressions of individual actors or abstract ideas. There will be no dramatic sparks, and theater will lose its life. The designing of situations is actually the second step. The first, the real foundation of improvisation, is designing the characters. Every actor must have intimate knowledge of who he or she is. During our creative process, many characters are in situ and impromptu, performed by actors on the spot. But as the performance goes on, all the characters in my grand scheme emerge with clarity. The actors nurture the growth of their characters every day, and such growth directly impacts the depth and maturity of the improvisation. Sometimes it can take a lot of time to design a character, because when an actor creates a character, he or she cannot begin with the wrong assumption. For example, Jiang Binliu in Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land was Jin Shijie’s creation during the process of improvisation. His point of departure was a prolonged conversation with me over several days. Based on my original concept of the play, Jin and I constructed the biographical data of the character: he is from northeastern China. But where in northeastern China? After interviewing many people and sifting through historical documents from the era of the SinoJapanese War, we decided on Jilin. The province was never mentioned in the play, and the audience may not know that Jiang is from Jilin. However, I knew and Jin knew. We had to know; otherwise we couldn’t have moved forward. What about Jiang’s age? Let’s see. If he falls in love with Yun Zhifan in Shanghai in 1948, and leaves his home in northeastern China in 1939, he would have to be born around 1925. From here on, we began to weave a life story for this particular character, a biographical sketch. Each day Jin Shijie filled in the details of the sketch. My job was to draw the contour of the character. The actor knew more about the character’s psyche than I did, because that was his job. In the creative process, the actor continued to create new dimensions for his

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character. He was also aware that I was watching every minute; I would intervene whenever there was any deviation from the play itself in the character. When every actor knows who he is, the situations I designated become the environment in which the characters interact with one another. These situations never stand in for plot—I refrain from telling the actors what is to happen. I keep the plot as flexible and fluid as possible. Even when certain events are included in my plan, I translate them into situations when I communicate with the actors. The actors need only pay attention to the scene they are in, and not be distracted by what will or should happen next. This way they can focus completely on the situation, on their clearly defined characters in a clearly defined situation. Only then are they free. In this kind of freedom, their reactions come from within; they must be completely absorbed in the characters and the situation in order to have genuine reactions, which often lead to unexpected dialogues, movements, and emotions. All of this may not be drama yet, but if done well, these genuine emotions and dialogues provide the raw material for drama awaiting the director’s pruning, elaboration, and combination. The process resembles a game, but drama is “play” in its origin. Any artistic creation resembles a game; the key is your attitude. For us, we often feel that we are indeed playing. But if we play for real, then real drama happens. The line between real and unreal becomes blurred. I have lost count of the number of improvisational rehearsals during which the actors surprise us all with their deep emotion born in the game. This mode of creation takes time and energy. Sometimes there are no sparks. More often, we stumble upon good raw material only to realize later that it has to be cut as the play as a whole matures. I don’t need the actors to think about what to do during improvisational rehearsals. The thought process is completed in the stage of designing the characters, a rational process that takes place before improvisation. Once improvisation begins, based on the rational process, the actors demand that they be completely absorbed in the situation; they also demand that they trust the others on the set, including their fellow actors and the director watching on the side. This trust is extremely important. You not only trust that your partner can readily accept what you put forth but, even more, you trust that everyone accepts you in your totality. Because improvisational performances easily reveal your dispositions and your flaws, the process puts a great demand on the actors. In turn, the actors also demand a great deal of the director. In the improvisational process, the role of the director transcends his traditionally defined duties. For in fact, the director provides the direction for the entire creative process. Without a clear direction, all of the beautiful, precious emotions and scenes during the improvisation would be like individual notes in a musical score—incomplete and powerless. It’s not right to say that an improvisational director is also a playwright, because with my method, the director is not the kind of playwright who writes a script while sitting at a desk.

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Therefore, my work does not fit traditional categories. I first learned the concept of collective improvisation from the Amsterdam Werkteater in the Netherlands. There the director is called the stimulator, because he or she stimulates the growth of an organic thing. This makes sense, but it does not offer a clear job description. My method is now quite different from that of the Amsterdam Werkteater. I have been constantly revising my method to adapt to Taiwan’s environment and actors, as well as my personality. When I first returned to Taiwan three years ago, I employed a rather free and easy form of improvisation. Take We All Grew Up This Way and Plucking Stars, for example. I intentionally proceeded without any clear structure, allowing the raw material to collide with the structure, making constant adjustments to form a nuanced balance between content and form. I believed that the greatest advantage of the improvisational method was its emphasis on process and its elasticity. Original ideas emerge through the creative process. In the liberal atmosphere of the times, the final product reflected not only my own creative motivations but, even more, the concepts and consciousness developed unwittingly by all the artists involved in the process. For better or for worse, I gradually felt that I could no longer be as free and spontaneous as I was when I was directing Plucking Stars. I no longer believed that everything would magically fit with this method. I now have a blueprint for the structure of a play before the improvisational process begins, and then I communicate with the actors. Pastorale and Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land are two such examples. A core idea leads to a preliminary sketch. I have many such blueprints, ranging from rudimentary to well developed, from simple to detailed, somewhat like those sketches or studies painters make before they start painting. I revise my blueprints every day based on what happens during the rehearsals. This is the most magical part of our creative method. The structure and the raw material, including the dialogue, evolve as they clash and merge with each other. When an actor offers a stunning depth of performance in rehearsal, the structure of the play will be altered to try to accommodate the new stimulus and many details will change accordingly. Once the structure changes, or when I have a new idea about the structure, the actors will be stimulated and change their characters’ reactions accordingly. Using architecture as a metaphor, let us say that my actors and I are erecting a building. Two months before completion, I design it as a seven-story building. However, when the actors reach the third floor, one of them builds something unexpected. We are all taken aback and think it’s wonderful. Then I think, with this new third floor, there is no way we can still have a seventh floor. The new plan now calls for a six-story building. When the actors are informed of the new plan, they are inspired. As a result, when they reach the fourth floor, more new ideas are born that are beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Maybe as a result we have to go back to the seven-story design. Through mutual stimulation the building is completed. . . .

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Many people ask me: “There have been many improvised plays in the past two years. Is this the trend in the future?” Though I have employed this method, it doesn’t mean that I want to see everyone doing it. Those who have participated in our improvisational creation would agree that it is no easy task. It takes much more time and energy than traditionally produced theater. Further, it’s not easy to do it well. Without considerable understanding of theater, you’d better not touch it. Improvisation is an intriguing method for theater artists. However, the fact is that the method of creating a play has no significance to the audience at all. When the curtain rises and the lights are on, when the performance faces the audience, nobody has the time or interest to study how it is put together. It is just like going to a restaurant. Maybe you wonder for a moment how the dish you are enjoying is made, but ultimately it is the taste that matters. How the chef makes the dish should not affect your judgment of its flavor. Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land and That Evening We Performed Comic Dialogue are no different. When they were performed, they were directly enjoyed and judged by the audiences. Now the scripts of these plays are being published. Our creative methods are unique, and they may even have a little significance in this age of paucity of drama. For readers of the plays in print, I also hope that they will have a firsthand experience comparable to that in the theater. United Daily literary supplement, August 2, 1986; reprinted in Lai Shengchuan, Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land (Taipei: Crown, 1986), 4–11, translated by Alex Huang.

part iii The Era of Democracy and Globalization (1987–2005)

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ince the lifting of martial law in 1987, Taiwan has rapidly transformed itself into an open, democratic society. It finds itself increasingly susceptible to the ubiquitous forces of globalization on the one hand, and on the other hand, to the pressure to reexamine and renegotiate its relations with the People’s Republic of China across the Taiwan Strait. Under the impact of these forces, it is no wonder that this period witnessed emergent discourses revolving around the themes of ethnicity and nationality, localism and globalism, gender and sexuality, indigenous rights and minority rights, and ecological consciousness, to name just a few. The rise of China and unprecedented interactions with Taiwan both sparked an interest in mainland Chinese literature among readers in Taiwan and a renewed emphasis on what it means to be Taiwanese. With 2005 as the cutoff year of the selections in the final section, the above-mentioned trends have continued to shape Taiwan in the new millennium.

1. Preface to Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers: Replies to Inquiries gu o fe ng

question 1: Members of New Land are all writers and scholars. Why don’t they devote themselves to creative writing and research, instead of expending their efforts on founding a publishing house that specializes in literary works from mainland China? answer: The group of friends that founded New Land entered the field because they love literature. None among them consider themselves famous writers or scholars, even less do they care about external glory. On the contrary, as they gain experience and knowledge, they recognize that the world of Chinese literature is borderless, and they become even more vigilant. . . . For nearly four decades, under the constraints of martial law and my personal circumstances, I could not write what I really wanted to write. Now that circumstances have changed, it is natural that I should exert myself in developing my writing. However, considering what we can do to make an even more positive impact on the development of Taiwan literature, we decided to found New Land Press as a professional publisher of pure literature. question 2: Why does New Land publish literary works from mainland China specifically? This is a question we are most interested in asking. answer: New Land does not publish mainland Chinese literature exclusively, but it insists on publishing pure literature. It will never publish anything propagandistic, decadent, or lascivious for profit.

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New Land plans to publish two book series: Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers and Contemporary Taiwanese Writers. We selectively publish pure literature based on the content and quality, without giving any consideration to political or economic factors. question 3: Please tell us the purpose behind New Land’s publication of mainland Chinese writers. Please give us a clear answer. answer: The overall goal of New Land is to carry on the lineage of national Chinese literature. Maybe you find this answer too serious. But when you examine the literature currently produced in Taiwan, can you call most of it Chinese? How much does it preserve the spirit of national Chinese literature? How many Chinese cultural elements does it contain? Most literary works in Taiwan today, especially popular works that gain high visibility through the media’s intensive promotion, are either devoid of Chinese culture or distort it. These works have gone astray from pure Chinese literature. Other than the fact that they are written in Chinese, they lack Chinese flavor inside and out. In content, they follow the strategies of American and Japanese cultural colonialism; they write about things that are empty and licentious or worship foreign cultures to numb the national consciousness. In language, they use cluttered and convoluted syntax, which comes across as stiff and superfluous; it has none of the beauty of precision and subtlety of spoken and written Chinese. We hope that the literary works published by New Land will serve the following purpose. In content, they will broaden our literary horizon and humanitarian spirit to care about society and the masses. Through comparison of the content [with popular literature], general readers in Taiwan will see through the despicable appearance of those mind-numbing, vulgar works. In their language, whether they employ pure Chinese or a mixture of Mandarin and regional dialects, the [mainland Chinese] works display strong characteristics of the Chinese people. Only by inheriting and developing the beauty of spoken and written Chinese can Taiwanese literature be rescued from colonial culture. Therefore, we not only publish Taiwanese works of pure literature, we expect works by mainland Chinese writers to offer an even greater resource. We believe that a writer who is truly loyal to the literary arts is also loyal to justice and has a conscience. Therefore, he or she must resist all forms of dictatorship. This is the motivation behind our decision to publish works by mainland Chinese writers. question 4: Last year New Land published King of Chess, King of Trees, King of Children by the mainland Chinese writer Ah Cheng. It not only broke the taboo against openly publishing mainland books in Taiwan but also established the reputation of New Land. How do you feel about it? answer: The publication of King of Chess, King of Trees, King of Children was a great beginning for New Land. It was not a fortuitous incident but rather a

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focus of an experiment based on our long-term engagement in literature. The success of the book gave us great joy and confidence. Breaking through the publishing taboo in Taiwan was secondary; what was more important was we discovered that most readers in Taiwan still embraced high ideals. Even though they had been putting up with the chaos and sterility of the mind-numbing culture for a long time, once good works of pure literature became available, they sought them out and read them avidly. Although it came from a private press like New Land and an unknown author like Ah Cheng, the book received immediate appreciation upon publication, with readers showering praise upon it and spreading interest in it through word of mouth. This proves that Chinese culture is strong and cannot be easily eroded. It also proves that the outstanding tradition of Chinese literature will grow energetically in Taiwan. August 17, 1987, in Taipei Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers (Taipei: Xindi, 1987), 1–4, translated by Michelle Yeh.

2. Coming Together for a Long Journey Ahead: Celebrating the Birth of the Taipei Theater Fellowship zhong mingde

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he roots of the little theater are still shallow. Only a couple of dozen little theater troupes exist, and their audience is probably only one-thousandth that of television. Yet the impressive boom in the little theater has made it the most energetic part of Taipei’s cultural scene. “Trends are changing with changing times.” As Taiwan’s politics, economy, society, and culture face a moment of crisis, the little theater—tiny though it may be—is poised to play a vanguard role. Why? Because the artistic medium of the little theater has the greatest potential to meld with the unstoppable social forces we currently face. First of all, theater is an eminently participatory medium. In terms of “art consumption,” the artistic medium of theater immediately brings performers and audience face-to-face in a shared space. Performers can directly appeal to and guide the audience to take immediate action. Likewise, the audience can immediately register their support or disapproval of the content of the performance. In terms of “art production,” the little theater has the advantages

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focus of an experiment based on our long-term engagement in literature. The success of the book gave us great joy and confidence. Breaking through the publishing taboo in Taiwan was secondary; what was more important was we discovered that most readers in Taiwan still embraced high ideals. Even though they had been putting up with the chaos and sterility of the mind-numbing culture for a long time, once good works of pure literature became available, they sought them out and read them avidly. Although it came from a private press like New Land and an unknown author like Ah Cheng, the book received immediate appreciation upon publication, with readers showering praise upon it and spreading interest in it through word of mouth. This proves that Chinese culture is strong and cannot be easily eroded. It also proves that the outstanding tradition of Chinese literature will grow energetically in Taiwan. August 17, 1987, in Taipei Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers (Taipei: Xindi, 1987), 1–4, translated by Michelle Yeh.

2. Coming Together for a Long Journey Ahead: Celebrating the Birth of the Taipei Theater Fellowship zhong mingde

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he roots of the little theater are still shallow. Only a couple of dozen little theater troupes exist, and their audience is probably only one-thousandth that of television. Yet the impressive boom in the little theater has made it the most energetic part of Taipei’s cultural scene. “Trends are changing with changing times.” As Taiwan’s politics, economy, society, and culture face a moment of crisis, the little theater—tiny though it may be—is poised to play a vanguard role. Why? Because the artistic medium of the little theater has the greatest potential to meld with the unstoppable social forces we currently face. First of all, theater is an eminently participatory medium. In terms of “art consumption,” the artistic medium of theater immediately brings performers and audience face-to-face in a shared space. Performers can directly appeal to and guide the audience to take immediate action. Likewise, the audience can immediately register their support or disapproval of the content of the performance. In terms of “art production,” the little theater has the advantages

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of being convenient, simple, and nimble: students, workers, working youth, old men on street corners, and people from any profession can organize a community theater at any time. Outlay for production costs, equipment, crew, and venue can be kept to a minimum; like a guerrilla force, it can adapt to the time and place to achieve its particular objective, while educating in an entertaining way. As for the “highly participatory nature” of theater, for the little theater to join Taiwan’s thriving social movements, or for a society currently in turmoil to finally discover the channel of theater, seems only a matter of time. Second, theater is the medium closest to the core of life. If a performance cannot move an audience to tears or laughter, it will inevitably be forgotten. For this reason, theater must speak to us in a language we can all understand about things we really care about. It must anchor its entire content and form in our lives. Thanks to theater’s intimate connection to our era, land, and people, the type of art it develops and promotes may become that which is best able to represent our lives and the art we care about. It may indeed become the first player of “contemporary Taipei culture” to break us free from “colonial culture” or to crush “copycat culture.” The little theater is brimming with potential, be it to fashion a better society or to promote a more genuine culture. The rapid changes that the little theater has undergone during the past few years have been welcome news to those of us who care about society and culture. Yet, to date, little theater troupes have all seemed like pioneers in a cultural wasteland who happen to pitch their tents together. One storm is enough to make them hesitate or scatter in different directions. Petty enticements or minor impediments are enough to make their pioneering work devolve into carving up territory and dividing the spoils. The Taipei Theater Fellowship was established primarily to act as the first modest outpost for these pioneers working on the cultural frontier. When they fall ill or feel lonely, this pioneers’ refuge will offer them comfort; when they need more effective tools to do their work, this pioneers’ base will supply them; when they are attacked by reactionary savages, this pioneers’ fortress will protect them, so they can rest and recuperate for the long journey ahead. It was with great anticipation that the Taipei Theater Fellowship was finally born on October 31. At long last, little theater workers have built an initial outpost in their new land. This outpost is still rather shabby and will require united efforts if we are to successfully clear the cultural wasteland. If, in your dreams, you have ever heard the whistling wind from the cultural frontier or seen the bonfire on the cultural prairie, will you join us now? Independence Evening Post (cinema and theater edition), November 2, 1987, translated by Christopher G. Rea.

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3. Preface to Heteroglossia wa ng de we i

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he term “heteroglossia” has its origin in the lexicon of the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin [1895–1975] and signifies the inevitable constraints, differentiation, contradictions, revisions, innovations, and other phenomena occurring in the process of using language and communicating meaning. On the one hand, these phenomena reveal the characteristics of written language evolving in the flux of time and changing space, while on the other, they mark language’s multiple reciprocal relationships with social and cultural structures. Refuting the premise of the linguistic concept of “monoglossia,” “heteroglossia” also makes us rethink the humanist categories of culture, history, and politics. It reminds us of the flatness of the “true-good-beautiful” approach to literature and art; challenges the teleological, linear narrative of history; exposes the lack of dialogue in political “consensus”; and even excavates an undercurrent of interaction in the subjective realm between “self” and “other.” In this book, “heteroglossia” is also used to describe a part of literary history— Chinese fiction of the 1930s and the 1980s. In terms of experimentation with language, broadening of subject matter, and expression of meaning, fiction of these two periods has made invaluable contributions. In the literary history of the past few decades, however, this literature has been steadily “condensed” into an oversimplified trend. Until recently, rarely did the discussion go beyond “humanism” and “realism,” and the distinctions made go beyond “left” versus “right.” I have no intention of overturning this kind of approach, but I believe that we can pursue difference in commonality by conducting research that is more nuanced and potentially more dialectical. To reassess the canon of masters and classics; to search for divergent subjects, styles, and ideologies; and to tease out the unexpected “origins” of an author’s creative intention are the tasks we need to undertake persistently. Of course, it is essential that this endeavor be anchored in a historical context before it can amplify any dialogism (and possible limits of interpretation). As a result of political reconciliations, literature in the 1980s on both sides of the Taiwan Strait has gained broader space that makes possible mutual imitation, competition, and critique. Moreover, the intermittent, hereditary relationships between contemporary authors and the older generations especially urge us to reexamine the development of modern Chinese fiction and the formation of its complicated contexts. What “heteroglossia” precipitates is a reframing and recombination of the dualities of past and present, island and mainland, innovation and conservation, highbrow and popular, and so on. The “old” writers of the 1930s were not necessarily conservative; works produced at the “frontier”

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may not be weaker than the “orthodox rhymes of the central plains.” The shape of modern literature need not always depend on political and economic circumstances. With today’s complex and high-speed information networks, we must employ a more humble and tolerant approach in our analysis and investigation of the ebb and flow of imported trends, as well as the circulation of the latest styles. Any hasty inauguration of a self-proclaimed “ism,” any eager marketing of a timetable for literary development may not deserve criticism but will invariably result in a charade playing to an audience of one. The translation of the word “heteroglossia” as zhongsheng xuanhua [clamor of a multitude of voices] is my own coinage, but it does echo the title of Mr. Luo Fu’s poetry collection from years ago, The Clamor of the Lotus Multitude [1974]. The poet’s ingenious phrase has been modified to “speak on behalf of” the Russian literary critical term. Perhaps from this we glean a trace of the twists and turns, the ebb and flow, of language transmission. Heteroglossia (Taipei: Yuanliu, 1988), 5–7, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

4. Writing a Literature with a Nationality p e ng r ui jin

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fter the Civil Associations Act became law [in 1989], any organization that originally had used the word “Taiwan” in its name was forced to change it before it could be officially registered. On the eve of the stipulated deadline for registration, the Ministry of the Interior rejected any application to establish an organization with a name containing the word “Taiwan” as inappropriate. This was the government’s way of officially renouncing Taiwan. When it came to the human rights movement, the environmental movement, and other movements in Taiwan, irrespective of their objective, focus, and impact, none could go beyond the bounds; the law also forbade them to engage in activities outside the stated objectives. Why was it inappropriate to use “Taiwan” in the name? The absurdity of what the Ministry of the Interior did has long been ridiculed by all. But if we consider this carefully—“sitting on this mountain and gazing at the other mountain”—here we are in Taiwan, but we are inflicted with paranoia: there is no Taiwan in our hearts and our eyes, and we dare not hear or say the word Taiwan. This is not just the Ministry of Interior; like the terrifying virus of bone cancer, it may eat away the marrow of Taiwan’s society. Literature is not spared the Taiwan paranoia. When Wu Zhuoliu founded Taiwan Literary Arts more than twenty years ago and insisted on using Taiwan

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may not be weaker than the “orthodox rhymes of the central plains.” The shape of modern literature need not always depend on political and economic circumstances. With today’s complex and high-speed information networks, we must employ a more humble and tolerant approach in our analysis and investigation of the ebb and flow of imported trends, as well as the circulation of the latest styles. Any hasty inauguration of a self-proclaimed “ism,” any eager marketing of a timetable for literary development may not deserve criticism but will invariably result in a charade playing to an audience of one. The translation of the word “heteroglossia” as zhongsheng xuanhua [clamor of a multitude of voices] is my own coinage, but it does echo the title of Mr. Luo Fu’s poetry collection from years ago, The Clamor of the Lotus Multitude [1974]. The poet’s ingenious phrase has been modified to “speak on behalf of” the Russian literary critical term. Perhaps from this we glean a trace of the twists and turns, the ebb and flow, of language transmission. Heteroglossia (Taipei: Yuanliu, 1988), 5–7, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

4. Writing a Literature with a Nationality p e ng r ui jin

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fter the Civil Associations Act became law [in 1989], any organization that originally had used the word “Taiwan” in its name was forced to change it before it could be officially registered. On the eve of the stipulated deadline for registration, the Ministry of the Interior rejected any application to establish an organization with a name containing the word “Taiwan” as inappropriate. This was the government’s way of officially renouncing Taiwan. When it came to the human rights movement, the environmental movement, and other movements in Taiwan, irrespective of their objective, focus, and impact, none could go beyond the bounds; the law also forbade them to engage in activities outside the stated objectives. Why was it inappropriate to use “Taiwan” in the name? The absurdity of what the Ministry of the Interior did has long been ridiculed by all. But if we consider this carefully—“sitting on this mountain and gazing at the other mountain”—here we are in Taiwan, but we are inflicted with paranoia: there is no Taiwan in our hearts and our eyes, and we dare not hear or say the word Taiwan. This is not just the Ministry of Interior; like the terrifying virus of bone cancer, it may eat away the marrow of Taiwan’s society. Literature is not spared the Taiwan paranoia. When Wu Zhuoliu founded Taiwan Literary Arts more than twenty years ago and insisted on using Taiwan

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in the name of the journal, he came under both soft and hard pressure from all sides. The founder was forced to declare in a resolute tone: “At my age, what is there to be afraid of?” And so he took it on. However, the contributors to and readers of Taiwan Literary Arts could not shake free of the suspicion that they were the politically tainted sympathizers of Taiwan independence. Even the Bamboo Hat Poetry Society, which had taken several detours around the totem of Taiwan consciousness, could not escape this suspicion. For more than thirty years after the end of the war, Taiwanese authors have tried to compromise, humbly and unassumingly referring to their works as “native-soil literature,” but they still could not escape a massive assault. History tells us that, by placing itself in the position of a daughter-in-law, nativist literature did not make it any less difficult for it to prosper. On the contrary, it exacerbated its trials and tribulations. Once it was distorted and maligned under the label of “rural literature,” “regional literature,” “frontier literature,” “village literature,” or “literature of the lower class,” no matter how many years we spent defending ourselves, we could not explain it clearly. Instead of enduring the humiliation of allowing others to lecture us about being far-sighted and looking to the future, about embracing the nation and the world, why don’t we bravely and candidly reply: The most urgent matter for a Taiwanese writer is to be a writer with an identity and a nationality, with roots in the soil of Taiwan. Taiwanese literature has no need for illusionists and liars; Taiwanese writers only know that they are earnestly growing crops in Taiwan’s soil. Taiwanese writers don’t write about Taiwan? Taiwanese writers write about Taiwan but are not called “Taiwanese writers”? These are both unimaginable. Taiwanese writers write works based on the events, things, and people’s feelings in Taiwan, both as subject matter and backdrop, yet these works don’t constitute Taiwanese literature? Isn’t this even more incomprehensible? These phenomena can only be explained by attributing them to the Taiwan paranoia. Those who have Taiwan in their hearts cannot wait to embrace it; they would never view it as a great scourge that must be eliminated and rejected at all costs. Taiwan writers cannot conceive of plowing their own land yet harvesting rice on other people’s land; neither can they conceive of growing wheat that people in other countries eat on the rice-growing land of Taiwan. Taiwanese literature has suffered enough of the pain of wandering without a national identity, enough of the pain of not being able to see its own face. It should recognize that it cannot continue to write an “ambiguous literature.” If you are going to write, then write literature with a nationality. Like the character Li Luo in Wang Youhua’s story “Ambiguous Man”—who would rather extract his bones and return them to his father, shave off his flesh and return it to his mother, than continue to be an ambiguous man. If you are a Taiwanese writer, write Taiwanese literature. Taiwan Literary Arts 119 (1989): 4–5, translated by Christopher Lupke.

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5. Recovering Our Names monaneng From “Savages” to “Mountain Compatriots” our name has gradually been forgotten in a corner of Taiwanese history From the mountains to the plains Our fate, alas, our fate only receives serious treatment and concern in anthropological reports The flood of hegemony has eroded the glory of our ancestors The shadow of self-contempt has shrouded our people’s hearts on the periphery of society Our name has been submerged in the lines of ID cards An unselfish view of life swings on the skeleton on a construction site wavers in ship disassembly plants, mining pits, and fishing boats Our sacred myths have been turned into the vulgar plots of television dramas Traditional morals have been trampled in the red-light districts Heroic spirit and simple heart have followed the church bells to silence What is left to us? Footprints of restless journeys on the plains? What is left to us? Aspirations of constant trepidation on the precipice? If someday we refuse to be lost in history please first remember our myths and traditions If someday we wish to stop wandering on our own land please first recover our name and dignity

Beautiful Rice Grains (Taipei: Morning Star, 1989), 61–63, translated by D. Dayton.

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6. Preface to Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers z hong z haoz heng

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he great wheels of time have rumbled past the 1980s and ushered in a brand-new era—the 1990s. Having begun its course in the 1920s, Taiwanese literature is impacted by the turbulence of time as it enters an era that will in all likelihood be very different from those of the past. Just what kind of literature will Taiwanese literature of the 1990s be? Before we attempt to answer this question, it would seem even more important that we should ask first: What kind of literature is Taiwanese literature? It has been said that Taiwanese literature is the literature native to Taiwan, the literature of the Taiwanese people. It has been said that Taiwanese literature is a branch of world literature. Considered from the standpoint of history, Taiwanese literature is a “developing” literature. It germinated much later than the literature of developed nations, even that of its close neighbor Japan. It began a few years later than the New Literature of China’s May Fourth movement. Due to its developing nature, it is only natural that Taiwanese literature has received an endowment from those more developed literatures. The influences of Euro-American literatures need hardly be mentioned; even the literatures of Japan and China have exerted much influence. In other words, from the very outset, Taiwanese literature has been a combination of many different elements, and it therefore has the potential to grow into a new branch of human expression richly endowed with special qualities. Of course, we cannot deny that this risks being an oversimplified, mechanistic theory of development that may not entirely fit the actual circumstances. In fact, in the emergence and maturation of an art form, the humanistic conditions of the land itself, along with the changing times, society, economy, and politics, have the potential to either speed up or impede its development. But it is safe to say that the growth process of Taiwanese literature over the past seventy years has been filled with blood and tears. It has walked a long, bitter road fraught with hardships and obstacles. Taiwanese literature is a literature of blood and tears, a literature of a people’s struggles. The four hundred years of Taiwan’s history is the history of the oppression and abuse of her inhabitants. Under different regimes and different rulers, although people lived under different social conditions at each stage, exploitation and persecution by the ruler was a constant. The course that Taiwanese literature has traveled over the past seventy years cannot be considered long in terms of time, but during that time it has continued to express the heartfelt cries of the oppressed and the persecuted.

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At its inception, we find the father of Taiwanese literature, Lai He, who used literature as a means of resistance. He fought the hegemony of the Japanese occupiers and declared war on the backwardness, feudalism, and ignorance of the Taiwanese people. He practiced what he preached and joined all the anti-Japanese organizations of the day, such as the Cultural Association, the Peoples’ Party, and the New Literature Group, taking part in the various activities of these organizations. He brought his powerful pen into action to write such stories as “A Steelyard,” “An Unhappy New Year’s,” and “The Story of the Skilled Litigant,” and such poems as “Revelation amid Sacrifice” and “Lament of the Southern Land.” His work established a new horizon and an enduring model for Taiwanese literature. In the middle period, we witness the appearance of another literary giant in Taiwanese literature, Wu Zhuoliu. As World War II entered its most bitter conflict, under the menacing scrutiny of the Japanese military police, Wu wrote The Orphan of Asia at the risk of his life. After the war, under the autocratic control of martial law imposed by a foreign regime, he again broke some of the ruling regime’s biggest taboos by writing such novels as The Fig Tree and Formosa Forsythia. Not only did he build these pinnacles in Taiwanese literature, he also founded the magazine Taiwan Literary Arts and established the first literature prize in Taiwan, the Wu Zhuoliu Prize for Literature, to encourage and nurture younger generations. In the latter half of his life, he devoted all his time and energy to these endeavors, becoming a pillar of Taiwanese literature. In its seventy-year history, Taiwanese literature has seen a large number of outstanding authors. Individuals of superior talent have appeared, especially at important historical junctures. They have left behind remarkable works. We cannot list all their names; however, we know that there have always been those who suffered under the rulers’ iron fists, bringing calamity upon themselves with their writing. Many ended up in prison and received their fill of the bitterness of captivity. During the February 28th Incident [in 1947], some even took their grievances to the grave with them. In terms of literary language, writers have employed Taiwanese, vernacular Chinese, Japanese, standard Chinese, and so on. This represents a rare example in world literature and a characteristic of Taiwanese literature. During the Japanese occupation, it was called “colonial literature.” More recently, some have referred to it as “frontier literature.” But no matter which linguistic medium is used, so long as its feet are planted in the native soil, there is no denying that it is Taiwanese literature, and this will always be the case. Without a doubt, the past seventy years have witnessed many turning points in Taiwanese literature. At two points, it even fell into complete abeyance. One such period produced the so-called “Taiwan Literature During the Final Battle” and “Literature of Imperial [Japanese] Subjects.” Then there was the era between the postwar February 28th Incident and the Reign of Terror after the Nationalist government moved to Taiwan [in 1949]. During the latter period, the first postwar generation struggled to compose in the Chinese language and to repair broken links [to the Chinese literary tradition]. In short, Taiwanese literature stumbled

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and halted as it forged ahead. In the 1970s, calls for a native literature rose. Despite the oppressive debate [on nativist literature], a glorious and flourishing era for Taiwanese literature arrived. Into the 1980s, nativist literature not only became the mainstream but was an unstoppable force. In 1979, the effect of the Formosa Incident martial law inquisition was to break through literary taboos and unleash a flood of postenlightenment political writing. This brought about yet another change in the style and complexion of Taiwanese literature. The 1980s are coming to a close. In the transition to the new era, many retrospective discussions and much speculation about the future of literature appear in newspapers. Now, as always, we find both pessimistic and optimistic views, both despair and anticipation. There is, however, one thing that is clear: the readership for serious literature has always been minuscule. In a consumer society, a society with multiple information sources, and a utilitarian society of the late 1980s, commercialization and popularization of literature are unstoppable tendencies. Thus, as some critics have pointed out, with the market filled with lightweight popular literature, pure literature has once again fallen into grave danger. Yet in 1989, we are pleased to witness a rising tide of democracy that has shaken the world. Following the bloody suppression of the Tiananmen Square incident on June 4th, the wind of reform has swept through Socialist and Communist countries in Eastern Europe and has even affected the Soviet Union. There has been a tendency toward relaxation of totalitarian regimes. (As I write this essay, the world is witnessing the election of the first Russian president.) . . . In the 1990s, as Taiwanese literature unfolds before the twenty million citizens, the appearance of Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers (hereafter Complete Works) is of tremendous importance. In the past, we have seen several similar compilations, including: New Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Occupation (5 vols., Mingtan, March 1979), Complete Works of Taiwanese Literature of the PreRetrocession Era (8 vols. plus 4, Yuanjing, July 1979), Selected Works of Native Writers (10 vols., Wentan Society, October 1965), and Series in Young Writers of Taiwan Province (10 vols., Young Lion Bookstore, October 1965). . . . Complete Works may be considered an expansion of the above four anthologies. Firstly, the time period spans the entire history from the burgeoning New Literature to the present. Secondly, it selects representative authors and devotes an entire volume to each one. For that reason, it totals several dozen volumes, something unprecedented in the history of Taiwanese literature. It pays homage not only to the brave pioneers who blazed their way over the bloodstained trail of Taiwanese literature, but also to contemporary writers who press forward steadfastly and fearlessly. It is the greatest gift that can be given to all readers at home and abroad who care about the development of literature in this land. Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers (Taipei: Vanguard, 1990), 1–6, translated by Terrence Russell.

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7. If the Poets Don’t Die, the Thieves Won’t Quit1: The Predicament of Taiwan’s Poetry Scene and How to Resolve It lin yaode

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he development of modern poetry has always been a contested topic, so much so that one cannot help but feel that “if the poets don’t die, the thieves won’t quit.” But it is incontrovertible that the poets are still writing poetry, and new poets are rising up to replace the old ones. As we stride into the 1990s, we may as well revisit this topic. If we say that there is some kind of predicament facing modern poetry, on the face of it, it must be the following issues. 1. Difficulty publishing poetry 2. Difficulty publishing poetry collections and difficulty selling them 3. Decline or demise of poets’ creativity after middle age

Actually, this is a predicament faced by all genres of pure literature; they only differ in degree. With fiction, it is similarly hard to get good novels published, nor is it easy to win the acceptance of the present reading population. With essays, those that are either short and breezy, or abstruse and philosophical, have become the darlings of the market, leading naturally to the gradual decline of more ambitious artistic endeavors. Of course, poetry is poison among poisons on the publishing market. Taking poetry as a representative case would seem to prophesize the twilight of pure literature! First, we must consider the prospects at this stage of development. I believe that the 1990s will present a different set of characteristics from the 1980s: 1. If Taiwan’s democratic reforms can become normalized in the early 1990s, and if in the same period its economy can complete a structural change, then in the latter part of the decade the citizens of Taiwan will place more value on culture. In the end, Taiwan’s cultural fabric is different from that of Hong Kong or Macao. Although there have been discrepancies between form and substance over the years in the work of establishing Chinese culture on Taiwan, this is still very different from the reality of those colonial cultures. Add to that the fact that Taiwan has been deeply influenced by the American and Japanese emphasis on information and culture; as we enter a state of advanced social development, a new culture of self-awareness and autonomy will certainly have the opportunity to put down roots and bear fruit. The questions are how soon and what kind of seeds to plant.

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2. The shape of literary development will certainly be impacted in the process of social change. The leadership role of newspaper literary supplements has already slackened in the 1980s; in the next decade their literary responsibilities will surely transfer to specialized and general literary magazines. In this eventuality, direct publication of books, literary agents, and more specialized professional writers will become familiar phenomena. 3. Research on modern literature will become one of the main directions of the academy in the 1990s. On the one hand, teachers in liberal arts colleges will gradually become better trained and more mature, and gifted young and middle-aged scholars will bring their fresh ideas and boundless energy to address contemporary literature. On the other hand, mainland China’s emphasis on research on modern and contemporary literature will become a prodding, encouraging influence on Taiwan to take its own native literature seriously. 4. Authors most adapted for survival in the next ten years should be artistically versatile. They should be able to write in popular as well as experimental styles and to span different genres in their creative writing (including film scripts).

To return to the present, if we put aside for the moment our perhaps overly high expectations (I recognize that the above suppositions are extremely optimistic), maybe we can attempt to locate the sticking point of the current predicament. Aside from circumstantial constraints, poets themselves have exhibited the following problems and confusions over the past decade or so. 1. Poets of the same generation lack the graciousness to affirm or tolerate those with different views from their own. 2. The older generation lacks concern for younger poets. These conservative forces often forget their own frustration when they were on the front line in the old days and fail to grant the new trends the time and space for experimentation and development. 3. Poets of all generations shield their lack of style and jumbled thinking under the label of “pluralism.” 4. The idea of deliberate kitsch, of finding the lowest common denominator, is firmly planted in people’s minds. 5. A push for politicization has buried the artistic qualities of poetry. 6. There exist rifts between [generations of ] poetry critics.

These situations occur among individual poets as well as groups of poets; they contradict each other, yet often occur simultaneously. I believe that this kind of confusion is the real predicament facing Taiwan’s poetry scene. Due to limited space, I will propose a practical route for resolving the predicament according to my predictions for the future vis-à-vis the status quo.

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1. In terms of poets, we believe that an earnest poet first of all must construct his or her own worldview. Since he or she has chosen literary creation as a basis for living, he or she ought to have faith. Otherwise, he or she should give up at once and avoid the pain of regret. 2. The poetry scene should establish correct ideas. So-called “major events” on the poetry scene should mean the collection and publication of important works or the emergence of important schools, not idle chatter about one gentleman’s overseas travel or another gentleman’s promotion. . . . 3. Raise poets’ social status. This has no meaning for the poets themselves, but it would have great significance for a society that [in the words of Confucius] “is affluent and values propriety.” Academia Sinica should invite highly accomplished poets to become academicians. If this does not comply with the academy’s common practice as an institution, then the government should establish an organization along the lines of a “Chinese Institute of Literature,” which, in parallel with Academia Sinica, would consist entirely of major writers as academicians. 4. Reform the Chinese language and literature curricula currently in place in schools, from elementary and secondary schools to universities, and reverse the bizarre policies that currently stress linguistic education and the explication of classical texts. We wish to make an appeal for a correct understanding of literary history, correct methods of appreciating literature, and basic courses in modern literature, all of which should be incorporated into Chinese language and literature curricula in schools of all levels in due course. At the present time, Chinese language and literature education has clearly been the greatest contributor to the antiliterary atmosphere of the domestic reading market. 5. Encourage initiatives from the general public. Organized groups and private foundations should continue to support literature and the teaching of poetry. Large-scale contests, lectures, workshops, and all kinds of literary activities ought to expand readership in all manners possible and propel the growth of contemporary literature. 6. Positively restore the literary environment and atmosphere on campuses. 7. Cultivate the next generation of critics.

I don’t believe any real predicament exists, but our pessimism alone could ferment into utter disappointment. Many determined people are struggling, and we cannot grow lax in our complaints. We can only continue to create with sincerity and wisdom and search for allies and for the energy to move forward. Our real challenge is whether or not we can place ourselves in a leadership position in the symbiotic world of Chinese culture, not how many books of poetry we can sell. Wen Hsun 56 (June 1990): 114–18, translated by Brian Skerratt.

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note 1.

The title is a play on a line from Zhuangzi: “If the sages don’t die, the thieves won’t quit.” Although the sages who govern ought to bring order to the world, Zhuangzi argues that the world is better off without them, since the virtue and wealth they spread will only benefit the thieves who take advantage.

8. She Waves the Flag: Preface to Ping Lu’s New Collection Who Killed XXX? z ha ng xi gu o

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n the prefaces I have written previously, I simply introduced the author and the work. That is pretty much what I intend to do here, but nowadays it is no longer fashionable to say “introduce.” Nowadays you say “read.” A “reading” is a bit broader than an “introduction,” because you not only read the work, you also read the author. To go one step further, the reader himself or herself needs to be read too. By adding layer upon layer of reading, the reader constructs a complex hermeneutic framework. . . . So much contemporary literature is hard to understand, because the writers are, in effect, “waving the red flag while burning it.” A writer may seem to be offering a “mandarin ducks and butterflies” or “talent and beauty” story, but he or she is actually rebelling against romance. He or she may seem to be writing about the great man of a generation, when in fact he or she is overturning the idea of greatness. This technique is what critics call “subversion” in literary lingo: a writer creates a work in a certain mode, and critics say he is subverting the language of that mode. Therefore, “subversion” has a positive meaning—it is right to rebel. But literary subversion can also be powerfully destructive. It’s like pulling on a loose end of a knitted garment: you tug on the string and discover that the knit and purl of a woolen sweater is actually a ball of yarn. Now you have a new understanding of what a sweater is. Ping Lu is a master of literary subversion. “The Taiwan Miracle” subverts the traditional definition of fiction. You cannot easily categorize the story. It looks like fiction but is not fiction, looks like a research report but is not a research report, looks like science fiction but is not science fiction, looks like expository writing but is not expository writing . . . It is everything and nothing at the same time. She waves the flag of the Taiwan Miracle in a way that is clearly critical. But is the story a satire? Not really. What emerges in the wake of the author’s complete subversion of the Taiwanese experience is Formosa, the beautiful island she is unable to

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note 1.

The title is a play on a line from Zhuangzi: “If the sages don’t die, the thieves won’t quit.” Although the sages who govern ought to bring order to the world, Zhuangzi argues that the world is better off without them, since the virtue and wealth they spread will only benefit the thieves who take advantage.

8. She Waves the Flag: Preface to Ping Lu’s New Collection Who Killed XXX? z ha ng xi gu o

I

n the prefaces I have written previously, I simply introduced the author and the work. That is pretty much what I intend to do here, but nowadays it is no longer fashionable to say “introduce.” Nowadays you say “read.” A “reading” is a bit broader than an “introduction,” because you not only read the work, you also read the author. To go one step further, the reader himself or herself needs to be read too. By adding layer upon layer of reading, the reader constructs a complex hermeneutic framework. . . . So much contemporary literature is hard to understand, because the writers are, in effect, “waving the red flag while burning it.” A writer may seem to be offering a “mandarin ducks and butterflies” or “talent and beauty” story, but he or she is actually rebelling against romance. He or she may seem to be writing about the great man of a generation, when in fact he or she is overturning the idea of greatness. This technique is what critics call “subversion” in literary lingo: a writer creates a work in a certain mode, and critics say he is subverting the language of that mode. Therefore, “subversion” has a positive meaning—it is right to rebel. But literary subversion can also be powerfully destructive. It’s like pulling on a loose end of a knitted garment: you tug on the string and discover that the knit and purl of a woolen sweater is actually a ball of yarn. Now you have a new understanding of what a sweater is. Ping Lu is a master of literary subversion. “The Taiwan Miracle” subverts the traditional definition of fiction. You cannot easily categorize the story. It looks like fiction but is not fiction, looks like a research report but is not a research report, looks like science fiction but is not science fiction, looks like expository writing but is not expository writing . . . It is everything and nothing at the same time. She waves the flag of the Taiwan Miracle in a way that is clearly critical. But is the story a satire? Not really. What emerges in the wake of the author’s complete subversion of the Taiwanese experience is Formosa, the beautiful island she is unable to

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forget. Contrary to the author’s rational and critical attitude, love of homeland and nostalgia turn out to be the only redemption after the subversion. By the same token, “A.I. Story” subverts science fiction. This work was one of the finalists for the H. K. Chang Science Fiction Prize, for which I was one of the judges. After much deliberation, I felt in the end that, even though “A.I. Story” was a first-rate work, as science fiction its “fantastic element” was not sufficiently original; therefore, I didn’t vote for it. Rereading it now, I realize that Ping Lu was rebelling against traditional science fiction. On the surface, it is the old story of “the scientist creates a machine, but it repays kindness with enmity.” Actually, in asking the reader to see through “artificial intelligence” it breaks the scifi mode. (On first reading, I thought the author was talking about artificial intelligence as a branch of computer science. Rereading led me to understand her true intention.) The Daoist Vanitas [in Dream of the Red Chamber] experiences affection upon seeing Beauty appear in the Void, while the robot in Ping Lu’s story realizes that “in imitating humans, I have, finally and hopelessly, become a member of the human race.” Her story transcends traditional science fiction, and in the act of subversion, she displays her exceptional talent for “waving the flag while opposing it.” What is interesting is that the redemption after subversion remains a longing for love. This theme recurs in the play Who Killed XXX? Ping Lu is probably the only writer who has won the literary prizes of the two major newspapers, United Daily and China Times, in more than one category. The play is less subversive [than her fiction], the technique more traditional. It may be because Ping Lu primarily specializes in fiction, and this play was her first try; nevertheless, it displays talent. She makes an excellent choice of material in drawing a parallel between Chang Ching-kuo/his mistress on the one hand, and the great director/ the female protagonist on the other, to reflect on both the father–son relationship and extramarital affairs. The conception is ingenious. I think if this play were performed, it would create a stir, precisely because audiences would find it easier to accept the more traditional technique. But the writer herself asks: “Is this kind of play simply another way of pandering to the common taste?” Her query requires another level of interpretation. The director in the play says, In a lifetime, there are only a few true feelings worth waiting for, such as friendship, familial affection, and romantic love. Only in experiencing something genuine, even if only for a few brief moments, can one open up, erase unhappy memories, and untie emotional knots that seem stuck fast. Such moments are similar to catharsis in watching a play where, in an instant, someone in an entangled situation is finally able to transcend personal limitations. It does not matter whether this speech is sincere or not, for “truth becomes fiction when fiction is true.” This, it seems to me, is the bottom line of Ping Lu’s

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writings. Readers who like Ping Lu think that she is “a woman writer who is most unlike the typical woman writer.” But after Ping Lu, “the terrorist” adept in acts of subversion, has used all her talent to wreck the stereotypes of political fiction, science fiction, and soap opera, what she reveals in the end is still a woman writer’s attachment to love. Rationality is only the outer shell of her work, underneath which is the exquisite heart of a traditional woman. This is why all her works, both fiction and drama, are highly readable and give the reader both intellectual and emotional satisfaction. I have a theory about the “subversive action” of meta-fiction. Through characterization and plot development, traditional fiction lifts the reader up into the realm of the sublime. In the act of subverting fiction itself, meta-fiction produces a rising and falling effect similar to that of traditional fiction. Eventually, metafiction lifts the reader up into the realm of the sublime too. Although the direction is different (the former is horizontal, the latter vertical), the destination in both cases is the same. But after “not seeing mountains as mountains or rivers as rivers,” we must return to our intuitive understanding and “see mountains as mountains, rivers as rivers.” After all, a simple heart is where the vast majority of people find their home and identity. After novelists have subverted fiction by “waving the red flag while burning it,” they inevitably raise a large banner that says: “Fiction is not dead.” Ping Lu’s work is living proof of this claim. January 19, 1991, Mt. Lebanon, Pittsburgh Ping Lu, Who Killed XXX? (Taipei: Yuanshen, 1991), 1–7, translated by Darryl Sterk.

9. Diary qi u mi aojin July 17, 1991 No matter what, I must begin working on my book today. After reading some stories from the series in Tragedy of Genius about artists who devoted their lives to art, I had a heavy heart. How seriously true artists take their art. People like van Gogh, Gauguin, Toulouse-Lautrec, Modigliani, Utrillo, Soutine, Dégas, and Munch, how madly they painted. Without that kind of perseverance, passion, resolve to cast off everything, and devotion to art above all else, how can one achieve anything?

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writings. Readers who like Ping Lu think that she is “a woman writer who is most unlike the typical woman writer.” But after Ping Lu, “the terrorist” adept in acts of subversion, has used all her talent to wreck the stereotypes of political fiction, science fiction, and soap opera, what she reveals in the end is still a woman writer’s attachment to love. Rationality is only the outer shell of her work, underneath which is the exquisite heart of a traditional woman. This is why all her works, both fiction and drama, are highly readable and give the reader both intellectual and emotional satisfaction. I have a theory about the “subversive action” of meta-fiction. Through characterization and plot development, traditional fiction lifts the reader up into the realm of the sublime. In the act of subverting fiction itself, meta-fiction produces a rising and falling effect similar to that of traditional fiction. Eventually, metafiction lifts the reader up into the realm of the sublime too. Although the direction is different (the former is horizontal, the latter vertical), the destination in both cases is the same. But after “not seeing mountains as mountains or rivers as rivers,” we must return to our intuitive understanding and “see mountains as mountains, rivers as rivers.” After all, a simple heart is where the vast majority of people find their home and identity. After novelists have subverted fiction by “waving the red flag while burning it,” they inevitably raise a large banner that says: “Fiction is not dead.” Ping Lu’s work is living proof of this claim. January 19, 1991, Mt. Lebanon, Pittsburgh Ping Lu, Who Killed XXX? (Taipei: Yuanshen, 1991), 1–7, translated by Darryl Sterk.

9. Diary qi u mi aojin July 17, 1991 No matter what, I must begin working on my book today. After reading some stories from the series in Tragedy of Genius about artists who devoted their lives to art, I had a heavy heart. How seriously true artists take their art. People like van Gogh, Gauguin, Toulouse-Lautrec, Modigliani, Utrillo, Soutine, Dégas, and Munch, how madly they painted. Without that kind of perseverance, passion, resolve to cast off everything, and devotion to art above all else, how can one achieve anything?

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As a novelist, one has an even tougher path than a painter. Novelists cannot depend on pigments in the outside world, nor can they draw on classical knowledge for material. They can only rely on their feelings, experiences, and memories to create something out of nothing. Lines, colors, materials, composition—writers must rely on words to create everything. Novelists are more profound than painters. Relying on the written word, novelists can feel and think without limit, get deep and complex without limit; therefore, the path they must forge is also infinitely long. I have been reconsidering the purpose and value of fiction. Murakami Haruki has inspired me with this idea: there is no need for literature to exclude the majority of people and exist only for literary critics and literary history; but it must have value. At least for someone like me, it does not matter if it is revelatory, beautiful, or moving. A novelist must inspire in people new emotions, spiritual experience, and imagination, and must give people new possibilities for experiencing the world. The more people he or she can reach, the better it is. Ideally, fiction should use a language that is easily accepted by most people, point out dimensions of the zeitgeist of a particular era, and delve into unknown spiritual depths. This type of language is a new language that creates a spiritual reality—the unique language of fiction. January 24, 1995 After I read Chinese Women Writers of the May Fourth Period: Journeys of the Heart, it dawned on me why women writers (and artists) could not become masters. The objective constraints that society imposed on women are too many. That is what I have called “structural complicity.” In addition, women are raised in such a way as to develop a personality that creates subjective constraints. Chapter after chapter, stories of these women’s fates record histories of blood and tears—Xiao Hong [1911–1942], Bai Wei [1894–1987], Ding Ling [1904–1986], Su Qing [1914–1982], Zhang Ailing [1920–1995], Lu Yin [1898–1934], Shi Pingmei [1902–1928]. . . . With the exception of Zhang Ailing, they were all lost in obscurity, obliterated. On the brink of death, Xiao Hong still managed to finish a work of blood and tears. Women are constrained by their desire for men. The “self-sacrifice,” “no resentment, no regrets,” “self-repression,” “endless waiting,” “infinite forbearance and forgiveness” that go along with this desire all arise from the fact that women have never placed themselves at the center in viewing or approaching the world, which leads to such personalities as “the masochist,” “the victim,” “the constrained,” “the oppressed,” “the bearer of disgrace and burdens,” and “the evader of conflict.” Their ingrained tendency to see the Other as the center lest they lose love brings endless experiences of hurt and abuse, irresponsibility and unfair treatment, abandonment and tragedy. “To win love with love” is the root of all suffering. They believe that they must give “a full load” of love in order to receive “one drop” of love in return, that “I am unworthy of being loved,” “there is no way I can love myself, love living, love life,” “if I don’t take

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the initiative to love first, no one will take the initiative to love me,” “if I don’t depend on someone to love me, I won’t know how to deal with loneliness and sexual desire; I will be stuck forever in the blackest hell with no way out.” This is why “to win love with love” produces “sprawling desire” and transforms the “subject” of desire into the “object” of desire, the “master” of the world into the “dominated” one who avoids reality. These are the origins of “the desert.”. . . Today I was thinking back on a failed love affair. I told myself that if the other party did not deserve to be the object of my love then I was abusing myself in vain. Now I ask myself: What can I possibly want from her? Isn’t what I seek from her an “illusion”? Sex, passion, faithfulness, attachment, romance, even a basic “acknowledgment” of the relationship, are all missing. The only thing we have is a “concern for each other in everyday life.” Why am I still clinging to her? Why don’t I wake up? I am not going to receive anything in return. Only now do I understand that “marriage” is a pledge dictating that the couple continually maintain good faith. Diaries of Qiu Miaojin (Taipei: INK, 2007), 33, 206–7, translated by Emma J. Teng.

10. Literature of the Military Family Village: The Inheritance and Abandonment of Homesickness qi ba ngyua n

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n Taiwan, many government and public education agencies once provided housing for employees and their dependents. Gradually, these housing facilities developed their own unique style or set of characteristics. However, when people mention juancun [lit. “dependents’ village”], what they mean is the military family housing built by the government after it relocated to Taiwan. From Shimen in the north to Hengchun down south, they were built next to military bases. Numbering in the hundreds, they were collectively called “New Villages” and were given names based on branches of the armed services and political slogans. These densely situated, humble houses harbored the mentality of a closed community that declined day by day; they became a unique component of the pluralistic society in Taiwan. After more than three decades of fending off typhoons and floods, the New Villages were extremely dilapidated. As the surrounding high-rises began to encroach, most New Villages were torn down and redeveloped into public housing. The days of the few remaining ones are numbered; before long, they will be a thing of the past. In the last five years,

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the initiative to love first, no one will take the initiative to love me,” “if I don’t depend on someone to love me, I won’t know how to deal with loneliness and sexual desire; I will be stuck forever in the blackest hell with no way out.” This is why “to win love with love” produces “sprawling desire” and transforms the “subject” of desire into the “object” of desire, the “master” of the world into the “dominated” one who avoids reality. These are the origins of “the desert.”. . . Today I was thinking back on a failed love affair. I told myself that if the other party did not deserve to be the object of my love then I was abusing myself in vain. Now I ask myself: What can I possibly want from her? Isn’t what I seek from her an “illusion”? Sex, passion, faithfulness, attachment, romance, even a basic “acknowledgment” of the relationship, are all missing. The only thing we have is a “concern for each other in everyday life.” Why am I still clinging to her? Why don’t I wake up? I am not going to receive anything in return. Only now do I understand that “marriage” is a pledge dictating that the couple continually maintain good faith. Diaries of Qiu Miaojin (Taipei: INK, 2007), 33, 206–7, translated by Emma J. Teng.

10. Literature of the Military Family Village: The Inheritance and Abandonment of Homesickness qi ba ngyua n

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n Taiwan, many government and public education agencies once provided housing for employees and their dependents. Gradually, these housing facilities developed their own unique style or set of characteristics. However, when people mention juancun [lit. “dependents’ village”], what they mean is the military family housing built by the government after it relocated to Taiwan. From Shimen in the north to Hengchun down south, they were built next to military bases. Numbering in the hundreds, they were collectively called “New Villages” and were given names based on branches of the armed services and political slogans. These densely situated, humble houses harbored the mentality of a closed community that declined day by day; they became a unique component of the pluralistic society in Taiwan. After more than three decades of fending off typhoons and floods, the New Villages were extremely dilapidated. As the surrounding high-rises began to encroach, most New Villages were torn down and redeveloped into public housing. The days of the few remaining ones are numbered; before long, they will be a thing of the past. In the last five years,

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some of the writers who grew up in juancun have published literary pieces, one after another, on life in these communities. For the time being, we call this type of writing “juancun literature,” which inevitably brings to mind those writers from the armed forces in the 1960s and the anti-Communist and nostalgic literature of that era. . . .

I N H E R I TA N C E O F N O S TA L G I A When the second generation of juancun writers started writing, the slogan “Recover the Mainland” was already on the way out. The prior generation’s hometowns on the mainland were becoming a geographic abstraction. The New Villages in Taiwan, with names like “Glory of the Army,” “Tiger’s Roar,” “Soaring to the Clouds,” “Recover Homeland,” and “Women’s League,” had become the new generation’s homeland and “national” territory. With a foothold in the new land, they grew up, studied hard, received an education, fell in love, and dreamed about their future, until they left and were assimilated into the larger society. With time and expanding horizons, the juancun literature that these writers produced gradually took on a profound meaning of soul-searching. “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter” by Zhu Tianxin and “Cut Down” by Sun Weimang were both published in newspaper literary supplements in 1975. They were possibly the earliest stories that centered around the juancun. . . .

“ F AT E ” B R I N G S U S T O G E T H E R The main themes of juancun literature can be summed up with two words: “gathering” and “scattering.” Stories about “gathering” usually have the word “fate” in their titles, such as Fated to Meet Across a Thousand Miles, Fate in This Life, and Predestined Marriage. From the outset, these young writers were creating the language of the new era. They use the traditional word “fate” not so much because of a love for antiquity but as a way to express bewilderment and surprise. After leaving the juancun and moving into urban apartments, they have tried hard to get used to the isolation and alienation inherent in their new lifestyle. The intimate relationships in the crowded juancun seem so warm in memory. Juancun residents who had come from all corners of China and crossed the sea to Taiwan gave what little they had to help others in need as they found shelter from the wind and rain in narrow and dreary alleys. Perhaps only “fate” could explain the predestined gathering and scattering. Fated to Meet Across a Thousand Miles (published by the Hongfan Bookstore in 1984) was the first full-length novel by Su Weizhen and should be considered the first work focusing on “gathering.”. . .

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Social barriers based on regional identities break down most easily for children. Ai Ya’s novel Once (published by Elite Books in 1985) is a story of first love. . . . By the end of the novel, the division between the Taiwanese and the mainlanders is blurred; the characters kneeling before the deathbed chanting Buddhist scriptures have become one. Fate in This Life by Yuan Qiongqiong (published by Unitas in 1988) gives an even more detailed illustration of this kind of personal loyalty typical of people from the juancun. In the preface, she writes, “The title of the book was to be Predestined Meeting in This Life. What I wanted to focus on originally was the word ‘destiny.’ With so many people in this world, how is it that you and I meet? . . . I miss those down-to-earth, intimate years. We cried together and laughed together; we loved each other and hurt each other.”. . .

P R E D I C A M E N T A N D B E T R AYA L The above-mentioned books are mostly based on warm memories from the early days. As shelters, the newly built juancun were slightly nicer than the farmers’ houses in the surrounding villages and towns. The residents were young, the children small, and the problems facing them simple. Besides, the slogan “Recover the Mainland” still resounded loud and clear, and the hope of returning home was still intact. After 1965, Taiwan’s economy gradually “took off”; everything started to change. What had been wastelands adjacent to the juancun—old military compounds, cemeteries, alluvial islands, and marshes—gradually had roads and houses built on them. The more buildings that went up, the higher and more concentrated they became. The houses in the juancun had been built with bricks, split bamboo, and cement; they were intended to be temporary dwellings. Weathered by the elements over time, they got old, dilapidated, and congested. They were isolated semi-slums. Xiao Sa’s [b. 1953] Like a Dream (published by Jiuge in 1981) was perhaps the first juancun novel to feature the theme of rebellion. She seems to be more interested in telling the story of a vain, rebellious girl from a juancun than in critiquing a system or phenomenon. . . .

M E TA M O R P H O S I S O F T H E F AT H E R I M A G E In all normal societies, a boy’s self-identity comes mostly from his father. The fathers of the children living in the juancun were servicemen; as such, they lent themselves more to being objects of hero worship. . . . Footnotes to August 23rd (1979) and Generals (1981) by Zhu Xining recounted Taiwanese experiences. These two books are also classics that offer positive portrayals of soldiers. . . . While Footnotes to August 23rd presents biographies of

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middle- and lower-ranked officers and soldiers, two years later Zhu completed Generals with the same piety. The novel uses the Way, heaven, Earth, general, law, wisdom, faithfulness, humaneness, valor, and discipline as titles of the chapters, each focusing on a general, plus the supplementary chapter “Generals and Me.”. . . Although Bai Xiangyong has not written a book specifically about generals, among the fourteen short stories in his Taipei People, soldiers are the central characters in at least five. In “Wandering in the Garden, Waking from a Dream” the [ female protagonist’s] dreamlike state also revolves around several generals as [her consciousness] shuttles between the past and the present. . . . However, the era in which generals and heroes are representative of the military man is gone forever. Just as these lines from Liu Yuxi’s poem, quoted in the epigraph to Taipei People, say: “Swallows from the courtyards of the powerful Wangs and Xies / Have flown to the houses of commoners,” so, over time, middle- and low-ranked officers and soldiers have come to represent the military man in literature. . . . The five volumes of prose in the series Losing Soldiers Instead of Horses, written by Zhang Tuowu in 1976–1981 and published by Erya in 1981, carried the literature of soldiers to new heights. As [the artist and poet] Chu Ge [1931–2011] says in “Truth Is a Kind of Beauty”: “In the humorous but true stories in Losing Soldiers Instead of Horses, there is a kind of dignity, a kind of human dignity in a dismal century, shining forth in the midst of those bitter years. This light lives in his simple, honest heart. . . . This is where the power of the military community comes from.”. . .

T H E “ F AT H E R L E S S ” W O R L D The children growing up in military family villages were aware that their families owned neither house nor land; they very much needed the guiding hand of a father to lead them out of the world of nostalgia and into society to make a living. However, most of the fathers were career soldiers. Some of them could only resort to simplified Confucian teachings and didactic dogma to “admonish” their children, who were thus left unprepared to face modern society’s myriad bizarre and fantastic temptations. In an essay titled “Juancun Children Grow Old in the World,” Zhang Dachun says: “The environment in which children from military family villages found themselves was like an invisible fortress. Inside the fortress were fathers and elders who shouldered the responsibility of national security. (Fathers and elders also often passed on this responsibility to their sons as if it were the Olympic torch or a relay baton; the sons had no other prospect.). . .This impoverished yet self-sufficient life was filled with an endless sense of crisis, homesickness, and nostalgia; a collective sense of mission; shared pride and shame; brotherhood; and a patriotic, self-endowed sense of nobility. . . . However, all of these, because of the many possible setbacks to

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self-interest or to dignity, could be distorted into hostility (‘the country owes it to me’) and a sense of inferiority (‘the country has abandoned me’)” (China Times Evening Post, December 29, 1990). A few children from military family villages inherited the nostalgia of the older generation; compounded with this kind of hostility and sense of inferiority, it could give rise to extreme rebelliousness, and the children turned into prisoners trapped in the purgatory of rage, harming others as well as themselves.

L E AV I N G T O N G F A N G A N D T H E R E T U R N In the process of continual deconstruction and reconstruction of old concepts in a postmodern society, new definitions frequently emerged for “nostalgia.” Some “theories of nostalgia” claim that remembrance of the past is actually a reconstruction of history, an attempt to find one’s position in history and the strength to discover the path to the future through introspection. Some say that nostalgia is a manifestation of the sense of impotence of petty intellectuals before massive capital in practice (Zhang Yuan, “Nostalgia,” China Times literary supplement, July 18, 1991). Su Weizhen’s novel, Leaving Tongfang, published by Lianjing in 1990, deals once more with the subject matter of juancun. This novel seemed to challenge her own Fated to Meet Across a Thousand Miles, published six years earlier, in the sense that, through literary creativity, the book repudiated the sense of impotence among petty intellectuals. . . . The curse of Tongfang New Village is, in fact, the curse of all human societies. The clash between generations, marriage and divorce, natural disasters, manmade catastrophes  .  .  . every region, ethnic group, and era has its curse. The worst curse for the juancun is poverty and the sense of isolation—isolation from one’s roots, isolation from the world outside the village—forming one big family with no blood relations. “My mom” [in the novel] is the matriarch of the big family; she combines with the land that provides a temporary sanctuary for the people to form a twofold maternal image. . . .

L E T T I N G G O A N D T R A N S C E N D E N C E O F N O S TA L G I A . . . “A Painting of Chicken Plumage” by Zhang Dachun is probably the first story of old soldiers told in a purely artistic style. Winner of the short story award from the China Times in 1978, the story has an ending that is both sad and disturbing. The story is about an old soldier, Cai Qishi, who has received permission to raise chickens at the windbreak on the military base (to keep him occupied and to take advantage of the location). Over time, a bond develops; the thirty-some chickens, each with its own name, become his family, and the chicken coops are

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his juancun. . . . When the troops are about to move, not wanting the chickens to be sold cheaply, he breaks their necks with his hands and then gives them a proper burial. . . . After “A Painting of Chicken Plumage,” Zhang Dachun wrote two more award-winning works, “Monument to a General” and “Sixi’s Obsessions,” both having soldiers as protagonists and both generally recognized as masterpieces. The greatest difference between “Monument to a General” on the one hand, and Zhu Xining’s Generals or Bai Xiangyong’s Taipei People on the other, is that “Monument to a General” neither extols the meritorious service nor eulogizes the generals; instead, it questions them. . . . In the human world on Earth, there is no eternally beautiful home. The military family villages have been transformed into high-rises, and high-rises are filled with alienation. The way to untangle the psychological complex of nostalgia for life in the juancun is perhaps to first realize what they share with all human societies. Only then can we transcend the narrow concept of “hometown” and be liberated through tears. United Daily literary supplement, October 25–27, 1991, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

11. Discovering a New Taiwan: On Wang Qimei’s Collage ji ao tong

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rovoked by the social ills of Taiwan, the irate voice of Wang Qimei [b. 1946] could be heard in her 1987 play Orphan in the World. Enraged, she was anxious to cure Taiwan with a heavy dose of medicine. The tone of the play is solemn and serious. Like a tightly strung string, the play makes the audience reflect in dismay and sweat in anxiety. Perhaps she found such “admonition” too explicit, as if she were lecturing the audience with a long face. Five years later, Wang loosened her string in the 1992 Branch Edition of Orphan. In addition to humanistic concern and measured social criticism, the new version is greatly enhanced by lyricism and artistic affect. It reminds me of Henrik Ibsen’s plays An Enemy of the People and A Doll’s House. Although they are powerful and immensely influential works, I prefer the maturity and subtlety of The Wild Duck. The 1992 version of Orphan continued the narrative style of the previous iteration. The actors and the staff participated in the creation of the play, which chronicles the history of Taiwan from the Ice Age, through the geological

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his juancun. . . . When the troops are about to move, not wanting the chickens to be sold cheaply, he breaks their necks with his hands and then gives them a proper burial. . . . After “A Painting of Chicken Plumage,” Zhang Dachun wrote two more award-winning works, “Monument to a General” and “Sixi’s Obsessions,” both having soldiers as protagonists and both generally recognized as masterpieces. The greatest difference between “Monument to a General” on the one hand, and Zhu Xining’s Generals or Bai Xiangyong’s Taipei People on the other, is that “Monument to a General” neither extols the meritorious service nor eulogizes the generals; instead, it questions them. . . . In the human world on Earth, there is no eternally beautiful home. The military family villages have been transformed into high-rises, and high-rises are filled with alienation. The way to untangle the psychological complex of nostalgia for life in the juancun is perhaps to first realize what they share with all human societies. Only then can we transcend the narrow concept of “hometown” and be liberated through tears. United Daily literary supplement, October 25–27, 1991, translated by Camilla Hsieh.

11. Discovering a New Taiwan: On Wang Qimei’s Collage ji ao tong

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rovoked by the social ills of Taiwan, the irate voice of Wang Qimei [b. 1946] could be heard in her 1987 play Orphan in the World. Enraged, she was anxious to cure Taiwan with a heavy dose of medicine. The tone of the play is solemn and serious. Like a tightly strung string, the play makes the audience reflect in dismay and sweat in anxiety. Perhaps she found such “admonition” too explicit, as if she were lecturing the audience with a long face. Five years later, Wang loosened her string in the 1992 Branch Edition of Orphan. In addition to humanistic concern and measured social criticism, the new version is greatly enhanced by lyricism and artistic affect. It reminds me of Henrik Ibsen’s plays An Enemy of the People and A Doll’s House. Although they are powerful and immensely influential works, I prefer the maturity and subtlety of The Wild Duck. The 1992 version of Orphan continued the narrative style of the previous iteration. The actors and the staff participated in the creation of the play, which chronicles the history of Taiwan from the Ice Age, through the geological

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formation of the island, up to modern times, with a focus on the development of the Taiwanese family over the past four decades in an attempt to record the feelings and lives of people apart from politics and economy. Wang Qimei excels in the technique of collecting and curating massive amounts of material to present cultural richness. The New Theater and the puppet theater during the Japanization movement [1930s to 1945] appear as plays-within-the-play, as do Taiwanese folk songs, Hakka mountain songs, local opera, aboriginal ballads, and a variety of modern literary works. All of them are tailored, compressed, and combined in due order and constitute a coherent structure. I am especially impressed by the actors’ narration of their family stories, which sets the new version apart from the original version of the play. This is a history of Taiwan from the perspective of ordinary people. The collage includes such experiences as: taking refuge in air-raid shelters; a young girl reared as the son’s future wife; a Taiya tribe grandmother weaver; cow herding; selling ice, vegetables, and pork; peeling asparagus and shrimp; fishing baby eels; domestic help; running a print shop, soy sauce factory, beauty parlor, and seafood market. . . . These mosaics seem disconnected, but through remarkable staging, Wang weaves them into a tapestry that spans the past, present, and future, skillfully connecting our individual memories of growing up into a collective memory; in this way, the plot develops organically, and every ordinary story comes alive. By and large, the stage presentation adopts the conventions of traditional Chinese opera. Moving props and changing scenes take place under stage lighting; the narrator and the performers share the same theatrical space; the actors move elegantly in and out of the frame. Wang Qimei does not care about conventional theater’s devices for developing main characters and episodes, and the resulting conflict between will and circumstances. Her plays are deeply nostalgic but never sentimental or sad; the love embedded in the past makes us hesitate when we squander it, makes it hard to let go. That is a cherishing of culture, an affection for the people. Wang Qimei is passionate. She has a romantic dream of trees: to organize her actors to plant trees all around Taiwan to transform the island into a beautiful and compassionate green ocean, following the footsteps of Lu Jinde [b. 1942, who lost his son Lu Zheng to kidnappers in 1987]. I attended two rehearsals and was deeply moved as the actors warmed up, practiced Peking opera movements, recited Chinese poetry, and sang southern tunes, Taiwanese opera, and other songs. Everyone was diligent and hardworking. The spirit is alive in the chorus at the end of Orphan, “If You Open the Window of Your Heart,” and unifies us in one common hope. It is this hope that leads us toward the future with the past in our hearts and helps me rediscover Taiwan. China Times literary supplement, November 22, 1992, translated by Alex Huang.

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12. Inaugural Editorial of the Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly Chinese poetry, which is to say, poetry that uses the Chinese script as its medium of expression, has a long and venerable history. Modern-style poetry in Taiwan, on the other hand, had its inception only in the 1920s and is less than a century old. Nonetheless, a wide variety of poetic styles have emerged at historical junctures as a result of numerous internal and external factors. First, there was the bitter and defiant verse in the latter part of the Japanese occupation period, then the subdued and desolate in the early postwar period, followed by forty years of ebb and flow after the Nationalist government relocated to Taiwan. This diversity of poetic style makes it difficult to summarize it in a word, but we can say that the condition of the poetry has been uniformly poor. On the one hand, there has been infighting among the poets themselves; on the other hand, the cultural circles have from time to time been skeptical about poetry, going so far as to question the existence of poetry in the first place. Questions concerning poetry’s nature and function, its expression and structure, are constantly raised. On the surface, poetry is under attack from all directions, and its life is in danger. Yet, while the overall condition seems to back poetry into a corner, we discover that to redefine poetry may offer a chance for rebirth. The time has come for us to seriously and bravely examine the existence of poetry. Historically speaking, traditional poetics, in light of the love for and importance placed on poetry, exaggerated the function of poetry and inflated its status. Now that society is developing toward multiple audiovisual media, which occupy more and more of people’s time, energy, and sensory enjoyment, the written word, with its passivity and implicitness, is gradually declining in the increasingly complex milieu. Compared with other genres, the compression of poetry makes it particularly difficult to popularize. Poetry’s emotional and philosophical restraint, as well as its lack of direct sensory stimulation, makes it harder to attract the average reader. Thus, poetry is forced to become a literary form for the minority. . . . We nonetheless believe that modern poetry in Taiwan has already established a rich tradition. The pressing issue now is how to create a reasonable and mature interpretative system. For instance, can the poetry produced under Japanese occupation be considered an anti-Japanese strategy? How to categorize the anti-Communist verses produced in abundance in the 1950s? Do works address social reality, even when they exhibit a tendency of westernization? Finally, when each poetry society is engaged in writing its own history, rationalizing its developmental process, and elevating its historical position, can we have a more objective literary history with a comprehensive perspective? Standing on Taiwan’s soil in the 1990s, we have no choice but to construct a modern poetics with Taiwan at the center. To place Taiwan at the center, we must first bear Taiwan in mind. We are willing to clarify the experience of Taiwan

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poetry with the greatest sincerity and passion: What kind of experience has it been and what accounts for it? What is its trajectory and current state? How does Taiwan poetry relate to its surroundings under specific historical and geographical conditions? What are the current conditions of exchange, and when we take Taiwan as the center, how large a circle of poetry can we draw and what reasonable explanation can we offer for this territory? We are going to adopt a scholarly attitude and methodology to address these challenging questions. As we move forward, our editorial principles are as follows: we will focus on both history and reality, emphasize both theory and practice; we will not divide modern poetry along historical lines and exclude poetry scenes outside Taiwan. We hope we can gather poetic resources and effectively use editing and other activities of the journal to write a history of Taiwan poetry, thus ushering in a new era. The launch of the Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly is the first step. Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly 1 (December 1992): 2–4, translated by Paul Manfredi.

13. The World of Mountains and Seas: Preface to the Inaugural Issue of the Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly sun dachua n

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boriginal literature’s gradual growth since the 1970s has been an important new trend in the Taiwanese cultural sphere, but it has not entered into the average person’s field of vision. It is important, not only because it points to a literary tradition grounded in “mountains and seas,” but, more significantly, we are finally able to see indigenous writers attempting to use their identities to recount their tribal experiences and unleash their creative forces, which have been pent up for centuries. With the imaginative power of their literature and art, as well as their deep and unadorned life wisdom, from stone houses on the mountains to canoes on the seas, all indigenous peoples are heading to the world. For indigenous peoples, the symbol of mountains and seas is not only spatial but also human in its attributes. On the one hand, it represents Taiwan’s nativization movement toward a true return to Formosan mountains and seas; on the other hand, it accentuates the human desire to return to nature. It is distinct from the increasingly pretentious, urbanized, and commercialized “Taiwanese literature”; it also differs from the politically charged “Taiwanese literature.” For a long time now, the indigenes’ humble and bitter experiences have made their literary style, artistic form, and cultural self-reflection a better representation of the essence of life and the core of humanity.

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poetry with the greatest sincerity and passion: What kind of experience has it been and what accounts for it? What is its trajectory and current state? How does Taiwan poetry relate to its surroundings under specific historical and geographical conditions? What are the current conditions of exchange, and when we take Taiwan as the center, how large a circle of poetry can we draw and what reasonable explanation can we offer for this territory? We are going to adopt a scholarly attitude and methodology to address these challenging questions. As we move forward, our editorial principles are as follows: we will focus on both history and reality, emphasize both theory and practice; we will not divide modern poetry along historical lines and exclude poetry scenes outside Taiwan. We hope we can gather poetic resources and effectively use editing and other activities of the journal to write a history of Taiwan poetry, thus ushering in a new era. The launch of the Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly is the first step. Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly 1 (December 1992): 2–4, translated by Paul Manfredi.

13. The World of Mountains and Seas: Preface to the Inaugural Issue of the Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly sun dachua n

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boriginal literature’s gradual growth since the 1970s has been an important new trend in the Taiwanese cultural sphere, but it has not entered into the average person’s field of vision. It is important, not only because it points to a literary tradition grounded in “mountains and seas,” but, more significantly, we are finally able to see indigenous writers attempting to use their identities to recount their tribal experiences and unleash their creative forces, which have been pent up for centuries. With the imaginative power of their literature and art, as well as their deep and unadorned life wisdom, from stone houses on the mountains to canoes on the seas, all indigenous peoples are heading to the world. For indigenous peoples, the symbol of mountains and seas is not only spatial but also human in its attributes. On the one hand, it represents Taiwan’s nativization movement toward a true return to Formosan mountains and seas; on the other hand, it accentuates the human desire to return to nature. It is distinct from the increasingly pretentious, urbanized, and commercialized “Taiwanese literature”; it also differs from the politically charged “Taiwanese literature.” For a long time now, the indigenes’ humble and bitter experiences have made their literary style, artistic form, and cultural self-reflection a better representation of the essence of life and the core of humanity.

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The founding of the Culture of Mountains and Seas aims to construct a cultural stage for indigenous peoples, a stage that lets our brethren unleash their literary talent, artistic imagination, cultural creativity, and unique perspectives on political economy. . . . Our era permits neither retreat nor self-isolation. The Culture of Mountains and Seas wishes to cultivate and expand an open world. We not only hope that indigenous writers will push forward with their creative writing, but we hope even more for the participation of nonindigenous friends. To allow our perspectives to converge and foreground the indigenous perspective—a perspective constantly disregarded and even distorted by the dominant society—we hope that nonindigenous writers will use indigenous subject matter in their writing, whether it is positive or critical. Those writers who have an indigenous “identity” can engage any kind of subject matter. This is the essential constraint of the Culture of Mountains and Seas; it has no intention to form any “ethnocentric” misconception. Precisely because of this, we hope that our field of vision will not be limited to the indigenous peoples of Taiwan. The circumstances, experiences, and abundant cultural resources of ethnic minorities across the Taiwan Strait and throughout the Third World are topics we care about and wish to explore. We deeply believe that a solely Han Chinese–centered historical narrative or cultural discourse is not only incomplete but will suffocate the life force of national culture; a world dominated by white ethnocentrism will also cause humanity to wither and die. This is why the launch of the Culture of Mountains and Seas offers a global scope of world history. Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly 1 (December 1992): 2–4, translated by D. Dayton.

14. Who Is Going to Wear My Beautiful Knit Dress? l i ge l a le awu

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group of old women assemble gleefully and change into the brightly colored costumes of the Amei tribe shortly before the performance. From time to time, their uninhibited laughter can be heard from the fitting room. Curious, I go closer for a look. It turns out that they are teasing one another about their bodies and skin. Having endured excessive labor, birthing, and aging early on in their lives, their faces are inevitably marked by the tracks of merciless time. The originally tender skin is now covered with layers of cellulite

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The founding of the Culture of Mountains and Seas aims to construct a cultural stage for indigenous peoples, a stage that lets our brethren unleash their literary talent, artistic imagination, cultural creativity, and unique perspectives on political economy. . . . Our era permits neither retreat nor self-isolation. The Culture of Mountains and Seas wishes to cultivate and expand an open world. We not only hope that indigenous writers will push forward with their creative writing, but we hope even more for the participation of nonindigenous friends. To allow our perspectives to converge and foreground the indigenous perspective—a perspective constantly disregarded and even distorted by the dominant society—we hope that nonindigenous writers will use indigenous subject matter in their writing, whether it is positive or critical. Those writers who have an indigenous “identity” can engage any kind of subject matter. This is the essential constraint of the Culture of Mountains and Seas; it has no intention to form any “ethnocentric” misconception. Precisely because of this, we hope that our field of vision will not be limited to the indigenous peoples of Taiwan. The circumstances, experiences, and abundant cultural resources of ethnic minorities across the Taiwan Strait and throughout the Third World are topics we care about and wish to explore. We deeply believe that a solely Han Chinese–centered historical narrative or cultural discourse is not only incomplete but will suffocate the life force of national culture; a world dominated by white ethnocentrism will also cause humanity to wither and die. This is why the launch of the Culture of Mountains and Seas offers a global scope of world history. Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly 1 (December 1992): 2–4, translated by D. Dayton.

14. Who Is Going to Wear My Beautiful Knit Dress? l i ge l a le awu

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group of old women assemble gleefully and change into the brightly colored costumes of the Amei tribe shortly before the performance. From time to time, their uninhibited laughter can be heard from the fitting room. Curious, I go closer for a look. It turns out that they are teasing one another about their bodies and skin. Having endured excessive labor, birthing, and aging early on in their lives, their faces are inevitably marked by the tracks of merciless time. The originally tender skin is now covered with layers of cellulite

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like tree rings. Are they disheartened or concerned? I ask them. “Ha, ha, ha!” They give me no answer, but their eyes turn foggy as they continue preparing for the performance. “My Ina taught me this pattern. Good thing I remember it. Now that she is gone, I would not know whom to learn from. Isn’t this pretty? I will teach it to my daughter.” A vai shows off her clothes, which she made meticulously with time and experience, to the women in the room. “Mine are pretty too. I only got the pattern after asking several old people. But is the red too bright?” “Not at all. When you are old, you should wear some red!” Another burst of hearty laughter, followed by intermittent exchanges among them, some complimentary, some teasing. Like a beauty pageant that highlights fashion, they are such a happy group! I turn around and catch a glimpse of the vai sitting quietly in a corner. “What’s with her? Is she tired from the travel, or is she missing her tribe on the east coast?” A question rises in my mind. I will find time to talk with her, so I think. During the break, I walk up to the vai and ask her what is on her mind. Her eyes turn red like a rabbit even before she opens her mouth. “I am worried that nobody wants to wear the clothes I made.” She finally speaks what has been weighing on her mind. “I wanted my daughter to grow up to be a useful person, so when she was little, I sent her down the mountain, to a city far away to attend school like those young overseas students from the cities. Up on the mountain, we were so worried that we could not eat and sleep. Every time my daughter came back, all she talked about was how nice and beautiful the world outside was. I thought to myself: I don’t want her to be like me, living on the mountain and not knowing what it is like outside. But since I joined this group, we have been practicing Amis songs and Amis dances. Each time I sing, I get sadder; each time I dance, I feel like I am slapped in the face by my ancestors. For I know my daughter will never learn how to sing and dance the way our ancestors did. Just like my Ina, who used to teach me how to draw patterns and make clothes, no matter how hard I try, it is useless. Like a little bird in the sky, my daughter has flown far, far away to the city down the mountain. I don’t know when she will come back and who is going to wear the beautiful cloth I weave?” With big eyes characteristic of indigenous peoples, the vai asks me the way I have been asked many times before. All I can do is turn my head and let my tears fall helplessly, without saying a word. For I don’t know how to explain to an old indigenous woman that this should not be her responsibility, which nevertheless has fallen on her shoulders and those of her companions. I can tell her that all this is the inevitable result of the invasion of the dominant culture, capitalism, and bad government policy, or it is the fate of the tribes, that indigenous parents have to send their children away to the society on the plains to get a good education, so they forget their mother tongue and ancestral culture. I doubt that she will understand. I also do not know how to tell an indigenous old woman that one is lucky to receive an education, that there are many, in whose

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veins flows the same blood, who are forced to leave their tribes to go to the city without mountains and rivers to take high-risk and physically demanding jobs. Family obligations and the livelihood of wives and children do not even allow an accident to happen to them. In comparison, this vai is lucky. I can only comfort her and myself this way. In the midst of the rehearsal of this delightful, happy group, I walk away thinking about the daughter who has flown away from the tribe. “I wonder how many indigenous birds have lost their way in the gray and dim city. I wonder how many indigenous people live on concrete instead of soil, working as sweat drips down from their brows.” As I think, the sky over the city grows darker. China Times literary supplement, January 16, 1994, translated by Michelle Yeh.

15. Summer Mist z hu ti a nxin . . . One day in November of 1976, when I had just enrolled in the history department at National Taiwan University (NTU), I was attending a literature lecture (I don’t recall the precise title) at Tamkang University with several friends who were also literature lovers. Not long after the lecture began, we entered into an argument over the question of nativist literature with Li Yuanzhen and Li Shuangze, who were in the audience, which resulted in a street fight in which there were no casualties, only confusion. Thinking back on it now, the target of their literary campaigns (“modernist slaves” and “imperialist compradors”) was obviously not us, and what they were protesting was not what we called “literary autonomy that resists the tendency of instrumentalism.” It is not surprising, therefore, that there was no intersection between our discourses. Subsequent literary discussions at other universities all followed the same pattern: lacking a discursive logic → elevating and intensifying in tone → and bandying all sorts of detestable political labels. I became exceedingly anxious and exhausted, and as someone who already considered herself an author (I had published my first story in the China Times at the age of sixteen, and during my freshman year in college, I published two books and won two first prizes from two major competitions), what I feared most was having others (regardless of whether they were totalitarians or sympathetic to the weak) telling me what I should write: telling me that to write about a specific topic regardless of its aesthetic value was either inherently meaningless

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veins flows the same blood, who are forced to leave their tribes to go to the city without mountains and rivers to take high-risk and physically demanding jobs. Family obligations and the livelihood of wives and children do not even allow an accident to happen to them. In comparison, this vai is lucky. I can only comfort her and myself this way. In the midst of the rehearsal of this delightful, happy group, I walk away thinking about the daughter who has flown away from the tribe. “I wonder how many indigenous birds have lost their way in the gray and dim city. I wonder how many indigenous people live on concrete instead of soil, working as sweat drips down from their brows.” As I think, the sky over the city grows darker. China Times literary supplement, January 16, 1994, translated by Michelle Yeh.

15. Summer Mist z hu ti a nxin . . . One day in November of 1976, when I had just enrolled in the history department at National Taiwan University (NTU), I was attending a literature lecture (I don’t recall the precise title) at Tamkang University with several friends who were also literature lovers. Not long after the lecture began, we entered into an argument over the question of nativist literature with Li Yuanzhen and Li Shuangze, who were in the audience, which resulted in a street fight in which there were no casualties, only confusion. Thinking back on it now, the target of their literary campaigns (“modernist slaves” and “imperialist compradors”) was obviously not us, and what they were protesting was not what we called “literary autonomy that resists the tendency of instrumentalism.” It is not surprising, therefore, that there was no intersection between our discourses. Subsequent literary discussions at other universities all followed the same pattern: lacking a discursive logic → elevating and intensifying in tone → and bandying all sorts of detestable political labels. I became exceedingly anxious and exhausted, and as someone who already considered herself an author (I had published my first story in the China Times at the age of sixteen, and during my freshman year in college, I published two books and won two first prizes from two major competitions), what I feared most was having others (regardless of whether they were totalitarians or sympathetic to the weak) telling me what I should write: telling me that to write about a specific topic regardless of its aesthetic value was either inherently meaningless

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and second-rate (such as romances or lives of petite-bourgeoisie), or that it was inherently significant and first-rate (such as speaking for the weak). . . . Unfortunately, during an increasingly heated debate, the voices attempting to be reasonable were doomed to be drowned out, while the more radical and reductionist voices were easily heard, which helped shape the future topics and goals of the debate. Of course, it was not until years later that I began to realize that the nativist literature debates were actually, to paraphrase a Czech author, a case of “singing true songs with hypocritical words.” Yes, they used the language of literary debates to sing the songs of fundamental human rights under the martial law regime. Even now, more than ten years after the lifting of martial law, as ethnic groups and social power have been radically reconstituted, I finally realize that in Taiwan’s contemporary political spectrum, I and those “enemies,” who would turn away and pretend not to see me when they ran into me in the narrow Alley of Truth in the small town of Tamshui, have been forced to turn to one another for mutual support. I still believe that what we were supporting was correct, but because of that battle—the significance of which we never fully understood—we were relegated to the enemy side of nativism—the side in support of the state—even though not a single one of us ever joined the GMD or even attended any events associated with the Party. . . . Thus, when I see those who claim to have been enlightened by the 1979 Formosa Incident, who find out that one of their ancestors was politically persecuted, or who regard all of those involved in the 1970s opposition movements as heroes, it is difficult for me not to suspect that they have revised their memories to suit the myth, because if their recognition of the tragic state was so profound, then why was there no participation or rectification at all? For instance, one author in recent years has repeatedly talked about her White Terror experience and her persecuted friends and has repeatedly criticized other authors for not writing more about the history and politics of Taiwan. If we consider what this author wrote at the time, however, we find no representation, not even a trace, of the uniquely tragic experiences she keeps talking about. The reason for this is either that the author created her memories after the fact or that she, like humanity in general, was too afraid to write about [the White Terror] at the time. But if you yourself get scared, you should tolerate other people’s fear; at the very least you have no right to demand that other people be fearless. Zhu Tianxin, The Political Diary of a Fiction Writer (Taipei: China Times Culture, 1994), 224–30, translated by Carlos Rojas.

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16. Postscript to On the Island’s Edge che n l i . . . I ponder, I respond to, I hunger for the outside world by means of the world in which I live. I live on an island’s edge, but I think that the island’s edge can also be the center of the world. I do my own thing, teaching, writing, reading things I like in the world: Messiaen, Nono, Issa, Higashiyama Kaii, Borges, Barthes, Shi Tao, Rilke . . . 1 I am restless, but from time to time my personal life gives me some traction, helps me to settle down. I know that there are some things that naturally constrain me, so I move through my world dauntlessly and confidently; in the small city I live in, I reproduce all cities, I travel the world. The first thing my mother taught me was worry. From worry, I was able to experience what it meant to suffer, what the respite, relaxation, and joy meant after the suffering—before the next time pain came to visit. Between the greatest finite pain and the greatest finite happiness, we live, and we discover poetry. . . . From “Taroko 1989” to “Harbor Street, Hualien, 1939,” to “Formosa 1661,” I am happy that in the process of exploring and reorganizing the portrait of the island, of searching for history’s echoes, in this case propelling in one thrust across three hundred years, I returned to the highly symbolic seventeenth century. Miscegenation and tolerance: great Taiwan, which was constantly violated by different races but which also infiltrated their flesh and blood in turn, was fully born at that time. From my perspective as a native of Hualian on the island’s edge, the last and most recent area in Taiwan opened for settlement, Taiwan is an island full of vitality, where different groups live together and different cultural elements mix. It is not just the four great ethnic groups that we talk about (the aborigines, the Fukienese, the Hakka, the mainlanders); as early as the seventeenth century, Taiwan was already a global stage. The Spaniards came here, the Portuguese passed through, the Dutch occupied it, the Japanese ruled it—all this constitutes Taiwan’s distinctive quality: a kind of vitality ignited by unceasing miscegenation and tolerance. Yes, this has at times meant some pain and conflict, but in the end, it is a great and moving thing. My poetry attempts to combine different elements and sources: the nativist and the avant-garde, the island and the world. The last poem in this collection, “Island Flight,” was completed when I was editing Natural Hualian for the Huilan Native Soil Collection on behalf of the Hualian Huilan Cultural and Educational Foundation, and I happened upon a long string of mountain names inside Hualian’s borders. Mount Keke’erbao (a very aboriginal, very fairy-tale, very “exotic” kind of name) is flying above the island when his friends urge him to come down and take a picture together. He sees them all take their places

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below, a whole pile of his old mountain friends. The blank space six lines from the end of the poem is the place reserved for Mount Keke’erbao, the place he ought to return to. . . . On the island’s edge, I wrote a collection called Island’s Edge, and I thought about what it meant to be “Made in Taiwan.” September 1995, Hualian Island’s Edge (Taipei: Crown, 1993), 202–06, translated by Brian Skerratt.

note 1.

Olivier Messiaen (1908–1992) was a French composer and organist. Luigi Nono (1924– 1990) was an Italian composer. Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828) was a Japanese haiku poet. Higashiyama Kaii (1908–1999) was a Japanese artist. Shi Tao, born Zhu Ruoji (1642– 1707), was a Chinese painter.

17. On Ku’er: Reflections on Ku’er and Ku’er Literature in Contemporary Taiwan ji dawe i

O

n such occasions as seminars or interviews on the radio or television, the moderator or host often attaches the label ku’er to me. What is interesting is that the first question they usually ask me is: What is ku’er? This makes me wonder: If they do not know what ku’er means, why do they use it to define me? Like many new terms that appeared in the 1980s and 1990s, ku’er has existed and even entered popular usage, although people cannot say what it really means. On buses, you see advertisements for ku’er underpants, and pornography sold online is called Ku’er DVDs. Going back to 1994, when Hong Ling, Dan Tangmo, and I guest-edited the special issue on “Ku’er Literature” for the journal Island’s Edge, we could not have foreseen the transformations the word was to undergo.

KU’ER IS NOT EQUAL TO QUEER In the cultural sphere in Taiwan at that time, there already existed terms like “comrade” and “strange babe” to refer to homosexuals. But in that special issue, we insisted on using a term that did not yet exist in Chinese dictionaries so as to

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below, a whole pile of his old mountain friends. The blank space six lines from the end of the poem is the place reserved for Mount Keke’erbao, the place he ought to return to. . . . On the island’s edge, I wrote a collection called Island’s Edge, and I thought about what it meant to be “Made in Taiwan.” September 1995, Hualian Island’s Edge (Taipei: Crown, 1993), 202–06, translated by Brian Skerratt.

note 1.

Olivier Messiaen (1908–1992) was a French composer and organist. Luigi Nono (1924– 1990) was an Italian composer. Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828) was a Japanese haiku poet. Higashiyama Kaii (1908–1999) was a Japanese artist. Shi Tao, born Zhu Ruoji (1642– 1707), was a Chinese painter.

17. On Ku’er: Reflections on Ku’er and Ku’er Literature in Contemporary Taiwan ji dawe i

O

n such occasions as seminars or interviews on the radio or television, the moderator or host often attaches the label ku’er to me. What is interesting is that the first question they usually ask me is: What is ku’er? This makes me wonder: If they do not know what ku’er means, why do they use it to define me? Like many new terms that appeared in the 1980s and 1990s, ku’er has existed and even entered popular usage, although people cannot say what it really means. On buses, you see advertisements for ku’er underpants, and pornography sold online is called Ku’er DVDs. Going back to 1994, when Hong Ling, Dan Tangmo, and I guest-edited the special issue on “Ku’er Literature” for the journal Island’s Edge, we could not have foreseen the transformations the word was to undergo.

KU’ER IS NOT EQUAL TO QUEER In the cultural sphere in Taiwan at that time, there already existed terms like “comrade” and “strange babe” to refer to homosexuals. But in that special issue, we insisted on using a term that did not yet exist in Chinese dictionaries so as to

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better designate the confusions and desires that were similar to, and at the same time different from, “comrade.” Sure enough, in the 1990s, New Queer Cinema was introduced into Taiwan, and it elucidated the differences that were hard to describe with precision. In such films as Edward II by Derek Jarman and Swoon by Tom Kalin, we saw the irrepressible eroticism of “a certain type of” homosexuality that was clearly distinguishable from the typical image of “comrade” in Taiwan. That is why we borrowed the word “queer,” with all its reflections on gays and lesbians, and came up with the striking and provocative translation: ku’er. Afterward, whenever I was asked about the origin of ku’er, I would reiterate my earlier thinking, as if it would somehow offer a clear explanation. But I have gradually come to realize that, in trying to define ku’er, my explanation also reveals a gap. It has to do with two questions that I will try to answer, and in the process of answering them, the unconventionality of ku’er will come to the fore. The first question I often hear is: Is ku’er the Chinese translation of “queer”? Some people do not find ku’er precise enough. In its original English context, “queer” was a derogatory word condemning homosexuality, which was then appropriated by homosexuals. The derogatory overtones are not fully represented in ku’er. In terms of the Chinese translation, the implications of “cool” and “flashy” inherent in ku’er make it hard to connect it to the word “queer.” My answer is this. Ku’er does not equal queer, even though it is the Chinese translation of the English word. I hasten to point out, however, that there may never be a Chinese word that could translate “queer” one hundred percent faithfully, because “queer” originated in the history of Anglo-American societies. Since Taiwan does not have the same cultural context, it cannot possibly have given rise to this word. Any translation is bound to be different from the original and necessarily tainted by local color. Although ku’er was inspired by queer, its life story is inseparable from Taiwan. In short, it is a hybrid product of cross-cultural currents. A hybrid has no obligation—or ability—to be faithful to the original queer in a literal sense. Its genes come from more than one source. Ku’er is just such a hybrid. It has to deal with at least two demands. First, it must carry on a dialogue with queer and continue to be receptive to foreign influences; second, it must at the same time write its own local history. Although the hybridized ku’er boasts a legendary route of circulation—as I mentioned, it has even entered the business world—it is also totally acceptable for this new word to travel across boundaries and generate ambiguity. After all, a word is alive only if it is being used; a word that insists on purity faces decay and death.

W H AT I S K U ’ E R ? The second question may sound commonplace, but it is even harder to answer: What should a ku’er be like? An extended question is: What are the characteristics of a ku’er? . . .

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Ku’er refuses to be defined, because it has no fixed identity. However, for expediency’s sake, I will try to track ku’er by starting with the issue of identity. Whereas comrade upholds identity, ku’er questions it. The key word here is identity, which refers to the attributes one has in common with others. Just as an individual connects with a community through identity, so a community can bring together individuals in the name of identity. Identity instills confidence and a sense of belonging in an individual and empowers a community through unity. Thus, the comrade movement advocates identity the way nationalism advocates national identity. In this society, in which heterosexual identity is constantly being “dumped” as a commodity, the comrade movement with its construction of an alternative identity offers many people a different choice. “Comrade” emphasizes commonality among homosexuals. Under the umbrella of identity, every comrade has similar experience and history. In the formative phase of a political movement, identity logic can have the marvelous effect of unifying people. However, in the next phase, side effects begin to emerge. With its emphasis on homogeneity, the comrade movement sometimes neglects differences within the community. In a group identified as comrades, not everyone lives a homosexual life as a matter of fact. Some are bisexual; some fall in love with family members; some cross-dress; some are transsexual. Desires and behaviors go in different directions and cannot be subsumed under the same identity. Therefore, whereas comrades advocate an identity, ku’ers put a question mark next to identity. . . .

W H AT I S “K U ’ E R L I T E R AT U R E ” ? Ku’er literature, as one representation of willful ku’ers, has no facile definition. For discussion’s sake, I will offer a bold summary of its characteristics. The first characteristic of ku’er literature is the changeability and performance of identity. To mock fixed identities, ku’er literature often presents characters with ambiguous identities—neither male nor female, even neither human nor monster. The vampires in Hong Ling’s fiction shuttle between the human world and the world of ghosts. The lesbians in Qiu Miaojin’s Crocodile Diary act like crocodiles, playful as well as despondent. The androids in my Mask suggest that identity is artificial rather than natural. Therefore, ku’er literature is partial to adopting an unidentifiable narrative voice, thus allowing the narrative itself to become a performance. Both “Plato’s Hair” in Qiu Miaojin’s Ghosts’ Carnival and “Snow White” in Lin Yuyi’s I Love Zhang Ailing aptly manipulate the narrative voice, rendering indistinguishable the identities and sexual desires of the characters. The second characteristic of ku’er literature is the representation of the fluidity and mutability of desire. Because identity is subject to change, desire is no

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longer stable. Dong Qichang’s Androgyny portrays female desire as convoluted and shifting. Chen Xue’s Sleepwalk 1994 creates ambiguous scenes embodying multiple possibilities of sexual love. The narrator in Qiu Miaojin’s Last Words at Monmartre allows passionate love to explode in all directions with no regard for gender or ethnicity. Ku’er literature unveils the richness of sexual desire, but it also leads people into thinking that ku’er literature is just another wave of erotic literature. Such an understanding is far from complete. Along with the sexual game, ku’er literature exudes a sense of disenchantment with existing norms. . . . Moreover, in view of the social and historical specificity of Taiwan, the third characteristic of ku’er literature is its critique of sexual politics. In the AngloAmerican context, the queer movement has a history of several decades. Long before the term “queer literature” appeared, there had existed an abundance of literature about homosexuality that addressed many political issues. Yet in Taiwan, before the appearance of ku’er literature, there was no substantial queer movement to lay the foundation, nor was there a robust local tradition of queer literature. Thus, ku’er literature cannot be content with being a self-contained game, not paying attention to the desolation outside it. Ku’er literature often expresses dissatisfaction with the existing political environment. . . . Ku’er has neither shape nor form; it presents itself strategically, so as to make its way into our language and behavior. In the words of G. C. Spivak, the postcolonial theorist, it is the “strategic use of a positive essentialism.” The definitions of ku’er and ku’er literature that I have outlined above are both expedient and temporary. Ku’er and ku’er literature will not stay quietly within the boundary of an identity; they tend to climb over the wall and escape. However, to see ku’er run away is exhilarating, because it signals that ku’er is not dying; it is powerful and strong. Ku’er Revelations, Ji Dawei, ed. (Taipei: Yuanzun Culture, 1997), 9–16, translated by Michelle Yeh.

18. Preface: Just Who Is the Devil with a Chastity Belt? l i a ng

A

fter my novel Labyrinthine Garden was published in 1991, I became acutely aware that with the changes taking place, Taiwan’s liberalization was inevitable. When that happened, it would finally be possible to write political fiction. During the four decades of the repressive White Terror and martial law era, writers were compelled to avoid real life in their works and to write only about

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longer stable. Dong Qichang’s Androgyny portrays female desire as convoluted and shifting. Chen Xue’s Sleepwalk 1994 creates ambiguous scenes embodying multiple possibilities of sexual love. The narrator in Qiu Miaojin’s Last Words at Monmartre allows passionate love to explode in all directions with no regard for gender or ethnicity. Ku’er literature unveils the richness of sexual desire, but it also leads people into thinking that ku’er literature is just another wave of erotic literature. Such an understanding is far from complete. Along with the sexual game, ku’er literature exudes a sense of disenchantment with existing norms. . . . Moreover, in view of the social and historical specificity of Taiwan, the third characteristic of ku’er literature is its critique of sexual politics. In the AngloAmerican context, the queer movement has a history of several decades. Long before the term “queer literature” appeared, there had existed an abundance of literature about homosexuality that addressed many political issues. Yet in Taiwan, before the appearance of ku’er literature, there was no substantial queer movement to lay the foundation, nor was there a robust local tradition of queer literature. Thus, ku’er literature cannot be content with being a self-contained game, not paying attention to the desolation outside it. Ku’er literature often expresses dissatisfaction with the existing political environment. . . . Ku’er has neither shape nor form; it presents itself strategically, so as to make its way into our language and behavior. In the words of G. C. Spivak, the postcolonial theorist, it is the “strategic use of a positive essentialism.” The definitions of ku’er and ku’er literature that I have outlined above are both expedient and temporary. Ku’er and ku’er literature will not stay quietly within the boundary of an identity; they tend to climb over the wall and escape. However, to see ku’er run away is exhilarating, because it signals that ku’er is not dying; it is powerful and strong. Ku’er Revelations, Ji Dawei, ed. (Taipei: Yuanzun Culture, 1997), 9–16, translated by Michelle Yeh.

18. Preface: Just Who Is the Devil with a Chastity Belt? l i a ng

A

fter my novel Labyrinthine Garden was published in 1991, I became acutely aware that with the changes taking place, Taiwan’s liberalization was inevitable. When that happened, it would finally be possible to write political fiction. During the four decades of the repressive White Terror and martial law era, writers were compelled to avoid real life in their works and to write only about

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the subjective inner world. Those who dared to get involved in current affairs suffered a predictable outcome—singing the “Green Island Nocturne.” Broaching this topic in fiction was even less feasible. In the wake of increasing liberalization, I was thrilled that the political theme would finally have an opportunity to break out of the cocoon and be liberated. In Garden, this theme was embedded in the subtext only. When I read Mr. Chen Fangming’s A Critical Biography of Xie Xuehong, I said to myself, “This is exactly what I want to do.” I began to write Autobiography: A Story focusing on Xie Xuehong as the main character. At the outset, the writing went smoothly. However, when I got to the part where Xie was deported from Shanghai and back to Taiwan and became involved in the political movement, all kinds of difficulties emerged. The impasse stemmed from the fact that it is next to impossible to uncover good political stories in Taiwan’s forty-year martial law era. Taiwan’s literary garden boasts few writers from the previous generation, which makes it difficult to find a precedent. A further difficulty lay in the fact that the writers of the political stories that I was able to find were predominately male. I did not wish to write a political novel from a male point of view. I wished even less in Autobiography: A Story to use a masculine interpretative method to write an allegory of Xie Xuehong. Many years went by while I was caught up in this dilemma. Then, in the late spring of 1995, I went to Austria to attend a conference on Taiwan. While I was there, I traveled to Eastern Europe, which had recently opened up to the outside world. As a result of this travel, I was inspired to write “Devil with a Chastity Belt.” In the process of writing this story, a larger plan took shape in my mind. In Autobiography: A Story, I was not able to complete the section about the political struggle, nor did I have the strength of mind to start over again and write a novel. I reasoned that I may as well use the short story or novella form to link together a “story circle” or a set of interlocking stories. In this way, each short story or novella could stand independently, but when they were linked together, the work would have the effect and form of a novel. Within two years I completed four medium-length and shorter pieces titled “Devil with a Chastity Belt,” “Empty Shrine,” “Incense Burner of North Harbor,” and “Dressed-up Blood Sacrifice.” These pieces constituted part one—Incense Burner of North Harbor—which replicated the theme in the short story “Devil with a Chastity Belt.” Since it was titled “part one” there would naturally be a part two. So there was room to develop the series according to plan. The “devil with a chastity belt” theme inevitably gave rise to constraints in the choice of material. The constraints extended to the large number of heroic and memorable exploits during the forty years of martial law. Due to the constraints, I decided not to write about the many noble Taiwanese women who had sacrificed and struggled for the sake of Taiwan’s democracy.

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This is the reason why I did not devote a large amount of space to the strong, great, and brave Taiwanese women in those tragic times. In saying this, I am not suggesting that the female characters in the book are little more than devils with chastity belts. No indeed! The book contains several very authentic female characters who courageously pursued what they desired and, despite sorrows and sacrifice, lived out their lives meaningfully under their own sky. When it comes to “political correctness” they are perhaps not sufficiently positive, but their roles definitely are not “negative.”. . . It is worth mentioning to readers that it is inadvisable to become mired in the titles of the pieces and jump to conclusions about the female characters. Instead, I suggest that you ask yourself: Just who is the devil who wears a chastity belt? Is it the fifty years of martial law under the White Terror? Is it the ruler or the ruled? Is it the oppressor or the oppressed? Is it the females or the males in the stories? Or is it perhaps the author herself? Alternatively, is the devil with a chastity belt the reader, who has an ideology, political leaning, gender, ethnicity and other kinds of identity? On the basis of this exploration, there is room for the series to develop further. As for the author, what she wants is nothing other than to continue to represent the dialectical relationship between the chastity belt and the devil. In the process, some people may deem parts of the descriptions insufficiently “politically correct.” Nonetheless, the sole concern of the author lies precisely in “representation” and the “truth” of literature. Incense Burner of North Harbor: A Series on Devil with a Chastity Belt (Taipei: Rye Field, 1997), 43–46, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

19. Wandering in Gods’ Garden (in Lieu of a Preface) wang dingjun

S

peaking of literary supplements, let me first quote something I wrote previously. It is from June 1946, when I first went to Shanghai and read some of those famous newspapers that I had heard of for a long time. What really thrilled and enthralled me were the literary supplements to the newspapers. Open a newspaper and the literary supplement is displayed quietly before you. Run your eye over the entire page and it is like a garden filled with colorful flowers, all laid out before your eyes. It is such a wonderful feeling. A literary supplement need not be read

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This is the reason why I did not devote a large amount of space to the strong, great, and brave Taiwanese women in those tragic times. In saying this, I am not suggesting that the female characters in the book are little more than devils with chastity belts. No indeed! The book contains several very authentic female characters who courageously pursued what they desired and, despite sorrows and sacrifice, lived out their lives meaningfully under their own sky. When it comes to “political correctness” they are perhaps not sufficiently positive, but their roles definitely are not “negative.”. . . It is worth mentioning to readers that it is inadvisable to become mired in the titles of the pieces and jump to conclusions about the female characters. Instead, I suggest that you ask yourself: Just who is the devil who wears a chastity belt? Is it the fifty years of martial law under the White Terror? Is it the ruler or the ruled? Is it the oppressor or the oppressed? Is it the females or the males in the stories? Or is it perhaps the author herself? Alternatively, is the devil with a chastity belt the reader, who has an ideology, political leaning, gender, ethnicity and other kinds of identity? On the basis of this exploration, there is room for the series to develop further. As for the author, what she wants is nothing other than to continue to represent the dialectical relationship between the chastity belt and the devil. In the process, some people may deem parts of the descriptions insufficiently “politically correct.” Nonetheless, the sole concern of the author lies precisely in “representation” and the “truth” of literature. Incense Burner of North Harbor: A Series on Devil with a Chastity Belt (Taipei: Rye Field, 1997), 43–46, translated by Rosemary Haddon.

19. Wandering in Gods’ Garden (in Lieu of a Preface) wang dingjun

S

peaking of literary supplements, let me first quote something I wrote previously. It is from June 1946, when I first went to Shanghai and read some of those famous newspapers that I had heard of for a long time. What really thrilled and enthralled me were the literary supplements to the newspapers. Open a newspaper and the literary supplement is displayed quietly before you. Run your eye over the entire page and it is like a garden filled with colorful flowers, all laid out before your eyes. It is such a wonderful feeling. A literary supplement need not be read

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from the top; a golden line here, a silver corner there—it all depends on your mood as you amble freely. It is such a wonderful feeling. Articles in literary supplements are written plainly and simply, close to everyday experience. It is as if they were written especially for you, as if they were written by you. It is such a wonderful feeling. What is more, literary supplements arrive on time, day after day, year after year, as if they were your friends for life. In 1949, when I came to Taiwan, books were hard to find, but newspapers were readily available, so I spent more time reading literary supplements. Afterward, the publishing industry began to flourish, and articles in literary supplements could be passed down in a permanent form. Reading literary supplements was like previewing books. Later, the publishing industry and literary supplements parted ways and pursued their own ideas and material, but my reading time was still mostly spent on literary supplements. I also sent my writing to various newspapers to be published in their literary supplements. In 1949, in the wake of its defeat [by the Communists], the Nationalist government had to start from scratch in Taiwan. There were efforts made to stimulate literary activities. At the time, those in charge believed that they had to rely on the literary supplements of various newspapers to put their ideas into practice and to showcase the outcome, because the literary journals they published had all failed. They had failed because they had no marketing and distribution network. The literary supplements, in contrast, had a unique advantage. Hitching a ride on the train of journalism, their dissemination was broad and swift. Of course, not everyone read newspapers or loved literature, but those who had had little contact with literature began to take an interest and, once interested, would stay interested. What exactly were the aspirations of those involved in “starting from scratch” back then? They numbered in the thousands but may be summed up with one sentence: “Lead literature out of the shadow of left-wing literary circles of the 1930s.” And what was that shadow? By way of explanation, let me quote a succinct passage from A Brave New World, published by Lianjing Press and edited by Ya Xian (1996 Unitas Literary Prize). Proletarian literary thought of the 1930s and 1940s used literature to disseminate a particular ideology, thereby turning literature into a slave of politics and bringing about the demise of the literary scene in post-1949 mainland China. The so-called Marxist aesthetics negates the intrinsic qualities of literature and thus destroys creative freedom and the vitality of literature. . . . In the 1930s, leftist writers dominated the literary scene above all others. The voices of leftist theorists drowned out everything else; they could still be here

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in Taiwan in 1949. An expression went around among those who retreated to Taiwan from the mainland: “first-class president, second-class officials, thirdclass writers.” They did not think it possible to reestablish literature in Taiwan. But the seeds of literature are contained within culture, not in political spells. Where there is land, there are people. Where there are people, there are talents refusing to conform to a prescribed mold. At the beginning, leaders of the literary movement did not accomplish much, but history moved forward as a result of their idealism. As a reader of literary supplements for thirty years, I have seen many experiments, breakthroughs, and new concepts. Eventually, literature shed all the restrictions of the previous era, adopted different tones, used different organizations and employed different perspectives, presented different understandings of human life, and showed great depth in its explorations of the mysteries of existence. A literary landscape was created that was distinct from everything that had existed before. Flower Garden of the Gods (published by Unitas) has made me look back on that period of literary history. The volume gathers the fruits of labor of the United Daily literary supplement and shows how literature in Taiwan has walked out of the shadow of the 1930s, erased signs of disease and deconstructed the myth, shed the negative legacy, and prepared the ground for later development. Let us recall: How could the poets and fiction writers represented in Flower Garden of the Gods be obscured by the 1930s? How could the noble souls who wrote for the volume find their peers among the leftist luminaries from the 1930s? And we hardly need mention the developments from the 1950s to the 1970s. It was a triumph of literature, a triumph of culture. . . . The United Daily literary supplement has also traveled through the “Three Gorges of Time.” Throughout its maturation, the supplement has exercised fine judgment in the direction and understanding of political space, popular taste, writers’ qualities, and literary trends. Myriad yesterdays contribute to our today; myriad todays become our society; myriad societies eventually become history. The United Daily literary supplement will leave a mark not only in the history of the publishing industry but also in literary history. There is a saying in the publishing world that goes: When you run a journal, you must ask yourself what kind of people you want to change your readers into. This applies to literary supplements too. Leaders of literary movements in the 1930s wanted to change readers into bulls with flaming swords, into people angry with the times. Those red-blooded young writers of my generation were coerced and polluted by the ideology; they produced a literature that reveled in destruction. But as the United Daily literary supplement developed and stabilized, an image of “humans” appeared in the style of the supplement and the visions of the writing published therein. It was a warm and resolute image, an image that “respects the worthy and accommodates the masses, appreciates excellence and pities the inept,” an image that “has no motives, no imperatives,

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no absolutes, and no self.” Such a population is necessary for a happy life and indispensable for the construction of a fair and enlightened society. I have so much affection for the United Daily literary supplement and so much loathing for the 1930s. My feelings are as simple as that! Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), i–v, translated by Terrence Russell.

20. Saving a Boatload of Starlight: The Story of How Mr. Wang Tiwu Gave Financial Assistance to Young Writers ji a ng z hongming

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n 1976, Luo Xueliang (Ma Ge) was the editor in chief of the United Daily literary supplement. Within only one year, he undertook two important projects, one of which was the United Daily Prize for Literature (Fiction). As soon as the prize was announced, it was taken seriously by the literary world and the academic community, attracted a considerable number of superb new writers, and produced a glorious blossoming in the garden of literature. The second project was relatively unknown to the outside world. Beginning that year, to help promising young writers to continue their creative work without financial pressure, the United Daily would provide NT$5,000 per month to support new stars on the literary scene so they could concentrate on their writing. This was done under the name of “Compositions by Commission.” There was no precedent, official or private, for such a mechanism, but the program for nurturing new talent, by now almost completely forgotten, continued until 1981. At the beginning, the United Daily supplement encountered an “encirclement campaign” launched by other literary supplements for fear that the United Daily supplement would monopolize good writers. As time went on, the true motive became clear. Whether it is the vision of the project or its implementation, we now see that those in charge acted without any personal interest and that their only objective was to help young writers devoted to writing. This is confirmed by those who have benefited from the program. Many of the young authors supported by the United Daily supplement have become mainstays of today’s literary world. Even if they have changed direction and entered other industries, such as motion pictures or publishing, they remain in artistic circles, where they have become shining stars.

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no absolutes, and no self.” Such a population is necessary for a happy life and indispensable for the construction of a fair and enlightened society. I have so much affection for the United Daily literary supplement and so much loathing for the 1930s. My feelings are as simple as that! Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), i–v, translated by Terrence Russell.

20. Saving a Boatload of Starlight: The Story of How Mr. Wang Tiwu Gave Financial Assistance to Young Writers ji a ng z hongming

I

n 1976, Luo Xueliang (Ma Ge) was the editor in chief of the United Daily literary supplement. Within only one year, he undertook two important projects, one of which was the United Daily Prize for Literature (Fiction). As soon as the prize was announced, it was taken seriously by the literary world and the academic community, attracted a considerable number of superb new writers, and produced a glorious blossoming in the garden of literature. The second project was relatively unknown to the outside world. Beginning that year, to help promising young writers to continue their creative work without financial pressure, the United Daily would provide NT$5,000 per month to support new stars on the literary scene so they could concentrate on their writing. This was done under the name of “Compositions by Commission.” There was no precedent, official or private, for such a mechanism, but the program for nurturing new talent, by now almost completely forgotten, continued until 1981. At the beginning, the United Daily supplement encountered an “encirclement campaign” launched by other literary supplements for fear that the United Daily supplement would monopolize good writers. As time went on, the true motive became clear. Whether it is the vision of the project or its implementation, we now see that those in charge acted without any personal interest and that their only objective was to help young writers devoted to writing. This is confirmed by those who have benefited from the program. Many of the young authors supported by the United Daily supplement have become mainstays of today’s literary world. Even if they have changed direction and entered other industries, such as motion pictures or publishing, they remain in artistic circles, where they have become shining stars.

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ORIGIN OF THE PLAN: MR. WANG TIWU SAID, “ L E T ’ S T H I N K O F A W AY T O H E L P Y O U N G P E O P L E !” The United Daily supplement’s decision to provide financial assistance to young writers was quite random. The now-retired Luo Xueliang recalls that one day in 1976 Mr. Wang Tiwu, the founder of the United Daily; Jiang Xiaoyun, the novelist who was just beginning to achieve some recognition; and he were having a meal at a restaurant on Zhongshan North Road. As they ate, Wang inquired about Jiang’s writing and living situation. Jiang, who was attending National Taiwan Normal University at the time, replied that because she had to work while attending school, she had little time to write. Mr. Wang was moved when he heard this and immediately asked Luo to think of a way to help, saying, “We have to help young writers so that they do not have too much pressure in their lives and can concentrate on writing.” Later, he came up with a plan. They would choose ten outstanding young writers, including Jiang Xiaoyun, Xiao Ye, Wu Nianzhen, Li Ang, Li He, Jiang Jiayu, Xiao Sa, Ding Yamin, Zhu Tianwen, and Zhu Tianxin, and provide them with a monthly “stipend” of NT$5,000 under a program named the United Daily “Compositions by Commission.” These “invisible colleagues” did not need to go to work at the office of the United Daily, but after they signed a contract, they had to write at least one work each month and submit it to the United Daily supplement. If it was selected for publication, the supplement would pay the author the highest possible honorarium. But if the work was considered unsuitable for publication in the United Daily supplement, the author could seek another outlet. Luo Xueliang says that the program was not so much “assistance” as “inducement” to young writers to produce more. It was similar to the cooperative programs that the United Group presently runs with departments and schools of journalism. The hope and intention is that “students” should be able to concentrate on their “specialties” without distractions or worries. He says that he was attacked by members of the Literary Supplement Editors’ Association, who thought that the supplement’s “Composition by Commission” program was “monopolizing” manuscripts. However, this program was in fact only an attempt to help young writers produce good work, and he personally enjoyed being with young people, because he could be outspoken without beating around the bush. Young authors were also different from older writers, who made difficult demands. At the time, young writers like Xiao Ye and Wu Nianzhen often came to his house to chat and drink until the wee hours of the morning. To this day, he still enjoys good personal relationships with them. Ya Xian, the current associate general editor of the United Daily and head of the literary supplement, continued this program. Although Luo Xueliang was the editor in chief only for a short time, he accomplished a lot. Mr. Wang Tiwu was

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even more exceptional. This kind of program should not have been undertaken by the media; it was something the government should have done. However, Mr. Wang liked young people and appreciated talent. It is for these reasons that the newspaper used this “extracurricular” method to provide assistance to writers. Ya Xian indicates that the NT$5,000 stipend is insignificant when one considers the current cost of living, but more important than the material award is the spirit behind the stipend. He says that the only objective of the program is to let young writers know that there are people who value them and hope they will devote themselves to writing for the benefit of the society. “Saving a Boatload of Starlight,” in Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), 47–54, translated by Terrence Russell.

21. The Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily li r u i te ng

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he activist character of a print media outlet such as a newspaper supplement depends, first of all, on an open space, provided by the publisher, in which it can pursue activism. Next, the editor must formulate a clear editorial consciousness based on a high level of empathy for the experience of the participants, as well as an intimate sense of the changes in the times and society and the intellectual trends in literature and culture. Then, he must put that consciousness into action through various means, such as planned editorial work and strategic activities. There is no doubt that newspaper literary supplements are an important medium for literature and culture in Taiwan. This is especially true for literature, as literary supplements may be seen as a major strategic arena. If they maintained a static editorial policy and offered no more than a venue for publication, literature in Taiwan would lose most of its luster. Among all literary supplements, the United Daily supplement, with the superiority of its publisher and editorial resources, has played an active role in directing literary trends and producing a lasting influence that warrants deeper understanding.

YA X I A N I N I T I AT E D T H E A C T I V I S T C H A R A C T E R From its inception in the 1950s, as the circulation of the newspaper increased gradually, the function of the United Daily supplement also grew. During Lin

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even more exceptional. This kind of program should not have been undertaken by the media; it was something the government should have done. However, Mr. Wang liked young people and appreciated talent. It is for these reasons that the newspaper used this “extracurricular” method to provide assistance to writers. Ya Xian indicates that the NT$5,000 stipend is insignificant when one considers the current cost of living, but more important than the material award is the spirit behind the stipend. He says that the only objective of the program is to let young writers know that there are people who value them and hope they will devote themselves to writing for the benefit of the society. “Saving a Boatload of Starlight,” in Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), 47–54, translated by Terrence Russell.

21. The Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily li r u i te ng

T

he activist character of a print media outlet such as a newspaper supplement depends, first of all, on an open space, provided by the publisher, in which it can pursue activism. Next, the editor must formulate a clear editorial consciousness based on a high level of empathy for the experience of the participants, as well as an intimate sense of the changes in the times and society and the intellectual trends in literature and culture. Then, he must put that consciousness into action through various means, such as planned editorial work and strategic activities. There is no doubt that newspaper literary supplements are an important medium for literature and culture in Taiwan. This is especially true for literature, as literary supplements may be seen as a major strategic arena. If they maintained a static editorial policy and offered no more than a venue for publication, literature in Taiwan would lose most of its luster. Among all literary supplements, the United Daily supplement, with the superiority of its publisher and editorial resources, has played an active role in directing literary trends and producing a lasting influence that warrants deeper understanding.

YA X I A N I N I T I AT E D T H E A C T I V I S T C H A R A C T E R From its inception in the 1950s, as the circulation of the newspaper increased gradually, the function of the United Daily supplement also grew. During Lin

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Haiyin’s tenure as editor in chief (January 1953 to April 1963), it successfully integrated local and generational elements. During Ping Xintao’s tenure (June 1963 to February 1976), he exerted himself in cultivating popular literature without sacrificing art. Although the two periods of Luo Xueliang’s editorship (April to June 1963 and February 1976 to October 1977) were short, he introduced the United Daily Prize for Literature and published the articles that triggered the nativist literature debate. Thus, he has an important place in history. It was under these circumstances that Ya Xian took over the editorship and adopted an activist orientation. He chose a holistic editorial method that, over the past twenty years, has enabled the United Daily supplement to play a multifaceted role in disseminating literature and culture. Ya Xian is an avant-garde poet and an important member of the Epoch Poetry Society, a stronghold of modernist poetry. He originally worked in the National Salvation Corps and as the chief editor of Young Lion Literary Arts. He brought with him a spirit of social service and had for a long time situated himself at the center of literary activities. At the time, Ya Xian had just returned from the United States where he studied [drama] and formed an international perspective. He had also established broad connections among overseas Chinese cultural circles. With this set of endowments, he joined the United Daily Group, which was advancing by leaps and bounds. The supplement’s editorial planning—feature articles, columns, and special collections—filled the layout with a dynamic language. There was also a policy of connecting with social activities that were open to the public, such as the Elegant Gathering of Linked Poetry, lectures and colloquia, literary prizes, and conferences. They brought new depth and breadth to the print medium. The editorial group led by Ya Xian has been editing the supplement in this way for almost twenty years.

H I S T O R I C A L R E C O N S I D E R AT I O N A N D CONCERN FOR REALITIES The eruption of the nativist literature debate in the late 1970s had its historical inevitability. It is also worth investigating why the United Daily literary supplement became one of the battlegrounds. We can sense that the editors tried to lead the discussion toward a reevaluation of Taiwanese literature. To that end, they produced “Our Nation’s Literary Scene This Year” to integrate viewpoints from a relatively neutral position. They held forums to discuss Taiwanese literature before Retrocession and nationalistic consciousness and the anti-Japanese spirit in Taiwanese literature before Retrocession. Serialized special reports, such as Symposium on Taiwanese Fiction, and special topics, such as Brief Biographies of Pre-Retrocession Taiwanese Authors, Reminiscing About Post-Retrocession Literary Periodicals, and the famous Jeweled Sword Collection, were published. From

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1978 to 1980, we observe a movement toward reconsidering the experience of Taiwanese literature. To borrow the title of the special report on the recipients of the third Wu Sanlian Prize for Literature, the United Daily supplement was identifying with Love Racing in the Soil. The United Daily supplement has a historical perspective pertaining to both Taiwan and the mainland. Large-scale reevaluations of the May Fourth movement and probing investigations of protest literature on the mainland were both published after Ya Xian took over as editor in chief. As far as the world is concerned, from the “Literary Weather Vane” and “Essential Works of World Masters” back then, to the columns on “Famous Writers and Works of World Literature” and “Western Window” in the 1990s, to the reports immediately following the annual announcement of the Nobel Prize in Literature and the follow-up critical introductions—all reveal the international perspective of the United Daily supplement. The United Daily supplement also made great efforts to encourage a spirit of concern for contemporary issues in literature. Evidence can be seen in such features as “Reportage Literature,” “Special Focus,” “News Poetry,” “Fax Literature,” “The Woodpecker Column,” and the recently established [United Daily] Prize for Environmental Literature. There is also an interest in indigenous peoples and their cultures, as well as activities providing assistance to poor or ailing writers. Taking things one step further, the United Daily supplement was concerned not just about social reality but also about the realities of literature and culture. From a standpoint of respect for the writers, it encouraged “engagement” and “action.” Writers were invited to visit the seaside, foreign lands, and their old hometowns to observe, experience, and write. They also stimulated literary minds by offering colloquia. Aside from these activities, the supplement took the pulse of the times, suggested new ideas, and encouraged all forms of writing. For example, “news poems” and “fax literature” brought together daily reality and literature. Experiments such as poetic advertisements and fiction by nonfiction writers all had serious objectives. Among all of these experiments, “short-short stories” and the subsequent “everyone’s writing” achieved the greatest degree of success.

PROMOTING WRITING AMONG ALL CITIZENS, C U LT I VAT I N G N E W TA L E N T S O N T H E LITERARY SCENE ...

H O P I N G T O A C H I E V E G R E AT N E S S O N C E M O R E . . . From literary prizes to best book awards, from writers’ gatherings to outdoor activities, from lectures and colloquia to large-scale academic conferences, from

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banquets for visiting writers to humanitarian work for those in difficult situations, the United Daily supplement’s “activities” have constructed a tripartite literary space among writers, writing, and readers. In this space, writers are supported, writing enriched, and readers assisted in entering the world of the authors. The small domain of literature has been expanded into a lively, broad space for activities. Some activities, once initiated, have continued; others have disappeared like clouds and smoke; still others have existed under different names. The influence of these activities varies, but within their own realm they have left behind some records and become a part of literary history. The United Daily Prize for Literature represents an important chapter in the history of Taiwanese literature. The Conference on Chinese Literature of the Past Forty Years produced remarkable scholarly results, and the Conference on Chinese Literary Supplements in the World, which will soon take place, will provide the theory and practice of literary communications as a modern discipline. . . . In recent years, competition in the newspaper industry has become ever more intense, and the structure of the readership has undergone enormous changes. The importance of literary supplements has diminished considerably. Because they cannot exist apart from the newspapers, the challenges they face are unprecedented. How to innovate so as to develop a new style of editorship and new kinds of activities? This is probably the most important issue for those in charge. The United Daily supplement has ridden high for more than four decades. As we approach the turn of the millennium, can it reestablish its prominence? I believe that anyone who cares about literary supplements must be eager for an answer, just as I am. “The Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily,” in Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), 61–67, translated by Terrence Russell.

22. Newspaper Literary Supplements and the Nobel Prize in Literature: A Personal Reflection z he ng s hus e n

E

very year, immediately after the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature is announced, newspaper literary supplements invariably follow the news with reports. The practice actually began in the late 1970s, when Ya Xian took the helm of the literary supplement to the United Daily. Before that, literary

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banquets for visiting writers to humanitarian work for those in difficult situations, the United Daily supplement’s “activities” have constructed a tripartite literary space among writers, writing, and readers. In this space, writers are supported, writing enriched, and readers assisted in entering the world of the authors. The small domain of literature has been expanded into a lively, broad space for activities. Some activities, once initiated, have continued; others have disappeared like clouds and smoke; still others have existed under different names. The influence of these activities varies, but within their own realm they have left behind some records and become a part of literary history. The United Daily Prize for Literature represents an important chapter in the history of Taiwanese literature. The Conference on Chinese Literature of the Past Forty Years produced remarkable scholarly results, and the Conference on Chinese Literary Supplements in the World, which will soon take place, will provide the theory and practice of literary communications as a modern discipline. . . . In recent years, competition in the newspaper industry has become ever more intense, and the structure of the readership has undergone enormous changes. The importance of literary supplements has diminished considerably. Because they cannot exist apart from the newspapers, the challenges they face are unprecedented. How to innovate so as to develop a new style of editorship and new kinds of activities? This is probably the most important issue for those in charge. The United Daily supplement has ridden high for more than four decades. As we approach the turn of the millennium, can it reestablish its prominence? I believe that anyone who cares about literary supplements must be eager for an answer, just as I am. “The Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily,” in Flower Garden of the Gods, ed. Ya Xian (Taipei: Lianjing, 1997), 61–67, translated by Terrence Russell.

22. Newspaper Literary Supplements and the Nobel Prize in Literature: A Personal Reflection z he ng s hus e n

E

very year, immediately after the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature is announced, newspaper literary supplements invariably follow the news with reports. The practice actually began in the late 1970s, when Ya Xian took the helm of the literary supplement to the United Daily. Before that, literary

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supplements tended to adopt a passive approach. Except for translations of reports from foreign news agencies, the supplements would decide whether or not to do an introduction (let alone a special report) based solely on the articles they could get. In 1969, when the Irish playwright Samuel Beckett won the Nobel Prize for his works of the theater of the absurd, several days went by before a brief introduction appeared in the Central Daily literary supplement, which had a wide circulation back then. Moreover, Fang Xin had to wait until the overseas edition of the Central Daily reached him in North America before he could send his response by airmail to Taiwan for publication. The slow response generally reflected a lack of information technology in those days and economic hardships in Taiwan, as well as the scarcity of foreign language material and talent on the island. . . . The announcement of the 1980 winner took the media around the world by surprise, because it was given to the Polish-American poet Czeslaw Milosz, who was new even to Anglo-American literary circles. Only experts in Polish and Russian literature were familiar with his work. According to Kenneth Rexroth, who recommended the English translation of Milosz’s poetry to a small publisher, sales of the collection amounted to a scant few hundred copies. Milosz had served briefly as a diplomat for the Polish Communist government before entering self-imposed exile. After taking up residence in the United States, he taught Slavic literature at the University of California at Berkeley. His 1953 memoir, The Captive Mind, was published in several languages by branches of the American Information Office around the globe as part of a concerted strategy of containment and resistance at the height of the Cold War. The Chinese version was published by Hong Kong’s Today’s World (the publishing organ of the Hong Kong American Information Office), headed at the time by Song Qi (a.k.a. Lin Yiliang), who passed away in December 1996. At Berkeley, Milosz met a compatriot, Peter Boodberg, a Russian sinologist who had once been exiled to China (part of Poland was occupied by Russia), and a colleague, Shihhsiang Chen, a Chinese scholar who stayed in the United States after 1949. Three literary workers in exile in the United States, they shared the same state of mind and became close friends. When Boodberg and Chen passed away, Milosz eulogized them in a poem titled “Magic Mountain.”. . . However, even with these connections, Milosz was still virtually unknown in Chinese literary circles, so international communication by phone did not work very well; only a brief description based on foreign press releases was published in the United Daily literary supplement. In contrast, the influential literary supplement to the China Times, under the leadership of Gao Xingjian, was considering its own overseas networking to counteract the United Daily. It so happened that Jin Hengwei, long-term representative of the China Times literary supplement at Berkeley, called me for assistance. I still remember it was before six o’clock in the morning when he called, and it took me a while to understand the purpose of the call. In the mid-1960s I had bought a copy of Anthology of Contemporary

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Polish Literature in Hong Kong, published by Penguin in the United Kingdom (there was no U.S. edition). The anthology was translated and edited by Milosz, so I was familiar with his name. To my surprise, my divulgence immediately led to an international call from Gao Xingjian, who asked me to write a critical review or to interview the laureate immediately. When I came from Hong Kong to teach in the United States in 1980, I had not planned to stay long and had left all my books in Hong Kong, so I could not possibly accommodate his first request. I had to try my best to do the latter. (I am sure that anyone who received a long-distance phone call from Gao Xingjian back then knows how persistent and relentless he could be.) Fortunately, I had help from a colleague at the University of California, who put me in touch with Milosz. But I had no journalistic instincts and knew nothing about conducting an interview, so even though I was pleasantly surprised when he answered the phone, the conversation was brief, without touching on his understanding of classical Chinese poetry or his friendship with Boodberg and Chen. I hung up, worried about how my mission could be accomplished with that paltry interview. When another call from Taipei came, under Gao’s instruction, I read the interview to him as translated extemporaneously. The short conversation with Milosz was published as an exclusive interview the next day in the China Times literary supplement. They did not have time to send it to the printer for typesetting, but Gao wanted to publish the report on the Nobel Prize in Literature as news, and speed was paramount, so it was published, without precedent, as a photocopy of a handwritten essay. In this day and age, when everyone uses a computer to write Chinese, it seems like something from another world. In the competition over the next two years, the speedy reports by the United Daily and the China Times were noted in Hong Kong and Singapore cultural circles, where newspaper columns praised the importance that Taiwan’s literary supplements placed on literature and immediacy. To be sure, those in Kong Hong and Singapore did not understand that after the Formosa Incident [December 1979], literary supplements had the most freedom of expression, and that the war of reporting on the Nobel Prize, started by Ya Xian, more or less opened a window on the world. It helped to bring about voluminous translations and introductions of contemporary world literature, serving the function of increasing “air circulation” in the late 1980s. . . . The Nobel Prize special issues of the China Times and the United Daily usually include a short biography, a critical introduction to the oeuvre, a list of works in chronological order, photographs of the writer and the works, and selected translations. The United Daily even publishes exclusive interviews with the writer or with representative specialists. Even in the United States, only the New York Times can pull off something like this. The Washington Post is uneven in its reporting, usually with a biography, a brief introduction to the author’s works, a photo, and a few comments from scholars. The Los Angeles Times simply treats it as a news item. But if we compare the arts section of

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the New York Times with the literary supplements of the United Daily and the China Times, the former has a distinct advantage, since its focus is only on interviews with the laureate and experts. The works are either written in English or have already been translated into English, so all they have to do is select a few excerpts. The pictures of the books and the writer are usually supplied by New York publishers or the writer’s agent, while a chronology and biography are easily compiled based on existing files and a wealth of reference books. This is in stark contrast to the conditions facing the editors of literary supplements in Taiwan. In terms of interviews with the laureate, the New York Times enjoys an overwhelming advantage that exists only in the English-speaking world (or with émigrés in the United States, such as Joseph Brodsky). The United Daily literary supplement holds its own when it comes to other parts of the world. Its exclusive interview with the 1983 winner William Golding even surpassed the two major papers on either side of the Atlantic, the New York Times and the Times of London. Considering the limited resources and communication capability back then, it was, to say the least, an incredible feat. . . . Over the past sixteen years, the literary supplements of the two major newspapers have done their best to provide their readers, at the greatest speed possible, with information to expand their horizons and increase their understanding of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Literature specialists can use the information as a starting point for research, while the general public can obtain some basic knowledge. Furthermore, although the literary supplement, with cultural transmission as its mission, has an ancillary role to play, as it is part of a major newspaper, it should play a “leading role” when there is international news from the literary world. Reports on the Nobel Prize enhance the introduction of world literature, which in turn helps domestic literary circles to look outward. Discussions on Chinese Newspaper Literary Supplements in the World, ed. Ya Xian and Chen Yizhi (Taipei: Committee on Cultural Planning and Development, 1997), 139–49, translated by Sylvia Li-chun Lin.

23. On Bai z ha ng dachun First let me say something about the character bai 稗. Based on my impression and experience, the character is often mispronounced as “bei,” “pai,” “bi,” or any other similar character. Actually, this

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the New York Times with the literary supplements of the United Daily and the China Times, the former has a distinct advantage, since its focus is only on interviews with the laureate and experts. The works are either written in English or have already been translated into English, so all they have to do is select a few excerpts. The pictures of the books and the writer are usually supplied by New York publishers or the writer’s agent, while a chronology and biography are easily compiled based on existing files and a wealth of reference books. This is in stark contrast to the conditions facing the editors of literary supplements in Taiwan. In terms of interviews with the laureate, the New York Times enjoys an overwhelming advantage that exists only in the English-speaking world (or with émigrés in the United States, such as Joseph Brodsky). The United Daily literary supplement holds its own when it comes to other parts of the world. Its exclusive interview with the 1983 winner William Golding even surpassed the two major papers on either side of the Atlantic, the New York Times and the Times of London. Considering the limited resources and communication capability back then, it was, to say the least, an incredible feat. . . . Over the past sixteen years, the literary supplements of the two major newspapers have done their best to provide their readers, at the greatest speed possible, with information to expand their horizons and increase their understanding of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Literature specialists can use the information as a starting point for research, while the general public can obtain some basic knowledge. Furthermore, although the literary supplement, with cultural transmission as its mission, has an ancillary role to play, as it is part of a major newspaper, it should play a “leading role” when there is international news from the literary world. Reports on the Nobel Prize enhance the introduction of world literature, which in turn helps domestic literary circles to look outward. Discussions on Chinese Newspaper Literary Supplements in the World, ed. Ya Xian and Chen Yizhi (Taipei: Committee on Cultural Planning and Development, 1997), 139–49, translated by Sylvia Li-chun Lin.

23. On Bai z ha ng dachun First let me say something about the character bai 稗. Based on my impression and experience, the character is often mispronounced as “bei,” “pai,” “bi,” or any other similar character. Actually, this

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character is pronounced “bai” in Mandarin. It appears in volume 13, chapter 7A of the dictionary Shuowen jiezi [Explaining and analyzing characters]. The compiler, Xu Shen [ca. 58–147], defines it simply as “a different kind of grain.” That means it belongs to the grain family but is different from those with which we are familiar. When Du Yu [222–285] annotated Zuo’s Annals of the Spring and Autumn Period, he encountered the character and explicated it this way: “Bai, a grass that resembles grain. Bai bears grains like rice. It is edible and therefore can be planted.” In light of this explication, bai is an inferior rice grain. No wonder Mencius said: “If it is immature, it is no better than yi and bai.” In plain words, he meant, “If rice grains are not fully mature, they are no better than bai, which looks like rice.” When it reaches maturity, bai can be fed to livestock. Hence, by the time we reach History of the Han Dynasty by Ban Gu [32–92], “Record of Literature and Art” states: “Fiction is called bai words.” And “Biography of Lu Zhi” in History of the Tang Dynasty says: “Bai refers to common folk who own small businesses.” Bai is smaller, second-class, inferior. If it is acceptable to translate bai as “barnyard grass” (Echinochloa crusgalli), this fascinating member of the grass family is about three feet tall, with slender, pointed, parallel-veined leaves, tiny panicle flowers, and flat grains. It is planted as a crop in moist soil or barren land. However, Westerners have never used it as a metaphor, and it has nothing to do with small businesses or fiction. . . . When bai is used to refer to fiction, he who uses it as a metaphor (i.e., Ban Gu [32–92]) already assumes that readers of his History of the Han Dynasty agree that fiction is smaller, second-class, and inferior. Therefore, the note in “Record of Literature and Art” says: “Ruchun [Ban Gu] said: ‘Small-grained rice is bai; gossips on the street and tales in the alleys are trivial words. To find out what was circulated around alleys and streets, the ruler instituted the Office of Bai to report it.’” In his Annotations on Shuowen [ Jiezi], Xu Hao [Qing dynasty] comments: “The Office of Bai does not mean small rice. Just as wild-grown bai is to grains, so unofficial history and fictional writings are to official history. Hence the title: Office of Bai.” Not only is fiction small, it is considered worthless. Half of my life has been and the foreseeable rest of my life is devoted to writing fiction. Seeing how others treat it as worthless, I find it unbearable and am naturally inclined to rebut this. If we do not define bai as “small” or “different” but rather see it simply as a plant with its own attributes, then I have nothing but admiration for fiction as bai. For it is wild and free, grows in muddy or sandy soil. If people get indigestion after consuming it, it is their own limitation. Zhan Dachun, The Bai Kind of Fiction (Taipei: Unitas, 1998), 7–9, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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24. Retrospect on Thirty Years of Taiwan Literary Arts z hong z haoz h eng FOREWORD Historical records show that there are six journals that have used the title Taiwan Literary Arts. It would seem that this title has a special allure for literary people in Taiwan, and this is not only restricted to the Taiwanese, for even the Japanese in Taiwan also happily adopted this name. For example, the first time this title appeared was in 1902, when some Japanese writers living in Taiwan founded a journal under this title; five issues were published before it folded. The next example was a journal under the direction of the famous poet and novelist, Nishikawa Mitsuru. This was in 1944, in the latter stages of the [Sino-Japanese] war; a total of seven issues were produced. Previously, Nishikawa had used Literary Taiwan as the title of a journal launched in 1940; it published a total of thirty-eight issues. The earliest Taiwan Literary Arts directed by the Taiwanese was published in Tokyo by Wu Kunhuang and others studying in Japan at the time. That was in 1931. Unfortunately, it died a premature death with the second issue, because some of its contributors were apprehended by the Japanese police. After this, the battlefront moved to the homeland in Taiwan where, beginning in 1934, Zhu Dianren and others edited it and produced a total of fifteen issues. In the early postwar period, another attempt was made, but unfortunately this also died on the vine, with only one issue published. Finally, there is the journal established by Wu Zhuoliu, which has continued to the present. This year marks its thirtieth anniversary. How is it that so many journals have been enamored of this name? When you think about it, it is not so strange, because it represents a physical place, while at the same time evoking an intangible spirit, “the spirit of Taiwanese literature.” We recall that not long after Wu Zhuoliu established Taiwan Literary Arts, he published a letter. A note indicated that this was a letter from He Ruixiong to Lin Zhonglong, and it came into Wu’s hand as editor. In the letter he says that “Taiwan Literary Arts is a ‘sacred name’ and we should regard it the way we regard our own face and life; we must use it to publish work that we would feel sorry to place in any other journal. That is because, ‘This is our first journal!’” (no. 3, June 1975). Surely this represents the feelings of many concerned individuals.

TA I W A N L I T E R A R Y A R T S : T H E O N LY L O V E O F TA I W A N E S E L I T E R AT I . . . I can probably be considered a thoroughgoing “advocate of Taiwanese literature,” as well as someone who considers himself to be a pioneer in the

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reconstruction of Taiwanese literature. In 1957, when I was running Newsletter of Literary Friends, I spared no pains to promote [Taiwanese literature]. Thus, the new journal’s name for me “is the one and only, without equal” and is irreplaceable. However, my view brought a look of consternation to the face of the resolute Mr. Wu. We must remember that, at the time, the intangible psychological pressure of the White Terror period still enshrouded Taiwan. Whatever writers did, they risked drawing criticism. If things went badly, one always ran the risk of ending up in prison. To raise the flag of “Taiwan” was something that made everyone fearful. This is what people meant when they talked about “having a military police headquarters in your mind.” In practical terms, such a journal name would almost certainly raise the question of whether or not it would be granted registration from the official agencies. No wonder Mr. Wu was so perplexed and uncertain about what to do. He must have discussed this problem with many of his friends, but finally he decided on the name Taiwan Literary Arts. Moreover, quite unexpectedly, he obtained a registration certificate. The establishment and publication of the journal proceeded smoothly. As far as I am concerned, whether the title was Taiwan Literature or Taiwan Literary Arts, both are appropriate, as both highlight Taiwan, and I had no reason to be dissatisfied. But privately I am happy that I contributed to the decision on the journal’s name. . . .

S P A R E N O E F F O R T I N S U P P LY I N G A N D REVIEWING MANUSCRIPTS . . . At that time, because I was in the process of editing Anthology of Provincial Writers, I had a relatively complete list of names of Taiwanese writers, and I was able to establish friendships with most of them. For that reason, I had a certain amount of confidence that I could compete for and guarantee a supply of manuscripts. Because Taiwan Literary Arts was not able to pay honoraria, when the initial excitement of establishing the journal died down, finding manuscripts naturally became a major headache for Mr. Wu. . . . I especially recall one incident concerning the solicitation of manuscripts. I am not sure when it began, but a press published an Annual Selection of Short Stories each year. Usually I was able to get hold of a copy and read it carefully. If I found some outstanding new writers, I would send them a letter via that publisher, telling them about a literary journal for native Taiwanese writers and inviting them to submit manuscripts. The distribution of Taiwan Literary Arts was never very wide, and the number of people who knew about it was extremely limited, so I had to use this device to spread the word and introduce ourselves. It was not until later that I realized that, despite my energetic work for the journal, few deigned to look at it, because it was not well known and each issue was thin, plus many, especially among the younger generation, disdained the word “Taiwan.”. . .

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N E W C O N T E N T S M A D E A G R E AT I M P A C T, S A M E O U T C O M E I N C H A N G I N G S O C I A L C L I M AT E When Mr. Wu Zhuoliu passed away in October 1976, the biggest issue was the continuance of Taiwan Literary Arts. In his will, Mr. Wu indicated that the journal should be produced if at all possible; otherwise, it should fold. However, he hoped that the Wu Zhuoliu Prize for Literature would continue. His old friends met several times to discuss these matters and drew the conclusion that any decision to terminate a journal devoted to nativist literature that Mr. Wu had supported wholeheartedly for thirteen years could not be taken lightly. It was especially important not to dishonor the founder of the journal. Thereupon, we held a general meeting, and I was chosen to take over the operations. For my part, it was only after receiving everyone’s promise to support it that I reluctantly accepted this heavy responsibility. Publication of a “new edition” recommenced in 1977. . . . At that time, many friends believed that a change in the general mood of society had already taken place. It began in the 1970s, with the various political and social incidents, such as the Save Diaoyutai [Senkaku Islands] movement, the withdrawal from the United Nations, the severance of diplomatic relations between Taiwan and Japan, the death of Chiang Kai-shek, the Homecoming Fever across the straits, and the Return to the Homeland movement this side of the strait. These events sent one shock wave after another. The call of nativist literature was also reverberating far and wide, to the extent that the nativist literature debate tried to suppress it. In such an unprecedented social atmosphere, it was natural that Taiwan Literary Arts, which promoted nativist literature, should receive more attention and respect. However, as things turned out, there were, in practical terms, no positive effects for the journal. . . .

S I X Y E A R S O F L A B O R T O S U S TA I N T H E J O U R N A L , A L L E X P E C TAT I O N S F A I L D E S P I T E A L L E F F O R T S When I first took over operations, I was still able to pay a token honorarium, but later even this kind of compensation had to be eliminated. Moreover, the journal had never paid for incidental expenses like rent, electricity, and telephone. We had never spent a cent to hire employees either, because my son Yanhao came to work for us [ for free]. The number of subscriptions declined each year, and selling only two hundred copies on the newsstand was “normal.” When we occasionally sold three hundred, my son and I would shout for joy. . . . In the end, there was no denying reality. Our expectations and ideals had come to naught. One may call it a stroke of bad luck, but it is probably more

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accurate to say that we lacked business know-how and had poor management skills. I received news that Dr. Chen Yongxing was willing to provide support. It was not until I spoke to him in person that I realized that Dr. Chen was actually interested in taking over the entire operation. This was wonderful news. I could unburden myself of the whole affair and regain my leisure—perhaps, I should say, return to my creative writing—something I had long dreamed of in vain. At the end of 1982, I handed over Taiwan Literary Arts without incident. All my hard work over the past six years drew to a close.

M O D E S T C O N T R I B U T I O N T O C U LT I VAT I N G N E W TA L E N T S , F R E S H T R O O P S U N D E R TA K E T H E TA S K A N D S TA R T A N E W During those six years, in the transition from the rise of nativist literature to the first steps toward a multicultural society, Taiwan Literary Arts also went through some turbulent times as it passed through that diverse and multicolored era in Taiwan’s history. While nothing noteworthy happened under my stewardship, the journal published a respectable number of works. Considering that, for a period of time, I was also editing the literary supplement to The Masses Daily (a private newspaper that had moved from Jilong to Gaoxiong), I can generally claim to have cultivated a significant amount of new talent. Thus, I was content to return to ordinary life. Today, Taiwan Literary Arts has reached its thirtieth anniversary. After many changes of hand, it is entrusted to my old friend Li Qiao. As I write this random account, the first issue of the New Life Edition has just come out. Sure enough, from the format to the contents, it is all brand-new. Not only does it bring together the writing of a host of younger writers and cultural workers who have been enlisted to the ranks, the contents clearly indicate that it is striding toward multiculturalism. My first impression is: if in the past taking over Taiwan Literary Arts was always a matter of “leaping into the fire,” this time, as Li Qiao and others became involved and shouldered the responsibility, it is obvious that they have the intention of raising a new banner. This is evidence that as Taiwan approaches a critical moment of transformation, the journal is becoming an important base of operations for Taiwanese culture and literature. And this new cohort of young workers led by Li Qiao are, each and every one of them, cultural and literary warriors who will lead the charge! 1994 Memoir of Zhong Zhaozheng (Taipei: Avant-garde, 1998), 233–42, translated by Terrence Russell.

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25. Foreword II: On Taiwan’s Literary Canon che n yi z hi

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n March 1999, when the new millennium was just around the corner, numerous retrospectives and reflections got underway, along with many planned celebratory activities. The Conference on the Taiwanese Literary Canon, organized by the United Daily literary supplement under the auspices of the Council of Cultural Affairs, took place on the 19th to the 21st at the National Library. Roughly two months have elapsed from the date when the Taiwanese literary canon was announced at the conclusion of the conference. As many as eighty reports and reviews were published in print media. During the threeday conference, cable and noncable television stations conducted a surprising number of interviews. A literary subject was elevated to a popular social topic, giving one the impression that another glorious literary era had arrived. But that was not the case at all. There was, to be sure, a substantial amount of “tolerant, humble, and sincere” discussion, but what drew the attention of the media and got it all worked up were frantic emotions that served a current political purpose. . . .

A TA I W A N - C E N T E R E D L I T E R A R Y C A N O N We used to believe that time is the true touchstone for literary works, that it usually takes two or three decades to sort out the gold from the sand. . . . The increasingly blurred definition of “literature” means that the younger generation is incapable of appreciating the old literary tradition, let alone constructing a new one. The tastes of the reading public seem diverse on the surface but in fact have become more or less homogeneous. Trends in scholarship also tend toward an analysis of social factors and critique of cultural ideology, examining such topics as sexuality, women, youth, the Internet, gays and lesbians, film, cities, and travel. The tools of the trade—artistic qualities and criteria of appreciation—are now considered outdated and no one pays them any attention. Meanwhile, in the global market of Chinese literature, the literary language and aesthetics of mainland writers continue to dominate the way in which Westerners evaluate Chinese literature. Taiwan, in reality, remains on the periphery, constantly at risk of being confused with or subsumed by the mainland. How then to highlight Taiwan’s literary subjectivity? All we can do is offer representative works with historical significance to truly and concretely reflect our

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social conditions, human relations, cultural concerns, and unique linguistic characteristics. The selection of a literary canon was divided into three stages, so that it would not be dictated by the tastes of a small minority. Sixty-seven leading scholars were invited to vote at the second stage, so that the selection process would be free of power politics and commercial factors. With the absence of senior literary figures, the selection process was a pure interaction among literary elites. On a practical level, the thirty works selected would probably become widely adopted college textbooks. We would also ask major bookstores to set up a special section to promote these works among the population. The image created by the thirty works being displayed together signals not only Taiwan’s geographic location but also the voices and profiles of the people—these works reflect the ethos of the period since the New Literature movement, thus naturally embodying the subjectivity of Taiwanese literature. We can call this the first must-read list that centers on Taiwan. It comprises poetry, fiction, prose, drama, and theoretical writings. The limit of thirty means that it will not be the only list, and it cannot avoid controversy. Controversy is, in fact, a necessary step toward consensus. . . . The list ranges from Liang Shiqiu’s From a Cottager’s Sketchbook to Jian Zhen’s Women’s Fate, from Wang Meng’ou’s Literary Aesthetics to Ye Shitao’s An Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature. Among the thirty books, two were first published in the 1950s, six in the 1960s, fifteen in the 1970s, five in the 1980s, and one in the 1990s. There are more works by writers of an earlier generation and from the 1960s and 1970s because the very definition of canon means that readers will discover the most value in it. Moreover, works from the 1960s and 1970s have been “passed down” for over two decades, and nostalgia is deeply ingrained in readers’ memories. We greet the birth of the canon as we would welcome a new member to the family, for it is the weather vane of our time. If you haven’t chosen a literary work or don’t know how to choose one to read, canonical works are the best choices. If you have forgotten the passion for reading, please push the door open once again and enter the hall of resistance to vulgarity! Collected Essays of the Conference on Taiwan’s Literary Canon, ed. Chen Yizhi (Taipei: Lianjing, 1999), 4–8, translated by Sylvia Li-chun Lin.

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26. To the Reader: Preface to the Unitas Edition of Complete Works of Luo Zhicheng lu o z hiche ng

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hat an amazing thing! How is it that you have noticed, even enjoyed, my work? You are scattered all over, before and after the springtime of adolescence, on both shores of the Milky Way, in certain lucid or entranced corners of the fin-de-siècle. You are mostly anonymous, unknown, dissimilar to one another. I crouch at my desk, sometimes hard at work, sometimes lonely, sometimes alienated and selfish, sometimes impassioned and romantic. All the same, I never have time to attend to others: neither in my life nor when I am writing . . . But then, why is it that there are always a few moments when, in reading, we are intimate like this? More intimate even than I am with those friends whose life stories, moods, and telephone numbers I know by heart? Is it because you have received the messages I sent? . . . Actually, we constitute a tribe of our own, sharing through heredity or contagion a certain aesthetic or obsessive gene. Our dialect lives in secret symbiosis with the world’s only block-shaped writing system. In its surface form, our dialect is the same as theirs; its grammar is no different from theirs. But in the words and between the lines, there is a more refined thought process, a more conscious expression of feeling, a mode of narration richer, more mutable, in greater need of tacit understanding and cultural cultivation. And then there is that indescribably sweet, intimate, fatal inflection . . . This tribe of ours cannot be limited by coarse communication or crude mental activity, although our small talk and conversation are just like theirs. There are always times, however, when we hope to spend time with a better, more complete version of ourselves, through the medium of literature (or a better language), art (or an aesthetic-religious sentiment), self-reflection (or a more lucid mental activity), narcissism (or a more passionate form of life), or myriad other solitary, clandestine venues. That’s right, members of this tribe know how to build a sanctuary—temporary or permanent—in their own hearts, to use the creations and thoughts of their own and of those who came before to erect protected areas around their minds, their ideals. Just as long as you read or create, you can come in any time. Time has marched on, the seasons have changed, again and again I have departed from myself to hunt for food, to compete for natural selection. But each time, when I have felt depressed, worn out, lonely, I have come back

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here. I healed my wounds with gentle language, I nourished myself with wild imagination. . . . For me, the delay in publishing these five books of poems old and new symbolizes the most plodding, lonely period of my creative life. Now that they are finally in print, the pressure can let up. It seems as if I have found the path to return to the wasteland that is literature. And the amazing thing is, how come you are still there? How have you kept reading all the way to this point? While people grow up, go away, forget . . . Is it that, on either end of the words—the reader’s end or the writer’s end— there are always people, always times when we snuggle up to ourselves and listen? Black Lined in Gold (Taipei: Unitas, 1999), 102–12, translated by Brian Skerratt.

27. Broken Chinese and Good Work hua ng jins hu

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ilan Kundera, in Testaments Betrayed, defends “the relatively restricted vocabulary” of Kafka’s language and opposes the way the translator takes the repetition of common diction, which is a salient trait of Kafka’s language, and turns it into “richness of vocabulary.” In doing so, he touches on an important concept: “Richness of vocabulary is not a value in itself. The breadth of the vocabulary depends on the aesthetic intention governing the work.”1 To put it another way, when it comes to writing, aesthetic intention takes precedence over the richness or paucity of vocabulary; the latter should be decided by the former, and not the other way around. Among writers, this concept should be an important piece of common knowledge. However, looking over the field of literary writing in Chinese, one sees that the problem is strangely severe. Regardless of whether the writer is inexperienced (and actually even famous authors are unable to escape it), “writing good Chinese” has always been an unwritten but supreme law. Universities (especially in Chinese language and literature departments), literary prize selection committees, and critics’ circles are all headquarters for the production of this ideology. Looking at it from a logical point of view, one should be able to say that using “good Chinese” (elegant, richly worded Chinese) to write good novels is normal. (Li Yongping is the most intriguing “success” case, but it’s difficult to say that he is not a victim of the above-mentioned ideology.) Yet one can actually say

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here. I healed my wounds with gentle language, I nourished myself with wild imagination. . . . For me, the delay in publishing these five books of poems old and new symbolizes the most plodding, lonely period of my creative life. Now that they are finally in print, the pressure can let up. It seems as if I have found the path to return to the wasteland that is literature. And the amazing thing is, how come you are still there? How have you kept reading all the way to this point? While people grow up, go away, forget . . . Is it that, on either end of the words—the reader’s end or the writer’s end— there are always people, always times when we snuggle up to ourselves and listen? Black Lined in Gold (Taipei: Unitas, 1999), 102–12, translated by Brian Skerratt.

27. Broken Chinese and Good Work hua ng jins hu

M

ilan Kundera, in Testaments Betrayed, defends “the relatively restricted vocabulary” of Kafka’s language and opposes the way the translator takes the repetition of common diction, which is a salient trait of Kafka’s language, and turns it into “richness of vocabulary.” In doing so, he touches on an important concept: “Richness of vocabulary is not a value in itself. The breadth of the vocabulary depends on the aesthetic intention governing the work.”1 To put it another way, when it comes to writing, aesthetic intention takes precedence over the richness or paucity of vocabulary; the latter should be decided by the former, and not the other way around. Among writers, this concept should be an important piece of common knowledge. However, looking over the field of literary writing in Chinese, one sees that the problem is strangely severe. Regardless of whether the writer is inexperienced (and actually even famous authors are unable to escape it), “writing good Chinese” has always been an unwritten but supreme law. Universities (especially in Chinese language and literature departments), literary prize selection committees, and critics’ circles are all headquarters for the production of this ideology. Looking at it from a logical point of view, one should be able to say that using “good Chinese” (elegant, richly worded Chinese) to write good novels is normal. (Li Yongping is the most intriguing “success” case, but it’s difficult to say that he is not a victim of the above-mentioned ideology.) Yet one can actually say

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that the instances of using good Chinese to write rotten fiction are too many to count. On the other hand, when it comes to using broken Chinese (Chinese that does not read like Chinese) to write rotten fiction, it seems one can also say that this is normal (the norm for Sinophone literature from peripheral regions). But, in theory, using “broken Chinese” to write good fiction should also be possible. In practice, to exaggerate slightly, it presents an alternative possibility, and moreover one that holds a great deal of theoretical significance. First, it is a challenge and refusal to submit to “Chineseness” and thus perhaps it can avoid the traditional restrictions inherent in conventional Chinese aesthetics. In Taiwan, owing to modernism, there are such important representatives as Qideng Sheng, Wang Zhenhe, and Wang Wenxing. However, as far as this type of writer is concerned, Qideng Sheng’s literary structure has been derided by Professor Joseph Lau as a case of polio. Wang Zhenhe’s language style has also been called into question, and Wang Wenxing’s writing has been ridiculed as poor Chinese by professors in Chinese departments who are “not sure if he was born in the wrong place or if he received the wrong education.” The talented men and women from Chinese departments are frequently unable to resist the lure of the aesthetic sensibility of Tang poetry and Song lyrics; therefore, for a long time, literature from college campuses (especially nonfiction) has tended to be sentimental laments of spring and autumn. But in Taiwan, with Chinese departments as the headquarters, in the ongoing, quiet movement for the “restoration of traditional Chinese culture,” a traditionalist ideology has for a long time been used to strangle other practices and ways of thinking. Those writers from Chinese departments almost all bear this original sin. “Not knowing even one character should lead one to be ashamed,” they say—an ideological remnant of the Qing dynasty textual scholarship. . . . This has also led to a long period in Taiwan’s new literary production in which the Chinese department is generally absent, and the old gentlemen in Chinese departments, for their part, despise the New Literature. Even more frightening is that the general acceptance of “good Chinese” is a common expectation in the Chinese cultural sphere. Behind this perhaps are some ethnic preconceptions about “Chinese people.” (In aesthetics, these preconceptions have been codified into the “privileged position of literariness,” which Professor Gong Pengcheng advocates and believes in.) This could also explain why so many writers from foreign language departments have the same tendency. (The most prominent example is perhaps Yu Guangzhong, the one-time advocate of “authentic Chinese.”) Fortunately or not, perhaps because of the general foreignness to the receivers of the works’ historical frame of reference, often Malay-Chinese literature that has been received in Taiwan—even if the aesthetic design is constructed in a dialogue with local culture, society, and history—has been simplified as a taste for the exoticism of “tropical Chinese.” The problem becomes more severe when we look back at the history of New Literature since the May Fourth movement. Although the May Fourth generation

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of new intellectuals claimed to break with tradition and dared to overthrow the old order of classical Chinese, strictly speaking, they did not have the courage to overthrow Chinese in their own writing. Whether a pair of unbound bound feet or a case of carcass fetish, accomplished writers from Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, Lao She, and Shen Congwen, to the last of the nobility, Zhang Ailing, almost always pursued a richly worded, elegant Chinese. (Of course they all have their respective frameworks of aesthetic intention.) Large-scale violations of elegant Chinese have never found expression in accomplished writers and have not, by means of an effective aesthetic practice, led to acute theoretical questions. (To paraphrase Kundera: “Every author of some value transgresses against ‘good style,’ and in that transgression lies the originality [and hence the raison d’être] of his art.”) As a result, in Chinese writing, on the one hand is the question: Under a framework of grand aesthetic intention, to what extent Chinese can be “broken” or where are its actual limits? On the other hand, there is the question: In the most extreme case of “brokenness,” is it or is it not possible to exude the same awe-inspiring power as in the case of richness and elegance? An aesthetics of dissipation? Art of Lies and Truth: Essays on Contemporary Chinese Fiction (Taipei: Rye Field, 2003), 420–22, translated by Valerie Levan.

notes Milan Kundera, Testaments Betrayed: An Essay in Nine Parts, translated by Linda Asher

1.

(New York: HarperCollins, 1993).

28. Like a Road Sign That Looks Ahead and Behind: Introduction to Compendium of Taiwanese-language Literature l in ya ngmin

T

aiwanese people possess a divergent national consciousness due to the position of the nation. This has led to many debates in the world of Taiwanese literature over the last thirty years. The concept of what is “Taiwanese literature” and what is “Taiwanese language literature,” which ought to be so simple that one can figure it out using one’s knees, have nevertheless become problematic concerning the position of Taiwanese literature, authors, and content, as well as the written language employed. Postwar Taiwanese literature also has changed much and developed rapidly over the past thirty years. The appearance of

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of new intellectuals claimed to break with tradition and dared to overthrow the old order of classical Chinese, strictly speaking, they did not have the courage to overthrow Chinese in their own writing. Whether a pair of unbound bound feet or a case of carcass fetish, accomplished writers from Lu Xun, Zhou Zuoren, Lao She, and Shen Congwen, to the last of the nobility, Zhang Ailing, almost always pursued a richly worded, elegant Chinese. (Of course they all have their respective frameworks of aesthetic intention.) Large-scale violations of elegant Chinese have never found expression in accomplished writers and have not, by means of an effective aesthetic practice, led to acute theoretical questions. (To paraphrase Kundera: “Every author of some value transgresses against ‘good style,’ and in that transgression lies the originality [and hence the raison d’être] of his art.”) As a result, in Chinese writing, on the one hand is the question: Under a framework of grand aesthetic intention, to what extent Chinese can be “broken” or where are its actual limits? On the other hand, there is the question: In the most extreme case of “brokenness,” is it or is it not possible to exude the same awe-inspiring power as in the case of richness and elegance? An aesthetics of dissipation? Art of Lies and Truth: Essays on Contemporary Chinese Fiction (Taipei: Rye Field, 2003), 420–22, translated by Valerie Levan.

notes Milan Kundera, Testaments Betrayed: An Essay in Nine Parts, translated by Linda Asher

1.

(New York: HarperCollins, 1993).

28. Like a Road Sign That Looks Ahead and Behind: Introduction to Compendium of Taiwanese-language Literature l in ya ngmin

T

aiwanese people possess a divergent national consciousness due to the position of the nation. This has led to many debates in the world of Taiwanese literature over the last thirty years. The concept of what is “Taiwanese literature” and what is “Taiwanese language literature,” which ought to be so simple that one can figure it out using one’s knees, have nevertheless become problematic concerning the position of Taiwanese literature, authors, and content, as well as the written language employed. Postwar Taiwanese literature also has changed much and developed rapidly over the past thirty years. The appearance of

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Taiwanese language literature is significant in that it has exerted a more positive influence on the nation, people, and culture than any other subject in Taiwanese literature. Because only Taiwanese language literature originates from the roots of the people, only when Taiwanese literature is written in Taiwanese can the essence of Taiwanese literature be made whole and Taiwanese literature be connected with its origin. The standpoint and the feelings and ideas expressed in Taiwanese language literature can truly reflect the life of the people. The history of Taiwanese literature, in addition to undergoing changes in language as a result of the turnover in colonial regime, has also gone through two language movements within the literary scene itself. The first movement was the New Literature movement in Taiwan during Japanese occupation, which was a native-soil literature movement that combined the vernacular language movement, political reform, Taiwanese cultural reform, and nation building. The discussion on language began in 1922, with the polemic for and against the use of the classical language versus the vernacular, and evolved into a debate, beginning in 1930, over the various vernaculars (written Japanese, Chinese, and Taiwanese), with a primary focus on the Chinese and Taiwanese vernaculars. Unfortunately, the first Taiwanese language literature movement petered out with the outbreak of World War II and the ban on the use of written Chinese by the governor-general in 1937, thus curtailing the Taiwanese language (spoken and written) movement. As the movement was short-lived, the number of writers was small, and the works written in Taiwanese that have been passed down are few. Among the main proponents of the movement were Huang Shihui, Guo Qiusheng, Zheng Kunwu, and Lai He; important poets and writers included Lai He, Xu Bingding, Yang Hua, and Huang Shihui, among others. The second Taiwanese language literature movement burgeoned in 1970 and has continued for three decades. The movement can be divided into two phases based on quality and quantity, scale, and degree of maturity: the first fifteen years, the “experimental period of dialect poetry” from around 1970 to 1985, and the “pluralistic development of Taiwanese language literature” and the “maturation of Taiwanese language poetry” since 1986. The movement this time is far greater than the first in many ways, with more people involved over a longer period of time and a greater quality and quantity of work produced. Leading proponents this time include: Lin Zongyuan, Zheng Liangwei, Hong Weiren, Song Zelai, Xiang Yang, Lin Yangmin, Huang Jinlian, Chen Mingren, Hu Minxiang, Luo Wenjie, Chen Lei, Shakabulayang, Xu Jidun, Li Qin’an, Zhuang Bolin, Liao Ruiming, Yang Yunyan, Lü Xingchang, and so on. . . . This Taiwanese language literature movement can be considered a Taiwanese renaissance, for its full-fledged theories and outstanding literary works prove that Taiwanese is an ideal literary language; moreover, the accomplishments of the movement indicate that Taiwanese language literature has become a large tributary of the mainstream of Taiwanese literature.

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Although literary works from the two movements of Taiwanese language literature mentioned above have been passed down, this does not suggest that literary works written in Taiwanese first appeared in the 1930s. Actually, Taiwanese language literature appeared much earlier than that. The play Tale of the Lychee and the Mirror, also known as Chen San and Wu Niang, was written in the dialects of Zhangzhou and Quanzhou [of southern Fujian Province] as a southern tune opera in 1566 (during the Jiaqing reign of the Ming dynasty). There are numerous other literary works in various genres written in the southern Fukien dialect that are four centuries old. Taiwan has a history of at least two hundred years, and works of Taiwanese language literature were penned for southern- and northern-style operas, regional opera, and puppet shows, along with ballads, children’s songs, lullabies, seven-character rhymes sung by a male–female duo, seven-character musical dialogue from folktales, and the lyrics of popular songs. But the popular literature of the last century has been passed down among the people and neglected by the academics of Taiwan, who, although they have eyes, fail to see its value as authentic, mainstream literature. In addition to the popular literature in Taiwanese, there are religious literary works rendered phonetically and written in romanized Taiwanese by Taiwanese Christians for a century. The achievement in religious literature was especially great in the 1920s, which saw the publication of such novellas and short stories as “The Lovable Enemy,” “The Sign of the Cross,” and “My Mother’s Tears” by Lai Rensheng, and “The Line from Birth to Death” by Zheng Xipan. Some of these works, modern in structure and written in pure Taiwanese, were published earlier than the fiction of Lai He and Huang Shihui. In all seriousness, Taiwanese language vernacular literature was part and parcel of the exciting New Literature movement at its very inception during Japanese occupation. It was certainly not a case of “historical prejudice” of “Chinese first, Taiwanese second” in literary circles. Unfortunately, works in romanized Taiwanese only circulated among churchgoers and were usually unknown to the intellectuals, who were aloof from the masses of Taiwanese society and therefore less knowledgeable about popular literature in Taiwanese. From the foregoing, we can see that the notion that “Taiwanese literature must be written in Taiwanese” did not appear until writers who lived under colonial rule came up with the idea and did their utmost to advocate it during the two Taiwanese literature movements before and after the war. The prewar movement began in the 1920s but didn’t become a rage until the 1930s, and the postwar movement began in 1970 but didn’t gather steam until the 1980s. The movements had to do not only with using the Taiwanese language but also with the shaping of Taiwanese consciousness. The awakened writers of the 1930s referred to the literature written in Taiwanese as “native-soil literature,” while the writers with a Taiwan consciousness in the 1980s called literary

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works written in Taiwanese “Taiwanese literature.” The writers in these two periods had the same idea in their hearts: Taiwanese literature is an independent entity and not a branch of Japanese or Chinese literature. For this reason, they advocated Taiwanese literature. Only after the burgeoning of a Taiwan consciousness and the idea of being one’s own master was the mother tongue of the Taiwanese people called “Taiwanese” or the “Taiwanese language.” For the same reason, when we generally talk about “Taiwanese literature,” we are referring to the works written by the writers within the historical parameters of the pre- and postwar Taiwanese literature movements. The popular literature written in Taiwanese and passed down over the centuries and the classical Chinese literature are treated as the fountainheads, or the classical tradition, of Taiwanese literature. It has been seventy years since the first Taiwanese language movement. Taiwanese writers have produced outstanding works in all genres, works that are rich in content and technique. I recall the Sweet Potato Poetry Society, the first Taiwanese poetry society, organized by several friends in 1991, who proposed five “goals” that were the common aspirations for new Taiwanese literature of the twentieth century. 1. Create new Taiwanese literary works with characteristics of the spirit of the Taiwanese people. 2. Care about Taiwan and the world, compose poetry, prose, and fiction possessing both a local and a world view. 3. Represent social life, resist local despotism, and reflect the sufferings of the oppressed masses. 4. Raise the quality of Taiwanese language literature and lyrics. 5. Pursue the establishment of a written and literary Taiwanese.

These five points are contained in the third article of the poetry society. I believe that the achievements of Taiwanese language literature have not only fulfilled these expectations but also added “literary functions” previously unconceived. Taiwanese language literature has established its identity and is moving toward diversity and pluralism. Liberty Times literary supplement, March 20, 2001, translated by Yingtsih Hwang.

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29. The Brave New World of the Mother Tongue: Taiwanese-language Literature Under Construction xi a ng ya ng

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he trajectory of the New Literature movement in Taiwan, which began in the 1920s, parallels that of the New Literature movement in China, which started in 1917. Both were influenced by international circumstances and domestic social changes in the late nineteenth century. As Tse-Tsung Chow observes in The May Fourth Movement: Intellectual Revolution in Modern China [1960], the movement used literature to overturn the morbid, old tradition and replace it with a new culture. Another characteristic shared by the Taiwanese New Literature movement and the Chinese May Fourth movement is that they had to tackle the most important issue of the enlightenment—language reform—as Ye Shitao suggests in An Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature. Adoption of the vernacular made it easier to help the masses to absorb new intellectual currents in the world and to promote the nationalist spirit. However, there are differences between the New Literature movements of Taiwan and China. As residents in a colony under the emerging Japanese empire, Taiwanese intellectuals struggled with three interlocking yet conflicting identities. Politically they were Japanese citizens, ethnically they saw China as their motherland, and in real life they were Taiwanese. The predicament of this tripartite identity informed the complex landscape of New Literature in post1920 Taiwan and became the main thrust of subsequent debates and controversies in the history of New Literature movements. To this day, it has remained unresolved. Taiwanese language literature should be considered in this historical context. The identity issue explains why this literature, motivated by language and identity, has undergone ebb and flow but never disappeared over a period of eight decades. This literature symbolizes the pursuit of a common dream of constructing the motherland through writing in the mother tongue. To put it simply, Taiwanese literature refers to literary works written in the Taiwanese language, with language as its core form and determining its core content. The Sapir-Whorf principle of linguistic relativity theory suggests that the culturally specific structure of a particular language dictates the thought process and worldview of the speakers of that language. Therefore, the structural and ideological forces of a language shape the form and content of culture. Taiwanese language poetry first emerged during the Japanese colonial period with the dual goals of revolutionizing literature and molding a new Taiwanese culture. More specifically, the genre was born in the 1930s during the debate

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about the Taiwanese vernacular as a literary medium. It came to a halt in the 1940s but gained momentum again in the 1970s. Since then, many writers have appeared. With Hakka poets joining those writing in Taiwanese, the genre is now a staple of contemporary Taiwanese literature. Taiwanese literature during Japanese rule was characterized by an urge to resist Japanese cultural assimilation. The use of Taiwanese instead of Japanese marked the writers’ opposition to Japanese cultural hegemony. Moreover, most of the advocates of Taiwanese literature were Socialists, and the Taiwanese language and literature movement highlighted the role of the toiling masses in fighting the bourgeoisie of landlords and gentry. Therefore, Taiwanese literature and Taiwan’s New Literature movement emerged simultaneously. . . . The second wave of Taiwanese literature did not appear until the 1970s and from the beginning revolved around modern poetry in Taiwanese. The first to experiment with new forms were Lin Zongyuan [b. 1935] and Xiang Yang. In the 1980s, an era of rapid social changes and democratization, more poets joined the movement, including Song Zelai, Lin Yangmin, Huang Shugen [1947–2010], and Huang Jinlian [b. 1946], creating a wave of Taiwanese poetry. They were joined in the 1990s by Chen Mingren [b. 1954], Hu Minxiang [b. 1943], Chen Lei, Lin Chenmo [b. 1959], Li Qin’an [b. 1951], and Lu Hanxiu [b. 1958]. With the rise of Hakka poets such as Huang Hengqiu and Du Pan Fangge, Taiwanese literature expanded to encompass both Hakka and Taiwanese writing. After the lift of martial law in 1987 and propelled by passionate linguists, studies and dictionaries of the Taiwanese language proliferated like bamboo shoots after a spring shower. They offered writers reference tools. Taiwanese literature is not limited to poetry; it also encompasses essays, fiction, and drama. . . . Limited by its scope, my short essay cannot cover all of the writers and works of Taiwanese language literature, but it is clear that as a mode of writing in the mother tongue, Taiwanese literature conveys the voice of this land. The writers write in their mother tongue and contribute to the new Taiwanese literature, with Taiwanese language poetry as the most accomplished genre. Like Dante during the Italian Renaissance, they express their identification with the land and people and display the potential for developing the movement into a new literary revolution and creating a new paradigm for literary writing. Therefore, they deserve our encouragement and anticipation. Culture Express 3 (September 2001); reprinted in Xiang Yang, New Homeland in the Floating World Under Starry Sky (Taipei: Sanmin Bookstore, 2004), 147–51, translated by Alex Huang.

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30. A Flower Recalls Its Previous Incarnation: Remembering Zhang Ailing and Hu Lancheng z hu ti a nwe n

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hang Ailing passed away in September 1995. My younger sister Tianxin and I turned down all requests for interviews and written comments. Even our unconventional father disagreed with our decision. All I could say was: “Absence is a form of condolence.” Shortly afterward, however, a stream of memorial essays, correspondences, reminiscences, and anecdotes appeared in print. They contained repeated references to Hu Lancheng and to his connection with Three-Three. Three-Three is a journal I launched when I was a junior in college. Two years later, in April 1977, we founded Three-Three Bookstore. At the time, Mr. Hu’s Mountains and Rivers Across Time was banned in Taiwan; even an excised version of This World, This Life encountered obstacles. Because no publisher wanted to publish his books, we decided to push ahead and publish them under the pen name Li Pan, which he had used as a contributor to Three-Three. We published a series of four volumes before he passed away in 1981. We can rightly say that Three-Three could not have existed without Hu Lancheng’s support. Mr. Hu was our next-door neighbor for a year, during which time he was giving private lessons and writing books. Then he returned to Japan, where he had been a resident, and he stayed there until he passed away. For seven years, from age eighteen to twenty-five, I was close to him. Looking back, all I can say is that he was my reincarnation in a previous life. Graham Greene once said that for a writer the first twenty years of life contain all of the experience—the rest is observation. He asserted: “The creative writer perceives his world once and for all in childhood and adolescence, and his whole career is an effort to illustrate his private world in terms of the great public world we all share.” Viewed in this way, my ensuing career as a writer was actually a process of digestion, regurgitation, repetition, and appropriation of my reincarnation. . . . Let me give a couple of examples. One is the individualism of Zhang Ailing, the other the fact that Hu Lancheng was not allowed to return to Taiwan. I started reading Zhang Ailing when I was twelve or thirteen years old. Naturally I became a fan like my father and my sixth aunt. When I was little, I loved to hang around Father when he was at his desk. Back then and even later, he had no study to speak of. There were only a large tatami bed and two desks placed side by side, which belonged to my parents. Father wrote his fiction on his desk while Mother translated from the Japanese on hers. I even read repeatedly all the letters Zhang Ailing wrote to Father until I could recite them from

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memory. In her letters, Zhang mentioned that her husband Ferdinand Reyher [1891–1967] also wrote fiction but “I never read it, because I don’t read Joyce and the likes either.” At the time, I had no idea who Joyce was, but I could tell from her tone that he must have been a big shot, whom Zhang Ailing had the guts to refuse to read. More than once I heard Father saying that Zhang Ailing was a loner when she was living in Berkeley but she would stop walking to observe an electrician working high up on a power pole, even though the passers-by had no idea what she was looking at. When she stayed for a short time at Wang Zhenhe’s place in Hualian, she was easily distracted by trivial things on the street and would stare at them for a long time. She always saw what others did not see and was comfortable in her own skin. That must have been when I first started imitating Zhang Ailing. The teacher of Chinese literature in my freshman year in junior high became my class teacher for the next two years. I worshipped him to the point of infatuation. I memorized many poems that were not in the textbooks, so I would be the only student to respond to his impromptu questions in class. I also rewrote the love letters that Father had written to Mother when they were young and passionate about literature, turning them into journal entries that I submitted weekly, including some entries on Madame Bovary. My bravado must have worried my teacher, who would return my journal with equally lengthy comments. That only emboldened me even more. My wild words turned into wild behavior, and it was no secret to my younger sister Tianxin, who attended the same school. Thanks to the teacher’s protection, however, I was never reprimanded or punished by the school. I was indulged to a ridiculous degree. But the reason for my behavior was none other than emulating Zhang Ailing, emulating what I thought was independence and nonconformity. Moreover, I didn’t know how to deal with the awkwardness and poor adjustment of a long adolescence. The image of Zhang Ailing acted as my support system (I had read her essay “Dream of Being a Genius” long before that), so I felt that my idiosyncrasies were justified. Hu Lancheng’s “Women of Republican China” played a similar role. The badly torn copy I read was the Japanese edition of This World, This Life in Father’s collection. Listen to this passage: “Once again I am halted by the terminology. I am not intimidated by money or power, but I am intimidated by publicly acknowledged academic authorities. Once, I had the nerve to blurt out that Dream of the Red Chamber and Journey to the West are superior to Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Goethe’s Faust; Ailing casually remarked: ‘Of course they are better!’” Here’s another passage: “I always take pride in the fact that I treat the powerful the same [as ordinary people], even though I probably express too much gratitude to them. But Ailing never acts this way. Even if it was the Sun God himself, she would see through him in little details. It is common for people,

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myself included, to forgive good people but not bad people. When it comes to things, it is no different. But most tragedies are caused by good people, and good things usually end up being destroyed, because goodness is limiting, and infectious. The truth is that the unforgivable should never be forgiven. While she is very demanding toward good people and good things, she is no less stern toward bad people and ordinary things. She is truly egalitarian.” The summer I graduated from high school, Father found out by accident that Hu Lancheng was in Taiwan. He got in touch with him and paid him a visit with Mother and me. The conversation that day revolved around Zhang Ailing. Mr. Hu brought out the Japanese edition of This World, This Life in two volumes and gave it to Father. There were typos corrected in blue and red, so it was probably his personal copy. Even though I could not meet Zhang Ailing, it was great for me to meet Hu Lancheng. When I saw him in person, I didn’t have any regret for not having met him sooner. To this date, it feels as though I drew a blank in my mind. As to his book, besides the chapter on women in the Republican period, I did not care to read the rest. Strangely, even after our meeting I still did not have any desire to read it until a year later. During the summer vacation I opened the book and started reading it. To my amazement, it felt like the sky suddenly opened and the ocean soared. A profound sorrow engulfed me. Then I wrote a letter to Mr. Hu. I didn’t harbor any hope that he was still in Taiwan; it was a letter in a bottle cast into the sea, the first chapter of “outlandish words on Mr. Hu” with whom I was absorbed. I believed that he was greater than Zhang Ailing. I regretted that up to a year before I had noticed Zhang Ailing but not Hu Lancheng. I had only myself to blame for my ignorance. . . . More than a century ago, Hu and Zhang first met and talked for five hours on end. Hu did most of the talking about what he thought of Zhang’s work. When they met again, Hu said to her: “You are just an individualist.” Don’t underestimate individualism. Look at the Nobel laureate Gao Xingjian. His latest novel One Man’s Bible is the work of a lifetime. What is this invaluable work about? None other than individualism. Gao espouses no “ism”; he is just an individual. One Man’s Bible is a book of escape; he is his own God, his own apostle. . . . In “On Zhang Ailing,” written in the 1940s, Mr. Hu wrote, “Just as Lu Xun said, justice is on their side. But what does their justice have to do with us? Even our saying so angers them, because the masses are on their side, comrades are on their side. We have no ‘us.’ Fine, just say they have nothing to do with me. That’s how I became an individualist.” Gao Xingjian—an individual with no “ism”—is another example. Mr. Hu said, “This kind of individualism has a streak of indifference, but it is more rebellious and leads to a new life, or destruction, but never to decay.”

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I remember Mr. Hu used to talk a lot about Zhang Ailing’s stubbornness and inflexibility, as well as her modesty and gentleness. Reading her as we grew up, we now found her to be a dark cloud over our heads and only weak grass could grow below it. Since when did she become something we tried to escape from and rebel against? The first time I felt such pressure was during the nativist literature debate in the second half of the 1970s. We were in college then, and we wrote about nothing more than the empty sorrow of the youth, daydreams, love, and our socalled experience with the good and evil in the world. Our works might not be so decadent as to cause the fall of an empire, but they were pretty close. The guys in the architecture department showed us the sharp black-and-white pictures they had taken on field trips to the mountains and the countryside. We thought that with captions they looked so cool and so smart. . . . Later, when we ran Three-Three Bookstore, we vowed to be Confucian literati and study political science, economics, sociology, philosophy, and so on; we didn’t want to be writers who wrote only fiction for the rest of our lives. . . . It is difficult to label Mr. Hu. To this date, his identity remains ill defined, his position in history unclear. Literary scholars put him in the lyrical school, along with such writers as Zhou Zuoren, Fei Ming, and Shen Congwen. In private, Tianxin and I think that the comprehensive structure of his later work makes him the Chinese counterpart of the structuralist anthropologist Claude LéviStrauss. In his self-awareness and self-reflexivity during exile, he is comparable to Walter Benjamin. As an intellectual, he is more like Edward Said. Now that I make public our private discussion, it will probably lend support to those who criticize Mr. Hu as grandiose. . . . This is Mr. Hu’s greatest legacy. It has been twenty years, but his legacy keeps growing, instead of diminishing. What about Zhang Ailing? The rebellious, escapist Zhang Ailing? I am reminded of those signs in public: “Under Construction,” “In Service,” “Being Cleaned.” I think at this moment I am “rebelling and escaping.” October 24, 2000 Re-Reading Zhang Ailing, ed. Joseph S.M. Lau, Ping-kwan Leung, and Xu Zidong (Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 2002), 275–81, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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31. The Mysterious Revelations of Nature Writing wu mingyi ...

2 It is generally believed that nature writing in contemporary Taiwan has evolved since the 1980s. This transforming genre inherits traditional literature which depicts nature on the one hand, and responds to Taiwan’s environmental and econopolitical conditions on the other. A pioneer of environmental history, Donald Worster holds that environmental history should be a deepening of historical study on Earth and a discovery of a new dimension of history. Typically, discussions of colonial culture focus on political domination, economic exploitation, and cultural hegemony by way of explaining the identity crisis of the colonized as manifested in “aphasia” and “amnesia.” However, Alfred W. Crosby sees environmental history as the basis for interpreting colonial history. He believes that, as a tool of invasion, transforming the natural environment of the colony has a greater power for effecting change. The method of fundamentally changing the environment, biological groupings, and mode of livelihood is known as “ecological colonialism.” The fact is, whether we are talking about environmental manipulation for political symbolism, the model of economic exploitation, or migration and war, they change not only human history but also the ecosystem. And the hitherto forgotten history of the environment—including its impact on civilizations, whether at a catastrophic moment or over a long period of time—is far more significant, enduring, and profound than we can imagine. Embedded in the willful destruction of nature is human discrimination against nature. Nature writing teaches us that at the bottom of the colonial empire of ecology—if there is such a thing—are exactly the denizens of the Earth that sustain the lives of the conquerors. Coming face to face with Formosa, nature writers begin to “liberate” nature from a variety of perspectives in their writing and conceptualization. Nature is more than an object of affection, observation, and exploration. A new “ethical relationship” develops gradually between nature and observers. As this new ethical relationship emerges under the pen, a new mode of nature writing is formed. In the words of Lester W. Milbrath, postwar Taiwan was a “dominator society” that adopted an anthropocentric standpoint and an economy-driven model

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in its quest to “conquer nature” to benefit humans. A high degree of economic development resulted in affluence, but it also led to the collapse of the environment. When ecological devastation jeopardized the survival of the society, even a shortsighted government and people were compelled to respond and come up with a solution, whether it was adjusting social values, adopting a different economic model, or slowing down economic development. The fact was, the nature of Taiwan’s economy was never capitalism pure and simple; it was an export economy of transnational corporations and hired labor controlled by international superpowers. True, this model made Taiwan richer, but it also put Taiwan in an “environmental debt” too hard to pay back; it had become a “nation of imported toxins.” To put it in a different way, the era of economic takeoff also gave Taiwan an “overdrawn future.” Intense economic development left a dual legacy of material wealth and environmental debt. Faced with highly developed consumerist capitalism and environmental devastation as a result of industrial pollution, writers were driven to resist and challenge the dominator society with their pens. In the political and cultural spheres, Taiwan experienced the severing of diplomatic relations with the United States in 1978, the Formosa Incident in 1979, and a series of setbacks in international relations. The number of countries with which Taiwan had diplomatic relations dropped from sixty-seven in the early 1970s. The legitimacy of the Republic of China was losing currency in the international community. Intellectuals, including those who came from the mainland in 1949, recognized that the dominion of the government was limited to the islands of Taiwan, Penghu, Quemoy, and Mazu. They began to shift their attention to the land on which they lived instead of longing for the motherland to which it was unlikely for them to return. As for the descendants of earlier settlers from the mainland, they began to investigate indigenous history that had been suppressed by the political authorities. Thus, most of the earliest nature writers in Taiwan began with this concern for the local, things living on this land, and historical memory. The path led them to ponder a new ethics, a different model for rediscovering and reconstructing the land and history of Taiwan. In the process, as they identified with the geography and history of the land, their concern for the environment deepened too. However, even though some intellectuals had an awakening, Taiwan did not produce such mature works as Walden [1854] by Thoreau or A Sand County Almanac [1949] by Aldo Leopold. The introduction of Western ecological writings in a vacuum became an inevitable trend. Returned scholars ushered in Western concepts of environmental devastation and patterns of action. Since the second half of the 1970s, they have been introducing the Western canon of nature writing, which serves as the paradigm for local nature writers. In language and mode of writing, we can still find in contemporary Taiwanese nature writing traces of the reception and reinterpretation of Western nature writing, its mode of observation and recording, and even dialogues with it.

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In addition, traditional pastoral and landscape literature, travelogues of Chinese immigrants in the late Qing and the early Republican period, and scientific reports and journals written by Western scientists provided a retrospective for nature writers in Taiwan. They saw in them a mirror of their own observations of Taiwan’s landscape and treated them as a “database of natural history” or a model of study, recording, and observation. Through the two-dimensional writings, they conversed with writers of a bygone era and a vanished place. This was how nature writing in Taiwan gradually developed a discursive strategy that combined natural observations, understanding of localities, and cultural reflections. As a result of all of the factors mentioned above, Taiwan has developed a new mode of nature writing since the 1980s that distinguishes itself from past appreciations of scenic spots, expressions of lyrical sentiments, and narratives with nature as backdrop. Writers have begun to write about the subtle nuances and heavenly illuminations of nature at the scientific, ethical, and aesthetic levels. Anthology of Nature Writing in Taiwan, ed. Wu Mingyi (Taipei: Two Fish, 2003), 10–19, translated by Michelle Yeh.

32. Building a Bridge for Taiwanese Literature: Foreword to the Newsletter of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature l in r u iming

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n April 1997, a number of representative experts and scholars on the cultural scene attended a public hearing in Taipei held by the legislative branch regarding a museum of modern literature. The majority of the participants did not approve of subsuming such a museum under the National Center for Research and Preservation of Cultural Properties as the Division of Literary Historical Archives, alongside the four other divisions, Preservation of Historical Artifacts, Appraisal of Cultural Artifacts, Conservation Technology, and Education and Promotion. It was foreseeable that if a division of such a different nature was placed among the existing divisions, its original function would atrophy, and it would thwart the good intentions of the Tainan Municipal Government in providing the elegant building of the historical Office of the Tainan Prefecture to house the museum of modern literature. Considering the various factors, the original plan for the museum as the fifth division (fourth, if we exclude Education and Promotion) in the organizational structure of the Center for Cultural

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In addition, traditional pastoral and landscape literature, travelogues of Chinese immigrants in the late Qing and the early Republican period, and scientific reports and journals written by Western scientists provided a retrospective for nature writers in Taiwan. They saw in them a mirror of their own observations of Taiwan’s landscape and treated them as a “database of natural history” or a model of study, recording, and observation. Through the two-dimensional writings, they conversed with writers of a bygone era and a vanished place. This was how nature writing in Taiwan gradually developed a discursive strategy that combined natural observations, understanding of localities, and cultural reflections. As a result of all of the factors mentioned above, Taiwan has developed a new mode of nature writing since the 1980s that distinguishes itself from past appreciations of scenic spots, expressions of lyrical sentiments, and narratives with nature as backdrop. Writers have begun to write about the subtle nuances and heavenly illuminations of nature at the scientific, ethical, and aesthetic levels. Anthology of Nature Writing in Taiwan, ed. Wu Mingyi (Taipei: Two Fish, 2003), 10–19, translated by Michelle Yeh.

32. Building a Bridge for Taiwanese Literature: Foreword to the Newsletter of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature l in r u iming

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n April 1997, a number of representative experts and scholars on the cultural scene attended a public hearing in Taipei held by the legislative branch regarding a museum of modern literature. The majority of the participants did not approve of subsuming such a museum under the National Center for Research and Preservation of Cultural Properties as the Division of Literary Historical Archives, alongside the four other divisions, Preservation of Historical Artifacts, Appraisal of Cultural Artifacts, Conservation Technology, and Education and Promotion. It was foreseeable that if a division of such a different nature was placed among the existing divisions, its original function would atrophy, and it would thwart the good intentions of the Tainan Municipal Government in providing the elegant building of the historical Office of the Tainan Prefecture to house the museum of modern literature. Considering the various factors, the original plan for the museum as the fifth division (fourth, if we exclude Education and Promotion) in the organizational structure of the Center for Cultural

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Archives was aborted to reflect the fact that the executive branch did not place much importance on literary archives and only treated them as a formality. Preservation of historical artifacts, appraisal of cultural artifacts, and conservation technology all involve the management and maintenance of tangible cultural assets, at least actual things one can see and touch. But literature is the art of language, of turning words into essays and books. Although it may be said that it reflects human life or bears witness to an era, if no one reads it, enjoys it, and studies it, it is ultimately no more than a pile of white paper with black characters on it. After some time has passed, it is sold to used bookstores based on weight and is of less value than blank paper. Our society has yet to fully realize the importance of intangible cultural assets. The plan to mingle tangible historical and cultural artifacts and antiques with intangible cultural property is unheard of in the world. In developing a long-term plan, we emphasized that the Division of Literary Historical Archives should be independent of the Center for Cultural Archives, [ for] unless they developed independently they would become a monstrosity that was neither horse nor donkey. After appeals from literary figures and spokespeople of public opinion, the Executive Yuan agreed to divide the organization into two locations and initially named the originally planned modern literature museum as the National Literature Museum. Another turn of events led to the name being changed to National Museum of Taiwan Literature. This tortuous process was as difficult as the naming of Taiwanese literature. With the establishment of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature, all the myths, legends, and literary works—whether classical or modern, folk or authored—would be collected and preserved in the museum from now on to enrich Taiwanese literature. With the guidance of the former chair of the Council for Cultural Planning and Development Lin Chengzhi and the support of the current chair Chen Yuxiu, the final decision was made. . . . The National Museum of Taiwan Literature collects, stores, researches, exhibits, digitalizes, and popularizes the literature of Taiwan. It is a focal point for promoting research on Taiwanese literature and an important base for literary exchanges with countries around the world. Currently, the museum is collecting historical materials related to Taiwanese literature, editing complete works of Taiwanese authors, commissioning research on special topics in Taiwanese literature, planning exhibits and activities related to research findings, and collecting donations of literary manuscripts and artifacts, while at the same time implementing the plan to digitalize collections of literary historical materials. Society at large will gain a better understanding of these ongoing projects and activities at the Museum from the newsletter. It is hoped that the publication of the newsletter will build a bridge to Taiwanese literature both overseas and at home. Newsletter of the Taiwan Literature Museum (2003): 1, translated by Michael Martin Day.

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33. A Perspective on Prose l i u ke xi a ng

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t has been twenty-odd years since I made birds the focus of my writing as a young man. The genre and scope of my works have rarely strayed from mountains, rivers, and other natural subjects. Because most of my encounters are with bugs, fish, plants, and trees in the wild, as well as naturalists doing field studies, I’ve gotten in the habit of traveling all about and constantly transcribing my observations. Moreover, having been baptized in the waters of the environmental movement, everything I see and hear on this clod of earth called Taiwan provides literary nourishment that cannot be gleaned from works of the past. As I grow older, my values and intellectual standards have fallen more in line with the evolving relationship between an Earth-based ethics and the mass of men, leading to a number of insights. My creative writing has likewise undergone several radical transformations. Although my essays are often labeled as intellectual prose, I’m still confident that the underlying emotional stratum is in fact more concentrated and durable. That poetic sentiment has never been absent from my observations of nature; it always shows up in my prose narrative to play the role of a harmonizing agent. Selected Works of Liu Kexiang (Taipei: Jiuge, 2003), 25, translated by Nick Kaldis.

34. My Story of the Chinese Language—Roaming li yongp ing 1. A S O J O U R N E R F R O M T H E S O U T H P A C I F I C Thirty years ago, there was a sojourner. This sojourner traveled from Borneo in the South Pacific to Taiwan in the eastern Pacific, where he enrolled in NTU’s Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures. One bleak winter day, this sojourner from the tropics, his head bowed and arms full of books, wandered like a specter along the verdant path in front of the Freshmen Building, feeling dazed and confused. Teacher Liu Ailin, who was very fond of him, was wearing a floral-patterned cheongsam dress and smiled as she walked daintily forward to tug at his sleeve, asking,

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33. A Perspective on Prose l i u ke xi a ng

I

t has been twenty-odd years since I made birds the focus of my writing as a young man. The genre and scope of my works have rarely strayed from mountains, rivers, and other natural subjects. Because most of my encounters are with bugs, fish, plants, and trees in the wild, as well as naturalists doing field studies, I’ve gotten in the habit of traveling all about and constantly transcribing my observations. Moreover, having been baptized in the waters of the environmental movement, everything I see and hear on this clod of earth called Taiwan provides literary nourishment that cannot be gleaned from works of the past. As I grow older, my values and intellectual standards have fallen more in line with the evolving relationship between an Earth-based ethics and the mass of men, leading to a number of insights. My creative writing has likewise undergone several radical transformations. Although my essays are often labeled as intellectual prose, I’m still confident that the underlying emotional stratum is in fact more concentrated and durable. That poetic sentiment has never been absent from my observations of nature; it always shows up in my prose narrative to play the role of a harmonizing agent. Selected Works of Liu Kexiang (Taipei: Jiuge, 2003), 25, translated by Nick Kaldis.

34. My Story of the Chinese Language—Roaming li yongp ing 1. A S O J O U R N E R F R O M T H E S O U T H P A C I F I C Thirty years ago, there was a sojourner. This sojourner traveled from Borneo in the South Pacific to Taiwan in the eastern Pacific, where he enrolled in NTU’s Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures. One bleak winter day, this sojourner from the tropics, his head bowed and arms full of books, wandered like a specter along the verdant path in front of the Freshmen Building, feeling dazed and confused. Teacher Liu Ailin, who was very fond of him, was wearing a floral-patterned cheongsam dress and smiled as she walked daintily forward to tug at his sleeve, asking,

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“Are you sure you are not interested in studying literature? What do you really want to study?” He replied hesitantly, “International trade” (this was back when Taiwan’s economy was just about to take off). Teacher Liu sighed and muttered, “Why don’t you go sit in on the novelist Wang Wenxing’s class? He just returned from studying in the United States and has brought back some new perspectives that may give you some inspiration.” The sojourner then entered classroom 20 in the Humanities Building and quietly found himself a seat amid a crowd of girls. Through the window he could see a lotus pond under a sleepy winter sun. The young novelist had a thin face and shining eyes, and was wearing a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. Facing the classroom full of eager students with shiny black locks, he lifted his microphone and began discussing a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. Two hours later, he was still going strong. Standing atop a raised platform and holding a pile of attendance certificates in his hand, he searched contemplatively for the right words as he attempted to explicate the deep meaning hidden in the text. You could hear a pin drop in the entire lecture hall, and the sojourner stared off into space, wondering, Aren’t fairy tales written for children? Is it true that they can be so exquisite and thought-provoking—so “thrilling”? Is it true that there is really an art form known as “fiction”? For him, this was an earth-shattering realization, because he had previously assumed that fiction was merely a question of telling an interesting story. In April, when the azaleas on the campus were in full bloom, the sojourner opened his collar and walked into the wind. Like a specter, he wandered along Royal Palm Boulevard, listening to the wind blowing through the trees over his head. As he strolled along, he suddenly had a realization: “I also want to write fiction!” And, sure enough, before classes ended for the summer he had completed his first story, “A Lazi Woman.”

2. THE MAN FROM HUNAN People often say that fate is like a chain, with each link connected to the next. Inevitably, there will always be one link that is larger and brighter than the others, and if this particular link happens to be lost or replaced, the entire chain will be radically transformed. Professor Yan Yuanshu was precisely this sort of link, and he turned out to be a pivotal person in the life of this sojourner. This tall and strong man (at least that was the sojourner’s impression of him at the time) from Hunan Province was only in his thirties. He had a crew cut and wore patterned American shirts and shorts. He lectured in a deep and sonorous voice, but retained a sincere, honest, and even somewhat “rustic” appearance. This rustic quality evoked the yellow earth that provided the foundation for China’s civilization for over five thousand years, and appeared completely incompatible with his American outfit and his English phrases, yet at the same time somehow seemed strangely appropriate. He had just returned from the

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United States; full of confidence, he was preparing to send out an enormous signal flare that would light up the night sky of Taiwan’s literary scene and awaken those romance writers cowering in the shadows of the White Terror. One day he happened to read “A Lazi Woman” and is said to have immediately sighed and exclaimed, “This is an overseas Chinese student worth teaching.” He recommended the story for publication in the University Journal and then called the author into his office for a chat. The office was a small room that was completely bare except for an old bicycle, and he was sitting with his back to the window through which his visitor could see the setting sun. He proudly stroked his flattop as he spoke about an author’s responsibility to his age and literature’s social consciousness. Then, he extended a hand the size of a palm fan (at least that was the sojourner’s impression at the time) and pounded the sojourner twice on his scrawny shoulders, then punched him on the chest and said, “Keep it up! You may very well have some success.” This punch made the sojourner go limp and tremble from head to foot, as though he had suddenly had his mind cleared and achieved enlightenment. After this initial encounter, the two of them developed a master and apprentice relationship that was so extraordinary the sojourner didn’t know how to begin to describe it. . . . The sojourner set off on his path of no return to become an author, and as he stumbled along, he didn’t know whether to feel resentful or grateful. . . . This sojourner has now lived more than half a century. Over the years, the sojourner eventually grew weary from his journeys and occasionally would wander over to the fourth section of Roosevelt Palm Boulevard and duck into the Southeast Asia Theater to relax and stretch out his legs. Every time he passed NTU’s main entrance, he would hurry over to the Double Leaf Bookstore across the street, where he would gaze upward at the lush vegetation contrasted with the red buildings of the university where he had spent nine carefree years of his life (four as a student and another five as a teaching assistant). . . .

4. S E E I N G TA I W A N L I G H T S A G A I N . . . Ever since childhood I have been fascinated by words. Words! Chinese characters! Some people call them square characters, others call them Shina1 ideographs. For me, however, they are just words—though words unique in their ability to function as totems containing a secret meaning that only Chinese people are able to decipher. Each word corresponds to a figure, and each figure corresponds to an image. Each image, in turn, represents a miniature universe. I don’t know why, but from the time I was a child, the miniature universe created by this rich array of words (my teacher said there are fifty or sixty thousand of them in all) has attracted me, bewitching my innocent soul.

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One of my clearest memories is of carrying a basket of incense sticks when I was still a boy, as I followed my mother to the Earth God Temple in town to burn the sticks as sacrificial offerings. What immediately caught my attention when we entered the temple were not the seven ambivalently smiling and smoke-stained Buddha statues in the incense-filled and gold-encrusted shrine, or the array of hideously grinning yakshas standing on either side, and much less the colorful murals depicting processes of transmutation and karmic return, but rather it was the linked couplets posted in the temple (and Joan, don’t forget that at the time I was still a young student just learning to read). The couplet read, Good and evil are precisely defined; even if you try to deceive yourself, God will not permit it. Good and bad fortune are exactly measured; you can lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to Heaven.

I was immediately awed by these twenty-six stern characters, each carved deeply into two granite columns in the middle of the main hall, glittering as they shone down on the smoke and light from the entrance to the temple. I stood on my tiptoes in front of the columns, gazing upward at those characters, each of which was four inches tall and inlaid with gold lacquer. I stood there in a daze, not even blinking as I struggled to fathom the mysteries that lay behind the words. What message were God and Buddha transmitting to the mortals through these incantations? . . . Having been born in British Borneo, grown up in an alphabetic world, and received a Western imperial education, I was inevitably influenced by what I saw and heard. Ever since I could remember, I have had an incomparable sense of curiosity and trepidation toward those mysterious Chinese totems in Kuching City, blooming forth in the sunlight like rows of flower buds. Like those crowds of white people wandering through the bustling streets of Chinatown, faces full of wonder as they watch the Chinese doing business. Look at them poking their heads inside the stores, their green and blue eyes staring at the florid Chinese characters that decorate the resplendent signs hanging from the store fronts— signs for Hetongfa Moving Company, Di’an Hall, Three Rivers Trade Corporation, and Zhunan Silk Store. The foreigners admire the signs with expressions of fascination, fear, and disdain, chatting with each other as they repeatedly take the cameras hanging from their necks, aim them at those Chinese ideographs that appear as strange and wondrous symbols, and click!, a photographic record is created. As a child, I studied at a South Pacific Christian school, where we were taught English by nuns who would constantly tell us that “Chinese characters are Satanic symbols, just like the queues worn by Chinese men.” (Actually, Chinese men by that point had long since cut off their queues.) There was a priest

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who was even more direct, insisting that Chinese ideographs, of which there were forty or fifty thousand altogether, were erotic Oriental drawings by Satan himself to bewitch and seduce mortal souls. Joan, I hope you won’t take offense, but from that point on, whenever I opened a Chinese edition of the Bible my heart would lurch as within those millions of characters I would see page after page of images of men and women engaged in carnal relations. Chinese words are Satanic ideographs, Satan is a fallen angel, a fallen angel is a demon, and it was a demon who, in the form of a serpent, snuck into the Garden of Eden to tempt Eve . . . A serpent! It turns out that the Chinese characters we saw on Chinatown shop signs and in the couplets in the temples were really a nest of coupling serpents. Do you understand, Joan? After learning this sort of message at school, we Chinese students returned home to sleep in the room reserved for the ancestors’ tablets, where we were guaranteed to have nightmares. Amid the burning incense, we saw our ancestors in their traditional long gowns and jackets, and wearing long queues in back. They were holding illustrated incantations as they floated up before us like spirits. With bloodshot, slit-like eyes they stared at us, their descendants who had been wandering through Borneo in the South Pacific, and suddenly broke into a grin and reached out to stroke our cheeks. Then, like a Sichuan mask performance, they disappeared in the blink of an eye, transformed into a mass of serpents and monsters surging toward us. Under the red lamps of the ancestral shrine they would open their bloody mouths and, without a word, swallow us whole. Joan, when I subsequently wrote Misty Rain and Drifting Snow, I used fiction to try to retrieve my childhood in Borneo. There was one chapter that was particularly concerned with recording this memorable experience that shaped my lifelong relationship with Chinese characters, the title of which was “Shina.” But that is another story. After finishing high school in the South Pacific in 1967, I came to Taiwan to enroll at NTU. I took a ferry to Keelung Harbor, and then hired a taxi and took the MacArthur Expressway into Taipei. By the time I entered the city, it was already dusk, and this being the juncture between summer and autumn, a rainstorm was about to arrive from the northwest, blanketing the sky with dark clouds. The city was dim and silent, but was suddenly lit up as fireworks were released from a skyscraper somewhere deep in the city center, after which dusk fell in the blink of an eye, and countless houses turned up their lights, as if there were a heavenly maiden scattering flowers, up and down the city’s major avenues, from North and South Zhongshan Road to East and West Nanjing Road. . . . The sky rumbled with thunder and was illuminated by periodic bursts of lightning, as the brightly lit crystalline city emerged on the Eastern Sea. Joan, I was completely mesmerized by that taxi ride into the city. As a young overseas Chinese born in a remote city in Borneo, who lived there for twenty years, when had I ever seen such a splendid display of lights or so many gaudily

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attired Chinese characters competing with one another to display themselves under the neon lights like countless dancing girls prostrating themselves before the Lord of Thunder? The signs included Spring Spirit Hotel, Herd of Horses Hotel, Yoshimoto Sushi, Xiang Café, Beloved Daughter Postpartum Care Center, Overseas Chinese Dance Hall, Prince City Sauna, Big Shot Beauty Salon. . . . In the ensuing years, as Taiwan’s economy took off, the island’s lights became increasingly ubiquitous, and the square ideographs on the neon signs also became increasingly insane. Even a rural township like Caotun made itself up into a glamorous beauty. I liked to lose myself in Taiwan’s lights, as I wandered alone through the streets like a specter, admiring those neon lights that lit up at dusk and feeling perplexed and content as I struggled to ascertain the meaning of those dragon and serpent totems on the store signs like bloodred flowers on the fairy isle of Penglai. I looked at these signs while reminiscing about my childhood in Borneo, thinking about Taiwan’s present, and speculating about China’s future. . . . Taiwan is desolate, yet enchantingly beautiful. In the sunset, a pair of peasant sisters were dragging their long and thin shadows behind them as they walked along hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, their faces looking perplexed. For the longest time they stood, against the bloodred orb suspended over the fields, and craned their necks as they looked silently at the glittering lights from the town on the other side of Maoluo Creek. A Golden Juguang train rumbled north through the moonlight, full of young people. As if pursued by a ghost, the train cut across one green rice paddy after another until it entered Taipei of red dust and lights. Haidong Qing—this half-million-character-long novel that has been called “an allegory of Taipei”—was conceived and developed in Taiwan’s forest of lights, and through a process of artistic transformation, those two sisters who were standing on the river bank watching the sunset became the work’s female protagonists: the fifteen-year-old Yaxing and the seven-year-old Zhu Ling. When I finished Jiling Chronicles in 1986, I was fortunate to receive a grant from Ms. Zhang Baoqin at the literary journal Unitas, which was sufficient to cover my living expenses and permit me to resign from my position teaching at Zhongshan University and spend the next four years working full-time on finishing Haidong Qing. I spent the first two of these years living on Beitou Mountain, and the following two years I spent in Nantou. . . . Writing my novel while facing a window full of splendid lights, I spread out a pile of writing paper, searched my mind, looked up some characters, and struggled to use my incalculably heavy and nobly driven pen to capture the Chinese totems glittering within that forest of lights, attempting to enter the fairyland hidden therein by means of all literary routes—such as symbol, allusion, imagery, and narrative structure—carrying the message to readers. Unfortunately, however, I fell into a maze of words, from which I was unable to extricate myself. As a result, Haidong Qing became an enormous linguistic

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labyrinth, while I, as the “novelist,” came to resemble that famous Athenian carpenter, Daedalus. After I finished the work, I was shocked to realize that I myself had been trapped in the labyrinth that I had created and for which I had to pay an excruciating price. I couldn’t bear to look back. When my former wife, Jing Xiaopei—Joan, you have not met her, although she is your Chinese sister, and fate should have had you meet each other in this life—first read the manuscript of Haidong Qing, she gently urged me, “This is like a cask of freshly fermented red wine—of excellent quality, although the flavor is still somewhat sharp. Wouldn’t it be better to let it remain buried for another ten years until the taste has sweetened before taking it out and serving it to guests?” I was feeling arrogant, as though I had just completed an earth-shattering masterpiece. When I heard her remark, I flew into a shame-filled rage and insisted on publishing the volume as it was, without heeding Xiaopei’s advice. Striving for perfection, I ended up outsmarting myself. What I didn’t realize was that the height of artistic achievement lies in hiding one’s craftsmanship, such that the work appears as though it were lacking in craft. Appearing to lack craft is truly the epitome of craft. After Haidong Qing was hastily published, I found myself unable to communicate the depression and shock that I felt. . . . I tried to take the first step (albeit a very tiny step) out of my predicament, and therefore wrote Zhu Ling’s Travels in Wonderland, which could be considered the sequel or conclusion of Haidong Qing. (After it was published, some critics thought that the novel was too vernacular, and an overcorrection with respect to its predecessor. This may be true, but the work is my favorite, because the little girl Zhu Ling is the only protagonist.) I then proceeded to write Misty Rain and Drifting Snow in an attempt to recover my childhood in Borneo. The novel’s nine chapters were first published serially in the United Daily literary supplement, where they were very well received. They were subsequently published in book form, which was also very well received. (The work is powerful precisely because it is so honest.) What should I write next? Perhaps I should follow Misty Rain and Drifting Snow with a second and third volume of Li Yongping’s Borneo Trilogy, which, using this literary technique, would give a comprehensive account of the maturation of a South Pacific overseas Chinese with a fondness for traveling. Perhaps after that I should write a knight-errant novel to display this South Pacific sojourner’s yearning for and imagination of a classic, romantic China. . . . Actually, these are all possibilities that Xiaopei and I talked about when we still lived together, but now she has left me. 2003 Preface to Roaming: Select Works of Li Yongping 辶日迌 (Taipei: Rye Field Press, 2003), 27–47, translated by Carlos Rojas.

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note 1.

Shina is the Japanese transliteration of the Chinese word Zhina, which derived from the Sanskrit word for China and went to Japan with the spread of Buddhism. The word took on a derogatory tone due to its widespread use in the Sino-Japanese War of 1937–1945.

35. A First Step Out of “Migration Literature” na nfa ng shuo

M

igration, whether we mean transnational movement or internal movement within one nation for economic or political reasons, is bound to affect one’s life in some fundamental ways. Migration is more likely than not caused by flux in society and is more often than not accompanied by separation of family, deprivation of livelihood, even a return to a primitive state and the loss and desperate rediscovery of meaning. Yet, despite the fact that migration is a historical phenomenon that is as old as humankind, glimpses of which can be found in fragments in official records, reportage, folktales, and legends, it has rarely been taken seriously by literary writers and remains in the recesses of fanciful remembrances. It is not until the recent arrival of postnational, postcolonial theories that it has become a subject of literary interest. Salman Rushdie observes: “The writer is a multi-national citizen of the world, he observes the realities of life within the national boundaries where he lives, the infinite landscape of the world of the imagination and remembers the homeland he has left and half lost.” Professor Paul White also points out: “Hitherto, we knew too little about migration; social science had focused too much on the study of events and collective experiences while neglecting the effects of migration on individuals and the resultant lives of confusion, burden and transformation suffered by them and what this means in the context of social history. Literary focus on the matter would enrich this discourse” [at a conference on “Migration and Literature in a Globalizing World” organized by White at Sheffield University, UK]. Migration is an important “border issue.” In their migratory experiences people are thrown onto historical crossroads, tested by the limits of morality and human nature, and by the loss of communal consensus and personal identity, perhaps even the definitions of family and gender. All these boundaries are either broken or crossed. As people are set adrift in the world, the entire frames of reference for their lives are set adrift as well, like bits of unrelated historical fragments floating about in the air of timeless space, waiting for humankind to reassemble them.

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note 1.

Shina is the Japanese transliteration of the Chinese word Zhina, which derived from the Sanskrit word for China and went to Japan with the spread of Buddhism. The word took on a derogatory tone due to its widespread use in the Sino-Japanese War of 1937–1945.

35. A First Step Out of “Migration Literature” na nfa ng shuo

M

igration, whether we mean transnational movement or internal movement within one nation for economic or political reasons, is bound to affect one’s life in some fundamental ways. Migration is more likely than not caused by flux in society and is more often than not accompanied by separation of family, deprivation of livelihood, even a return to a primitive state and the loss and desperate rediscovery of meaning. Yet, despite the fact that migration is a historical phenomenon that is as old as humankind, glimpses of which can be found in fragments in official records, reportage, folktales, and legends, it has rarely been taken seriously by literary writers and remains in the recesses of fanciful remembrances. It is not until the recent arrival of postnational, postcolonial theories that it has become a subject of literary interest. Salman Rushdie observes: “The writer is a multi-national citizen of the world, he observes the realities of life within the national boundaries where he lives, the infinite landscape of the world of the imagination and remembers the homeland he has left and half lost.” Professor Paul White also points out: “Hitherto, we knew too little about migration; social science had focused too much on the study of events and collective experiences while neglecting the effects of migration on individuals and the resultant lives of confusion, burden and transformation suffered by them and what this means in the context of social history. Literary focus on the matter would enrich this discourse” [at a conference on “Migration and Literature in a Globalizing World” organized by White at Sheffield University, UK]. Migration is an important “border issue.” In their migratory experiences people are thrown onto historical crossroads, tested by the limits of morality and human nature, and by the loss of communal consensus and personal identity, perhaps even the definitions of family and gender. All these boundaries are either broken or crossed. As people are set adrift in the world, the entire frames of reference for their lives are set adrift as well, like bits of unrelated historical fragments floating about in the air of timeless space, waiting for humankind to reassemble them.

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Thus, “migration literature,” a subject of new interest, is in fact a literary domain that has existed all along and resurfaced with “the age of migration” brought about by globalization. What contemporary postcolonial discourse refers to as “displacement writing” is but one small part of “migration literature,” which in fact occupies a much larger area of study. In John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, for example, a narrative set during the Great Depression, when the American population was tragically tossed about the North American mainland, he gives us a story in which the concepts of “hope and longing,” “home,” and even “motherhood,” are all destroyed and redefined. In recent years, the works of the major woman writer, Annie Proulx, are almost entirely based on migration, from the voluntary migration of self-imposed exile, to migration as a result of being saved from one’s family’s history of pirate ancestors, to having one’s life shattered by forced migration from one’s native country to a foreign land. Besides being a catalyst in provoking judgment of one’s own society, migration is often the starting point from which one takes aim at the foreign culture in comparison to one’s native culture. For example, during 1870–1920, over a million immigrants went to the United States from Europe, and about one-third of them eventually chose to return to their native country. Numerous, moving reflections must have motivated these people who, in the eyes of society, were insignificant and thus ignored. It is inconceivable that in the migrant society that is Taiwan, where relatively speaking there are few aborigines and where migration is the one basic element we all share, literary works that touch on this subject are almost nonexistent. . . . Shi Shuqing has taken the first step toward exploring the subject. Following the publication of her Hong Kong Trilogy, she has embarked on a new enterprise, Taiwan Trilogy, and has completed the first part, titled Walking Past Luojin. This is her attempt at bursting the “husk of meaning” in the subject of migration. Walking Past Luojin is set in the Jiaqing reign [1796–1820] in Luojin (now Lugang or Deer Harbor) and portrays the formation, rise and fall, boom and decline of this Han Chinese migrant society. Not only does she try to piece together the forgotten era that has long receded into the corners of collective memory, with faded street signs and alleyways, old buildings and shop names from historical notes and other materials, but she combs through myriad folktales and country legends to bring to life that long-lost era of dislocation. With an old tattered lantern under the faint moon, she sets out to find traces of the past. It is almost as if she couldn’t believe that these haunted memories, traces of a past so full of sound and fury, change and upheaval, could have vanished. Just as she lifted the curtain to reveal the colonial life in Hong Kong on an epic scale by depicting the life and times of the rootless prostitute Wang Deyun in Hong Kong Trilogy, Shi Shuqing applies the same technique to Taiwan Trilogy. Here the protagonist is Yue Xiaogui, an actor who plays female roles in the seven-actor dramatic form (and who later becomes Xu Qing, the drum master). It is through Yue’s story that we enter the history of migration in Luojin. The

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lower rung of society . . . exists in parallel to the upper crust, which consists of the opulent set of politicians and businessmen, including the Shi clan and Zhu Shiguang the official. Like scenes on a revolving lantern, they pass before our eyes: the age of migration and the contrasting lives of the coarse versus the pretentious, humiliating poverty versus extravagant wealth. Like actors on the stage, these men and women live their moments of sound and fury only to disappear into the shadowy sunset, their faint echoes commenting on the desperation of the historical period. As we all know, Taiwan is a society of immigrants in flux. The question of how to burst open its “husk of meaning” to reveal the layers upon layers of unspoken and unspeakable migratory experiences and memories accumulated over countless years is not only enormous but burdensome. How to tell the story of migration without getting lost in the heaps of journals, romances, and legends, or getting suffocated by the miscellany and repetition, is indeed the big question. Perhaps precisely because of this, even though so many of us hoped that someone would attempt to tackle the enormous subject, no one until now has taken the first step. None of us would question Shi Shuqing’s credentials to deal with this subject matter; she is perhaps the only writer in Taiwan who could do it. Moreover, just as in Hong Kong Trilogy, the first volume was the most difficult to write as it opened the door to the panorama of what was to unfold. We have good reasons to look forward to the second and third volumes following Walking Past Luojin. . . . Without a doubt, Shi Shuqing has already demonstrated her mastery of historical fiction in Hong Kong Trilogy. Now she tries to recapture the early memories of a migrant society set against the backdrop of Deer Harbor and succeeds in making the local experience a symbol of all migrant societies. With the return of peaceful times at the beginning of the Qing dynasty, Deer Harbor quickly developed into a prosperous seaport. With vast plains behind it as a shield and resource, Deer Harbor reached its zenith from the 1730s to the early 1800s. But due to rapid land reclamation and overplanting, its sandy soil fell victim to earthquakes and other natural disasters, and its prosperity waned by the mid-1800s. Indecisive officials were unable to help turn the tide. . . . This cycle of rise and fall, moreover, is shown via the ancient organization of a two-tiered society made up of the actors and the aristocrats. The role played by the actors is similar to that of the “eunuch singer” of the Middle Ages or the beautiful and talented courtesan of old. They have the ability to cross societal barriers and thus bear witness with their eyes and bodies to the goings-on of the society. . . . As they move in and out of upper-class circles represented by the Shi clan and landed gentry like Chen Shengyuan and Zhu Shiguang, we are presented with the changing scenes of society at large as it is tossed about by the tide of history. . . . Beyond recording the memories and shared experiences of this migrant society, the greatest achievement of the novel lies in its exquisite treatment of

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the actors’ experiences and, through their personalities and genders, its reflection of their collective memory. Actors are marginal figures in the flourishing society. Their particular deficiencies and cover-ups (with cosmetics and costumes) mirror the affluence and desolation of their times and the myriad facets of society. In particular, the story of the boy actor who plays female roles, Yue Xiaogui, brings this narrative strain to a head. He owes his life to Master Wu, who adopted him and trained him in these roles; Wu even attempted to unsex him so that he could play women for good. At the same time, Yue falls in love with the soprano Ah Guan and discovers his own primal desires, like Mistress Wuniang in Mirror Tale, who tries to elope with her lover. Although the elopement never happens, Shi Shuqing’s treatment of this episode is masterful. She allows scenes of imagined castration to be interspersed with those of lustful desires, the two scenes passing before our eyes in such rapid succession that they become one. Such mastery of topic and style can probably only be achieved by a writer like Shi Shuqing. Through the contrasting lives of the actors in the theater troupe and the upper crust of society, Walking Past Luojin reveals to us the life of early Han migrants. Beyond their rough and tumble, fearless and cutthroat, sound and fury, the novel presents countless songs of survival and grief. For these reasons I can’t wait to see how Shi Shuqing continues with the story in the second volume. What is certain is that when it comes to the issue of “migration and displacement” in our literature, we are no longer facing a sheet of blank paper. Walking Past Luojin (Taipei: China Times Culture, 2003), 5–10, translated by Susan Dolling.

36. Hakka Literature, Literary Hakka l i qi ao . . . Generally speaking, there are three criteria (or dimensions) for defining Hakka literature. First, a work contains “Hakka consciousness.” Hakka have their own lifestyle, pattern of behavior, mode of thinking, and values. Second, the author is Hakka. Third, a work is written in the Hakka language of everyday life. These three criteria may sound clear and straightforward, but when we analyze them further, they are entangled, vague, and full of pitfalls.

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the actors’ experiences and, through their personalities and genders, its reflection of their collective memory. Actors are marginal figures in the flourishing society. Their particular deficiencies and cover-ups (with cosmetics and costumes) mirror the affluence and desolation of their times and the myriad facets of society. In particular, the story of the boy actor who plays female roles, Yue Xiaogui, brings this narrative strain to a head. He owes his life to Master Wu, who adopted him and trained him in these roles; Wu even attempted to unsex him so that he could play women for good. At the same time, Yue falls in love with the soprano Ah Guan and discovers his own primal desires, like Mistress Wuniang in Mirror Tale, who tries to elope with her lover. Although the elopement never happens, Shi Shuqing’s treatment of this episode is masterful. She allows scenes of imagined castration to be interspersed with those of lustful desires, the two scenes passing before our eyes in such rapid succession that they become one. Such mastery of topic and style can probably only be achieved by a writer like Shi Shuqing. Through the contrasting lives of the actors in the theater troupe and the upper crust of society, Walking Past Luojin reveals to us the life of early Han migrants. Beyond their rough and tumble, fearless and cutthroat, sound and fury, the novel presents countless songs of survival and grief. For these reasons I can’t wait to see how Shi Shuqing continues with the story in the second volume. What is certain is that when it comes to the issue of “migration and displacement” in our literature, we are no longer facing a sheet of blank paper. Walking Past Luojin (Taipei: China Times Culture, 2003), 5–10, translated by Susan Dolling.

36. Hakka Literature, Literary Hakka l i qi ao . . . Generally speaking, there are three criteria (or dimensions) for defining Hakka literature. First, a work contains “Hakka consciousness.” Hakka have their own lifestyle, pattern of behavior, mode of thinking, and values. Second, the author is Hakka. Third, a work is written in the Hakka language of everyday life. These three criteria may sound clear and straightforward, but when we analyze them further, they are entangled, vague, and full of pitfalls.

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First of all, if the Hakka consciousness is not anchored in particular aspects of living, behaving, thinking, and values, the statement has no meaning. When it comes to these ancient expressions of the Hakka people, who among the contemporary Hakka writers can grasp 60 or 70 percent? How can Hakka be distinguished from other ethnic groups in contemporary Taiwan? True, “one is not afraid of being unrecognized, but one is afraid of being compared.” When it comes to comparison and contrast, a perceptive and sharp writer can capture some salient traits. However, can one call it Hakka literature based on this aspect alone? This is open to discussion. Secondly, the criterion that the writer be of Hakka descent is relatively simple. The question is: If there are no characteristics as defined by the first criterion in a Hakka work, does it have any meaning at all to label it Hakka literature? This is especially true of the younger generation. The most stringent criterion is to write in the Hakka language of everyday life. This criterion is straightforward, but it will make the face of a Hakka writer turn blue. First, during Japanese occupation, such well-known writers as Long Yingzong and Wu Zhuoliu wrote their major works in Japanese. Second, with a few exceptions in poetry, fiction in pure Hakka has not yet been born. (In 2003, the Hakka Commission of the Executive Yuan published the Collection of Hakka Poetry and Prose. In 2004, it will publish the Collection of Hakka Fiction. Both projects commissioned experts to translate the works into Hakka.) Third, in Taiwan today, to demand that one write fiction in pure Hakka language of everyday life is virtually impossible. Time flies by and society marches forward. “Restore Hakka” before one can write “Hakka literature”? The scenario is hard to imagine. The crux of the problem is that Hakka as a mother tongue is broken. The fundamental predicament for Hakka literature is that most Hakka vocabulary has disappeared, especially its lively verbs, beautiful adjectives, and ingenious adverbs; 70 or 80 percent of them are gone. It is not just a tangible predicament, there is also the problem of broken and blocked expressions of Hakka thought and feeling. . . . Why promote Hakka literature? First, its participation will make the temple of Taiwanese literature even grander. Second, the Hakka ethnic group will be elevated through literature and make Hakka people proud. “Good literature” is the ultimate ideal and goal. Therefore, to promote Hakka literature is a process, and the goal is “high-quality literary works created by Hakka people.” In other words, we should go from “Hakka literature” to “literary Hakka,” and to “literary Taiwan.” This is beautiful. When it happens, the definition and explanation of Hakka literature will not be important any more. . . . Anthology of Hakka Literature: Fiction, ed. Li Qiao, Xu Sulan, and Liu Huizhen (Taipei: Tianxia Yuanjian, 2004), 1–8, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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37. The End of the Military Family Village su we i z he n There was a group of people who had few relatives but many neighbors. Their understanding of “kin” began with their neighbors. During Chinese New Year and holidays, every household would offer sacrifices to ancestors, but they had no ancestral tombs to visit. Their parents spoke with an accent. Behind closed doors, they spoke with their parents in the dialect of their ancestors; but once they left the house they spoke various dialects with the kids on the street or at school. (They had learned to speak other people’s mother tongues at a tender age and enjoyed communicating with others and showing off in this way. Such practice led most of them to be so glib that they were later criticized for being overly reliant on eloquence. As to fighting? Believe me, they could never win either. Their fathers were professional soldiers and believed in a single truth all their lives: If you cannot win a fight, don’t come home.) Outside of military family housing, they spoke Mandarin, Hakka, or Taiwanese. Since childhood, they had lived as if they were in a foreign country. The ancestral origin on their ID cards presented a microcosm of China: Guangdong, Fujian, Jiangsu, Anhui, Shangdong, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Henan, Rehe, Beijing, Shanghai, Nanjing .  .  . even though they had obviously been born in Taiwan and lived in Taiwanese-style bungalows near a military barracks. (Some of them were even given such names as Taisheng [Taiwan-born] and had never left Taiwan.) Military personnel from all branches of the armed forces— navy, army, air force, military police, joint logistics—and all ranks congregated, registered with the Household Registration Office, and put down roots here. Nowhere in the world would a community have such positive names as “Overcome-Challenge Theater” and “Self-Strengthening Women’s League,” where tribes worked together so energetically, from north to south, from east to west, on the island. These military communities of interconnected bungalows were known as juancun, “military family village,” and the residents were referred to as “second-generation mainlanders.”. . . Juancun were built originally to solve the housing problem for the dependents of military personnel; now their very existence symbolizes failure. Likewise, those who were originally intent on finding refuge and a sense of security now find that if they still live there, it signifies only one thing: they are stuck and cannot get out. Since when did those interconnected bungalows become the blight that hindered the modernization of the city? In the 1970s, terms such as rebuild and redevelop all pointed to one message: the run for the theater was finished. No matter how solid the repertoire, a day would come when the actors would have

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to get off the stage. The best strategy was not to put up stubborn resistance, so the whisper traveled through the juancun. . . . While other writers wrote about everyday life, [juancun writers] wrote about the daily struggle for survival. Now, even this is taken away: livelihood, houses, relationships, the passage of time .  .  . all the software and hardware. It was not that we were unreasonably suspicious, but residents in many juancun in prime locations defied the order to vacate and the redevelopment project was left hanging. It was always at this juncture that suddenly a juancun was engulfed in a conflagration and burned to the ground, which would be reported in the local section of the newspaper. Consequently, the residents had no choice but to vacate. What existed before was reduced to nil. That’s the way things went. There was nothing there to begin with, then a community was built. . . . It is a post–World War II literary tradition in which war refugees carry permanent scars mentally and physically. For example, Hemingway’s Spain, Said’s Palestine, Remarque’s Germany to which he could never return, Graham Greene’s country of faith and love . . . and us of the juancun. These people experienced conflict in places where they should have enjoyed peace and stability, both physical and spiritual. They roamed the planet aimlessly, lost their bearings, and became perpetually unmoored. They were cut off at both ends of the spectrum of life, terrified, as if they were undergoing interminable punishment. They constantly asked themselves: “Where is home?” It is exactly like the lost and forgotten world in Said’s Out of Place: A Memoir. In Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair, what remains at the end of love is the questioning of religion and faith. At the end of the juancun, what remains is surely the question of loyalty to our country. Neither faith nor love is the tether in The End of the Affair. What about our juancun? Will they disappear completely, sooner or later? This is why I chose to record. “It’s great so long as it is about the juancun”— the final description and affirmation of the juancun literature. The End of the Military Family Village (Taipei: Two Fish, 2004), 7–13, translated by Hayes Moore.

38. Interview with Wu He z hu ti a nxin zhu: . . . You have said in private that literary experimentation is a matter of give and take. For example, after submitting a piece that conforms to the

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to get off the stage. The best strategy was not to put up stubborn resistance, so the whisper traveled through the juancun. . . . While other writers wrote about everyday life, [juancun writers] wrote about the daily struggle for survival. Now, even this is taken away: livelihood, houses, relationships, the passage of time .  .  . all the software and hardware. It was not that we were unreasonably suspicious, but residents in many juancun in prime locations defied the order to vacate and the redevelopment project was left hanging. It was always at this juncture that suddenly a juancun was engulfed in a conflagration and burned to the ground, which would be reported in the local section of the newspaper. Consequently, the residents had no choice but to vacate. What existed before was reduced to nil. That’s the way things went. There was nothing there to begin with, then a community was built. . . . It is a post–World War II literary tradition in which war refugees carry permanent scars mentally and physically. For example, Hemingway’s Spain, Said’s Palestine, Remarque’s Germany to which he could never return, Graham Greene’s country of faith and love . . . and us of the juancun. These people experienced conflict in places where they should have enjoyed peace and stability, both physical and spiritual. They roamed the planet aimlessly, lost their bearings, and became perpetually unmoored. They were cut off at both ends of the spectrum of life, terrified, as if they were undergoing interminable punishment. They constantly asked themselves: “Where is home?” It is exactly like the lost and forgotten world in Said’s Out of Place: A Memoir. In Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair, what remains at the end of love is the questioning of religion and faith. At the end of the juancun, what remains is surely the question of loyalty to our country. Neither faith nor love is the tether in The End of the Affair. What about our juancun? Will they disappear completely, sooner or later? This is why I chose to record. “It’s great so long as it is about the juancun”— the final description and affirmation of the juancun literature. The End of the Military Family Village (Taipei: Two Fish, 2004), 7–13, translated by Hayes Moore.

38. Interview with Wu He z hu ti a nxin zhu: . . . You have said in private that literary experimentation is a matter of give and take. For example, after submitting a piece that conforms to the

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reader’s expectations, your next piece will have room for experimentation. Can you say a little about what you tried to experiment with in Chaos Fan? wu: An artistic medium is not merely a tool for creation; the medium is also the object of creation. It’s impossible for me to feel comfortable with preexisting forms and only pursue content. In this work, I turned things upsidedown and then turned them upside-down again. I intentionally used wrong characters, wrong idioms, and stock images, and constructed sentences that were ungrammatical and far from standard, all in the hope of creating a new language. I wanted to create a pause and linger at various places in the otherwise smooth flow of the reading and writing process. Sure, it was a strategy but, even more important, it was a rebellion against regulations in the stream of life. I began experimentation of this sort as early as the 1980s, when I was living as a recluse in Danshui. Concrete results started appearing in my work in the 1990s. . . . Because of the “simultaneity” of events in Remains of Life, I did not use any full stops in the entire work. Also, I found it necessary to have no signs marking where the narrative strands joined together. Chaos Fan goes further. In Chaos Fan, I gave myself a very simple structural rule—I could only use full stops, only periods. I wanted to compose a new kind of sentence, with a structure that would come close to chaos. Perhaps in the confusion and chaos, new ideas would appear. Chaos Fan is at least 200,000 words long and recounts all kinds of things that have befuddled me since childhood. Of course, this is a creative risk. While I was certain that this kind of experimentation was going to make the work difficult to read, I was uncertain whether it would be a success or not. I don’t advocate this kind of risk, for there is also beauty in a life of ease. But “experimentation” is like getting into the skeleton of the work; it becomes apparent in every detail of the novel. Among postwar writers, Wang Wenxing is the most recognized for his formal experimentation, and he is considered the most ambitious writer. I am in complete agreement with his unique, by now classic, theory of reading and writing. I recently read his notion of the “necessity of reading a novel”; the idea about how a “good novel necessarily sounds good” resonates deeply with me. zhu: Your works over the past few years have definitely displayed a smart “conversational style,” where the past and the present illuminate one another. It’s an original approach to embedding a narrative in the text. The tender recollections of the vicissitudes of life intimate a critique of current affairs that is unforgiving. The most remarkable example is Old Capital. There is no other work that I can think of that intersects with it. Can I get you to say a little about Old Capital? wu: I wrote Old Capital in 1996, after the first popular presidential election. At the time, I thought that all islanders—from top to bottom, privately and

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publicly—must have felt like masters of their domain with confidence. Such elated approval of Taiwanese patriotism would also move toward the freedom of disapproval. This is what I expressed in my writing. It’s true that I thought there was room to discuss the ambivalence of love and hate that I had felt at different times for this island, for this city. Then I recalled a late autumn some ten years earlier. In 1985, I visited the ruin of Troy, where I leaned over to scrutinize it. Owing to wars and frequent earthquakes, layer after layer of destruction had developed over time until there were seven layers of ruins. (While I was leaning over, a strong gust of wind blew away my hat and it fell next to a pile of trash on one of the layers. It sat next to a snow-white dandelion.) Each of the seven fossilized layers is full of the memories of a generation. I decided to use this concept to write Old Capital. Actually, the greatest significance of Old Capital for me is that I finally dared to write down obstinately subjective things like: “the ugly houses, ugly streets, ugly folk tunes.” In the mid-1980s, I read an interview of Wu Naide in New Taiwanese Culture, a journal edited by Xie Changting. In the interview, he says that he likes Western classical music and that he considers Taiwanese architecture extremely ugly and the local opera hard to listen to. Years later, Wu Naide denied to my face that he had ever said that. I have not gone back to double check. At the time, his interview had a big impact on me, because I didn’t know when I would ever be able to express similar views and not have people mock me with words like “So you don’t identify with Taiwan?” or “If that’s the case, go back to wherever you came from.”. . . zhu: In a 1993 discussion you had with Ye Shitao, Yang Zhao, Lin Duanming, Peng Duanjin, and others in Literary Taiwan, I very much agree with your description of the relationship between literature and history. You said, “A writer who works with historical material is living in the contemporary world. The reality of contemporary affairs surrounds the historical material he is contemplating. The air he breathes at every moment of every day is contemporary. Therefore, when he writes, naturally he should approach his topic from a contemporary perspective and not from one of ‘apparent objectivity’ found in the roman-fleuve.” But I think that the others in that discussion didn’t fully understand what you meant. Have you since revised this view? . . . wu: I used to think that memoirs written by people in a historical situation or almost involved with the situation were reliable sources and unquestionable authorities. Now we know that history is constructed by historians and limited by their times and individual perspectives. History is just an incomplete slice [of reality]. When one faces historical material, it is necessary to adopt an attitude of close examination and critical reflection. Only then can one “put oneself in someone else’s shoes.” Still, we should never forget the contemporary period in which we live, for in reality, we start out from the contemporary,

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our entryway into history can never distance itself from the contemporary. So really there is only “contemporary history” but no “historical history.” Furthermore, this is why history is alive at every moment, alive and thriving in every contemporary approach to and every single interpretation of history. . . . zhu: What is your “contemporary” like? It seems that after Times Change, Things Happen the “contemporary” has transformed you. I have “respect” for authors who write family histories or romans-fleuve. To them, the function and power of literature is so precious and rarified. I read the author of Hua Taiping Family History with a placid smile—the narrative moves from glory to debasement, from the commonplace to the grand. Do you think so? wu: As I recall—I don’t have the habit of keeping notes and collecting materials—six or seven years ago, in the first issue of Unitas, Chen Yingzhen published a piece on the rise and fall of the Provincial Work Committee, and the second issue published an excerpt of Yang Jiang’s memoir The May Seventh Cadre School, about her life in a cowshed during the Cultural Revolution. I was reading the two works at the same time and found them both deeply moving and deeply disturbing. (If history had taken a different turn and the Work Committee had been successful, wasn’t it likely that there would have been a memoir from Taiwan similar to Yang Jiang’s?) If someday I am to write about the Provincial Work Committee era, it’s likely that I will be mindful of later historical developments, instead of writing with an innocent perspective of that “beautiful era.” In recent years, I have read several works that used the February 28th Incident in a similar way, or the period before and after martial law as the historical setting. These works did not take advantage of contemporary perspectives at all. There is no change in the works from the 1980s that wrote about the same topics. Frankly, if one has lived through the last twenty-four years and witnessed the development of local political power, and one looks back at the forty years of “a foreign [GMD] regime,” I can imagine the sense of freedom in managing the materials that make up the standard history: politicians with an insatiable desire for power, greater China, oppression of various ethnic groups, a handful of inexplicably corrupt people (a father–son pair in particular). But I would find this insufficient and search for a more satisfying explanation for the perspective of a particular historical moment. Otherwise, one fails to live up to the opportunity of examining later historical developments and those people who were as serious as they were confused. I enjoy this godlike omniscience and do not shirk the responsibilities and duties that the power entails, simply because above all else I cherish the irreplaceable “contemporary” of my present. . . . zhu: On the first page of Remains of Life you write: “When I was discharged from the military in 1981, I came to the painful realization that I had been ‘castrated by the army.’ I decided not to jump into the furnace of anti-Nationalist

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activities right away, but instead I moved to Danshui, a small town on the margins of the island nation, where I lived in quiet seclusion. All that time I immersed myself in historical and philosophical works. I wanted to understand the origins and meanings of such concepts as ‘army’ and ‘nation.’” In your new work, Chaos Fan, the section titled “Bin’er Raises a Question—Soybean Porridge Standard Procedure” concludes with a similar sentence: “Civilization advanced up to the point where humans invented countries. This huge box is used to aggregate and segregate group after group of people, even though in truth we are an island delineated by the ocean.”. . . wu: Another reason I object to “family history” is that it proceeds from family to society and to nation. I have never really accepted the idea of “nation.” In general, people revere the nation, national flag, and national anthem. To me, they are garbage. People form exclusive groups, from tribes to nations, out of fear. They pat themselves on the back and attack others. Throughout the history of human civilization, people have not been sophisticated enough to open up an alternative path but have allowed the beast of the nation to devour the individual. As an institution, the nation monopolizes resources from the land to the sky; national militaries compete for weapon technologies, constantly preparing for the onslaught of war. Citizens are more prepared to lose people before losing the nation. The principle of the nation is more or less comparable to that of religion—if they say black is white, then it is. In Chaos Fan, I inquire into how it is that everywhere “people of nations” are not simply “people.” My first resistance to “nation” stemmed from reflections on this animal called “human.” Humans are far too clever. People think that we are the most righteous and precious thing among all creatures. Few understand that “existence” doesn’t require submission and sacrifice to values invented by humans. Humans are not the only creatures, and all things are equal. However, humankind has become a rabid and hateful fungus, a nightmarish ghoul on the planet, a blind migrant in the universe. From this perspective, I am “antihuman.” Humanity will come to an end someday, perhaps because of an alien invasion or a conflagration at the center of the earth. I hope it happens sooner rather than later to give the other living beings on the planet a chance. . . . When I was a child, my father’s longing for his home happened to be intimately entwined with the policy of the ruling party on the island. For this reason, throughout my childhood and adolescence, I did not understand or resist the powerful “nation.” I had to study for a very long time before I gained an understanding and sense of resistance. For several years now, I can think of no better way to explain it than the words of the character in Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana. James Wormold says, “I wouldn’t kill for my country. I wouldn’t kill for capitalism

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or Communism or social democracy or the welfare state—whose welfare? I would kill Carter because he killed Hasselbacher. A family feud had been a better reason for murder than patriotism or the preference for one economic system over another. If I love or if I hate, let me love or hate as an individual. I will not be 59200/5 in anyone’s global war.”. . . zhu: . . . In the act of creating, “moderate transformations” [of nonfictional events and people] are probably necessary. Materials of reality must be transformed into one’s own creation. In “Death in Venice,” you aptly write about the unpredictable nature of creative writing and how it suddenly dawns on a writer that she lives in an unreal world, which leads her to wonder, with ineffable sweetness and sorrow, whether or not she should leave it and abandon it. You are fearless in your indirect references to people and events. How do you go about making fiction indistinguishable from reality? wu: My major principle is that nothing is forbidden, but when I take ordinary people as my material, I will definitely alter them, even though they probably do not read fiction and will never read one of my novels. If I am writing about a statement and behavior from the public sphere or general population, it is not necessary to alter it in any way (even if sometimes one wants to refer to oneself as “K”). One must remember not to damage the art; otherwise it’s not worth it. zhu: During the month I was preparing for this dialogue—I called it “The Wu He Month”—I was also recruited to join the Union for Ethnic Equality. (Do I see you smile wearily with a skeptical raised eyebrow?) Besides the people I respect or am curious about, such as Hou Hsiao-hsien, Nanfang Shuo, Xia Zhujiu, Zheng Cunqi, Jian Tikai, and Zhan Che, what attracted me to this organization was the first sentence of its declaration: “All citizens in the island territory of the Republic of China should be treated with equality, be free and shielded from fear, and have the right to determine their own way of remembrance, life, thought, and pursuit of happiness.” “They should have the right to determine their own way of remembrance.” You and I have such different families, relatives, and “nationalities,” and this reflects the fecundity of public resources on the island. However, it seems that some people don’t see it this way. Instead, they unthinkingly continue to perpetuate a situation that we have gone through and opposed: an era that allowed only one normative memory for all people, only one mode of expression, even only one kind of emotion. I’ve heard you talk in private about matters concerning mainland and island cultures, but because you speak slowly, those clever fast talkers who are present take over the topic each time. Can I ask you to take this opportunity to give a more thorough comment on the subject? . . . wu: I would not smile wearily. Probably it was a puzzled smile that accompanied my raised eyebrow. The debate between reunification and independence is, as the old saying goes, between an ideal and a reality. If this island

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were separated from the mainland by three thousand miles, many of these issues would not be debated. Because of the proximity, the fisherman in “Drifting Girl” fights with a fishing pole and the guest remembers to walk toward the ocean. Idealists teach people to sacrifice themselves for the ideal. Realists say that an ideal is a superstitious falsehood. How many lives have been martyred in the revolution for nothing? As an ideal, independence is very difficult; it would be almost impossible to realize. But if it were realized, the situation would be even more difficult. Along with general hardships, there would be potentially immediate threats from abroad and total chaos at home. As an ideal, reunification would be similar to merging two industries, which would bypass the nation-state. However, [in reality] this island would be an island of mainland China and remain nameless and insubstantial forever. . . . I have expressed my desire to write only about Taiwan. It is hard to make something new by deviating from Han culture. One must stumble about in contemplation and turn to the native people for resources. For years, mainland culture has been in such proximity. Is it possible for our island culture to mature? What will it be like when it matures under these conditions? I don’t know. As far as the issue of ethnic lineage is concerned, I’ll just make a brief comment. If we were to take the perspective of the indigenous people as the norm, then everything about this island would need to be rewritten and revised, and [the island] would be reborn and renewed. zhu: To follow up on that, can you say a little about the nativist debates? In the middle of “Drifting Girl,” the first-person narrator says: “I can no longer remember the structure of the nativist debates, their framework or conclusion. All that remains in my memory is the phrase ‘nativist culture debates.’” In your interview with Xie Bishen, you were quite candid. You said, “I really could not stand the nativist fiction that I had read in college. Back then, I did not view them from the perspective of the indigenous people but from the perspective of artistic value. If a work lacks artistic value, it doesn’t matter what the content is.” You went so far as to list names, including Zhong Lihe, Zhong Zhaozheng, Wang Tuo, Yang Qingchu, and Li Qiao. (After you published this article, did anyone argue with you?) I am not asking you to say something about the debates but to return to the present day, twenty-six years later, when the debates have been edited into textbooks and supplemental materials. (Generally, they describe the debates as involving two sides, progressives vs. reactionaries, nativism vs. Chinese patriotism, supporters of creative freedom vs. intelligentsia employed in the GMD counterattack.) . . . wu: Localization is a natural tendency; it takes root, and it is natural to want to be the owner of the land. It wasn’t until the 1980s that localization emerged

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in a substantial way. Before that, it was stifled by the “longing for the motherland.”. . . I was not listing names in order to criticize them; I was just pointing out a fact. Insufficiencies in artistic quality made me reluctant to accept some works. Later, I understood the limitations that the nativist trend put on literary creation, and I affirmed those works as having been written with diligence. As to the debates, the only one I have seen concerns Song Zelai, because he wrote Daniunan Village in 1978, if I remember correctly. In response to a request for an essay, I once went to Lu Gang to look for Song Zelai. I remember I annoyed him by asking, “Have you received any disciplinary reprimands [ from the DPP] in the past few years?” Song immediately answered no. This reminds me that not too long ago I ran into Li Rui [the mainland writer] at a conference in Taipei. I raised a similar concern, and Li also responded with a no, “Trouble [ for writers] comes from internal slanders on the literary scene.” What concerns me is that creative freedom not be subject to political oppression. . . . Literary history ought to record critiques of important literary productions. . . . Problems arise when ideology rather than “literariness” is used as a gauge for literary achievement. Literary history resembles a chess board, on which one piece advances and another is trapped, especially on this island, where everything needs constant readjustment. But, who follows this kind of literary history? Do you care where your name might fall in this kind of literary history? Personally, I don’t. Works that will be passed down to the future are very few; works that will still be read fifty years from now will have been alive for fifty years. From its very beginning, literary history is read for exams; it quickly turns into trash, and what remains is just to study for exams. . . . zhu: Hakka is my mother tongue, but I have the level of a six-year-old and cannot write it. I understand Taiwanese, but cannot speak it. I learned Taiwanese when I was an adult, at nonpartisan political gatherings, where dissident views were expressed and where my boyfriend and his friends had long dinner parties. When I read your novels, I especially feel the movement between regional languages as opposed to the national language, Mandarin. (I have had a similar experience with Wang Zhenhe, whose work I greatly enjoy.) I think you are one of the few writers who can use regional languages well, without letting them overwhelm your writing. How do you view the work of those who try hard to write based on Taiwanese pronunciations or create Taiwanese characters for “written Taiwanese”? . . . wu: When I use a regional language in my work, my expectation is that it should be phonetically similar, but comprehensible to people who don’t speak it; at the very least, they should be able to get the idea. I am unusually careful about when it is absolutely necessary to use a regional language.

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Writing in a regional language has a “justifiable” reason: to convey a one hundred percent spoken language with written words. If one wants to take “verisimilitude” into consideration, I am certainly not opposed to it. However, I don’t participate in “vernacular literature,” for a very simple reason. Language is for communication; it makes sense to use a language that communicates with the greatest number of people. Once I read a novel from Suzhou; every time I read the dialogue, I ran into a wall. I cursed under my breath, “How is it that I recognize every character but I can’t understand what it means?” Writing in a regional vernacular has become a literary system. Once its structure has matured, it is not proper to call it a “regional language.” Present-day Taiwan can employ up to fifteen writing systems; fourteen are new, including Hoklo, for which there are high expectations. At the same time, we are looking forward to establishing institutions of translation on the island to develop translation skills. . . . zhu: . . . Once when we were chatting, you tried to convince [elder sister] Tianwen and me that literature on sexuality is still a no-man’s-land, that there is still a lot to be written and that you could not understand why sex is a case of the emperor’s new clothes—somehow everyone has agreed beforehand to look but not see. Of course, what you were referring to was not the current deluge of “pornography.” Would you give us a summary of your thoughts? wu: . . . Writing on sex has been forbidden since ancient times. It’s probably because sex is the most alluring thing to people and seduction is terrifying that it is slandered and forbidden. But this is absurd. Everyone is a product of sex, and almost everyone enjoys and engages in sexual practices. So when sex is slandered as shameless, it represents a reversal of the way things really are. It has always been the case that writing on sex is either emotional or skin-deep. Today, the former is called “literature of desire,” which is not necessarily about sex, but rather about the emotions that fan the sexual flames. Emotion can stimulate sex, but it can also hinder sex. It is most tragic when sex is lost in emotion. I don’t know why civilization respects emotion but denigrates sex; perhaps sex still connotes the primitive power of reproduction, which is emotionally frightening. . . . zhu: . . . I know that at the end of March you will go to the United States at the invitation of Columbia University, where you will stay for a month (along with Mo Yan?). I have heard you say that your work on indigenous peoples has come to an end. But you also feel that indigenous peoples have yet to treat shamanism in a comprehensive manner, so you might write a work on that. Please tell us a little about your “uncertain” future plans. wu: That was a conference on literary translation, and the main speakers were all translators. The amount of attention that Taiwanese literature receives globally is neither a matter of quality nor the sole responsibility of the government. Changing the market and actively seeking translators are both very important. I hope I can help a little with the first task of Taiwanese literature.

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Indigenous cultures once prospered on this island and are a precious asset. Because political powers have treated them with little respect for centuries, much has been lost or is in the process of disappearing. I hope to help save some of them. I don’t believe in the theory of “racial self-determination.” Of course, I hope that the indigenous peoples will take control of [their cultures] at some point, but I can help from the sidelines. In the past couple of years, I have continued to work on “The Open Country of the Novel” on the east coast. I want to write about the beauty of the landscape on the east coast and the beautiful life of the Amei tribe. I haven’t finished it yet and don’t know when I will. I am working on it constantly, but there is no rush. Indigenous literature has entered a new phase. As indigenous peoples rise up, they should have their own writings. Yet when I see the “disappearing landscapes,” I am moved and shocked. Furthermore, the “shock” exists even in the post-1990 era, after the indigenous renaissance movement. Perhaps I can write a bit more, with the goal of bringing it back to life, representing it in “fiction,” and taking a close look at some specific things that will “soon become fossils,” such as shamanism and shamanistic practices, beliefs and taboos related to ancestral worship, and so on. I am also working on two other projects: one is to write an individualistic memoir and the other is to write in a more reliable and incisive form of localism. zhu: You once said that during your literary self-education in your youth, you were overcome by Sartre’s question, “Who is literature for? Why does one write?” During your decade in Danshui, besides reading widely, you learned through experience that “One can be a complete failure in life yet still be filled with the joy of living.” You also became suspicious of the production of literature, even going so far as to consider that “writing is such a vacuous activity.” After ten years or so, you came to a crossroads: “I will commit my life to being either a Zen monk or a writer.” For you, these two options were incompatible. “The goal of a Zen Buddhist is to arrive at a state wherein he does not read a single word or think a single thought. When I work on a composition, I must lay out many disparate ideas, even to the point of flipping dreams upside-down. These two paths are completely opposite.”. . . What does writing “mean” to you now? . . . wu: When we are in the midst of writing, writing is already our reward. When we are steeped in the flow of written words, forming sentences and images, we are in the most beautiful moment, the moment of the greatest appreciation for life and transformation of writing into the truest form of existence. Sometimes I imagine that in a remote village in the mountains or by the sea, a stranger randomly reads your book and is moved, as tears of sympathy flow. Our glory resides in the refraction of the light off a single teardrop. This is enough. INK (March 2004): 27–49, translated by Hayes Moore.

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39. Zhang Xiaofeng on Prose z ha ng xi aofeng ...

2 . “ O H , Y O U W R I T E P R O S E . ” “ W O W, Y O U W R I T E P L AY S !” Occasionally, I run into foreigners here at home or abroad. Sometimes I have to introduce myself; sometimes I am introduced by my friends. Most likely I will never see those strangers again. It is just a one-time meeting, nothing like sworn sisterhood. There is no need to give a full introduction. I usually just say: “How do you do?” That’s all. But sometimes they ask questions. Perhaps intrigued by my friend’s bragging, I get excited. Generally speaking, if a friend introduces me as Mrs. Lin, foreigners are not interested in asking any questions. If my friend says I am a professor, they pay me a compliment out of politeness. If my friend says I am a “famous writer,” they inevitably become interested, and the next question will be: “What do you write, may I ask?” Most of the time I reply: “Oh, I write prose.” The answer disappoints them somewhat. Of course they cannot show it, so they just make some perfunctory small talk before walking away. At most, they add: “Oh—you write prose.” Occasionally, fancy strikes me, and I do a little experiment by replying: “I am a playwright.” That does it. With an instant glow in their eyes, they seem ready to jump up: “Wow, wow, wow, you write plays!” Alas, certain things you can’t learn from books. Suppose a book tells me: “Western literature values plays over prose.” I won’t feel anything. But when I see the two different reactions, I can’t help but sigh. I often laugh in my heart: “Alas, you foreigners know nothing. Writing plays is a small skill; writing prose is a major enterprise!” In Taiwan, if you ask a publisher what kind of book sells best, the answer you get is usually: “Prose sells best!” (Fiction and poetry occasionally sell well though.) So it seems that foreigners like stories with plots, but prose, which Chinese readers like, has none of that. Why do the Chinese like prose? I am afraid it’s a long story. . . .

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4. INTERNAL KUNGFU? NO EASY ACCOMPLISHMENT . . . Applying the inductive method, I may say, 1. Prose is the favorite genre for readers and writers among the Chinese. 2. Prose can be as light as a conversation or as deep as the classical parallel prose. Either way, it tells it like it is; it expresses what’s on one’s mind. It is a transparent literary form. 3. When readers read prose, they want to read the following things. a. They want to read good writing and good rhetoric. b. They want to read observations and revelations of life. c. They want to know the author, even though it is unlike Japanese readers, who love the “I-novel.” What Chinese prose readers want to know are the author’s life, viewpoint, and state of mind. [Japanese] readers of the “I- novel” mostly want to know the author’s private affairs, especially those related to sex. d. They want to be “moved at the level of sensibility” and gain “intellectual depth.” e. Average readers buy prose because they believe that they will reread it. Few reread novels, but many reread a prose work repeatedly.

5. HALF OF A SKY-HIGH PILLAR In the West, prose is ancillary to the three major genres: drama, fiction, and poetry. In the Chinese-speaking world, prose is half of a sky-high pillar; we divide prose into “rhymed prose” and “unrhymed prose.” I like prose, even though I like the other three genres too. I like working diligently among the ranks. I like prose, because it is a genre foreigners cannot appreciate. I like sharing its elegance and richness with others who speak the same language that I do. May 2004 Selected Works of Zhang Xiaofeng (Taipei: Jiuge, 2004), 37–45, translated by Michelle Yeh.

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40. Preface to the New Edition of Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign lu o yi jun . . . What kind of work will I still write? Have I lost those beautiful, undaunted qualities from my past? Have I let nothingness seize—and formal complexity cloud—the passion of my youth to tenaciously explore a rope dangling in the deep well of human nature? Am I copying others’ handiwork? Dependent on a towering, fully developed tradition (whether Chinese or Western), am I groping blindly in the treasure house of quotations of an imaginary “ideal reader”? Or is it all just a prostration before the magnificent Parthenon—“writing is flesh is existence”—choosing a role and mimicking transplanted “self-dramatization” (no more original creations to amaze readers)? The stranger? The lyric poet in the age of capitalism? The picaresque? Changeling? The garden of forking paths? I remember it was probably the summer of my fifth year in college when I was writing the story Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign. . . . On the whole mountain, I was the only one left behind. That really was a strange time. Every morning I would grab a basketball and head down to the basketball court in the park at the foot of the mountain. Like an actor in a one-act play, I would run the court and practice free throws, take jump shots from a forty-five-degree angle from the baseline, turn around and shoot, dribble past imaginary defenders, .  .  . In the dense shade around the court, cicada calls droned on and on. . . . Nobody ever paid any attention to me, a stiff-limbed, messy-haired, strange kid who kept gesticulating on the empty court and “practicing” imaginary basketball fundamentals. I never took part in impromptu half-court or full-court games. I chose the fiery morning, because I wanted to avoid those basketball enthusiasts who showed up in the evening’s golden hours, and because I was shy and insecure. If I made a fool of myself in front of the crowd, I would be shamed to death. Yet, it was rather ridiculous. Playing against no defenders, I kept practicing some offensive techniques from my imagination. (I would use headshakes to make juke moves or hop back a step to shoot fade-away jumpers.) Often, after the ball had left my hands, I ran so far to retrieve it that I gasped for air. . . . When I had worn myself out, I would return to the dormitory and soak my body, hot like a solar battery, in cold water. Pouring it over my sweltering head would make the heat in my body come rushing out until I felt chilly all over. Heading back to my three-square-meter room, I would pick up a great novel and copy out some paragraphs.

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I don’t remember which works or authors I read that summer. . . . Looking back on it, I feel that I was really like those Japanese monks in The Roof Tile of Tempyō [by Inoue Yasushi in 1957], who sailed across the ocean to China and spent most of their lives copying out Buddhist scriptures. They encountered a catastrophic typhoon on their return trip and the ship capsized; nearly all of the hand-copied scriptures sank to the bottom of the sea. The past, present, and future were all muddled together in a dream state; it was as if they got separated from the torrent of “real” time and were left all alone to whirl around in a small, isolated puddle. Once the thought that “everything is in vain” entered my head, the twine that bound all the obsessive loneliness, weariness, and repetitive behavior snapped. That summer when I thought my entire life would go on forever in that pure state, I finished Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign. I took my time tweaking it here and there; the amount of time that would be enough for me to write half a novel later on. Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign (Taipei: INK, 2005), 5–9, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

41. Ocean Tide Loves Me Best: A Dialogue Between Sun Dachuan and Xiaman Lanpoan sun: It is a rare opportunity to talk about your creative work and indigenous literature in the cradle of contemporary Taiwanese literature, Stars Café. We know that since the 1980s, as indigenous subjectivity developed, some young people entered the world of writing one by one. From a certain standpoint, the so-called indigenous literature written in modern Chinese has developed for fifteen years. Today I would like to look at your creative work and place it in the context of indigenous literature on the one hand, and to talk about your work and thinking in the context of Taiwanese literature, or even in a greater context, on the other hand. To start off, can you talk about how you started writing? During your vagabond life as a taxi driver and packaging worker in Taipei, how was it that you suddenly picked up the pen? xiaman: Speaking of literary creation, I must go back to the fourth grade at elementary school. It was around 1967 when Lanyu Island was open for tourism for the first time since it had become part of the Republic of China on Taiwan. At that time, Lanyu was still very natural and pristine. The first batch of college students came from Taiwan, and I ran into one of them named Guan. He said to me, “Your island is so beautiful and your people

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I don’t remember which works or authors I read that summer. . . . Looking back on it, I feel that I was really like those Japanese monks in The Roof Tile of Tempyō [by Inoue Yasushi in 1957], who sailed across the ocean to China and spent most of their lives copying out Buddhist scriptures. They encountered a catastrophic typhoon on their return trip and the ship capsized; nearly all of the hand-copied scriptures sank to the bottom of the sea. The past, present, and future were all muddled together in a dream state; it was as if they got separated from the torrent of “real” time and were left all alone to whirl around in a small, isolated puddle. Once the thought that “everything is in vain” entered my head, the twine that bound all the obsessive loneliness, weariness, and repetitive behavior snapped. That summer when I thought my entire life would go on forever in that pure state, I finished Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign. I took my time tweaking it here and there; the amount of time that would be enough for me to write half a novel later on. Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign (Taipei: INK, 2005), 5–9, translated by Andy Rodekohr.

41. Ocean Tide Loves Me Best: A Dialogue Between Sun Dachuan and Xiaman Lanpoan sun: It is a rare opportunity to talk about your creative work and indigenous literature in the cradle of contemporary Taiwanese literature, Stars Café. We know that since the 1980s, as indigenous subjectivity developed, some young people entered the world of writing one by one. From a certain standpoint, the so-called indigenous literature written in modern Chinese has developed for fifteen years. Today I would like to look at your creative work and place it in the context of indigenous literature on the one hand, and to talk about your work and thinking in the context of Taiwanese literature, or even in a greater context, on the other hand. To start off, can you talk about how you started writing? During your vagabond life as a taxi driver and packaging worker in Taipei, how was it that you suddenly picked up the pen? xiaman: Speaking of literary creation, I must go back to the fourth grade at elementary school. It was around 1967 when Lanyu Island was open for tourism for the first time since it had become part of the Republic of China on Taiwan. At that time, Lanyu was still very natural and pristine. The first batch of college students came from Taiwan, and I ran into one of them named Guan. He said to me, “Your island is so beautiful and your people

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are so good-looking, but I hope that someday you will leave here and attend school, preferably college, in Taiwan. Only then will you discover that there are many places in this world worth seeing.” His words played an important role in my thinking; they are words that changed my life. More than ten years later, I went to Taipei but refused to attend National Taiwan Normal University. I supported myself by working as a packaging worker, transporting sodas from Jiayi to Gaoxiong. That lasted six months. Around 1977, I traveled from Taipei on a southbound freight truck one day and passed Minxiong High School in Jiayi. When I saw crowds of students coming out of the classrooms, I realized that it was July 2nd, the day of the college entrance examination. Suddenly I asked myself: “What am I doing here? I should have taken the exam.” This was the second major impact on my life; it made me pick up my textbooks again and, after failing the college entrance exam twice, I was admitted to the French Department at Tamkang University. I began to study French literature. At twenty-three, I was older than my classmates, but my knowledge of Taiwan was shallower. I also realized that I had a different way of thinking; what I considered correct was in fact not so. This was the third impact on my life. I met a group friends associated with the journal China Tide and the League of the Marginalized. Through them I was introduced to Marxism, which I came to believe in, and to Socialism, which I came to worship. It changed my thinking. I was diffident, because I knew so little about Taiwan, Marxism, or Socialism. Thus, my friends at Tamkang University played an important role. I remember several classmates in my junior year, such as Cai Yurong and Li Shangxian, who recommended to me Lu Xun’s “Kong Yiji” and “Call to Arms.” These works were always by my bed and read repeatedly. Lu Xun’s critique of society shocked me. Besides his language, his thinking moved me deeply. My friends also introduced me to the magic of words and showed me that some people cared about the indigenous movement. Later, Chen Yingzhen encouraged me to write literature, and I began to read his fiction. But since I had to skip classes two days a week to work in order to make a living, I kept my distance from them. sun: Do you remember what your first piece of writing was about? xiaman: It was about nuclear waste and Lanyu. It was about eight hundred characters long and was published in the Human World literary supplement to the China Times, then edited by Jin Hengwei. The essay took me half a month to write. It was easy for me to talk about it, but when I tried to write it down, it was a bumpy process. For the first time, I found Han people’s language so difficult. After the essay was published, I was ecstatic and read it every day. At that time, I used my Han Chinese name “Shi Nulai.” Later— I don’t remember if it was 1985—I wrote a poem called “Child of Nature.” But I wasn’t sure what it meant to create or whether it could be called literature. I went to Gaoxiong often. At the invitation of the Masses Daily, I started

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writing down myths, later collected in Myths of Eight-Generation Bay. I had heard these tales from my father when I was in elementary school. When I wrote my first work of literature, I found it too hard to think for myself, so it was easier for me to translate my father’s words into Chinese. I also started publishing poems, about twenty or so, in the Masses Daily and the Independence Morning Post. But now I dread reading them. Besides these works, Xie Chunde shot a series of photographs of Lanyu in 1978 and wanted to publish them in the United Daily. He asked me to write a poem for each photograph as the caption. When I was writing the poems, it dawned on me that I had been away from my tribe for more than a decade. Even though I still retained memories of it, my feelings and identity had vanished. The words I put together were pretentious and affected. sun: Later you got involved in the indigenous movement, including taking part in the protest for Haishan coal mines and meeting Hu Defu, Ah Neng, and others. Still later, I met you. I had come back from Belgium in 1988 and participated in the indigenous movement while preparing for the launch of the Mountains and Seas Cultural Magazine. We began to interact with each other. I remember you were debating about whether you should stay in Taiwan or return to Lanyu. By then you had spent sixteen years in Taiwan. In the end, you decided to go back to Lanyu. Your writings became very different from the past and you became more confident. Do you want to talk about your changes after you went home? xiaman: I was undergoing gradual transformation even before I met you. Then the Tang Yingshen Incident occurred, which was closely related to [Chen Yingzhen’s] magazine Humanity and part of the indigenous movement. I also discovered in Lu Xun’s fiction that if human life were to end tomorrow, there was nothing left to say; but if human beings continued to live another twenty or thirty years, literature could be an important medium for a tribe to be understood by the society at large. Literature was philosophy as well as theology, something that could not be defeated. I still remember what a friend told me, “Shanman Lanboan is useless when it comes to movements.” That remark made me so depressed, but I became stronger as a result. I first knew you from your essay “Live History” published in China Forum after you returned from abroad. I was amazed at how beautiful your Chinese was, even though you were indigenous. It made me mull over what qualifications would enable one to write like this, which led me to discover my own insufficiencies in knowledge of sociology, anthropology, and history. At that time, I was working as a taxi driver; I wanted to visit you, because I was certain that I should get to know you and express my admiration for you. sun: Who would know that later we often drank together? xiaman: But I returned to Lanyu first. I had thought that Taipei was a paradise and didn’t want to leave. When I returned to my tribe, my parents said I

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looked completely different; it was as if I had dragged back a sick body. And I couldn’t understand them either. We lived together, and every day I watched them eat simple food like sweet potato, taro, and crab. For them it was their way of life. Of course I had been raised this way as a child. . . . sun: At that time, you looked as if a heavy load were weighing on your mind. I guess you were at a major turning point in your life. xiaman: Indeed I was. I began to listen to my father’s advice about the traditional work for the men of the Dawu tribe. He said, “If you go to Taiwan or mainland China, you must imagine yourself building houses and remember that houses have souls.” These words followed me around like a spirit, so I cut my trip short and went home. After I returned to Lanyu, the first time I tried deep-sea diving, I shot a horse mackerel that weighed four or five kilos. At the time, all three of my paternal uncles were still alive. Father said, “This is the first big fish you have caught since you came back to the tribe. You must go in person and invite your uncles and cousins to come and eat it.” When I was young, each time my father shot a fish, he would invite my uncles to eat it, and then they would start singing poetry. That scene brought me back to the present, when they were singing songs and telling stories about the past. As they recounted the stories, I watched their body language and facial expressions. I couldn’t help but think, “So there is this kind of literature!” It was completely different from the works of Chen Yingzhen and Huang Chunming, whom I had read. The world in their narratives was completely different from the world I knew—different background, time and space, and people. The stories they imagined and created had no connection to my people. But what I did not understand was: How is it that Lu Xun’s fiction shocks me, but not the fiction of Taiwan? sun: Because Taiwanese fiction is inferior! xiaman: I cannot say it is inferior. Maybe it has too much vinegar and salt—too many flavors—or the implicit “structure” of language is different. A friend on the outside asks me: “Is the flying fish in Lanyu tasty?” I reply: “Is Han Chinese food tasty?” He says it is delicious, because it has this condiment or that condiment. I say: “What you are eating is not fish but condiments. We taste the original flavor of fish boiled in water. You eat garbage while we eat culture.”. . . After I listened to my father and uncles telling stories, I began to read books seriously. I can be so bold as to say that Han Chinese literature is not very good in substance, scope, depth, and structure . . . sun: Because there is no “life” of true feelings . . . xiaman: You may say so. . . . After the amazement of having shot a big fish the first time, it happened quite often for more than a year. They each weighed six to ten kilos, so I often invited relatives and friends to my home. In this way, I slowly entered their world of language and even body language. For example, I discovered that all my clansmen had great lung capacity, which

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made me see the profound relationship we had with the ocean. Often I went fishing alone, allowing myself to gradually enter their cognitive world. This is how I came to write Cold Sea, Deep Love. I also discovered in the process of writing the book that people who had been born around World War I had a different aura. They loved storytelling and disliked listening to poor storytellers. Every time my elder uncle asked me how I shot the fish, I described it awkwardly. He would say, “Son, this is no way to tell a story. Your heart and your faith are not in your words. That’s why your story is no good.” Even though my stories were no good, I treated them to big fish often, so each time they would urge me to tell stories. All this was going on while I was writing Cold Sea, Deep Love. I practiced telling stories in the Dawu language while I wrote in Chinese. My Dawu became richer and richer. . . . sun: Many people are concerned about Chinese literature written by indigenous writers in Taiwan. They are worried that once they write in Chinese, their understanding of their own cultures will be diminished. In other words, can you express your experience with the ocean in Chinese completely and without constraints? xiaman: The dilemma does exist, but the major problem I face in my writing is that for indigenous writers in Taiwan, myself included, the Chinese language system lacks an understanding of our environment, our beliefs, and our cognitive structure. For example, earlier I mentioned the hierarchy of trees. Han Chinese or Anglo-Americans tend to define it from a natural scientific point of view, but the people of Lanyu explain it from a cultural point of view. I have no problems writing about these things, but what troubles me is the reader’s interpretation and the critic’s understanding and skills. . . . Some critics think that some indigenous writers are not fluent in their mother tongue and have become alienated from their traditional beliefs; therefore, their writing in Chinese is flawed too. This is probably a criticism of indigenous writers in general. I don’t think this is fair. Take me, for example, the deeper my understanding of my mother tongue is, [the more] I use it to explicate and manipulate Chinese instead of being manipulated by it. So Chinese is not a roadblock but a tool I use to enrich my writing. . . . When it comes to the imagining of indigenous literature, many critics in Taiwan are still trapped in an anthropological mode of thinking with too many self-imposed constraints and too narrow a frame of reference. They have forgotten that criticism of indigenous literature should encompass anthropology, sociology, ecology, and historiography, instead of a purely literary perspective. The 2001 Nobel laureate V. S. Naipaul is an example; he is Indian-British and The Enigma of Arrival [1987] is a story about ethnic identity. It is about a man who wants to become an authentic Englishman. Even though he has accomplished many things in the process, British society will never accept him. He thinks to himself: “Why do I have to become English? Granted, it has been several generations, but I am still Indian in

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my blood.” Naipaul wrote an outstanding work about this mind-set. I believe that the new generation of indigenous literature does not have to relate to mountains and seas. Literature is a wandering sage who will keep walking, even if he has traveled far away from his tribe and the ocean and his indigenous blood is diluted. So long as he identifies himself as indigenous, when he writes about the world as he understands it, there is no reason not to acknowledge it as indigenous literature, as Taiwanese literature. INK (March 2005): 33–45, translated by Michelle Yeh.

glos sary

“Absolute Objection to Nativist Literature Written in the Taiwanese Vernacular” 對鄉土文學臺灣話文徹 底的反對 “Abyss” 深淵 Academia Sinica 中央研究院 “Activist Character of the Literary Supplement to the United Daily, The” 聯副的運動性格 “Advance” 前進 Ah Cheng 阿城 Ah Neng 阿能 “Ah Q’s Younger Brother” 阿Q之弟 Ai Qing 艾青 Ai Wen 艾雯 Ai Ya 愛亞 “Ambiguous Man” 模糊的人 Amei tribe 阿美族 American Beauties 美人圖 Amoy 廈門

Androgyny 安卓珍尼 Anecdotes from the Xuanhe Reign 宣和 遺事 Ang Lee 李安 Anhui 安徽 Annals of Taiwan Province 台灣省通志 Annals of the City of Taipei 台北市志 Annals of the Spring and Autumn Period 春秋 “Annotation on Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette” 釋《三六九小報》 Annotations on Shuowen 說文解字注箋 “Announcement from the Chinese Writers Association, An” 中國文藝 協會聲明 Annual Selection of Short Stories 年度小 說選 Anthology of Anti-Communist and AntiSoviet Lyrics 作家作品選集 Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay 中國近代散文選

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Anthology of Provincial Writers 本省籍作家作品選集 Anti-Communist war 反共戰爭 Aoki Masaru 青木正兒 Aono Kikitsu 青野季吉 “Appointment, The” 約定 “Ark and the Fish, The” 方舟與魚 Army of Vanguards 先發部隊 “Art Belongs to the People” 藝術是大 眾的 “Author’s Preface” 自序 Autobiography: A Story 自傳的小說 Autumn Leaves 秋葉 “Autumn Meditations” 秋興 “Awful Literary Scene of Taiwan, The” 糟糕的台灣文學界 Bai Juyi 白居易 Bai Pingmei 白評梅 Bai Wei 白薇 Bai Xianyong白先勇 baihua 白話 “Bali’s Journey” 巴里的旅程 Bamboo Hat Poetry Journal 笠詩刊 Bamboo Hat Poetry Society 笠詩社 Bamboo Poetry Society 竹社 Ban Gu 班固 Batongguan Meadow 八通關草原 Battle of the Solomon Islands 索羅門海戰 Beautiful Island 華麗島 Beigang 北港 Beijing dialect 北京話 Beitou 北投 belles lettres 美文 “Benchmarks in Fiction Criticism: Reading Tang Jisong’s Autumn Leaves by Ouyang Zi” 談小說批評 的標準──讀唐吉崧歐陽子的《秋 葉》有感 benshengren 本省人 Bi Guo 碧果 Bi Pu 畢璞

“Bibliography of Taiwan Literary Arts” 台灣文藝書目 Bibliophilia 愛書 “Bin’er Raises a Question—Soybean Porridge Standard Procedure” 賓兒 提問。豆糊 SP Biography of Lu Zhi 陸贄傳 “Birds Calling in the Ravine” 鳥鳴澗 “Biting Words from Outside the Curtain” 幕前冷語 “Black Gown, The” 黑衣人 “Blind Spot of Nativist Literature, The” 「鄉土文學」的盲點 Blue Star Poetry Society 藍星詩社 Blue Stars Poetry Page 藍星詩頁 Book of Changes 易經 Book of Songs, The 詩經 Book Reviews and Bibliographies 書評 書目 Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign 降生十 二星座 Boxers 義和團 “Brave New World of the Mother Tongue: Taiwanese Language Literature Under Construction, The” 母語新世界──建構中的台語文學 Bridge literary supplement to the New Life Daily 新生報《橋》副刊 Brief Biographies of Pre-Retrocession Taiwanese Authors 光復前台灣作家 小傳 Bright Summer Day, A 牯嶺街少年殺人 事件 “Broken Chinese and Good Work” 破中 文與好作品 “Brothers” 兄弟 “Building a Bridge for Taiwan Literature: Foreword to Newsletter of the Taiwan Literature Museum” 搭起 一座台灣文學的橋梁──《台灣文 學館通訊》發刊詞 Bungaku hyōron (Literary Criticism) 文 學評論 (1934–1936)

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Bungei (Literary Arts) 文藝 Bunka shūdan (Cultural Group) 文化集團 (June 1933–February 1935) “Burning Hair—the Rites of Poetry” 燃 燒的頭髮──為了詩的祭典 Butcher’s Wife, The 殺夫 Cactus 仙人掌 Cai Jianxing 蔡建興 Cai Peihuo 蔡培火 Cai Qin 蔡琴 Cai Yurong 蔡裕榮 “Call to Arms” 吶喊 Cao Xudong 曹旭東 Cao Xueqin 曹雪芹 Cao Yu 曹禺 “Capon” 閹雞 Carefree Wandering 逍遙遊 Cases by Justice Peng 彭公案 Cases by Justice Shi 施公案 Central Daily 中央日報 Central Forum 中央公論 Chaos Fan 亂迷 “Chat with the Governor General About Discontinuing Chinese Columns in Daily Newspapers, A” 關於日刊漢文 欄廢止之總督談 “Checking Residency Cards” 查戶口 Chen Duxiu 陳獨秀 Chen Fangming 陳芳明 Chen Fengyuan 陳逢源 Chen Huangui 陳煥圭 Chen Huoquan 陳火泉 Chen Jiying 陳紀瀅 Chen Li (Cheng Yingwen) 陳黎 (陳膺文) Chen Mingdong 陳明棟 Chen Mingren 陳明仁 Chen Qianwu 陳千武 Chen Qilu 陳奇禄 Chen Qimian 陳期綿 Chen Qiuju 陳秋菊 Chen Qiyun 陳奇雲 Chen Ruoxi (Chen Xiumei) 陳若曦 (陳秀美)

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Chen Shixiang (Shih-hsiang Chen) 陳世驤 Chen Shuhong 陳樹鴻 Chen Wanyi 陳萬益 Chen Wencheng 陳文成 Chen Xiying 陳西瀅 Chen Xue 陳雪 Chen Xunzhang 陳遜章 Chen Yingzhen (Chen Yongshan) 陳映真 (陳永善) Chen Yizhi 陳義芝 Chen Yongxing 陳幼馨 Chen Zaoxiang 陳藻香 Chen Zhaoying 陳昭瑛 Chen Zhifan 陳之藩 Chen Zong 陳總 Cheng Shewo 成舍我 Cheng Yi 程頤 Chiang Kai-shek 蔣介石 Chiang Ching-kuo 蔣經國 “Child of Nature” 大自然的孩子 China complex 中國結 China Daily 中華日報 China Forum 中國論壇 China Magazine 中華雜誌 China Tide 夏潮 China Times 中國時報 China Times Evening Post 中時晚報 China Times literary supplement 中國時 報人間副刊 Chinese Communist Party (CCP) 中國 共產黨 Chinese Culture University 中國文化 大學 Chinese Drama 支那的戲劇 Chinese Literary Arts Association 中國作家協會 Chinese Literature and Arts Association 中國文藝協會 Chinese Literature and Arts Prize Committee 中華文藝獎金委員會 Chinese Pen 中國筆會英文季刊

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Chinese versus Western Cultural Debate 中西文化論戰 Chinese Women Writers of the May Fourth Period: Journeys of the Heart 中國五四女作家心路紀程 Chongqing 重慶 Chu Ge 楚戈 Chung Yuan Christian University 中原 大學 Chung-wai Literary Monthly 中外文學 Ci Lin 詞林 “Cicada” 蟬 Citizen’s Beacon Drama Troupe 民烽劇團 “City and Two Other Poems” 都市等三首 City of Sadness, A 悲情城市 Civil Associations Act 人民團體法 Civilian Journal 民營報 Clamor of the Lotus Multitude, The 眾荷 喧嘩 Cloud Gate Dance Troupe 雲門舞集 “Clumsy Mother, Clumsy Daughter” 母 女皆拙 Collected Comments on [Chinese] Literature (支那) 文藝論藪 Collected Works of Wu Zhuoliu 吳濁流 作品集 Collection of a Thousand Leaves 萬葉集 “Collective Critiques” 「作品合評」專欄 “Coming Together for a Long Journey Ahead: Celebrating the Birth of the Taipei Theater Fellowship” 集結是 為了長征──祝福「台北劇場聯誼 會」的誕生 “Commentary on Current Literature, A” 文藝時評 Communist Party of Taiwan 台灣共 產黨 Compendium of Literature in Taiwanese 台語文學大系 Compendium of Modern Chinese Literature 中國新文學大系

Complete Works of Lai He 賴和全集 Complete Works of Long Yingzong 龍瑛 宗全集 Complete Works of Taiwan Literature of the Pre-retrocession Era 光復前台灣 文學全集 Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers台灣 作家全集 Complete Works of Yang Kui 楊逵全集 Complete Works of Zhang Wenhuan 張文 環全集 Complete Works of Zhang Wojun 張我軍 全集 Complete Works of Zhong Lihe 鍾理和 全集 Comprehensive History of Taiwan, A 臺灣通史 Conference on Chinese Literature of the Past Forty Years 中國文學四十 年研討會 Confucian Confusion, A 獨立時代 “Congratulations on the Founding of the Taiwan Literary Society” 祝臺灣 文社發刊之詞 “Conscientious Love” 良心的戀愛 Contemporains, Les 現代 Contemporary Literary Criticism 文藝 時評 Control Yuan 監察院 “Conversations with Japanese” 跟日本 人的對話 Creation Monthly 創造月刊 Creation Society 創造社 Crescent School 新月派 Critical Biography of Xie Xuehong, A 謝 雪紅評傳 “Criticism and Guidance Welcomed” 請大家赤裸地來批評和指正 “Critique of Peng Ge’s Setting Moon and a Discussion of the Modern Novel, A” 評彭歌的「落月」兼論現代小說 Crocodile Diary 鱷魚手記

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Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly 《山海文化》雙月刊 “Curvaceous Dolly, The” 有曲線的娃娃 “Cut Down” 斫 “Cutting off the Prose Braids” 剪掉散 文的辮子 Dai Guohui 戴國煇 Dai Tian 戴天 Dai Wangshu 戴望舒 Dalin 大林 Damaopu 大茅埔 Dan Tangmo 但唐謨 Daniunan Village 打牛湳村 Danshui 淡水 “Dark Registry of Plaintive Souls, The” 黑籍怨魂 Dawu tribe 達悟族 Death in a Stone Cell 石室的死亡 Debate on “New and Old Literature” 新舊文學論戰 Decisive Battle: A Collection of Taiwanese Fiction 決戰台灣小說集 “Declaration” 宣言 Declaration of Peace 和平宣言 Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) 民 主進步黨 (民進黨) “Descendants of Job” 約伯的末裔 “Determined Mind” 一個決心 Devil with a Chastity Belt 戴貞操帶的 魔鬼 Diaoyutai Incident 釣魚臺事件 Diaries of Lü Heruo (1942–1944) 呂赫若 日記: (一九四二-一九四四年) Diaries of Qiu Miaojin 邱妙津日記 Dictionary of the Taiwanese Vernacular 台灣語典 Ding Ling 丁玲 Ding Yamin 丁亞民 “Discovering a New Taiwan: On Wang Qimei’s Collage” 發現新台灣──汪 其楣的集納藝術 Doi Kokoku 土居香國 Dong Nian 東年

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Dong Qizhang 董啟章 “Dormitory for Singles” 單身宿舍 Double Leaf Bookstore 雙葉書廊 Dragon Inn 龍天樓 Dragon Race Poetry Journal 龍族詩刊 “Dragon Vein” 龍脈 “Dream of Being a Genius” 天才夢 Dream of the Red Chamber 紅樓夢 “Dreary Rain” 鬼雨 “Dressed-up Blood Sacrifice” 彩妝血祭 “Drifting Girl” 漂女 Du Fu 杜甫 Du Pan Fangge 杜潘芳格 Du Youde 杜有得 Du Yu 杜預 “Earth” 地 East China Hydraulics College 南京華 東水利學院 Eastern Painters Association 東方畫會 Edo 江戶 Edward Yang 楊德昌 “Elegant Gathering of Linked Poetry, The” 聯吟雅集 “Elegant Words” 雅言 Elite Books 爾雅出版社 “Elucidating the Meaning of Literature” 文學辯義 Emotional Debt 感情的債 Emperor Wen of the Wei Dynasty 魏文帝 “Empty Shrine” 空白的靈堂 “End of the Military Family Village, The” 眷村的盡頭 “Endless War” 無休止的戰爭 “Epigraph to the Inaugural Issue” 卷頭語 Epoch Poetry Quarterly 創世紀詩刊 Epoch Poetry Society 創世紀詩社 Essays on Nativist Literature 鄉土文學 討論集 Establishing the South News 興南新聞 “Eternal Quest (in Lieu of a Preface)” 永恆的尋求（代序）

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Evening Readings by the Window 芸窗 夜讀 Evening Visits with Zhang Ailing 夜訪張 愛玲 Everyman 人人 “Evolution of Modern Poetry in Taiwan, The” 臺灣現代詩的演變 Execution of Mayor Yin, The 尹縣長 “Expedition Petition” 出師表 “Explicating the Tenets of the Modernist School” 現代派信條釋義 Family Catastrophe 家變 Fan Xinchuan 范新傳 Fang Shiduo 方師鐸 Fang Xin 方莘 Fate in This Life 今生緣 Fated to Meet Across a Thousand Miles 有緣千里 “Father’s Face” 父之顏, 父親的臉 February 28th Incident 二二八事件 Fei Hua 費驊 Feng Wenbing (Fei Ming) 馮文炳 (廢名) Feng Zhongrui 馮鍾睿 Fiction Monthly 小說月報 “Fiction of the Week” 星期小說 Fig, The 無花果 finger puppets 布袋戲 “First Combat” 初陣 “First Sight of Dawn” 初見曙光 “First Step out of ‘Migration Literature,’ A” 走出「遷移文學」的第一步 Five People News 伍人報 “Five Years Later” 五年之後 Flaneur 漫遊者 “Flaws and Mercy—Preface to The Mulberry Sea” 缺憾與慈悲──《滄 桑》 序 Flower Garden of the Gods 眾神的花園 “Flower in the Rainy Night, A” 看海的 日子 Flower in the Rainy Night, A 看海的日子

“Flower Recalls Its Previous Incarnation: Remembering Zhang Ailing and Hu Lancheng, A” 花憶前 身：回憶張愛玲與胡蘭成 “Flower Season” 花季 “Food for Thought” 益智集 Footnotes to August 23rd 八二三注 “Footprints Sort Of: Superfluous Words on the Launch of Newsletter of Literary Friends”也算足跡：《文友 通訊》正式發表贅言 “Foreword II: On Taiwan’s Literary Canon” 關於台灣文學經典 “Foreword to Anthology of Modern Chinese Prose”《現代中國散文選》 前言 “Foreword: Understanding Folk Literature” 卷頭言——民間文學的 認識 Formosa 福爾摩沙 “Formosa 1661” 福爾摩沙ë一六六一 Formosa Forsythia 台灣連翹 Formosa Incident 美麗島事件 Four Years of Cultivation 耕耘四年 Free Youth 自由青年 From a Cottager’s Sketchbook 雅舍小品 Frontline 第一線 Fu Jen Catholic University 輔仁大學 Fu Lei 傅雷 Fuchigusa 邊緣草 Fujian 福建 Fujiwara Sensaburo 藤原泉三郎 fukan 副刊 Gao Xingjian 高行健 Gao Xinjiang 高信疆 Gaoxiong 高雄 Gao Yushu 高玉樹 Gaoyou 高郵 Ge Lei (Shi Ximei) 歌雷 (史習枚) genbun i’chi 言文一致 General Critique of Contemporary Literary Issues, A 當前文學問題總批判 Generals 將軍令

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“Generals and Me” 將軍與我 “Geng Er in Beijing” 耿爾在北京 Ghosts’ Carnival 鬼的狂歡 “Giant Bomb on the Old Poetry Scene, A” 對於臺灣舊詩壇投下一巨大的炸彈 Girl with Long Black Hair, The 那長頭髮 的女孩 “Girl with Long Black Hair: Author’s Preface” 那長頭髮的女孩: 自序 Goddess Mazu 媽祖 “Gods’ Garden (in Lieu of a Preface)” 眾 神的花園—代序 Golden Lotus, The 金瓶梅 Golden Yaksha, The 金色夜叉 Gong 鑼 “Good Writing, Bad Writing” 好文章． 壞文章 “Goodbye Nihilism!” 再見虛無！ Governor-General’s School of the National Language 總督府國語學校 Grass of Eastern Peace 東寧艸 Grass Roots Poetry Journal 草根詩刊 “Grassroots Manifesto” 草根宣言 “Green Island Nocturne” 綠島小夜曲 Green, Green Grass 青青草 Guan Hanqing 關漢卿 Guan Jieming 關傑明 Guangdong News 廣東報 Guizhou 貴州 Guo Feng 郭楓 Guo Lianghui 郭良蕙 Guo Moruo 郭沫若 Guo Qiusheng 郭秋生 Guo Shuitan 郭水潭 Guo Xuyi 郭戌已 Guomindang 國民黨 Haidong Qing 海東青 haiku 俳句 Hainan Island 海南島 Hakka 客家 “Hakka Literature, Literary Hakka” 客家 文學、文學客家 Half-pine Collection 半崧集

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Han Chinese 漢人 Han Defa 韓德發 Han Han (Luo Yuanyuan) 韓韓 (駱元元) Han Shan 寒山 “Hanging Tree, The” 吊人樹 Hangzhou 杭州 Hanzi 漢字 Happiest Thing, The 最快樂的事 Hara Jyuchi 原十雉 “Harbor Street, Hualien, 1939” 花蓮港 街ë一九三九 He Fan 何凡 He Mingliang 何明亮 He Ruixiong 何瑞雄 He Xin 何欣 Hebei 河北 Henan 河南 Hengchun 恆春 “Heralding a Taiwanese Dawn: Introducing Lin Shuangbu, Novelist of the New Generation, and Appraising Taiwan’s Enfeebled Fiction” 呼喚台灣黎明的喇叭手─試 介台灣新一代小說家林雙不並檢討 台灣的老弱文學 Heresies 異端 Hidden Garden 潛園 Hidden Reef 暗礁 Higashi Nakano station 東中野車站 Hijikata Yoshi 土方與志 “Hilili hili” 嗐里里嗐里 “Historical Mission of Taiwan Literary Arts, The” 《臺灣文藝》的使命 History of Social Movements in Taiwan (1913-1936) 台灣總督府警察沿革誌 History of the Han Dynasty 漢書 History of the States of the Eastern Zhou, A 東周列國志 History of the Tang Dynasty 唐書 Hokkaidô 北海道 Hoklo 河洛 Hong Kong Trilogy 香港三部曲

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Hong Kong University of Science and Technology 香港科技大學 “Hong Kong—1960” 香港──一九 六〇 Hong Ling 洪凌 Hongfan Bookstore 洪範書店 Hou Rongsheng 侯榕生 Hou Hsiao-hsien 侯孝賢 “House of Salt—by Way of Introduction” 鹽屋──代序 Housheng Drama Research Society 厚生演劇研究會 Hu Defu 胡德夫 Hu Feng 胡風 Hu Lancheng 胡蘭成 Hu Minxiang 胡明祥 Hu Shi 胡適 Hu Zhiming 胡志明 Hua Taiping Family History 華太平家傳 Hualian 花蓮 Hualian Cultural and Educational Foundation 花蓮洄瀾文教基金會 Huan Fu (Chen Qianwu) 桓夫 (陳千武) Huang Chaoqin 黃朝琴 Huang Chengcong 黃呈聰 Huang Chunming 黃春明 Huang Chunqing 黃純青 Huang Deshi 黃得時 Huang Hengqiu 黃恆秋 Huang Jinshu 黃錦樹 Huang Shihui 黃石輝 Huang Shugen 黃樹根 Huang Tianhai 黃天海 Huang Yingzhe 黃英哲 Huang Yong 黃用 huaren 華人 huayu 華語 Huilan Native Soil Collection 洄瀾本土 叢書 Human World literary supplement (中 國時報) 人間副刊 Human World magazine 人間雜誌 Hunan 湖南

Hunter Culture 獵人文化 “I Do Not Value The Locked Heart and Membership in the Writers Association” 我不重視心鎖和文協 會籍 “I Love Black Eyes” 我愛黑眼珠 I Love Zhang Ailing 我愛張愛玲 “If the Poets Don’t Die the Thieves Won’t Quit: The Predicament of Taiwan’s Poetry Scene and How to Resolve It” 詩人不死大盜不 止？──台灣詩壇的困境及其解 決之道 “If You Open the Window of Your Heart” 阮若打開心內的門窗 “Impressions Gleaned from the Conference on Literary Arts Organized by the Armed Forces: The Bugle of Unity” 參加國軍文藝大會 的感想─團結的號角 “In Defense of Kuso Realism” 擁護狗屎 現實主義 “In Defense of the Crimes of New Youth” 為 《新青年》 罪狀之答辯書 “In-Laws Next-Door” 隔壁親家 In Spring Breeze 在春風裡 In the Shade of the Bamboo Hat 「笠下 影」專欄 Inagaki Toubei 稲垣藤兵衛 “Inaugural Editorial of Taiwan Poetry Quarterly” 《現代詩季刊》 發刊詞 “Inaugural Preface to Literary Creation” 《文藝創作》發刊詞 “Inaugural Preface to Military Literature: Establishing a Modernized, Popularized, Revolutionary, and Combative National Literature” 創刊 詞──建立時代化、大眾化、革命 化、戰鬪化的民族文藝 Incense Burner of North Harbor 北港香 爐人人插 Independence Evening Post 自立晚報

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Independence Morning Post 自立早報 “Influence and Response!—From Concern, Engagement, and Action to ‘We Have Only One Earth’” 感應！ 從關懷、參與、開展到「我們只有 一個地球」 INK 印刻文學生活誌 “Interview with Wu He” 朱天心， 舞鶴對談 “Intoxicated” 沉醉 “Introduction to History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan” 臺灣鄉土文學 文學史導論 “Introduction to Modern Literature” 《現代文學》發刊詞 Investiture of the Gods 封神榜 Investiture of the Gods 封神演義 Ishikawa Takuboku 石川啄木 Island Edge 島嶼邊緣 “Island Flight” 島嶼飛行 “It’s Realist Literature, Not Nativist Literature: A Historical Analysis of Nativist Literature” 是「現實主義」 文學不是「鄉土文學」─有關「鄉 土文學」的史的分析 Itinerant Censor 巡臺御史 Itō Shunho 伊藤春畝 Izumi Kyôka 泉鏡花 Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea 海天玉 尺編 “January Awakening” 一月之醒 Jeweled Sword Collection 寶刀集 Ji Dawei 紀大偉 Ji Hong 季紅 Ji Xian (Lu Yu) 紀弦 (路逾) Jia Baoyu 賈寶玉 Jiali 佳里 Jian Xikai 簡錫塏 Jian Zhen 簡媜 Jiang Gui 姜貴 Jiang Jiayu 蔣家語 Jiang Weiwen 蔣為文 Jiang Xiaoyun 蔣曉雲

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Jiang Zhongming 江中明 Jiangsu 江蘇 Jiao Tong (Ye Zhenfu) 焦桐 (葉振富) Jiayi 嘉義 Jie Zhou (Guo Qiusheng) 芥舟 (郭秋生) Jilin 吉林 Jiling Chronicles 吉陵春秋 Jilong 基隆 Jin Fu 金夫 Jin Hengwei 金恆煒 Jin Lian 錦連 Jin Shijie 金士傑 Jing Xiaopei 景小佩 Jinmen 金門 Jinmendong Cliffs 金門峒大斷崖 Jinshi degree 進士 Jiuge 九歌出版社 Jōruri 淨琉璃 “Journal from America” 旅美襍記 Journey to the West 西遊記 juancun 眷村 “Juancun Children Grow Old in the World” 眷村子弟江湖老 July 七月 Kabuki 歌舞伎 Kangawa Kiyoshi 神川青 kangji 漢字 Kashima 華島 Ke Tiehu 柯鐵虎 Ke Wenfu 柯文福 Keiro Shingu 啟呂真愚 Kim Saryan 金史良 King of Chess, King of Trees, King of Children 棋王，樹王，孩子王 Kingdom of Solitude, The 孤獨國 Kobayashi Takiji 小林多喜二 Kodama Gentaro 兒玉源太郎 Kominka campaign 皇民化運動 Kōno Yoshihiko 河野慶彥 Kowloon 九龍 Ku’er 酷兒 Kun 坤卦 Kudo Yoshimi 工藤好美

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Kunming 昆明 Kuso realism 糞寫實主義 “Kuso Realism and PseudoRomanticism” 狗屎現實主義與假浪 漫主義 Kyushû 九州 Labyrinthine Garden 迷園 Lai Lishui 賴麗水 Lai Minghong 賴明弘 Lai Rensheng 賴仁聲 Lai Shengchuan 賴聲川 Lai Tongyao 賴通堯 “Lament of the Southern Land” 南國哀歌 Lan Yun (Lai He) 懶雲 (賴和) Lanyu Island 蘭嶼 Lao She 老舍 “Last Glimpse of an Empire, The” 帝國 的最後一瞥 “Last Performance, The” 最後夜戲 Last Words at Montmartre 蒙馬特遺書 “Lazi Woman, A” 拉子婦 League of Taiwan Student Comrades 台 灣學生同志聯盟會 Leaving Tongfang 離開同方 Lee Teng-hui 李登輝 Legend of the House of Hui’an, The 惠安 館傳奇 Letters Between the Two Zhongs in Taiwan Literature 臺灣文學兩鍾書 Li Ang (Shi Shuduan) 李昂 (施淑端) Li Ao 李敖 Li He 李赫 Li Jinfa 李金髮 Li Ling 李陵 Li Nan 李男 Li Nanheng 李南衡 Li Pan 李磐 (胡蘭成) Li Poetry Society 櫟社 Li Qiao 李喬 Li Qin’an 李勤岸 Li Rongchun 李榮春 Li Rui 李銳 Li Ruiteng 李瑞騰

Li Shangxian 李尚賢 Li Shangying 李商隱 Li Shuangze 李雙澤 Li Wangyang 李望洋 Li Yongping 李永平 Li Yu 李漁 Li Yu 李煜 Li Yuanzhen 李元貞 Li Zhuo 李拙 Lian Yatang (Lian Heng) 連雅堂 (連橫) Liang Mingxiong 梁明雄 Liang Qichao 梁啟超 Liang Rongruo 梁若容 Liang Shanbo 梁山伯 Liang Shiqiu 梁實秋 Lianjing 聯經出版社 Liao Chaoyang 廖朝陽 Liao Leifu 廖蕾夫 Liao Qingxiu 廖清秀 Liao Xianhao 廖咸浩 Liaoning Province 遼寧省 Ligelale Awu 利格拉樂ë阿[女烏] Light 光明報 “Light and Easy” 輕鬆面 Light Rain 微雨 Like a Dream 如夢令 “Like a Road Sign That Looks Ahead and Behind: Introduction to Compendium of Taiwanese-language Literature” 像一座看前顧後的路觀牌 ──台語文學大系總序 Lin Boqiu 林博秋 Lin Chaohui 林朝輝 Lin Chaosong 林朝崧 Lin Chenmo 林沉默 Lin Haiyin 林海音 Lin Hengtai 林亨泰 Lin Huaimin 林懷民 Lin Huanping 林煥平 Lin Jingren 林景仁 Lin Ling 林泠 Lin Qingchi 林清池 Lin Ruiming 林瑞明

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Lin Shaomao 林少貓 Lin Shuangbu 林雙不 Lin Shuanwen 林爽文 Lin Shuguang 林曙光 Lin Wenyue 林文月 Lin Yanggang 林洋港 Lin Yangmin 林央敏 Lin Yaode 林燿德 Lin Yiliang (Song Qi) 林以亮 (宋淇) Lin Yiliang (Stephen Soong) 宋淇 (林 以亮) Lin Yixiong 林義雄 Lin Youchun 林幼春 Lin Yutang 林語堂 Lin Yuyi 林裕翼 Lin Zaijue 林載爵 Lin Zhanmei 林占梅 Lin Zhonglong 林鍾隆 Linbai Press 林白出版社 “Line from Birth to Death, The” 生死線 Ling Shuhua 凌叔華 Lishan Farm 笠山農場 Literary Aesthetics 文藝美學 Literary Annals 文藝春秋 Literary Creation 文藝創作 Literary Criticism in Taiwan Under Japanese Rule 日治時期臺灣文藝評 論集 Literary History of the Beautiful Island 華麗島文學志 Literary History of the Republic of China 中華民國文藝史 Literary News 文訊 Literary Quarterly 文學季刊 Literary Realm 文學界 Literary Review 文學雜誌 Literary Season 文季 Literary Star 文星 Literary Taiwan 文藝台灣 “Literature of the Military Family Village: The Inheritance and Abandonment of Homesickness” 眷村文學──鄉愁的繼承與捨棄

493

“Little Lin Goes to Taiwan” 小林到台灣 Little Theater 小劇場 Little Widow 小寡婦 Liu Fang 劉枋 Liu Jiachang 劉家昌 Liu Kexiang 劉克襄 Liu Mingchuan 劉銘傳 Liu Na’ou 劉吶鷗 Liu Na’ou Diary 劉吶鷗全集—日記集 (上)、(下) Liu Shaoming 劉紹銘 Liu Shaoqi 劉少奇 Liu Yuxi 劉禹錫 “Live History” 活出歷史 Localism 本土主義 Locked Heart, The 心鎖 Long Yingzong 龍瑛宗 “Long-distance Runner, The” 長跑者 Look, Autumn, at This Man! 秋，看這 個人 “Looking Back” 驀然回首 “Looking Back at the Chinese Writers and Artists Association” 回顧中國文 藝協會 “Looking Forward to a New Kind of Literature” 期待一種新文學 “Lord Stubborn” 拗相公 Losing Soldiers Instead of Horses 代馬輸 卒手記 “Lost Age and Hemingway, The” 迷失 的時代與海明威 Lovable Adversary, A 可愛的仇人 “Lower the Flag to Half-mast for May Fourth!” 下五四的半旗 Lu Gang 鹿港 Lu Hanxiu 路寒袖 Lu Jia 路家 Lu Xun 魯迅 Lu Yin 盧隱 Lu Yishi (Ji Xian, Lu Yu) 路易士 (紀弦, 路逾) Lu You 陸游 Luku Mountains 鹿窟山區

494

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lunzhan 論戰 Luo Fu (Mo Luofu) 洛夫 (莫洛夫) Luo Fuxing 羅福星 Luo Jialun 羅家倫 Luo Qing 羅青 Luo Xueliang (Ma Ge) 駱學良 (馬各) Luo Yijun 駱以軍 Luo Zhicheng 羅智成 Luoyang 洛陽 Lü Fu (Lü Anshi) 呂撫 (呂安世) Lü Heruo 呂赫若 Lü Xingchang 呂興昌 Lü Xiulian (Annette Hsiu-lien Lu) 呂秀蓮 Ma Yigong 馬以工 Mainstream 主流 Man from Champagne, The 從香檳來的人 “Man in Qi, The” 齊人 “Man Without a Face” 沒有臉的人 Manchukuo 滿州國 Manchuria Incident 滿州事變 Mandarin Chinese 國語 Mandarin ducks and butterflies fiction 新鴛鴦蝴蝶派文學 “Mangrove Grows Here, The” 紅樹林生 在這裡 Mansha (Wu Mansha, Wu Bingding) 漫沙 (吳漫沙, 吳丙丁) Mao Zedong 毛澤東 marionettes 傀儡戲 Marriage 終身大事 Mask 膜 Masses Daily 民眾日報 “Material for the History of Poetry” 「詩史資料」專欄 May Fourth 五四 “Mayor Yin” 尹縣長 Mazu 馬祖 Meditations on Ah Bang and Kalusi 思索 阿邦ë卡露斯 Meiji 明治 Meinong 美濃 Mencius 孟子 Meng Jiangnü 孟姜女

Meng Lijun 孟麗君 Meng Yao 孟瑤 “Message from the Editors” (笠詩社) 創 刊啟事 Military Literature 軍中文藝 Millennium Locust Tree 千歲檜 Minamoto Yoshitsune 源義經 Ming Bao Monthly 明報月刊 Minnan 閩南 Minxiong High School 民雄高中 “Miscellaneous Thoughts on Literature—Two Types of Atmosphere” 文學雜感— 兩種氣氛 Miscellaneous Verses from Southern Vegetable Garden 南菜園雜詠 Misty Rain and Drifting Snow 雨雪霏 霏：婆羅洲童年記事 Misugi Yoshizô 三杉與志三 Miyazaki Naosuke 宮崎直介 Mizuno Dairo 水野大路 Mo Yan 莫言 Modern Chinese Poetry: Poets from Taiwan, 1955–1965 中國現代詩選 （一九五五──一九六五） Modern Literature 現代文學 Modern Poetry Quarterly 現代詩季刊 Modern Poetry Society 現代詩社 Modernist literary movement 現代文 學運動 Modernist school 現代派 Momiyama Ishoo 籾山衣洲 Monaneng 莫那能 “Monument to a General” 將軍碑 Moonlit Wind 風月報 Mori Ogai 森鷗外 Mori Taijiro 森槐南 Morioka 盛岡 Morning Chime Bell (1931) 曉鐘 Mount Luo Poetry Society 羅山吟社 Mountain Songs of Ma Fantuo, The 馬凡 陀的山歌 Mountain Spirit 山靈

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Mountains and Rivers Across Time 山河歲月 “Mouse Invites a Guest to Tea” 老鼠捧 茶請人客 Movement for Cultural Cleansing 文化 清潔運動 Mulberry Sea, The 滄桑 Murata Yoshimitsu 村田義清 Museum of Taiwan Literature Newsletter 台灣文學館通訊 “My Beast” 我的獸 My Country and My Compatriots 祖國 與同胞 “My First Case” 第一件差事 My Memories of Old Beijing 城南舊事 “My Mother’s Tears” 阿娘的目屎 “My Story of the Chinese Language”自 序文字因緣──《辶日迌》 “Mysterious Revelations of Nature Writing, The” 書寫自然的幽 微天啟 Myths of Eight-Generation Bay 八代灣 的神話 Nagasaki Hiroshi 長崎浩 Nakamura Akira 中村哲 “Nakamura Akira and Long Yingzong: A Conversation on Taiwanese Culture” 中村哲、龍瑛宗之座談 會—關于臺灣的文化 Nanfang Shuo (Wang Xingqing) 南方 朔 (王杏慶) Nantou 南投 National Central University 國立中央 大學 National Cheng Chi University 國立政 治大學 National Cheng Kung University 國立 成功大學 National Dong Hwa University 國立東 華大學 National Literary Prize 國家文藝獎 National Museum of Taiwan Literature 國家文學館 National Salvation Corps 救國團

495

National Sun Yat-sen University 國立中 山大學 National Taipei University of Education 國立臺北教育大學 National Taiwan Normal University 國 立臺灣師範大學 (師大) National Taiwan University 國立台灣 大學 National Tsing Hua University 國立清 華大學 National Yang Ming University 國立陽 明大學 “Nationalist, The” 國民黨 Nativist literature debate 鄉土文學論戰 Natural Hualian 自然花蓮 New Central Cross-Island Highway 新 中橫公路 New Culture movement 新文化運動 New Land Press 新地出版社 New Life Daily 新生報 New Literary Arts 新文藝 New Literature Monthly (1936) 新文學 月報 New Literature movement 新文學運動 New Mother of Mencius, The 新孟母 New Peak Newspaper 新高新報 New People’s Gazette 新民報 New Poetry debate 新詩論戰 New Poetry Weekly 新詩周刊 New Taiwan Daily 台灣日日新報 New Taiwan Journal 台灣新報 New Taiwan Literature (1935–1937) 台灣 新文學 New Taiwan Literature Under Japanese Occupation 日據下台灣新文學Ň明集 New Taiwan People’s Daily 台灣新民報 New Taiwanese Culture 臺灣新文化 New Youth 新青年 Newsletter of Literary Friends 文友通訊 “Newsletter of Literary Friends: Correspondence Between Zhong Zhaozheng and Zhong Lihe” 文友通 訊: 鍾肇政、鍾理和

496

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“Newspaper Boy, The” 送報伕 “Newspaper Literary Supplements and the Nobel Prize in Literature: A Personal Reflection” 台灣報紙副刊 與諾貝爾文學獎──個人的回顧和 隨想 Ngo Dinh Diem 吳廷琰 Nigaki Kōichi 新垣宏一 “Night Monkey” 夜猿 “Night Mooring at Maple Bridge” 楓橋夜泊 Nishikawa Mitsuru 西川滿 “Nostalgia” 鄉愁 “Not Our Paradise” 天國不是我們的 “Notes from the Editors of Epoch Poetry Quarterly” （《創世紀》）編輯人 手記 “Notes of a Poet” 詩人手札 “Notes on the Publication of Essays on Nativist Literature” 《鄉土文學討論 集》出版說明 Nübing zizhuan 女兵自傳 Obashi Hyoken 大橋豹軒 Ocean 海洋 “Ocean Tide Loves Me Best: A Dialogue Between Sun Dachuan and Xiaman Lanpoan” 只有海浪最愛我──孫大 川對談夏曼·藍波安 “Ocean Voyage” 海之旅 Old Capital 古都 Old Xu (Xu Kunquan) 老徐 (徐坤泉) “On Bai” 說稗 “On Building a Literary Scene in Taiwan” 臺灣文壇建設論 “On Chen Yingzhen” 試論陳映真 “On Education and Entertainment: A Supplement to the Principle of People’s Livelihood” 民生主義育樂 兩篇補述 “On Ku’er: Reflections on Ku’er and Ku’er Literature in Contemporary Taiwan” 酷兒論──思考當代台灣 酷兒與酷兒文學

“On Li Jinfa: Founder of the Symbolist School of New Poetry” 象徵詩派的 創始者李金髮 “On Prose Poetry” 論散文詩 On Reading 談看書 “On Reading ‘A Comparison of Old and New Literature’ in the Taiwan Daily News” 讀台日紙的「新舊文學之比 較」 “On Reforming Classical Chinese” 漢文 改革論 (上) “On Reforming the Taiwanese Vernacular” 黃純青臺灣話改造論 “On Symbolist Poetry and Chinese New Poetry: A Rejoinder to Professor Su Xuelin” 論象徵派與中國新詩──兼 致蘇雪林先生 “On Taiwan’s Nativist Literature” 臺灣 的鄉土文學論 “On the Future of Taiwanese Literature” 論台灣文學的將來 “On the New Mission to Promote Vernacular Writing” 論普及白話文 的新使命 “On the Predicament of Modern Chinese Poets” 中國現代詩 人的困境 “On the Special Issue of Retrospect” 寫 在「回顧」專號的前面 “On Yu Guangzhong’s Sirius the Dog Star” 論余光中的 《天狼星》 “On Zhang Ailing” 論張愛玲 Once 曾經 One Man’s Bible 一個人的聖經 One Thousand Pieces of Gold 千金譜 “One Year of Modern Literature” 《現代 文學》一年 “One’s Own Sky” 自己的天空 “Open Letter to Guo Lianghui, An” 給 郭良蕙女士的一封公開信 “Open Letter to Mr. Shiwai, An” 給世外 民的公開書 Orchid Fan 蘭花扇

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Orion Theater 獵人座 Orphan in the World 人間孤兒 Orphan of Asia, The 亞細亞的孤兒 Osaka Morning News (Taiwan edition) 大阪朝日新聞 (台灣版) Osanai Kaoru 小山內薰 “Our Nation’s Literary Scene This Year” 一年來的我國文壇 “Our Propositions” 吾輩的主張 Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature, An 台灣文學史綱 Ouyang Zi (Hong Zhihui) 歐陽子 (洪智惠) “Ouyang Zi’s Autumn Leaves” 歐陽子的 《秋葉》 “Overseas Art Scene” 海外藝壇 “Oxcart” 牛車 “Oxcart for Dowry, An” 嫁妝一牛車 “Painful Confession, A” 沉痛的告白 Painting of Chicken Plumage, A 雞翎圖 Paiwan tribe 排灣族 Pan Qinxin 潘欽信 Pan Xinchuan 潘新傳 Pan-Blue 泛藍 Pan-Green 泛綠 Passerby, The 過客 “Past, The” 過去 “Past Decade of Taiwan Literature (1965–1975)—with Remarks on Wang Wenxing’s Family Catastrophe, The” 十年來台灣小說 1965– 1975──兼論王文興的《家變》 “Past, Present, and Future of Taiwan Literature, The” 臺灣的文學的過 去、現在和未來 Pastorale 田園生活 “Path of Bridge—Report on the Second Writers’ Gathering, The” 橋的路—— 第二次作者茶會總報告 “Peace in the Family” 闔家平安 “Peach Blossom Spring” 桃花源 Peking 北京 Pen Assembly Monthly 筆匯

497

Peng Ge (Yao Peng) 彭歌 (姚朋) Peng Pinguang 彭品光 Peng Ruijin 彭瑞金 Peng Xiaoyan 彭小妍 Peng Zhen 彭真 Penghu 澎湖 People’s Journal 民報 People’s Republic of China (PRC) 中華 人民共和 “Perspective on Prose, A” 劉克襄散文觀 Ping Lu 平路 Ping Xintao 平鑫濤 Pingdong 屏東 “Plato’s Hair” 柏拉圖之髮 Plucking Stars 摘星 Poems from the Carefree Thatched Hut 無 悶草堂詩存 Poems of the Beautiful Island 華麗島詩集 Poems of the Masters 千家詩 Poet of Blood and Iron: Wu Zhuoliu, The 鐵血詩人吳濁流 “Poet’s Vision, The” 詩人之視境 Poetry Bell 擊缽吟 Poetry Gazette 詩報 “Poetry Is Poetry; Song Is Song; We Do Not Say ‘Poem-Song’” 詩是詩歌是歌 我們不說詩歌 “Poetry Snippets: On Highbrow” 有關 於詩的點點滴滴─兼談 High brow Political Diary of a Fiction Writer, The 小 說家的政治周記 Popular Historical Romance of the Twenty-four Histories 二十四史通俗 演藝 “Porcelain Guanyin” 瓷觀音 “Postscript to On the Island’s Edge” 跋ë 《在島嶼邊緣》 Predestined Marriage 姻緣路 “Preface to Heteroglossia” 《眾聲喧嘩》 序 “Preface to Mountain Spirit” 《山靈》序

498

glos sa ry

“Preface to Selected Poems of the 1960s” 《六○年代詩選》緒言 “Preface to Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers: Replies to Inquiries” 《當代中國大陸作家叢 刊》總序──為本叢刊出版答客問 “Preface to Taiwanese Writers: Complete Works (Short Stories)” 《台灣作家全 集》 緒言 “Preface to the Japanese Edition of The Orphan of Asia”《亞細亞的孤兒》 自序 “Preface to the New Edition of Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign”《降生十 二星座》 新版自序 “Preface to Thirty Stormy Years: The Predicament Facing the Newspaper Literary Supplement in Taiwan at Present and a Way Out” 《風雲三十 年》序──當代我國報紙副刊的困 境與突破 “Preface to Three-Three Journal” 《三三 集刊》序 “Preface: Just Who Is the Devil with a Chastity Belt?” 自序：誰才是那戴貞 操帶的魔鬼 “Proposal for the Direction of New Taiwan Literature, A” 對臺灣新文學 路線的一提案 “Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing, A” 建 設「臺灣話文」一提案 “Prospect of Popular Literature, The” 《大衆文藝》待望 （《南音》 卷頭語） “Prospect of Taiwanese Literature, The” 　台灣文學的展望 Providence University 靜宜大學 Pu Feng 蒲風 Pure Literature 純文學 Purple Love 紫色的愛 “Pursuit and Disappearance of Utopia, The” 烏托邦的追尋與幻滅

Qi (Ye Rongzhong) 奇 (葉榮鐘) Qi Bangyuan 齊邦媛 Qi Jun 琦君 Qi Rushan 齊如山 Qian Gechuan 錢歌川 Qian hexagram 乾卦 Qian Hongjun 錢鴻鈞 Qian Zhongshu 錢鍾書 Qiantang 錢塘 Qideng Sheng 七等生 “Qideng Sheng’s ‘Polio’ Style” 七等生「 小兒麻痺」的文體 Qin Zihao 覃子豪 Qing Bo 青勃 Qing dynasty 清朝 Qiu Chuanghuan 邱創煥 Qiu Guifen 邱貴芬 Qiu Miaojin 邱妙津 Qiu Qiqi 邱七七 Quan Wulang 權五郎 Quelling the Demons 平妖傳 “Question of Nativization in Taiwan Literature at the Present Stage, The” 現階段台灣文學本土化的問題 “Questions and Answers Concerning Taiwanese Literature” 「臺灣文學」 問答 Rain 雨 “Random Talk on New Poetry No. 4— Whither It Goes?” 新詩閒話之四 “Random Thoughts: Author’s Preface” 有感 “Recollections from Point Zero” 零點 的回顧 Record of Literature and Art (《漢書》) 藝文志 Record of Police Reform in the Office of the Taiwan Governor-General 台灣總督府 警察沿革志 Records of Ancient Affairs 古事記 Records of the Grand Historian 史記 “Recovering Our Names” 恢復我們的 姓名

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Reform 改造 Remains of Life 餘生 Reminiscing About Several PostRetrocession Literary Periodicals 懷念 光復後幾本文藝期刊 “Ren Xiulan” 任秀蘭 rentong 認同 “Reply to Su Wu” 答蘇武書 Republican era 民國時期 “Responsibility of the Literati on the Island” 島內文人應負的任務 “Retrospect on Thirty Years of Taiwan Literary Arts” 細屬滄桑話當年── 卅年來《台灣文藝》出版的回顧 “Revelation Amid Sacrifice” 覺悟下的 犧牲 Rice-Sprout Song, The 秧歌 Riichi Yokomitsu 橫光利一 “River Merchant’s Village, The” 長干行 Romance of the Three Kingdoms 三國演義 Romances 傳奇 Rose, Rose, I Love You 玫瑰玫瑰我愛你 Royal Palm Boulevard 椰林大道 “Sacrificing a Life to Literature Is Nothing to Boast About” 拼命文章 不足誇 Sakaguchi Reiko 坂口ネ零子 Salt Zone Society 鹽分地帶 San Mao 三毛 Sandwich Man, The 兒子的大玩偶 Sato Haruo 佐藤春夫 “Saving a Boatload of Starlight: The Story of How Mr. Wang Tiwu Gave Financial Assistance to Young Writers” 留住一船星輝 Sayonara, Zaijian 莎喲娜拉ë再見 Scar Medal 疤勳章 “Science and Poetry” 科學與詩 Second High School of Tainan 台南二 中 Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land 暗戀 桃花源

499

“Select Cartoons” 漫畫選粹 Selected Poems from the 1960s 六十年代 詩選 Selected Works of Native Writers 本省籍 作家作品選集 Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers 當代中國大陸作家叢刊 Series in Contemporary Taiwan Writers 當代中國台灣作家叢刊 Series on Young Writers of Taiwan Province 台灣省青年文學叢書 Setting Moon 落月 “Setting Out from Feelings” 從感覺 出發 Seven Heroes and the Five Gallants, The 七俠五義 Seven Swords and Thirteen Swordsmen 七劍十三俠 “Shadow Chaser, The” 索影人 shadow puppets 皮影戲 Shang Qin (Luo Xianheng) 商禽 (羅顯烆) Shangdong 山東 Shanghai 上海 Shanghai shishi xinbao 上海時事新報 Shao Yong 邵雍 “She Is a True Student of China: On Reading Zhang Ailing on Reading” 她是中國嫡傳──讀張愛玲先生『 談看書』的一點感傷 “She Waves the Flag: Preface to Ping Lu’s New Collection Who Killed XXX?” 旗正飄飄──為平路新書作 序平路《是誰殺了xxx》 Shen Congwen 沈從文 Shen Fu 沈復 Shenbao 申報 shengming gongtongti 生命共同體 Shenzhen 深圳 Shi Cuifeng 施翠峰 Shi De 拾得 Shi Mingzheng 施明正 Shi Naian 施耐庵

500

glos sa ry

Shi Nulai 施努來 Shi Shu 施淑 Shi Shuqing 施叔青 Shima Rikuhei (Uchiyama Atsumu) 志馬陸平(中山侑) Shimada Kinji 島田謹二 Shimazaki Tōson 島崎藤村 shige 詩歌 shishe 詩社 Shiwai Min 世外民 Short Story Award from the China Times 中國時報短篇小說獎 “Should the Ban on May Fourth and 1930s Writings Be Lifted?” 宜否開放 五四及三十年代的作品 shufang 書房 Shui Jing 水晶 Shui Yinping (Yang Chichang) 水蔭萍 (楊熾昌) Shuowen 說文 Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 Sichuan 四川 Silver Bell Society 銀鈴會 Sima Sangdun 司馬桑敦 Sima Zhongyuan 司馬中原 Singing for Joy 為幸福而歌 Sinking 沉淪 Sinocentrism 中國中心主義、大中國 主義 Sirius the Dog Star 天狼星 sishu 私塾 Sitwell, Edith 雪脫維爾 “Sixi’s Obsessions” 四喜憂國 Sixteen Lectures on Literature of the East 東洋文藝十六講 “Sleeping Lotus” 睡蓮 Sleepwalk 1994 夢遊 1994 “Snow White” 白雪公主 Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services 皇民奉公會 Solitary Spirits League 孤魂聯盟 “Solitary Spirits League and the Anarchist Theater Movement, The” 孤魂聯盟與無政府主義之演劇運動

“Something Out of Nothing: On Improvisation and Theater” 無中生 有的戲劇─關於「即興創作」 Song Dongyang (Chen Fangming) 宋冬 陽 (陳芳明) “Song of Everlasting Sorrow” 長恨歌 Song Zelai (Liao Weijun) 宋澤萊 (廖偉竣) Songs of the South 楚辭 Sourcebook of the 1930 Debate over Nativist Literature in Taiwan 1930年 代臺灣鄉土文學論戰資料 彙編 South, The 南方 South Asia Movie Theater 東南戲院 South Poetry Society 南社 Southern Voice 南音 Spirit of Body and Soul, The 靈肉之道 St. John’s University 聖約翰大學 Star Dust 星塵 Starlight Theater Research Society 星光 演劇研究會 Stars Café 明星咖啡館 “Starting from the Flaws of Taipei Characters: On the Method and Practice of Literary Criticism” 從「 臺北人」的缺失說起─論文學批評 的方法與實踐 “Steelyard, A” 一桿稱仔 “Story of the Skilled Litigant, The” 善訟 的人的故事 “Story of Yingying, The” 會真記、 西廂記 Strange Tale of the Fan of Admonition for Women 女誡扇綺譚 Strange Tales from the Leisure Studio 聊 齋誌異 Study Lamp 學燈 Study of Chinese History, A 支那史研究 Su Qing 蘇青 Su Weizhen 蘇偉貞 Su Xuelin 蘇雪林 “Summer Mist” 夏日煙雲 Sun Dachuan 孫大川

glos sary

Sun Fuyuan 孫伏園 Sun Moon New Theater Troupe 日月新 劇團 Sun Weimang 孫瑋芒 Sun Yat-sen Hall 中山堂 Sun Yunxuan 孫運璿 Survey of Taiwan in the Sixth Month of the Bing Shen Year 丙申六月巡臺篇 Suzhou 蘇州 Suzuki Torao 鈴木虎雄 Swallows in the Houses of the Powerful 王 謝堂前的燕子 “Sympathy in the Mortal World: To Readers Regarding Rain” 同情在人 間──為《雨》告讀者 Taigong Wang 太公望 Taijiro Collection 槐南集 “Taili” 苔莉 Tainan 台南 Taipei 台北 Taipei Characters (a.k.a. Taipei People) 台 北人 Taipei City Public Auditorium 台北公 會堂 Taipei Imperial University 台北帝國 大學 Taipei National University of the Arts 台 北藝術大學 Taipei Theater Fellowship 台北劇場聯 誼會 Taisho 大正 Taiwan Art Research Association 台灣 藝術研究會 Taiwan Artists Association 臺灣文藝家 協會 Taiwan Arts 台灣藝術 Taiwan bungei (Taiwan Literary Arts) 台灣文藝 Taiwan Conquest Collection 征臺集 “Taiwan Consciousness of the Taiwanese People” 台灣人的台灣 意識 Taiwan Culture Association 臺灣文化 協會

501

Taiwan Daily 台灣時報 Taiwan Daily News (Chinese edition) 台灣日日新報 (漢文版) Taiwan Drama Research Society台灣演 劇研究會 Taiwan Folklore 民俗台灣 Taiwan Forsythia 台灣連翹 Taiwan Literary Arts (1934–1936) 台灣 文藝 Taiwan Literary Arts (1944) 台灣文藝 Taiwan Literary Arts (1964–) 台灣文藝 Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance 臺灣文藝 聯盟 Taiwan Literary Gazette 臺灣文藝叢誌 Taiwan Literary Research Society 台灣 文藝研究會 Taiwan Literary Society 臺灣文社 Taiwan Literature (1941–1943) 台灣文學 Taiwan New Cinema 台灣新電影 Taiwan New Journal 台灣新報 Taiwan New People’s Daily 臺灣新民報 Taiwan News literary supplement 台灣 新聞文藝欄 Taiwan People’s Daily 台灣民報 (日報) Taiwan People’s Journal Weekly 台灣民 報周刊 Taiwan People’s Times 台灣大眾時報 Taiwan Poetry: A Collection 臺灣詩薈 Taiwan Poets Association 台灣詩人協會 Taiwan Public Forum 台灣公論 Taiwan Strait 台灣海峽 Taiwan Trilogy 台灣三部曲 Taiwan wenshe 台灣文社 Taiwan Youth 台灣青年 Taiwanese consciousness debate 台灣 意識論戰 “Taiwanese Dialect Literature as I See It” 關於台灣方言文學之我見 Taiwanese Folk Songs 臺灣國風 Taiwanese People’s Newspaper 台灣民報 Taiwanese People’s Party 臺灣民眾黨 Taiwanese Poetics Quarterly 台灣詩學 季刊

502

glos sa ry

“Taiwanese Theater in the Current Stage of Development” 現階段的臺 灣演劇 Taiwanese Trilogy 台灣人三部曲 Taiwanese vernacular-script debate 台灣 話文論戰 “Taiwanese Writers Whose Works Burst with Local Color” 作品充滿鄉土色彩 的台灣作家 Taiya 泰雅族 Taizhong 台中 Takarazuka Theater 寶塚劇場 Takasu Yoshijiro 高須芳次郎 Takayama Bonseki (Chen Huoquan) 高 山凡石 (陳火泉) “Take Pains to Read, Take Care to Evaluate Family Catastrophe” 苦讀細 評談《家變》 Takemura Mo 竹村猛 Takita Teiji 瀧田貞治 Tale of Blood and Tears 恩仇血淚記 “Tale of Chikan, A” 赤崁記 Tale of Genji, The 源氏物語 Tale of the Lychee and the Mirror (Chen San and Wu Niang) 荔鏡記 （陳三五娘） “Talking About Newspapers from Home” 待廬談報 Tamkang University 淡江大學 Tang Jinfu 唐金富 Tang Jingsong 唐景崧 Tang Jisong 唐吉崧 Tang Wenbiao (Xie Chaoshu) 唐文標 (謝朝樞) Tang Yingshen 湯英伸 tanka 短歌 Tanzi 潭子 Tao tribe 達悟族 Tao Yuanming 陶淵明 “Taroko 1989” 太魯閣ë一九八九 “Temple Courtyard” 廟庭 “Ten Years of Flowing River” 流水十 年間

Ten-Day Newspaper 旬報 That Evening We Performed Comic Dialogue 那一夜、我們說相聲 Theater 劇場 Thirty Years of Literature from the Literary Supplement to the United Daily: A Compendium (Historical Material) 聯 副三十年文學大系ë史料卷 This World, This Life 今生今世 Thorny Road 荊棘之道 “Thorny Road Continues, The” 荊棘之 道繼續著 Three Books of Life 人生三書 Three Gorges 三峽 Three Kingdoms, The 三國志 Three People’s Principles 三民主義 Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette 三六九小報 Three-Three Bookstore 三三書坊 Three-Three Journal 三三集刊 Tiananmen Incident on June 4th 六四 天安門事件 Tianma 天馬 (茶房) Times Change, Things Happen 時移事往 “To My Brother, Who’s Drafted a Second Time” 給再受召的弟弟 “To Readers” 告讀者 “To the Poet Ya Xian” 致詩人瘂弦 “To the Reader” 致讀者 “To the Reader: Preface to the Unitas Edition of Complete Works of Luo Zhicheng” 致讀者──《羅智成作品 集》聯文版總跋 Toho Theater 東寶 (戲院) Tokunaga Sunao 德永直 Tongan 同安 Torch 火炬 “Toward a New Departure in Modernism: Thoughts on the Recent Production of Waiting for Godot” 現 代主義底再開發─演出《等待果 陀》底隨想

glos sary

“Town of Papaya Trees” 植有木瓜樹的 小鎮 Tôrôza 螳螂座 “Translingual Generation of Poets: Beginning with the Silver Bell Society, The” 跨越語言一代的詩人 們──從銀鈴會談起 Travels of Lao Can, The 老殘遊記 “True Account of a Fowl Crime Cracked in Three Hours, A” 三小時破案記 True Story of Ah Q, The 阿Q正傳 “Truth Is a Kind of Beauty” 真實就是 一種美 Tsai Ming-liang 蔡明亮 Tsukiji Little Theater (Tsukiji Sho-Gekijo) 築地小劇場 Tung Hai University 東海大學 Turtle with Nine Tails 九尾龜 “Two Kinds of Spirit in Taiwanese Literature: A Comparison of Yang Kui and Zhong Lihe” 臺灣文學的兩 種精神──楊逵和與鍾理和之比較 “Two Types of Literary Mind” 兩種文學 心靈—評兩篇聯合報小說獎得獎作 “Ulysses in Taipei” 攸里賽斯在臺北 Uncarved Jade 璞玉 Uncollected Writings [by Zhang Ailing] 補遺 [張愛玲著] “Unhappy New Year, An” 不如意的過年 Union for Ethnic Equality 族群平等 聯盟 Unitas 聯合文學出版社 Unitas Literary Monthly 聯合文學 United Daily 聯合報 United Daily Prize for Literature 聯合報文學獎 Vanguard 先鋒部隊 Vertical and Horizontal 縱橫 “Virgin Boy” 在室男 waishengren 外省人 Walking Past Luojin 行過洛津 “Wandering in the Garden, Waking from a Dream” 遊園驚夢

503

Wang Baiyuan 王白淵 Wang Can 王燦 Wang Dengshan 王登山 Wang Dewei 王德威 Wang Dingjun 王鼎鈞 Wang Guowei 王國維 Wang Hongjun 王洪鈞 Wang Jingquan 王井泉 Wang Lan 王藍 Wang Meng’ou 王夢鷗 Wang Qimei 汪其楣 Wang Rende 王仁德 Wang Sheng 王昇 Wang Song 王松 Wang Tiwu 王惕吾 Wang Tuo (Wang Hongjiu) 王拓 (王紘久) Wang Wande 王萬德 Wang Wei 王維 Wang Wenxing 王文興 Wang Yanru 王琰如 Wang Youhua 王幼華 Wang Zhenhe 王禎和 Wansheng 灣生 War of Resistance of Eight Years 八年抗戰 Waseda University 早稻田大學 Water Margin, The 水滸傳 “Way, The” 道 We All Grew Up This Way 我們都是這 樣長大的 We Have Only One Earth 我們只有一 個地球 “Wedding, The” 婚禮 Wei Qingde 魏清德 Wei Run’an 魏潤庵 Wei Yong 魏鏞 Wen Longde 溫龍德 Wen Xin (Xu Bingcheng) 文心 (許炳成) Wen Yuan 文苑 Weng Baoshu 翁寶樹 Weng Nao 翁鬧

504

glos sa ry

West Lake 西湖 “Where Does the Sound of the Bell at the Cemetery Come From” 墳地哪裡 來的鐘聲 “Where Is Literature Without Human Nature?” 不談人性何有文學 Whirlwind 旋風 “White Net” 白色的網 White Terror 白色恐怖 “Who Is Going to Wear My Beautiful Knit Dress?” 誰來穿我編的美麗衣裳 “Why Can’t Taiwan’s Art Scene Advance?” 臺灣的藝術界為何不能 向上？ “Why Not Promote Nativist Literature?” 怎樣不提倡鄉土文學 Wife’s Secret, The 妻的秘密 Windmill Poetry Journal 風車詩誌 Wintry Night 寒夜 “Women of Republican China” 民國女子 Women Writers’ Association of the Province of Taiwan 台灣省婦女寫 作協會 Women’s Fate 女兒紅 Works of Wu Zhuoliu 吳濁流作品集 World Knowledge 世界知識雜誌 “World of Mountains and Seas: Preface to the Inaugural Issue of the Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly, The” 山海世界──《山海文化》 雙月刊創刊號序文 “Writing a Literature with a Nationality” 寫有國籍的文學 “Writing on the Wall” 寫在牆上 Written on Water 流言 “Wrongful Death of Cui Ning, The” 錯斬崔寧 Wu Cangzhou 吳滄洲 Wu Degong 吳德功 Wu Dehe 吳得合 Wu Han 吳晗 Wu He (Chen Guocheng) 舞鶴 (陳國城)

Wu Kunhuang 吳坤煌 Wu Mansha (Wu Bingding) 吳漫沙 (吳丙丁) Wu Mingyi 吳明益 Wu Naide 吳乃德 Wu Nianzhen 吳念真 Wu Sanlian Prize for Literature 吳三連 文學獎 Wu Shenrun 吳身潤 Wu Xinrong 吳新榮 Wu Yingtao 吳瀛濤 Wu Yongfu 巫永福 Wu Yueqing 武月卿 Wu Zhuoliu 吳濁流 Wu Zhuoliu Prize for Literature 吳濁流 文學獎 Wufeng 霧峰 Wuhan 武漢 Wuling 武陵 Wushe Incident 霧社事件 Xi Murong 席慕蓉 Xi’an 西安 Xia Ji’an 夏濟安 Xia Mianzun 夏丏尊 Xia Yu 夏宇 Xia Zhifang 夏之芳 Xia Zhiqing 夏志清 Xia Zhujiu 夏鑄九 Xiaman Lanpoan 夏曼ë藍波安 Xiamen 廈門 Xian Si 咸思 Xiang Yang (Lin Qiyang) 向陽 (‫ع‬ଣ⽲) “Xiangtu wenxue: Its Merits and Demerits” 鄉土文學的功與過 Xiao Hong 蕭紅 Xiao Lin Comes to Taipei 小林來台北 Xiao Qin 蕭勤 Xiao Sa 蕭颯 Xiao Ye 小野 Xie Bingying 謝冰瑩 Xie Changting (Frank Hsieh) 謝長廷 Xie Chunde 謝春德

glos sary

Xie Tu 謝塗 Xie Wanchuan 謝萬川 Xie Xuehong 謝雪紅 Xie Xueyu 謝雪漁 Xie Youding 謝有丁 Xie Zhaozhen 謝肇禎 Xilai Convent Incident 西來庵事件 Xin An 辛盫 Xin Qiji 辛棄疾 Xin Zhuang 辛莊 Xinpu 新埔 Xinzhu 新竹 Xiong Hong 夐虹 Xu Bingcheng 許炳成 Xu Cheng 徐澂 Xu Dishan 許地山 Xu Hao 徐灝 Xu Junya 許俊雅 Xu Kunquan 徐坤泉 Xu Nancun (Chen Yingzhen, Chen Yongshan) 許南村 (陳映真, 陳永善) Xu Shanmu 許山木 Xu Shen 許慎 Xu Shiqing 許世清 Xu Xu 徐訏 Xu Zhimo 徐志摩 Xuedeng 學燈 Ya Xian (Wang Qinglin) 瘂弦 (王慶麟) Yan Xi (Qiu Nan) 言曦 (邱楠) Yan Yuanshu 顏元叔 Yan’an 延安 Yanfen didai 鹽分地帶 Yanfeng Drama Troupe 炎峰劇團 Yang Hua 楊華 Yang Jiang 楊絳 Yang Kui 楊逵 Yang Mu (Wang Jingxian) 楊牧 (王靖獻) Yang Muyuan 楊木元 Yang Pinchun (Mei Xun) 楊品純 (梅遜) Yang Qingchu 楊青矗 Yang Songmao 楊松茂 Yang Wanli 楊萬里 Yang Xu 楊旭

505

Yang Zhao 楊照 Yang Zijiang 楊紫江 Yang Ziqiao 羊子喬 Yasui Kiyoshi 安井清 Ye Di 葉笛 Ye Gongchao (George K. C. Yeh) 葉公超 Ye Ni 葉泥 Ye Shan (Wang Jingxian) 葉珊 (王靖獻) Ye Shitao 葉石濤 Ye Weilian (Wai-lim Yip) 葉維廉 Yi Jin 易金 Yidong Liang (Yang Kui) 伊東亮 （楊逵） Yige 一戈 Yilan 宜蘭 Yin Di 隱地 Yin Xueman 尹雪曼 Yin Zhengxiong 銀正雄 Ying Poetry Society 瀛社 Yo Yo Ma 馬友友 Yokogawa Toyo 橫川唐陽 Yongle Theater 永樂座 Young Lion Literary Arts 幼獅文藝 “Youth and Taiwan (II): Ideal and Reality of the New Drama Movement” 青年與臺灣（二）── 新劇運動的理想與現實 Yu Dafu 郁達夫 Yu Guangzhong 余光中 Yu Tiancong 尉天驄 Yu Wei 虞為 Yu Wen (Liao Hanchen) 毓文 (廖漢臣) Yu Yonghe 郁永河 Yu Yuhuo 余玉火 Yuan brothers 袁氏兄弟（袁宗道、袁 宏道、袁中道） Yuan Mei 袁枚 Yuan Qiongqiong 袁瓊瓊 Yuanli 苑裡 Yuanlin 員林 Yuanshan 圓山 Yuanxing Press 遠行出版社 Zang Kejia 臧克家

506

glos sa ry

Zen 禪 Zeng Xiangduo 曾祥鐸 Zhan Che 詹澈 Zhan Hongzhi 詹宏志 Zhang Ailing 張愛玲 Zhang Baoqin張寶琴 Zhang Bingling 章炳麟 Zhang Dachun 張大春 Zhang Dai 張岱 Zhang Daofan 張道藩 Zhang Fangzhou 張芳洲 Zhang Fu 章甫 Zhang Guangzheng 張光正 Zhang Guoqing 張國慶 Zhang Hezhou (Chang Hyok-chu) 張赫宙 Zhang Jiuling 張九齡 Zhang Liangze 張良澤 Zhang Longsheng 張隆盛 Zhang Mei 張湄 Zhang Mo 張默 Zhang Qingzhang 張慶璋 Zhang Qishi (Zhang Weixian) 張乞食 (張維賢) Zhang Shenqie 張深切 Zhang Shuzi 張淑子 Zhang Taiyan 章太炎 Zhang Tuowu 張拓蕪 Zhang Wenhuan 張文環 Zhang Wojun 張我軍 Zhang Xianzhong 張獻忠 Zhang Xiaofeng 張曉風 “Zhang Xiaofeng on Prose” 張曉風散 文觀 Zhang Xiguo 張系國 Zhang Xingjian 張星健 Zhang Xiuya 張秀亞 Zhang Yanxun 張彥勳 Zhang Yuan 章緣 Zhang Zai 張載 Zhang Ziping 張資平 Zhanghua 彰化

Zhanghua New Tripod Theater Troupe 彰化鼎新社 Zhanghua Theater Society 彰化新劇社 Zhangzhou 漳州 Zhejiang 浙江 Zheng Chenggong 鄭成功 Zheng Cunqi 鄭村棋 Zheng Huan 鄭煥 Zheng Kunwu 鄭坤伍 Zheng Qingmao 鄭清茂 Zheng Qingwen 鄭清文 Zheng Shuizhi 鄭水枝 Zheng Xipan 鄭溪泮 Zhong Dingwen 鍾鼎文 Zhong Lihe 鍾理和 Zhong Lihe Memorial Museum 鍾理和 紀念館 Zhong Mingde 鍾明德 Zhong Yanhao 鍾延豪 Zhong Zhaozheng 鍾肇政 Zhong Zheng 鍾正 Zhongshan North Road 中山北路 Zhongshan University 中山大學 Zhongwai Magazine 中外雜誌 Zhou Chuanzhi 周傳枝 Zhou Jinbo 周金波 Zhou Mengdie 周夢蝶 Zhou Tianqi 周天啟 Zhou Zhirou 周至柔 Zhou Zuoren 周作人 Zhu De 朱德 Zhu Dianren 朱點人 Zhu Ling 朱鴒 Zhu Ling’s Travels in Wonderland 朱鴒漫 遊仙境 Zhu Shi 朱實 Zhu Tianwen 朱天文 Zhu Tianxin 朱天心 Zhu Xiang 朱湘 Zhu Xin 朱信 Zhu Xining 朱西甯 Zhu Yigui 朱一貴

glos sary

Zhu Yingtai 祝英台 Zhu Ziqing 朱自清 Zhuang Jiaen 莊佳恩 Zhuge Liang 諸葛亮

507

Zong Baihua 宗白華 Zou Difan 鄒荻帆 Zuo’s Annals of the Spring and Autumn Period 左傳

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Chang, Doris T. Women’s Movements in Twentieth-Century Taiwan. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009. Chang, Sung-sheng Yvonne. Modernism and the Nativist Resistance: Contemporary Chinese Fiction from Taiwan. Durham N.C.: Duke University Press, 1993. ——. Literary Culture in Taiwan: Martial Law to Market Law. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004. Chang, Sung-sheng Yvonne, and Michelle Yeh, eds. Contemporary Chinese Literature: Crossing the Boundaries. Special issue of Literature East and West. Austin, Tex.: Department of Middle Eastern Languages and Cultures, 1995. Chen, Lingchei Letty. Writing Chinese: Reshaping Chinese Cultural Identity. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006. Chi, Pang-yuan, and David Wang, eds. Chinese Literature in the Second Half of the Twentieth Century: A Critical Survey. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000. Ching, Leo T.  S. Becoming “Japanese”: Colonial Taiwan and the Politics of Identity Formation. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. Copper, John F. Taiwan: Nation-State or Province? 5th ed. New York: Westview, 2008. Corcull, Stéphane, ed. Memories of the Future: National Identity Issues and the Search for a New Taiwan. Armonk, N.Y.: M.E. Sharpe, 2002. Curtin, Michael. Playing to the World’s Biggest Audience: The Globalization of Chinese Film and TV. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007. Davis, Darrell William, and Ru-Shou Robert Chen. Cinema Taiwan: Politics, Popularity and State of the Arts. London: Routledge, 2007. Deppman, Hsiu-Chuang. Adapted for the Screen: The Cultural Politics of Modern Chinese Fiction and Film. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010. Edmonds, Richard Louis, and Steven M. Goldstein, eds. Taiwan in the Twentieth Century: A Retrospective View. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Faurot, Jeannette L., ed. Chinese Fiction from Taiwan: Critical Perspectives. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1980. Fell, Dafydd. Government and Politics in Taiwan. London: Routledge, 2011. Fix, Douglas L. Conscripted Writers, Collaborating Tales? Taiwanese War Stories. Cambridge, Mass.: Fairbank Center, 1994. Gold, Thomas B. State and Society in the Taiwan Miracle. Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1986. Goldblatt, Howard, ed. Worlds Apart: Recent Chinese Writing and Its Audiences. Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1990. Guy, Nancy. Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2005. Hammer, Christiane. Reif für die Insel. Ein Streifzug durch die taiwanesische Literature in deutscher Übersetzung. Mit einer Auswahlbibliographie [A survey of Taiwanese literature in German translation. With a selective bibliography]. Taiwan Studies Series, no. 14. Bochum: Cathay Skripten, 1999. Harrell, Stevan, and Huang Chün-Chieh. Cultural Change in Postwar Taiwan. Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1994. Heylen, Ann. Japanese Models, Chinese Culture and the Dilemma of Taiwanese Language Reform. Wiesbaden, Germany: Harrassowitz, 2012.

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Heylen, Ann, and Scott Sommers, eds. Becoming Taiwan: from Colonialism to Democracy. Wiesbaden, Germany: Harrassowitz, 2010. Hillenbrand, Margaret. Literature, Modernity, and the Practice of Resistance: Japanese and Taiwanese Fiction, 1960–1990. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Hong, Guo-Juin. Taiwan Cinema: A Contested Nation on Screen. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Hsiau, A-Chin. Contemporary Taiwanese Cultural Nationalism. London: Routledge, 2000. Huang, Hans Tao-Ming. Queer Politics and Sexual Modernity in Taiwan. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2011. Iwabuchi, Koichi. Recentering Globalization: Popular Culture and Japanese Transnationalism. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2002. Kikuchi, Yuko, ed. Refracted Modernity: Visual Culture and Identity in Colonial Taiwan. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007. Kleeman, Faye Yuan. Under an Imperial Sun: Japanese Colonial Literature of Taiwan and the South. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003. Kuo, Jason C. Art and Cultural Politics in Postwar Taiwan. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2000. Lai, Ming-yan. Nativism and Modernity: Cultural Contestations in China and Taiwan Under Global Capitalism. Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 2008. Liao, Ping-hui, and David Der-wei Wang, eds. Taiwan Under Japanese Colonial Rule, 1895–1945: History, Culture, Memory. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006. Lin, Sylvia Li-chun. Representing Atrocity in Taiwan: The 2/28 Incident and White Terror in Fiction and Film. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Lin, Sylvia Li-chun, and Tze-Lan Deborah Sang. Documenting Taiwan on Film: Issues and Methods in New Documentaries. New York: Routledge, 2011. Liu, Kenneth S. H. “Publishing Taiwan: A Survey of Publications of Taiwanese Literature in English Translation.” In The Global Literary Field, ed. Anna Guttman, Michel Hockx, and George Paizis, 200–227. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2006. Lo, Ming-cheng M. Doctors Within Borders: Profession, Ethnicity, and Modernity in Colonial Taiwan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002. Lu, Tonglin. Confronting Modernity in the Cinemas of Taiwan and Mainland China. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Ma, Jean. Melancholy Drift: Marking Time in Chinese Cinema. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2010. Martin, Fran. Situating Sexualities: Queer Representation in Taiwanese Fiction, Film and Public Culture. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2003. Meskill, Johanna M. A Chinese Pioneer Family: The Lins of Wu-Feng, Taiwan, 1729–1895. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1979. Moskowitz, Marc, ed. Popular Culture in Taiwan: Charismatic Modernity. London: Routledge, 2010. Mostow, Joshua, ed. Columbia Companion to Modern East Asian Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003. Neder, Christina, and Ines Susanne Schilling, eds. Transformation! Innovation? Perspectives on Taiwan Culture. Wiesbaden, Germany: Harrassowitz, 2003.

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Ngo, T. W., and Hong-zen Wang. Politics of Difference in Taiwan. London: Routledge, 2011. Parry, Amie Elizabeth. Interventions into Modernist Cultures: Poetry from Beyond the Empty Screen. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007. Phillips, Steven E. Between Assimilation and Independence: The Taiwanese Encounter Nationalist China, 1945–1950. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2003. Rawnsley, Ming-Yeh. Cultural and Social Change in Taiwan: Society, Cinema and Theatre. London and New York: Routledge, 2011. Rigger, Shelly. Taiwan’s Rising Rationalism: Generations, Politics, and “Taiwanese Nationalism”. Washington, D.C.: East-West Center, 2006. ——. Why Taiwan Matters: Small Island, Global Powerhouse. Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2011. Rubinstein, Murray A., ed. Taiwan: A New History. Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1999. Sang, Tze-lan D. The Emerging Lesbian: Female Same-Sex Desire in Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Schubert, Gunter, and Jens Damm, eds. Taiwanese Identity in the 21st Century: Domestic, Regional and Global Perspectives. Hoboken, N.J.: Taylor & Francis, 2011. Shih, Fang-Long, Stuart Thompson, and Paul Tremlett, eds. Re-writing Culture in Taiwan. London: Routledge, 2008. Shih, Shu-mei. Visuality and Identity: Sinophone Articulations Across the Pacific. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007. Song, Xiaokun. Between Civic and Ethnic: The Transformation of Taiwanese Nationalist Ideologies (1895–2000). Antwerp: Uitgeverij VUBPRESS Brussels University Press, 2009. Storm, Carsten, and Mark Harrison. The Margins of Becoming: Identity and Culture in Taiwan. Wiesbaden, Germany: Harrassowitz, 2007. Tam, Kwok-kan, and Terry Siu-han Yip, eds. Gender, Discourse, and the Self in Literature: Issues in Mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2010. Teng, Emma Jinhua. Taiwan’s Imagined Geography: Chinese Colonial Travel Writing and Pictures, 1683–1895. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004. Thornber, Karen Laura. Ecoambiguity: Environmental Crises and East Asian Literatures. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012. ——. Empire of Texts in Motion: Chinese, Korean, and Taiwanese Transculturations of Japanese Literature. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2009. Tsai, Hui-yu Caroline. Taiwan in Japan’s Empire-Building: An Institutional Approach to Colonial Engineering. London: Routledge, 2009. Tuan, Iris Hsin-chun. Alternative Theater in Taiwan: Feminist and Intercultural Approaches. Amherst, N.Y.: Cambria, 2007. Udden, James. No Man an Island: The Cinema of Hou Hsiao-Hsien. Hong Kong: University of Hong Kong Press, 2009. Wachman, Alan. National Identity and Democratization. Armonk, N.Y.: Sharpe, 1994. Wang, David Der-wei. The Monster That Is History: History, Violence, and Fictional Writing in Twentieth-Century China. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. Wang, David Der-wei, and Carlos Rojas, eds. Writing Taiwan: A New Literary History. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2006.

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513

Weller, Robert P. Alternate Civilities: Democracy and Culture in China and Taiwan. Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1999. Wong, Lisa Lai-Ming. Rays of the Searching Sun: The Transcultural Poetics of Yang Mu. Brussels: P. I. E. Peter Lang, 2009. Yeh, Michelle. Modern Chinese Poetry: Theory and Practice since 1917. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1991. Yeh, Shih-t’ao. An Outline History of Taiwan Literature. Taiwan Writers Translation Series. Santa Barbara: Center for Chinese Studies, University of California, 2007. Yeh, Yueh-yu, and Darrell Davis. Taiwan Film Directors: A Treasure Island. New York: Columbia University Press, 2005. Yip, June Chun. Envisioning Taiwan: Fiction, Cinema, and the Nation in the Cultural Imaginary. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004.

ii. tr ansl ations A. Anthologies Carver, Ann, and Sung-sheng Yvonne Chang, eds. Bamboo Shoots After Rain: Contemporary Stories by Women Writers of Taiwan. New York: Feminist Press, 1990. Chen, Xiaomei, ed. The Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Drama. New York: Columbia University Press, 2010. Cheung, Dominic, trans. The Isle Full of Noises: Modern Poetry from Taiwan. New York: Columbia University Press, 1987. Cheung, Martha, and Jane Lai. An Oxford Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Drama. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1997. Chi, Pang-yuan, John Deeney, Ho Hsin, Wu Hsi chen, and Yu Kwang chung, eds. An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Literature: Taiwan, 1949–1974. 2 vols., Vol. I: Poems and Essays; Vol. II: Short Stories. Taipei: National Institute for Comparative Literature and Translation, 1975. Chi, Pang-yuan, and David Der-wei Wang, eds. The Last of the Whampoa Breed: Stories of the Chinese Diaspora. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003. Droogenbroodt, Germain, and Peter Stinson, eds. China China: Contemporary Poetry from Taiwan, Republic of China. Ninove, Belgium: Point Books, 1986. Haddon, Rosemary, trans. Oxcart: Nativist Stories from Taiwan, 1934–1977. Dortmund, Germany: Projekt Verlag, 1996. Hsu, Vivian, ed. Born of the Same Roots: Stories of Modern Chinese Women. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981. Hung, Eva, ed. City Women: Contemporary Taiwan Women Writers. Hong Kong: Research Centre for Translation, Chinese University of Hong Kong, 2001. ——, ed. Contemporary Women Writers, Hong Kong and Taiwan. Hong Kong: Renditions Paperbacks/Chinese University of Hong Kong Press (Renditions Paperbacks), 1990. Ing, Nancy, trans. and ed. New Voices: Stories and Poems by Young Chinese Writers. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1980.

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——, trans. Summer Glory: A Collection of Contemporary Chinese Poetry. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1982. ——, ed. Winter Plum: Contemporary Chinese Fiction. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1982. Lau, Joseph S. M., ed. Chinese Stories from Taiwan 1960–1970. With the assistance of Timothy A. Ross. New York: Columbia University Press, 1976. ——, ed. The Unbroken Chain: An Anthology of Taiwan Fiction since 1926. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983. Lau, Joseph S. M., and Howard Goldblatt, eds. The Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature. 2nd edition. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007. Lee, Maurice A., ed. The Border as Fiction: Writers of Taiwan. Toronto: Quattro Books, 2006. Lin, Julia C., trans. and ed. Twentieth-Century Chinese Women’s Poetry: An Anthology. Armonk, N. Y.: M.E. Sharpe, 2009. Lobb, Fred, ed. Taiwan Folktales: Proverbs, Folk Sayings, and Folktales from Taiwan. Tainan, Taiwan: Books from Taiwan.com, 2011. Martin, Fran, trans. Angelwings: Contemporary Queer Fiction from Taiwan. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, c2003. Martin, Helmut, and Jeffrey Kinkley, eds. Modern Chinese Writers: Self-Portrayals. Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 1997. Palandri, Angela, ed. Modern Verse from Taiwan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972. Perng, Ching-hsi, and Chiu-kuei Wang, eds. Death in a Cornfield and Other Stories from Contemporary Taiwan. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 1994. Rexroth, Kenneth, and Ling Chung, trans. and eds. The Orchid Boat: Women Poets of China. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1972. Sciban, Shu-ning, and Fred Edwards, eds. Dragonflies: Fiction by Chinese Women in the Twentieth Century. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell East Asia Series, 2003. Soong, Stephen, and John Minford, eds. Trees on the Mountain: An Anthology of New Chinese Writing. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press; Seattle: Distributed by University of Washington Press, 1984. Stewart, Frank, Arthur Sze, and Michelle Yeh, eds. Mercury Rising: Contemporary Poetry from Taiwan. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003. Tam, Kwok-kan, Terry Siu-han Yip, and Wimal Dissanayake, eds. A Place of One’s Own: Stories of Self in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Wang, David Der-Wei, and Jeanne Tai, eds. Running Wild: New Chinese Writers. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993. Wu, Lucian, ed. New Chinese Writing [ from Taiwan]. Taipei: Heritage Press, 1962. Yeh, Michelle, ed. and trans. Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992. Yeh, Michelle, ed. and Dominic Cheung, eds. Exiles and Native Sons: Modern Chinese Stories from Taiwan. Taipei: National Institute for Compilation and Translation, 1992. Yeh, Michelle, and Göran Malmqvist, eds. Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.

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515

Yeh, Michelle, N. G. D. Malmqvist, and Xu Huizhi, eds. Sailing to Formosa: A Poetic Companion to Taiwan. Bilingual anthology. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2005. Yip, Wai-lim, trans. and ed. Modern Chinese Poetry: Twenty Poets from the Republic of China, 1955–65. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1970.

B. Individual Authors Bai, Xianyong. Crystal Boys. San Francisco: Gay Sunshine, 1990. ——. Taipei People. Bilingual ed. Translated by the author and Patia Yasin. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1999. ——. Wandering in the Garden, Waking from a Dream. Translated by the author and Patia Yasin; ed. George Kao. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982, 36–49. Bo, Yang. A Farewell: A Collection of Short Stories. Trans. Robert Reynolds. Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1988. ——. Golden Triangle: Frontier and Wilderness. Trans. Clive Gulliver. Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1987. ——. Poems of a Period. Trans. Stephen L. Smith and Robert Reynolds. Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1986. ——. Secrets: A Collection of Short Stories by Bo Yang. Trans. David Deterding. Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1985. Chen, Ruoxi. The Execution of Mayor Yin and Other Stories from the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1978. ——. The Old Man and Other Stories. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1986. ——. The Short Stories of Rouxi Chen, Translated from the Original Chinese: A Writer at the Crossroads. Trans. Hsin-sheng C. Kao. Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellen, 1992. ——. Spirit Calling: Five Stories of Taiwan. Trans. Lucy H. M. Chen. Taipei: Heritage, 1962. Chen, Yingzhen. Exiles at Home: Stories by Ch’en Ying-chen. Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, University of Michigan, 1986. Guo, Lianghui. Taipei Women. Trans. Constantine Tung; ed. Theresa Wang. Hong Kong/Taipei: KLH New Enterprise, 1983. Guo, Songfen. Running Mother and Other Stories. Trans. John Balcom. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. Hu, Shi. A Collection of Hu Shi’s English Writings. Ed. Chou Chih-p’ing. Taipei: Yuanliu, 1995. Hua, Yan. Daughter of Autumn. Trans. Wen Ha Hsiung. Taipei: Woman Magazine, 1978. ——. Lamp of Wisdom. Trans. Nancy C. Ing. Taipei: Woman Magazine, 1974. Huang, Chunming. The Drowning of an Old Cat and Other Stories. Trans. Howard Goldblatt. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1980. ——. The Taste of Apples. Trans. Howard Goldblatt. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001. Huang, Fan. Zero and Other Fictions. Trans. John Balcom. New York: Columbia University Press, 2011. Li, Ang. The Butcher’s Wife. San Francisco: North Point, 1986. ——. La femme de boucher. Paris: Seuil, 1994. ——. Le jardin des egarements [Mi yuan]. Paris: P. Picquier, 2003. ——. Nuit obscure [An ye]. Trans. Marie Laureillard. Paris: Actes Sud, 2004.

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——. Tuer son mari. Paris: Denoel, 2004. Li, Ao. Martyrs’ Shrine: The Story of the Reform Movement of 1898 in China. Trans. Leo Ding, Tony Wen, and Wu-wu Young. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press, 2000. Li, Yongping. Retribution: The Jiling Chronicles. Trans. Howard Goldblatt and Sylvia Li-chun Lin. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003. Liang, Shiqiu. From a Cottager’s Sketchbook, vol. 1. Trans. Ta-tsun Chen. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2005. ——. Sketches of a Cottager. Trans. Chao-ying Shih. Taipei: Far East Books, 1968. Lin, Haiyin. Green Seaweed and Salted Eggs. Trans. Nancy C. Ing. Taipei: Heritage, 1963. ——. Memories of Peking: South Side Stories. Trans. Nancy Ing and Chi Pang-yuan. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1992. Excerpted as “Memories of Old Peking: Huian Court,” trans. Cathy Poon, Renditions 27–28 (1987): 19–48. Lin, Yutang. The Bilingual Essays of Lin Yutang. Ed. Qian Suoqiao. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2010. ——. Memoirs of an Octogenarian. Taipei/New York: Mei Ya, 1975. Luo, Fu. Death of a Stone Cell. Trans. John Balcom. Monterey, Calif.: Taoren, 1993. ——. Driftwood. Trans. John Balcom. Brookline, Mass.: Zephyr, 2005. ——. Selected Poems of Lo Fu. Trans. Wai-lim Yip et al. Taipei: Flowers of Poetry, 1992. Luo, Lan. The Little Green Cabin. Trans. Penny Herbert. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1989. Luo, Men. The Collected Poems of Lomen: A Bilingual Edition. Trans. and ed. Au Chung-to and Tom Rendall. Taipei: Liberal Arts Press, 2006. Luo, Qing. Forbidden Games and Video Poems: The Poetry of Yang Mu and Lo Ch’ing.  Trans. Joseph Roe Allen III. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1993. Ma, Sen. Flower and Sword. Trans. David Pollard. In An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Drama, ed. Martha Cheung and Jane Lai, 353–73. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Meng, Yao. Talk of the Town. Trans. Edel M. Lancashire. London: Minerva, 1997. Nie, Hualing. Mulberry and Peach. Boston: Beacon, 1981. ——. The Purse: Four Stories of China. Trans. Nieh Hua-ling and Hou Chien. Taipei: Heritage, 1962. Peng, Ge. Love and Revolution: A Novel About Song Qingling and Sun Yat-sen [Xingdao tianya]. Trans. Nancy Du. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006. Shang, Qin. Feelings Above Sea Level: Prose Poems from the Chinese of Shang Qin. Trans. Steven Bradbury. Brookline, Mass.: Zephyr, 2006. ——. The Frozen Torch. Trans. Göran Malmqvist. London: Wellsweep, 1992. Shi, Shuqing. The Barren Years and Other Short Stories and Plays. San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, 1975, 25–32. ——. City of the Queen: A Novel of Colonial Hong Kong. Trans. by Howard Goldblatt and Sylvia Li-chun Lin. New York: Columbia University Press, 2005. Wang, Lan. The Blue and the Black. Trans. David L. Steelman. Taipei: Chinese Materials Center, 1987.

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517

Wang, Wenxing. Backed Against the Sea. Trans. Edward M. Gunn. Ithaca, N.Y.: East Asia Program, Cornell University, 1993. ——. Endless War: Fiction and Essays by Wang Wen-hsing. Eds. Shu-ning Sciban and Fred Edwards. Ithaca, N.Y.: East Asia Program, Cornell University, 2011. ——. Family Catastrophe: A Modernist Novel by Wang Wen-hsing. Trans. Susan Wan Dolling. Honolulu: Hawai‘i University Press, 2013. Wang, Zhenhe. Rose, Rose, I Love You. Trans. H. Goldblatt. New York: Columbia University Press, 1998. Wu, Luqin, ed. New Chinese Stories: Twelve Short Stories by Contemporary Chinese Writers. Taipei: Heritage Press, 1961. Wu, He. Les survivants. Trans. Esther Lin-Rosoato and Emmaulle Pechenart. Arles, France: Actes Sud, 2011. Wu, Zhuoliu. The Fig Tree. Memoirs of a Taiwanese Patriot. Trans. Duncan B. Hunter. Dortmund: Projekt, 1994. ——. Orphan of Asia. Trans. Ioannis Mentzas. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006. Xia, Yu. Fusion Kitsch. Trans. Stephen Bradbury. Brookline, Mass.: Zephyr, 2001. Xiao, Lihong. A Thousand Moons on a Thousand Rivers. Trans. Michelle Wu. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000. Xie, Bingying. Autobiography of a Chinese Girl. Trans. Tsui Chi. London: Allen and Unwin, 1943; reprint, London: Pandora, 1986. ——. Girl Rebel: The Autobiography of Hsieh Pingying, with Extracts from Her New War Diaries. Trans. Adet and Anor Lin. New York: John Day, 1940; reprint, New York: Da Capo, 1975. Xie, Fengzheng. After the Death of Young Werther: Poems. Trans. Howard Goldblatt. Santa Barbara, Calif.: Fithian, 1990. Ya, Xian. Salt: Poems. Translated by the author. Iowa City: Windhover Press, University of Iowa, 1968. Yang, Mu. Forbidden Games and Video Poems: The Poetry of Yang Mu and Lo Ch’ing. Trans. Joseph Roe Allen III. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1993. ——. No Trace of the Gardener: Poems by Yang Mu. Trans. Laurence Smith and Michelle Yeh. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998. ——. Former Book of Mt. Qilai. Trans. John and Yingtsih Balcom. New York: Columbia University Press, forthcoming. Yang, Qingchu. Selected Stories of Yang Ch’ing-ch’u. Bilingual ed. Trans. Thomas Gold. Gaoxiong: Diyi chubanshe, 1983. Ye, Weilian. Between Landscapes: Poems by Wai-Lim Yip. Santa Fe, N.Mex.: Pennywhistle, 1994. Yu, Guangzhong. Acres of Barbed Wire—to China, in Daydreams and Nightmares. Translated by the author. Taipei: Mei Ya, 1971. ——. The Night Watchman. Bilingual ed. Taipei: Jiuge chubanshe, 1992. Zhang, Dachun. Wild Kids: Two Novels About Growing Up. Trans. Michael Berry. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000. Zhang, Guixing. My South Seas Sleeping Beauty: A Tale of Memory and Longing. Trans. Valerie Jaffe. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007.

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Zhang, Xiguo. Chess King. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1986. ——. The City Trilogy: Five Jade Disks, Defenders of the Dragon City, and Tale of a Feather. Trans. John Balcom. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003. Zheng, Qingwen. Magnolia: Stories of Taiwanese Women. Taiwan Writers Translations Series. Santa Barbara: Center for Taiwan Studies, University of California, 2005. ——. The Three-Legged Horse. Ed. Pang-yuan Chi. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. Zhu, Tianwen. Notes of a Desolate Man. Trans. Howard Goldblatt and Sylvia Li-Chuan Lin. New York: Columbia University Press, 1999. ——. The Old Capital: A Novel of Taipei. Trans. Howard Goldblatt. New York: Columbia University Press, 2007.

iii. other resources

A. Publication and Journal Series Routledge Research on Taiwan Series Series editor: Dafydd Fell www.routledge.com/books/series/RRTAIWAN Taiwan Literature: English Translation Series Editors: Kuo-ch’ing Tu and Robert Backus Santa Barbara: Center for Taiwan Studies, University of California, 1996– www.eastasian.ucsb.edu/projects/fswlc/tlsd/research/journalindex.html

B. Websites Contemporary Chinese Writers http://web.mit.edu/ccw/index.html Cultural Taiwan: Sinosphere and Beyond www.laits.utexas.edu/taiwanstudies Modern Chinese Literature and Culture Resource Center: Literature Resources http://mclc.osu.edu/rc/lit.htm Taiwan Literature Studies Database, Forum for the Study of World Literatures in Chinese, University of California, Santa Barbara www.eastasian.ucsb.edu/projects/fswlc/tlsd/dbindex.html

not e s on t h e t r ansl ator s

John Balcom teaches at the Monterey Institute of International Studies and is an award-winning translator of Taiwan literature. Recent publications include After Many Autumns: A Collection of Chinese Buddhist Literature and Huang Fan’s Zero, which won the 2012 Science Fiction & Fantasy Translation Award. Chu-yun Chen holds an MA in English and American literature from National Taiwan University. She taught in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures of the same university from 1970 to 2005. John A. Crespi is the Henry R. Luce Associate Professor of Chinese at Colgate University in Hamilton, New York. In addition to numerous works of translation, he has authored the book Voices in Revolution: Poetry and the Auditory Imagination in Modern China (University of Hawai’i Press, 2009). Michael Martin Day is a Canadian-born scholar of contemporary Chinese poetry. He is an associate professor at National University in San Diego, California, where he has been teaching Chinese literature and history since 2007. A translator of Chinese poetry and fiction and a contributor to numerous journals and collections, he has also curated the poetry section of the University of Leiden’s Digital Archive for Chinese Studies.

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D. Dayton is a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at the University of California, Davis, where his studies have focused on Chinese poetry, translation, and indigenous poetics. He is currently writing his dissertation on modern ethnic minority literature written in Chinese and its role in conceptualizing the Sinophone within world literature and global forms of indigenous poetics. Hsiu-Chuang Deppman is an associate professor of East Asian Studies at Oberlin College. She is the author of Adapted for the Screen: the Cultural Politics of Modern Chinese Fiction and Film (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2010). Susan Dolling was born in Hong Kong, studied in Japan and the United States, and graduated from Princeton with an AB in English and creative writing and a PhD in comparative literature. She has taught at various universities, including Fordham and the University of Texas at Austin. Edward M. Gunn is professor emeritus at Cornell University, where he taught Chinese Literature and Film. He is the author of Rendering the Regional: Local Language in Contemporary Chinese Media (University of Hawai’i Press, 2006), Rewriting Chinese: Style and Innovation in Twentieth-Century Chinese Prose (Stanford University Press, 1991), Twentieth-Century Chinese Drama: An Anthology (Indiana University Press, 1983), and Unwelcome Muse: Chinese Literature in Shanghai and Peking, 1937–45 (Columbia University Press, 1980), as well as a translation of Wang Wenxing’s novel Bei hai de ren (Backed Against the Sea, Cornell East Asian Program, 2011, 1993). Rosemary Haddon is a senior lecturer in Chinese at Massey University, New Zealand. Her publications on Taiwan include Oxcart: Nativist Stories From Taiwan, 1934– 1977; “Being/Not Being at Home in the Writing of Zhu Tianxin” in John Makeham, A-chin Hsiau, eds., Cultural, Ethnic, and Political Nationalism in Contemporary Taiwan: Bentuhua (2005); “Hou Hsiao Hsien’s City of Sadness: History and the Dialogic Female Voice” in Chris Berry, Fei‘i Lu, eds., Island on the Edge: Taiwan New Cinema and After (2005); “From Pulp to Politics: Aspects of Topicality in the Fiction by Li Ang,” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 13, no. 1 (Spring 2001); and other articles, book chapters, and translations. The article “Writing Spirituality in the Works of Can Xue: Transforming the Self,” New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies 13, no. 2 (December 2011) reflects her current research interest in China’s postmodernism. Krista Van Fleit Hang is an assistant professor of Chinese language and culture at the University of South Carolina. Her research interests center around the production of culture in the early years of the PRC. She is finishing a book titled Literature the People Love: Reading Chinese Texts from the Early Maoist Period (1949–1966), to be published by Palgrave Macmillan.

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Robert E. Hegel teaches Chinese literature at Washington University in St. Louis, where he is the Liselotte Dieckmann Professor of Comparative Literature and a professor in the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures. His research centers on vernacular fiction, particularly of the late imperial period. Major publications include Reading Illustrated Fiction in Late Imperial China (Stanford University Press, 1998) and The Novel in Seventeenth Century China (Columbia University Press, 1981). Michael Gibbs Hill teaches Chinese and comparative literature at the University of South Carolina. His first book, Lin Shu, Inc.: Translation and the Making of Modern Chinese Culture, was published by Oxford University Press in 2012. Camilla Hsieh received her PhD in educational psychology from the University of Texas, Austin, where she is senior lecturer in Chinese in the Department of Asian Studies. She and her husband enjoy translating various materials from Chinese to English in their spare time. Alex Huang is a professor of English, East Asian Languages and Literatures, Theatre and Dance, and International Affairs at George Washington University in Washington, D.C., where she is founding co-director of the Digital Humanities Institute, director of the Dean’s Scholars in Shakespeare Program, and director of graduate studies. Her Chinese Shakespeares: Two Centuries of Cultural Exchange (2009, 2011) received several awards, including the Modern Language Association’s Aldo and Jeanne Scaglione Prize. Her new book Weltliteratur und Welttheater: Ästhetischer Humanismus in der kulturellen Globalisierung (World Literature and World Theatre: Aesthetic Humanism in Cultural Globalization, 2012) argues that aesthetic humanism—as a secular investment in shared cultural values—counters various practices of subjugation, as evidenced by the satirical and humorous narratives of Lu Xun, Mo Yan, Lao She, and other writers. Yingtsih Hwang is a retired academic who has translated many literary works into both Chinese and English published in Taiwan and the United States. She also writes a poetry translation blog. Nick Kaldis is director of Chinese Studies at Binghamton University (SUNY) and serves on the editorial boards of Journal of Chinese Cinemas and Modern Chinese Literature and Culture. He has published essays on modern Chinese literature and contemporary Chinese language film, as well as numerous translations. His book Chinese Prose Poetry: A Study of Lu Xun’s Wild Grass is forthcoming from Cambria Press, and he is coediting a collection of nature writing essays by Liu Kexiang. Jeffrey C. Kinkley is a professor of history at St. John’s University, New York. Among his studies and translations of modern Chinese and Taiwanese fiction are

522

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monographs on Shen Congwen, contemporary novels about socialist corruption, and recent highbrow historical novels by writers of Mo Yan’s generation. Faye Yuan Kleeman received her MA from Ochanomizu University and her PhD from the University of California, Berkeley, and teaches at the University of Colorado. She specializes in Japanese colonial literature in Taiwan and Manchuria; Sino-Japanese comparative literature; gender and minority issues in contemporary Japan; Asian films and popular cultures; and translation and transnational theory. Her major publications include Under an Imperial Sun (University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003), Post-war Japanophone Literature (2006), and Murakami Haruki and East Asian Consumerism and Cosmopolitanism (2011). Lucas Klein is an assistant professor in the School of Chinese at the University of Hong Kong. He is a coeditor, with Haun Saussy and Jonathan Stalling, of The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry: A Critical Edition, by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound (Fordham University Press, 2008) and the translator of Notes on the Mosquito: Selected Poems of Xi Chuan (New Directions, 2012). Sabina Knight is the author of The Heart of Time: Moral Agency in Twentieth-Century Chinese Fiction (Harvard University Press, 2006), Chinese Literature: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2012), and many refereed articles, book chapters, translations, and book reviews. Since 1998, she has taught Chinese and comparative literature at Smith College. She was a fellow in the Public Intellectuals Program of the National Committee on U.S.–China Relations in 2011–2013. Valerie Levan received her MA and PhD from the Department of Comparative Literature at the University of Chicago, where she is a lecturer of world literature and literary theory in the Humanities Collegiate Division. Her current research project is a study of the May Fourth–era writer Yu Dafu and his role in the development and articulation of a modern Chinese subjectivity. Peilin Liang is an assistant professor of theater studies at the National University of Singapore. As a researcher and educator in theater studies, she is particularly interested in the performance of postcolonialism, multiculturalism, and minor transnationalism on the contemporary stage of East Asia and the Asia-Pacific region. Her publications have appeared in Theatre Research International, Research in Drama Education, and others. Sylvia Li-chun Lin is an associate professor at the University of Notre Dame, where she teaches modern Chinese literature, film, and culture. Her translations have won the Liang Shih-chiu Literary Translation Prize, Translation of the Year Award, and the 2011 Man Asia Literary Award. Her major publications include Representing

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Atrocity: The 2/28 Incident and White Terror in Fiction and Film (Columbia University Press, 2007), Push Open the Door: Poetry from Contemporary China (Copper Canyon, 2011; coedited), and Documenting Taiwan on Film: Issues and Methods in New Documentaries (Routledge, 2012; coedited). Christopher Lupke received his PhD from Cornell and is currently an associate professor of Chinese at Washington State University, where he also serves as coordinator of Asian Languages. His publications include the two edited volumes The Magnitude of Ming: Command, Allotment and Fate in Chinese Culture (University of Hawai’i Press, 2005) and New Perspectives on Contemporary Chinese Poetry (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). His book The Cinema of Hou Hsiao-hsien is forthcoming from Cambria Press. Paul Manfredi is an associate professor of Chinese and chairs the Chinese Studies Program at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington. His research interests include modern and contemporary Chinese art and poetry. His publications include Modern Poetry in China: A Visual-Verbal Dynamic (Cambria, 2003) and articles in Modern Chinese Literature and Culture, Journal of Modern Literature in Chinese, and Yishu: Journal of Contemporary Chinese Art, among others. He maintains the Chinaavantgarde.com blog and lives with his family in Bellevue, where he also serves on the arts commission. Marshall McArthur teaches Chinese language and culture at the University of Houston. He has served as president of the Texas chapter of the Chinese Language Teacher’s Association, and has done literary translations for various journals. In addition to academic work, he has authored a sketch satire of North Florida titled “Wakulla Loves Jesus” and “WTF Chinese Characters,” a guide to Chinese writing for beginners. Hayes Moore received his PhD in Chinese literature from Columbia University and currently teaches at Bard High School Early College in Queens. His current research interests include approaches to world literature, comparative poetics, and the contemporary short story. His own short stories can be found online at A cappella Zoo, Foliate Oak, White Whale Review, and elsewhere. Thomas Moran is a professor of Chinese at Middlebury College and the editor of Chinese Writers, 1900–1949 (2007) and Chinese Writers, 1950–2000 (2012) in the Dictionary of Literary Biography series published by Thomson Gale. His current research focus is writing on nature and the environment in contemporary China and Taiwan. Kazuko Osada received her PhD from the University of California, Irvine, and is currently an assistant professor at the Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon. Her research focuses on fiction by Japanese, Korean, and Chinese authors in Manchukuo.

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Ihor Pidhainy is a professor of history at Marietta College. He has recently coedited a volume on Wang Wenxing’s writings and is currently working on a biography of the Ming scholar Yang Shen (1488–1559). Christopher G. Rea received his PhD from Columbia University and is currently an assistant professor of modern Chinese literature in the Department of Asian Studies of the University of British Columbia. His recent research, editing, and translating projects include Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts: Stories and Essays by Qian Zhongshu (Columbia University Press, 2011) and special issues of Modern Chinese Literature and Culture, Renditions, and China Heritage Quarterly. He is currently completing a literary and cultural history of laughter in China. Andy Rodekohr is an assistant professor in the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures at Wake Forest University, where he teaches traditional Chinese narrative, Chinese film, popular culture, and Sinophone literature and film. His dissertation (Harvard University, 2012) focuses on the figure of the crowd in modern Chinese literature and visual culture and was excerpted in The Oxford Handbook of Chinese Cinemas (2013) as “Conjuring the Masses: The Spectral/Spectacular Crowd in Chinese Film.” His current research concerns literature and visual culture of 1960s Taiwan. Carlos Rojas is an associate professor of Chinese cultural studies, women’s studies, and arts of the moving image at Duke University. His research focuses on issues of gender and visuality, corporeality and infection, and nationalism and diaspora studies. He is author, editor, or translator of seven volumes, including The Naked Gaze: Reflections on Chinese Modernity (Harvard University Asia Center, 2008). Terrence Russell received his PhD in classical Chinese from the Australian National University and is currently an associate professor of Chinese at the University of Manitoba. He has lived, studied, and taught in Taiwan, mainland China, and Japan. After devoting many years to research on classical Chinese religious literature, he turned his attention to modern Chinese literature, especially the literature of Taiwan’s indigenous peoples. He has taught at the University of Manitoba since 1988 and previously served as acting director of the Asian Studies Centre for five years. Tze-lan Deborah Sang is a professor of Chinese literature and culture in the Department of Linguistics and Germanic, Slavic, Asian, and African Languages at Michigan State University. Among her major publications are The Emerging Lesbian: Female Same-Sex Desire in Modern China (University of Chicago Press, 2003) and Documenting Taiwan on Film: Issues and Methods in New Documentaries (Routledge, 2012; coedited). Her current research focuses on cultural productions in Republican China and contemporary Taiwan.

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Lloyd Sciban is an assistant professor in East Asian Studies at the University of Calgary. He studied in Taiwan for ten years. His research interests are Confucian ethics and the influence of Chinese culture in Canada. His recent publications include “Wang Yangming daode biaozhun de keguan xing” (“The Objectivity of Wang Yangming’s Standards for Moral Decision”) in Yangming xuekan [Journal of Yangming Studies] and translations of Wang Wenxing’s “Bi” [Paralysis] and “Jieshu” [Conclusion] in Endless War: Fiction and Essays by Wang Wen-hsing (East Asia Program, Cornell University, 2011). He is writing a book on the achievements of Chinese Canadians. Shu-ning Sciban is a professor of Chinese and teaches Chinese language and literature at the University of Calgary. She is coauthor with X. J. Yang on Fayin: Mandarin Pronunciation (CD-ROM; Calgary, 2002) and with Catherine Yu and X. J. Yang on Shizi: Chinese Characters (CD-ROM; Calgary, 2003), and coeditor with Fred Edwards on Dragonflies: Fiction by Chinese Women in the Twentieth Century (East Asia Program, Cornell University, 2003) and Endless War: Fiction and Essays by Wang Wen-hsing (Cornell East Asian Program, 2011). Bert M. Scruggs is an assistant professor in the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures at the University of California, Irvine. He has published articles and book chapters on fiction written by Taiwanese authors during the colonial era and contemporary Taiwanese documentary film. Brian Skerratt received his PhD in East Asian Languages and Civilizations from Harvard University in 2013 and is currently teaching modern Chinese literature at the Centre for China Studies of the Chinese University of Hong Kong. His dissertation concerned theories of poetic form in modern China and Taiwan. Anne Sokolsky is an associate professor and chair of the Department of HumanitiesClassics at Ohio Wesleyan University. She has published extensively in the areas of critical studies and translations of Japanese and Taiwanese writers. Darryl Sterk wrote his doctoral dissertation at the University of Toronto on the representation of Taiwan’s aborigines in film and fiction in relation to nationalism. He teaches translation in the new undergraduate and graduate translation and interpretation programs at National Taiwan University. He has translated literature for the Taipei Chinese Pen for five years and is completing a translation of Wu Mingyi’s novel The Man with the Compound Eyes for Harvill Secker. Emma J. Teng is the T. T. and Wei Fong Chao Professor of Asian Civilizations and an associate professor of Chinese studies at MIT, where she holds a dual appointment in foreign languages and literatures and history. She is the author of Taiwan’s Imagined Geography: Chinese Colonial Travel Writing and Pictures, 1683–1895 (Harvard

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University Asia Center, 2004). She is currently writing a book on Sino-American mixed families in China and the United States between 1842 and 1943. Chris Tong is a postdoctoral researcher at Washington University in St. Louis. His publications have appeared in Chinese Ecocinema (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009), Chinese Women's Cinema (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), Metamorphoses: A Journal of Literary Translation (2013), Interactions: Studies in Communication & Culture (2013), and Animation: An Interdisciplinary Journal (2014). He received his PhD in comparative literature from the University of California, Davis, where he completed a dissertation on environmental ethics and aesthetics in early twentieth-century China. Chien-hsin Tsai received his PhD from Harvard University and currently is an assistant professor of modern Chinese literary and cultural studies at the University of Texas, Austin. He has published essays on writers from colonial Taiwan and contemporary Chinese literature in both Chinese and English. He coedited Sinophone Studies: A Critical Reader (Columbia University Press, 2013). Jane Parish Yang received her PhD from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. She is currently an associate professor of Chinese at Lawrence University and teaches beginning and advanced Chinese language, traditional and modern Chinese literature, Chinese cinema, and the East Asian studies senior seminar. Michelle Yeh is a professor and chair of the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures at the University of California, Davis. Among her publications are: Modern Chinese Poetry: Theory and Practice since 1917 (Yale University Press, 1991), Essays on Modern and Contemporary Poetry (in Taiwan, 1998), From the Margin: An Alternative Tradition of Modern Chinese Poetry (in China, 2000), Essays on Modern Poetry from Taiwan (in Hong Kong, 2009), Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry (Yale University Press, 1992; editor and translator), No Trace of the Gardener: Poems of Yang Mu (Yale University Press, 1998; cotranslator), Frontier Taiwan: An Anthology of Modern Chinese Poetry (Columbia University Press, 2001; coeditor), and A Lifetime Is a Promise to Keep: Poems of Huang Xiang (University of California Institute of East Asian Studies, 2009; translator). Ling Zhao has taught Chinese as a lecturer at Smith College since 1998. She holds degrees from Peking University and Beijing Foreign Studies University, and has also taught at Beijing Foreign Studies University, Dennison University, University of the Pacific, Bucknell University, and Middlebury College Summer Language School. Her publications include two sets of Chinese textbooks, compilations of literary and cultural dictionaries, and collated classical literature.

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Bai Xianyong (a.k.a. Pai Hsien-yung, Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai, b. 1937) received his BA from National Taiwan University and MA from the University of Iowa. In 1960, while still in college, he and his classmates in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures, including Chen Ruoxi, Wang Wenxing, and Ouyang Zi, launched Modern Literature, which advocated Western modernism. His first collection of stories, Taipei Characters, mixes literary and colloquial Chinese and employs modernist techniques. Chen Fangming (b. 1947) is a prolific essayist, scholar, and political critic. He received his BA from Fu Jen Catholic University and did graduate work at the University of Washington, Seattle. He is currently a professor at National Chengchi University. Chen Fengyuan (1893–1982) was a poet and successful businessman. He cofounded the Taiwanese People’s Newspaper in Tokyo in 1923, the first newspaper run by Taiwanese during the colonial period. Chen Li is the pen name of Chen Yingwen (b. 1954). A native of Hualian on the east coast of Taiwan, he received his BA in English from National Normal University and taught middle school in his hometown for years. Best known for his poetry, which explores native Taiwanese themes in an experimental style, he is also a prolific translator of world poetry.

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Chen Ruoxi (a.k.a. Chen Jo-hsi) is the pen name of Chen Xiumei (b. 1938), who graduated from National Taiwan University and went on to receive an MFA from Johns Hopkins University. She moved to China with her husband and lived there from 1966 to 1973. After she left China, she wrote stories that were later collected in The Execution of Mayor Yin, based on her experience during the Cultural Revolution. Chen Yingzhen (a.k.a. Ch’en Ying-chen) is the pen name of Chen Yongshan (b. 1937), who began publishing fiction in the 1960s under the influence of Western modernism. In the 1970s, he became a proponent of native literature and wrote stories that critiqued Western capitalism for its economic and cultural colonialism. He founded the Human World (Renjian) magazine, which exposed social injustice perpetrated against the working class. For his leftist activities, he was imprisoned by the Nationalist government. Chen Yizhi (b. 1953) received his BA from the Chinese Department of National Taiwan Normal University, his MA from the New Asia Research Institute in Hong Kong, and his PhD from National Kaohsiung Normal University. For years he was the chief editor of the literary supplement to the United Daily (Lianhe bao) and is currently a professor at National Taiwan Normal University. Ge Lei is the pen name of Shi Ximei (d. 1994). He was the editor of the literary supplement Bridge (Qiao) of the New Life Daily (Xinsheng bao) in postwar Taiwan. Guan Jieming (a.k.a. John Kwan-Terry) received his BA in English from Hong Kong University and his PhD from Cambridge University. He was teaching in the English Department at Singapore National University when he published the essay included in this volume, which triggered the Modern Poetry debate. Guo Feng (b. 1933) is an editor and publisher of literary magazines. Guo Lianghui (b. 1926) graduated from the Department of Foreign Languages at Fudan University and became a best-selling fiction writer in Taiwan in the 1950s and 1960s. She is known for her controversial work, which was censored for its explicit sexual content. Guo Qiusheng (1904–1980) edited the Southern Voice in the 1930s, in which he wrote a column promoting Taiwanese literature. Guo Shuitan (1908–1995) was a poet associated with the Salt Zone Society in south Taiwan during the Japanese occupation. Han Han, the pen name of Luo Yuanyuan (b. 1948), was born in Beijing and pioneered writing in support of ecological preservation in Taiwan.

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Hu Feng (1902–1985) was a poet, editor, literary critic, and translator. He founded July magazine in 1937 and became an influential leftist theorist. In 1955, he was the target of a widespread purge and was imprisoned until 1979. He was the first mainland writer to translate Taiwanese literature from Japanese to Chinese. Huan Fu is the pen name of the poet Chen Qianwu (b. 1922). Born under Japanese rule, he had to learn Mandarin after 1945, a linguistic challenge faced by many Taiwanese writers. In 1964, he cofounded the Bamboo Hat Poetry Society, which promoted nativist poetry. Huang Chaoqin (1897–1972) received his BA in economics from Waseda University and his MA in political science from the University of Illinois. He was a cofounder of the Taiwanese People’s Newspaper in Tokyo in 1923. Huang Chengcong (1986–1963) was influenced by the May Fourth movement and promoted the use of vernacular Chinese in Taiwan. He was also a cofounder of the Taiwanese People’s Newspaper. Huang Chunming (a.k.a. Hwang Chun-ming, b. 1935) started writing in the 1960s and is widely regarded as one of the most important writers in Taiwan. He writes about the plight of the poor in rural Taiwan and the impact of urbanization and westernization in a language that incorporates the Taiwanese language (or Hoklo) and humor. In recent years, he has been an advocate of children’s literature. Some of his short stories have been adapted for the silver screen, such as The Sandwich Man (1983) and A Flower in the Rainy Night (1983). Huang Chunqing (1875–1956) was a poet and successful businessman. He was an active member in several traditional-style poetry societies during the colonial period. Huang Deshi (1909–1999) received his BA in Asian literature from Taipei Imperial University (later renamed National Taiwan University). After the war, he taught Chinese literature at his alma mater and pioneered the study of the history of Taiwan literature. Huang Jinshu (a.k.a. Kim Chew Ng, Kim Chu Ng) was born in Malaysia in 1967 and received his college and postgraduate education in Taiwan. A fiction writer and literary scholar, he writes mostly about Chinese-Malaysian literature. Huang Shihui (1900–1945) was a supporter of the leftist movement during the Japanese colonial period. His advocacy of literature written in Hoklo triggered a heated debate in the 1930s about native literature.

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Ji Dawei (a.k.a. Ta-wei Chi, b. 1972) received his BA and MA from the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University and his PhD in comparative literature from the University of California, Los Angeles. He is a leading author and critic of queer or Ku’er (his preferred term) literature. Ji Xian (1913-2013) is the pen name of Lu Yu. Born in Hebei Province, he studied Western-style painting in Suzhou (Soochow) and wrote poetry under the pen name Lu Yishi (Louis). He was closely associated with the poet Dai Wangshu (1905–1950) and the journal Les Contemporains in Shanghai. After moving to Taiwan, he founded the Modern Poetry Quarterly in the early 1950s. Jiang Zhongming (b. 1960) is a journalist for the United Daily. Jiao Tong is the pen name of Ye Zhenfu (b. 1956), who received his BA and MA from Chinese Culture University and his PhD in comparative literature from Fu Jen Catholic University. He is currently a professor at National Central University as well as a poet, publisher, and food critic. Jie Zhou is the pen name of Guo Qiusheng (1904–1980). Lai Minghong (1915–1958) was the chief editor of the Chinese literary supplement to the New Peak newspaper during Japanese occupation. He opposed the use of Hoklo for literature. Lai Shengchuan (a.k.a. Stan Lai, b. 1954) was born in the United States and returned to Taiwan, where he attended high school and Fu Jen Catholic University. He went on to receive a PhD in drama from the University of California, Berkeley, in 1983. He is arguably the most popular and influential playwright and director in contemporary Taiwan. He is also the founding dean of the College of Drama at Taipei National University of the Arts. Lan Yun (“Lazy Cloud”) is the pen name of Lai He (1894–1943), who was trained as a physician but became a major writer of fiction and poetry. He participated in the Taiwan Cultural Association and other activist groups against Japanese colonialism. He is generally considered the father of Taiwanese literature. Li Ang, pen name Shi Shuduan (b. 1952), received her BA from Chinese Culture University and her MA from the University of Oregon. She is generally considered a feminist writer; one of her best-known works, The Butcher’s Wife, is a novella depicting sexual and physical abuse of the eponymous heroine. Li Nan (b. 1952) cofounded the poetry journal Grass Roots in 1976. He is an illustrator by profession.

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Li Qiao (b. 1934) writes fiction and cultural criticism. His magnum opus, Wintry Night (1980), revolves around three generations of a Hakka family from the late nineteenth century to 1945. Li Ruiteng (b. 1952) received his PhD in Chinese from Chinese Culture University. He is the chief editor of the Literary News and, since 2010, the director of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature in Tainan. Li Yongping (a.k.a. Li Yung-p’ing, b. 1947) is a Chinese-Malaysian writer who received his BA from National Taiwan University and his PhD from Washington University, St. Louis. Best known for his experimental work, he has taught at National Dong Hwa University in Hualian. Lian Yatang (a.k.a. Lian Heng, 1878–1936) was a historian and poet in the classical style. He was active in poetry societies and wrote A Comprehensive History of Taiwan, which is the earliest historiography of Taiwan. Ligelale Awu (a.k.a. Liglav A-Wu, b. 1969) is an indigenous writer of the Paiwan tribe and founder of Hunter Culture, a magazine devoted to indigenous cultures. Lin Haiyin (1918–2001) was born in Japan into a Taiwanese family. Her family moved to China in 1923, because her father refused to live under Japanese rule. My Memories of Old Beijing is a tribute to her childhood in Beijing and was turned into a popular movie in 1982. As chief editor of the literary supplement to the United Daily from 1953 to 1963, she discovered many writers, such as Zhong Lihe and Huang Chunming. In 1968, she launched Pure Literature magazine. She also penned fiction, radio drama, and children’s literature. Lin Hengtai (b. 1924) is a poet and literary critic. He coined the term “the translingual generation” to refer to Taiwanese writers who, like himself, had to stop using Japanese and learn Chinese after 1945. Lin was active in the Modern Poetry School in the 1950s and cofounded the Bamboo Hat Poetry Society in 1964. Lin Ruiming (b. 1950) received his BA in history from National Cheng Kung University in south Taiwan and his MA from National Taiwan University. A literary critic, he served as the inaugural director of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature from 2003 to 2005. Lin Yangmin (b. 1955) is a poet and advocate of Hoklo literature. Lin Yaode (1962–1996) received his BA in law from Fu Jen Catholic University. A versatile writer, he published numerous books of poetry, fiction, and literary criticism before his untimely death.

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Lin Zaijue (b. 1951) is a historian and publisher and chief editor at Lianjing Press. Lin Zhanmei (1821–1868) came from a prominent family in Xinzhu. He helped the Qing court resist the British invasion and suppress local uprisings, but refused to become an official. He built the Hidden Garden, the first literati garden in Taiwan, and was best known for his talents in poetry and other arts. Partly due to a legal conflict with his wife’s family, partly due to illness, he committed suicide, leaving behind approximately two thousand poems. Liu Kexiang (b. 1957) was born in Taizhong and graduated from Chinese Culture University. Known for political poetry in the 1980s, he has since become a leading nature writer in Taiwan. Liu Na’ou (1905–1945) was a fiction writer and film producer. He was strongly influenced by the Japanese writer Riichi Yokomitsu (1898–1947) and introduced modernism to Shanghai in the 1930s. He was allegedly assassinated by the Nationalist government. Liu Shaoming (a.k.a. Joseph S. M. Lau, b. 1934) is a literary scholar, essayist, editor, and translator. He has taught in Hong Kong, Singapore, Hawaii, and, for many years, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He was a pioneer in establishing the academic field of modern Chinese literature in North America. Long Yingzong (1911–1999) was a leading writer during the Japanese occupation. His debut “Town of Papaya Trees” was published and won an award in Japan. Luo Fu (a.k.a. Lo Fu) is the pen name of Mo Luofu (b. 1928), who was born in Hunan Province. He joined the Nationalist armed forces during the Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945) and moved to Taiwan in 1949. In 1954, he cofounded the Epoch Poetry Society with fellow servicemen Ya Xian and Zhang Mo. He now lives in Vancouver. Luo Qing (a.k.a. Lo Ch’ing) was born in Hunan Province in 1948 and grew up in Keelung in north Taiwan. After graduating from Fu Jen Catholic University, he went on to receive an MA in comparative literature from the University of Washington in 1974. Luo cofounded the Grass Roots Poetry Society in 1975. He is also a well-known painter and literary critic. Luo Yijun (b. 1967) is a full-time writer who has won major awards in the Chinesespeaking world. He was invited to attend the International Writers’ Program at the University of Iowa in 2007. Luo Zhicheng (a.k.a. Lo Chih-cheng, b. 1955) received a BA in philosophy from National Taiwan University and an MA in East Asian studies from the University of

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Wisconsin, Madison. He started writing poetry in college and was the chief editor of the literary supplement to the China Times Evening Post. He is also a publisher and the director of the Taiwan news agency in Hong Kong. Lü Heruo (1914–1951) was a native of Taizhong. His first story “Oxcart” was published in the Japanese proletarian magazine Bungaku hyōron in 1935 and won a prize. In 1939, he went to Tokyo to study singing but returned to Taiwan in 1942 to join Zhang Wenhuan in editing Taiwan Literature. After the war, Lü worked as a music teacher while editing the leftist newspaper Light. He died from a snake bite when he was hiding in the Luku Mountains from the Nationalist government. Ma Yigong (b. 1948) is an environmental advocate in Taiwan. She received her BA in architecture from Chung Yuan Christian University and her MA in urban planning from the University of New Jersey. She is currently a professor at National Tsing Hua University and a member of the Control Yuan, one of the five branches of the government. Mansha, or Wu Mansha, is the pen name of Wu Bingding (1912–2005). He cofounded Moonlit Wind magazine, which was the only Chinese language literary journal in Taiwan during the Sino-Japanese war. Monaneng (b. 1956) is an indigenous poet of the Paiwan tribe. He lost his eyesight in 1978, but has continued to write. Nakamura Akira (1912–2003) was a scholar and politician who taught in the Department of Law at Taipei Imperial University (now National Taiwan University). Nanfang Shuo is the pen name of Wang Xingqing (b. 1946), who received his BA from Chinese Culture University and his MA in forestry from National Taiwan University. He is an influential political commentator and culture critic in Taiwan. Nishikawa Mitsuru (1908–1999) was a Japanese writer and literary critic who played an important role in colonial Taiwan. He received a BA in French from Waseda University, founded the Taiwan Poets Association, and published Beautiful Island. In 1940 he renamed the association the Taiwan Artists Association and founded Literary Taiwan, which competed with Taiwan Literature launched by Zhang Wenhuan. Old Xu is the pen name of Xu Kunquan (1907–1954), who graduated from St. John’s University in Shanghai and worked as a journalist and romance writer. Ouyang Zi is the pen name of Hong Zhihui (b. 1939), who writes fiction and literary criticism. Influenced by Western modernism, her fiction delves into the subconscious and explores psychological aberrations.

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Peng Ge is the pen name of Yao Peng (b. 1926), who received his BA in journalism from National Chengchi University and his MA from the University of Illinois. He was the chief editor of the Central Daily. Peng Ruijin (b. 1947) is a columnist and literary critic. He is currently a professor at Providence University. Qi is the pen name of Ye Rongzhong (1900–1978), who promoted native Taiwanese culture during Japanese colonization. Qi Bangyuan (a.k.a. Pang-Yuan Chi) was born in Liaoning Province in 1924. She studied at Wuhan University and went on to receive graduate degrees from the University of Michigan and Indiana University. For years, she taught in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University and edited the English-language Chinese Pen. A prolific literary critic, translator, and editor, she recently published an autobiography to critical acclaim. Qin Zihao (1912–1963) was a poet and literary critic. Born in Sichuan, he graduated from Sino-Franco University in Beijing in 1932 and studied at Chuo University in Japan in 1935. In 1954, he cofounded the Blue Star Poetry Society, which advocated symbolism. Qiu Miaojin (1969–1995) graduated from the Department of Psychology at National Taiwan University. In 1994, she went to Paris to study clinical psychology and feminism. She committed suicide there, and her journals were published posthumously. Qiu is best known for her semi-autobiographical fiction about lesbian love. Shang Qin is the pen name of Luo Xianheng (1930–2010). A native of Sichuan, he was forced to join the Nationalist army at the age of fifteen. He started writing poetry in Taiwan in the 1950s and is best known for his prose poetry, which was inspired by French surrealism. Shi Shu (a.k.a. Shi Shunü, b. 1940) is a literary critic and professor emeritus in the Chinese Department at Tamkang University. Shima Rikuhei is the pen name of Uchiyama Atsumu (1905–1959), a Japanese fiction writer, playwright, and poet who lived in Taiwan during the colonial period. Shimada Kinji (1901–1993) taught at Taipei Imperial University and in the 1940s wrote Literary History of the Beautiful Island, which was not published until 1995. Shiwai Min is an unknown author whose pen name means “a person outside of this world.”

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Shui Yinping is the pen name of Yang Chichang (1908–1994). A journalist by trade, he founded the Windmill Poetry Society in Tainan in the mid-1930s, which advocated surrealism in sharp contrast to the mainstream of realism. Song Dongyang (lit. “bringing sunshine in winter”) is the pen name of Chen Fangming. Song Zelai is the pen name of Liao Weijun (b. 1952), who writes fiction, poetry, and literary criticism. He is best known for his nativist fiction depicting the oppressed and the disenfranchised in society. Su Weizhen (b. 1954) is best known for her depiction of gender relations in modern society. She is currently a professor in the Chinese Department at National Cheng Kung University. Sun Dachuan (a.k.a. Palabang, b. 1953) is an indigenous writer and scholar of the Puyuma tribe. He founded Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly, the first journal devoted to indigenous cultures in Taiwan. Takayama Bonseki is the Japanese name of Chen Huoquan (1908–1999), who published his first story “The Way” in Japanese in Literary Taiwan. Takita Teiji (1901–1946) was a Japanese scholar at Taipei Imperial University during the colonial period. Tang Wenbiao is the pen name of Xie Chaoshu (1936–1985). Born in Guangdong Province, he attended high school and college in Hong Kong and emigrated to the United States in 1956, where he received a PhD in mathematics from the University of Illinois. In 1973, while teaching at National Taiwan University as a visiting professor, he published scathing critiques of modern poetry in Taiwan, which fueled the New Poetry debate. Wang Dewei (a.k.a. David Der-wei Wang, b. 1954) received his BA from National Taiwan University and his PhD from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. One of the most influential literary critics in the Chinese-speaking world, he is currently Edward C. Henderson Professor of East Asian Languages and Cultures at Harvard University, as well as Academician at Academia Sinica, Taiwan. Wang Dingjun was born in Shandong in 1925. As a youngster, he joined the Nationalist army and fought the Japanese during the Sino-Japanese War. After moving to Taiwan in 1949, he worked as a newspaper columnist and editor, as well as a playwright for radio and television. In addition to being a fiction writer and literary critic, he is one of the most popular essayists in Taiwan.

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Wang Tuo (b. 1944) is the pen name of Wang Hongjiu. He is a writer, literary critic, and political figure. He published his first short story “The Hanging Tree” in 1970 and is known for his depictions of the working class. For his participation in the opposition movement, he was imprisoned by the Nationalist government from 1980 to 1984. He has played an active role in the Democratic Progressive Party. Wang Wenxing (a.k.a. Wang Wen-hsing, b. 1939) received his BA from National Taiwan University. After receiving an MFA from the University of Iowa, he returned to Taiwan to teach fiction at his alma mater. Wang’s first novel Family Catastrophe (1973) touched off a heated debate about modernism, and his later work continues to be controversial for its experimental language and form. Wang Zhenhe (a.k.a. Wang Chen-ho, 1940–1990) received his BA from the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University and worked at airlines and television stations. His fiction represents nativist literature at its best, with masterful language and penetrating insights into the human condition. Wei Qingde (1886–1964) was a native of Xinzhu and a graduate of the GovernorGeneral’s School of the National Language. A renowned poet, he worked for the Taiwan Daily News, first as a reporter and later as director of the Chinese section. Weng Nao (1908–1940) was a writer who wrote short stories in Japanese. Wu He (“Dancing Crane”) is the pen name of Chen Guocheng (b. 1951), who received a BA in Chinese from National Cheng Kung University and an MA from National Taiwan Normal University. He is best known for his fiction about indigenous cultures in Taiwan. Wu Kunhuang (1909–1989) was a leftist poet and proponent of the modern drama movement in the 1930s. Wu Mingyi (b. 1971) received his BA in communication from Fu Jen Catholic University and his PhD from National Central University. A leading nature writer of fiction, prose, and reportage, he is currently an assistant professor at National Dong Hwa University. Wu Xinrong (1907–1967) was a doctor, politician, and well-known poet. Wu Zhuoliu (1900–1976) was a native of Xinzhu County. In 1941–1942, he worked in mainland China as a journalist, which inspired his magnum opus The Orphan of Asia. This semi-autobiographical novel, written in Japanese, highlights the ambiguity and tension inherent in being Taiwanese.

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Xia Ji’an (a.k.a. T. A. Hsia, 1916–1965) was a literary scholar and critic. He taught in the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at National Taiwan University and nurtured a generation of young fiction writers, including Bai Xianyong, Chen Ruoxi, Wang Wenxing, and Ouyang Zi. He founded and edited the Literary Review (1956–1960). Xia Zhifang, a native of Gaoyou, Jiangsu Province, won the Jinshi degree in 1723. He was appointed Itinerant Censor in Taiwan in 1728, where he was twice in charge of qualifying exams for the civil service examinations. He selected the best poems from the exams and compiled them into the two-volume Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea. Xiaman Lanpoan (b. 1957) is an indigenous writer of the Tao tribe. He received an MA in anthropology from National Tsing Hua University. Xiang Yang (a.k.a. Hsiang Yang) is the pen name of Lin Qiyang (b. 1955), a poet and literary critic. He received a BA in Japanese from Chinese Culture University and a PhD in journalism from National Chengchi University. He is currently a professor at the Graduate School of Taiwan Culture at National Taipei University of Education. Xie Bingying (1906–2000) graduated from the First Hunan Teachers’ School for Girls and the Wuchang Central Political and Military Academy. A fiction writer and essayist, she moved to Taiwan in 1948 and emigrated to the United States in 1974. Xie Xueyu (1871–1953), a native of Tainan, edited the Chinese section of the Taiwan Daily News and contributed to the Moonlit Wind gazette. Xin An is the pen name of an unknown author. Xu Nancun (lit. “a village suffering from hardships”) is the pen name of Chen Yingzhen. Ya Xian is the pen name of Wang Qinglin (b. 1932). A native of Henan Province, he moved to Taiwan with the Nationalist government in 1949 and cofounded the Epoch Poetry Society. In the 1960s, he attended the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa and received an MA from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He was the chief editor of Young Lion Literary Arts and the literary supplement to the United Daily. He now lives in Vancouver. Yan Xi is the pen name of Qiu Nan (1916–1979), a columnist for the Central Daily in the 1960s. Yan Yuanshu (1933–2012) received his BA from National Taiwan University and his PhD in English from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He established the PhD

538

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program in comparative literature and launched the Chung-wai Literary Monthly when he chaired the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures at his alma mater. Yang Kui (1905–1985) was a pioneer of proletarian literature. In 1932, he published his first story in Japanese, “The Newspaper Boy.” He was imprisoned by the Nationalist government from 1949 to 1961 for writing the “Declaration of Peace.” After his release from prison, he learned Chinese from his granddaughter. Yang Mu (a.k.a. Ye Shan, C. H. Wang) is the pen name of Wang Jingxian (b. 1940). A poet, essayist, scholar, editor, and translator of more than sixty books, he received a BA from Tung Hai University, an MFA from the University of Iowa, and a PhD in comparative literature from the University of California, Berkeley. He is a professor emeritus at the University of Washington and Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. He is currently a chair professor of Taiwanese literature at National Chengchi University. Ye Shan (a.k.a. Yang Mu, C. H. Wang) is the pen name of Wang Jingxian (b. 1940). See Yang Mu. Ye Shitao (1925–2008), a native of Tainan, was a fiction writer and literary critic of native Taiwanese writing. He is best known for the literary history An Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature, published in 1987. Yidong Liang is the pen name of Yang Kui. Yin Xueman (1918–2008) was born in Henan Province and received an MA in journalism from the University of Missouri. He worked as a journalist and also wrote fiction and literary criticism. He was the chief editor of the Literary History of the Republic of China, published in 1975. Yu Guangzhong (a.k.a. Yu Kwang-chung, b. 1928) is a prolific poet, translator, and literary critic. Born in Fujian Province, he moved to Taiwan in 1949 and received a BA from National Taiwan University and an MFA from the University of Iowa. Yu is best known for his poetic expressions of longing for mainland China. He is professor emeritus at National Sun Yat-sen University in Kaohsiung. Yu Tiancong (b. 1935) is a native of Jiangsu Province and a literary critic. He edited the Pen Assembly Monthly and the Literary Quarterly in postwar Taiwan. He is currently a professor at National Chengchi University. Yu Wen is the pen name of Liao Hanchen (1912–1980). A journalist during the Japanese occupation, he compiled the Annals of Taiwan Province and the Annals of the City of Taipei.

not es on t h e au t hors

539

Yuan Qiongqiong (a.k.a. Yuan Ch’iung-ch’iung, b. 1950) writes fiction, essays, and film and television scripts. She is best known for her explorations of gender issues in a psychologically nuanced way. Zeng Xiangduo is a historian. Zhan Hongzhi (b. 1956) is a native of Nantou in central Taiwan and received his BA in economics from National Taiwan University. He is an influential publisher, culture critic, and film producer who has produced such classics as A City of Sadness (1989) by Hou Hsiao-hsien, and A Bright Summer Day (1991) and A Confucian Confusion (1994) by Edward Yang. Zhang Dachun (a.k.a. Chang Ta-chun, b. 1957) received his BA and MA, both in Chinese, from Fu Jen Catholic University. A versatile writer of fiction, prose, and literary criticism, he has worked as a newspaper editor, radio show host, and professor. Generally viewed as a pioneer of postmodern fiction, he also writes martial arts sagas, science fiction, and classical-style poetry. Zhang Daofan (1897–1968) was born in Guizhou Province and held high positions in the Nationalist government. Both before and after the Nationalists moved to Taiwan, he played an important role in cultural policy and political propaganda. Zhang Fu (1760–1816), a native of Tainan, was well known for his literary writings during his lifetime. After he failed the civil service exam three times, he lived as a recluse, writing and educating his children. His Half-pine Collection was the first individual poetry collection in Taiwan. Zhang Mei was a native of Qiantang, Zhejiang Province. He won the Jinshi degree in 1733 and was appointed Itinerant Censor in Taiwan in 1741. Zhang Mo (b. 1930) was born in Anhui Province. In 1954, he, Luo Fu, and Ya Xian founded the Epoch Poetry Society in southern Taiwan. He is a prolific editor of anthologies and an archivist of modern poetry. Zhang Qishi (a.k.a. Zhang Weixian, 1905–1977) was a leader of the modern drama movement and an advocate of anarchism during the Japanese colonial period. Zhang Shenqie (1904–1965) was a playwright, actor, and director. For his resistance activities against Japan in both Taiwan and China, he was arrested and imprisoned by the authorities from 1927 to 1930. After his release from prison, he founded the Taiwan Drama Research Society, hoping to use drama to promote resistance. After 1945, he made films in Hoklo.

540

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Zhang Wenhuan (1909–1978) cofounded the Taiwan Art Research Association and its official journal Formosa with Wu Kunhuang, Wang Baiyuan (1902–1965), and Wu Yongfu (1913–2008) in Tokyo in 1933. In 1941 he launched Taiwan Literature to counter Literary Taiwan, founded by Nishikawa Mitsuru. He also founded the Housheng Drama Research Society. Zhang Wojun (1902–1955) was born in Taipei and went to Beijing in the 1920s to study at Peking University. After returning to Taiwan, he worked as a journalist and advocated vernacular literature. He also penned the first collection of modern poetry written in Chinese and published in Taiwan. Zhang Xiaofeng was born in Zhejiang Province in 1941. A popular essayist and playwright, she has taught at National Yang Ming University. Zhang Xiguo (a.k.a. Chang Hsi-kuo, Shi-kuo Chang, b. 1944) received his BS from National Taiwan University and his MS and PhD in computer science from the University of California, Berkeley. He is generally viewed as the father of science fiction in Taiwan. Zheng Shusen (a.k.a. William Tay, b. 1948) received his BA from Chinese University of Hong Kong and his PhD from the University of California, San Diego. He has taught at the University of California, San Diego, and Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. A prolific literary scholar, translator, and editor, he is also the director of Ink, a prize-winning literary journal in Taiwan. Zhong Mingde (b. 1953) received his PhD in performance studies from New York University and is currently a professor at Taipei National University of the Arts. Zhong Zhaozheng (b. 1925) is a prolific writer and novelist. He founded the Newsletter of Literary Friends in the 1950s. He is also a strong advocate of Hakka culture. Zhu Tianwen (a.k.a. Chu Tien-wen, b. 1956) graduated from the English Department at Tamkang University and has won numerous prizes for her short stories and essays. She has also written film scripts for Hou Hsiao-hsien. Zhu Tianxin (a.k.a. Chu Tien-hsin, b. 1958) received a BA in history from National Taiwan University. Like her sister Tianwen, she is a leading writer in Taiwan. Zhu Xining (a.k.a. Chu Hsi-ning 1927–1998), father of Tianwen and Tianxin, was born in Shandong Province and studied at the National Art Institute of Hangzhou before joining the Nationalist army. In Taiwan, he published short stories and novels characterized by experimental narrative techniques.

index

“Abyss,” 185–86 accidents, in plots, 223 activism, in literary supplements, 419–22 actors, famous, 127 adjectives, 57 advance, by children, 57–59 aesthetic autonomy, 26, 28 aesthetic experience, objectivity of, 303–4 Agee, James, 301 Ah Cheng, 378–79 Ai Ya, 397 Allen, Joseph, 12, 31n11 alumni associations, 101–2 “Ambiguous Man” (Wang Youhua), 383 Amei tribe, 404–6, 472 Amsterdam Werkteater, 372 anarchist theater movement, 59–63 Anglo-American models, 28 Anglo-European influence, 27, 227

Annual Selection of Short Stories, 311, 428 Anthology of the Modern Chinese Essay (Yang Mu), 320–22 anti-Communism, 161–62, 169, 294, 365–66 Aoki Masaru, 56 Aono Kikitsu, 129, 131 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 197 argument essays, 322 Arnold, Matthew, 248, 263 “Ars Poetica” (Lin Zhanmei), 42 art: belonging to the people, 87–89; consumption, 379; contemporary, 61–62; criticism, 106–7, 184–85; East Asian, 107; education and, 61; institution of, 17, 26, 32n19; life and, 106, 170; modern, 184–85, 195; modern literature as, 107; novels as, 235–36, 239, 394; origination of, 84; painting, 166–68; scene, 105–6

542

inde x

Art Group, 87–88, 89n1 assimilation, 104, 441 atmosphere, 94–96 Auden, W. H., 269 authenticity, 243–44, 247 authoritarian regime, East Asian, 10–15 authors. See writers Autobiography: A Story (Li Ang), 413 “Autumn Leaves” (Ouyang), 235–40 “Autumn Meditations” (Du Fu), 216 avant-garde literature, 159, 195, 230 Axis Powers, 125 Babel, Isaac, 302 bad writing, 139–40 bai, fiction as, 425–26 Bai Juyi, 216 Bai Xianyong, 264–65, 366; “Jade Love” by, 276–77; Taipei People by, 272–75, 278, 398, 400 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 381 Balzac, Honoré de, 122, 130, 135, 289 Bamboo Hat, 217–18, 356–57 Bamboo Hat Poetry Society, 225, 230, 356–57, 383 Ban Gu, 426 Barclay, Thomas, 352 basketball, 475 Baudelaire, Charles, 168, 179 beauty: perception of, 304; quest for, 137, 139–40; of thought, 82 Beckett, Samuel, 220–22, 423 Beggar Zhang. See Zhang Qishi Beijing Normal College, 49 belles lettres, 43–44, 134 benshengren (native Taiwanese), 6–7, 31n7 Berlin, Isaiah, 311 betrayal, 397–98 Bhabha, Homi, 12 Bi Guo, 179 binary oppositions, in Cold War, 281 birds, migratory, 332–33

Black Youth League, 59 Blue Star Poetry Society, 230 body, soul and, 273 Boodberg, Peter, 423–24 The Book of Changes, 66–67 The Book of Songs, 237 Book Reviews and Bibliographies, 272 border literature, 155, 158 Born Under the Twelfth Star Sign (Luo Yijun), 475–76 bourgeois, 24–30, 80 bourgeois-capitalist model, 16–19 bourgeoisie literature, 77 A Brave New World (Ya Xian), 415 Brecht, Bertolt, 17 Bridge, 6, 150–56, 365 Buddhism, 44–45, 270–71, 453, 457n1, 472 Bungaku hyōron (Literary Criticism), 88 Bungei Taiwan, 139 Bunka shūdan (Cultural Group), 88 Bureau of Police Affairs, 128 Bürger, Peter, 17, 26, 32n19 Cai Peihuo, 68 Cai Qin, 351 Camus, Albert, 317, 346 canon, Taiwanese, 431–32 Cao Xueqin, 192; Dream of the Red Chamber by, 121, 236, 239, 278, 302, 364, 443; essays and, 321 Cao Yu, 341 capitalism, 76–77, 288, 291–92 “A Capon” (Zhang Wenhuan), 138, 140 Carefree Wandering (Yu Guangzhong), 219 cartoons, 315–16 cat-catching technique, 340–41 CCP. See Chinese Communist Party Central Daily, 263, 315, 423 central literary scene, 117–18

index

Chang, Timothy C., 254 Chang Hyok-chu. See Zhang Hezhou Chaos Fan (Wu He), 464, 467 Chen, Shih-hsiang, 423–24 Chen Duxiu, 55, 254 Chen Fangming, 413 Cheng Shewo, 316 Cheng Yi, 333 Chen Huangui, 63 Chen Huoquan, 336–37 Chen Kan, 62–63 Chen Lei, 441 Chen Li, 408–9 Chen Mingdong, 60 Chen Mingren, 437, 441 Chen Qianwu (Huan Fu), 357 Chen Qiyun, 110 Chen Ruoxi: The Execution of Mayor Yin by, 265, 268–72; Modern Literature and, 264–65, 268–69; at NTU, 267–68 Chen Shuhong, 345–46 Chen Xiying, 216 Chen Yingzhen, 34n33, 242, 265, 466, 478; formulas of, 296–97; human rights and, 356; Xiaman and, 477, 479 Chen Yongxing, 430 Chen Yuxiu, 449 Chen Zhifan, 319 Chiang Ching-kuo, 258 Chiang Kai-shek, 6, 206, 328 children, advance by, 57–59 China: classicism and modernism coexisting in, 195; consciousness, 329–31; divided, 260; Free, 161–63, 198, 201; Han in, 3, 54, 68–69, 404, 469; identity and, 3, 9; influence of, 285–86; Iron Curtain of, 317; Japan and, 90; meaning of literature in, 42; opera in, 143; research on, 123–24; rise of, 375; universality of, 284–86; vernacular movement in,

543

45–50, 63–64, 67, 92, 114. See also classical Chinese tradition; People’s Republic of China China Handbook, 241 China Tide, 308, 344, 477 China Times, 236, 406; literary supplement, 263, 423–25, 477; Ping Lu and, 392 Chinese Communist Party (CCP), 196, 257–58, 270, 294, 306 Chinese language: broken, 434–36; characters, 15, 44, 68–71, 77, 104, 108, 196–97, 425–26, 452–55; difficulties of, 154; education in, 390; importance of, 125; in journals, 151; in Moonlit Wind, 105; in newspaper columns, 103–4, 127; as orchestra, 219; vernacular, 64, 156. See also Mandarin Chinese Chinese Literary Arts Association, 168, 327–28 Chinese literature: as conservative, 265; contemporary, 377–79; drama, 99; essays, 320; exaggeration in, 56–57; folk, 85–86; forms, 92; gongnong-bing, 297–98, 302, 306–7; heritage of, 170; heteroglossia in, 381–82; indigenous writers and, 480; lineage of, 378; literary scene of, 52, 174–75; New Literature and, 158; poetry, 111–12, 168, 179–84, 224, 226–28, 402; prose, 211–14; revolution in, 63–64, 171, 181; sexual desire and, 56; in Taiwan, 152–53, 343; true, 228 Chinese Nationalist regime, 2, 5–7, 15, 20, 26–27 Chinese versus Western Cultural Debate, 16, 32n15 Chinese Writers Association, 206–11 Chu Ge, 398 Chung-wai Literary Monthly, 231, 242–43, 266

544

inde x

Citizen’s Beacon Theater Research Society, 61–62, 99–100 Civil Associations Act, 382 civil service exams, 39, 41, 50 The Clamor of the Lotus Multitude (Luo Fu), 382 classical Chinese tradition, 37, 45–46, 52, 213, 313; education in, 15, 363–64; influence of, 229–30; poetry, 111–13, 228, 402; reforming, 48–50 classicism, 64, 195 Cocteau, Jean, 199 coercion, 13–14 coercive hegemony, 14 Cold Sea, Deep Love (Xiaman), 480 Cold War, 7, 11, 27–28, 423; binary oppositions in, 281; divide, 2; end of, 25; martial law period and, 159; PRC and, 10, 25 Collected Comments on [Chinese] Literature (Aoki), 56 Collected Works of Wu Zhuoliu (Wu Zhuoliu), 360–61 Collection of Coral Branches, 40–41 Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves, 139–40, 147 collective improvisation, 369, 372 colonialism, 228; colonial literature, 23, 115–17, 131, 146–47, 149, 365, 386; ecological, 446; modernity and, 37. See also Japanese colonial period combat literature campaigns, 27 commercialization, 15, 20 commissioned writers, 314–16 Communism, 10–12, 27, 206, 257–58; anarchists and, 59; anti-Communism and, 161–62, 169, 294, 365–66; leftist writers and, 269; propaganda, 170, 274, 306; socialist paradigm of, 18; Taiwanese literature combating, 163–65; unity and, 305–7

“A Comparison of Old and New Literature,” 54–55 compassion, 250, 271 Compendium of Modern Chinese Literature, 255 Compendium of Taiwanese-Language Literature, 436–39 Complete Tang Poems, 73 Complete Works of Luo Zhicheng (Luo Zhicheng), 433–34 Complete Works of Taiwanese Writers, 385–87 compliance, 14 compressed modernity, consequences of, 10–15, 24 Conference on Literary Arts, 305–7 Conference on the Taiwanese Literary Canon, 431 Confucius, 167, 170, 237, 281 Cong Su, 264 “The Conquest of Taiwan” (Ye Shitao), 364 consciousness: China, 329–31; Hakka, 460–61; social, 247–48, 249; stream of, 173; subjectivity and objectivity of, 331; Taiwan, 159, 286–87, 291, 329–31, 344–46 consensus, 13 Consuming Literature (Kong), 33n23 contemporary art, 61–62 Contemporary Literary Criticism (Nishikawa), 123 contemporary period, 2, 465–66 contra-modernity, 12 controversy, conversation on, 130–31 Cook, George Cram, 191 coping strategies, 2 coral, 40–41 coxcomb’s prose, 211–12 The Craft of Fiction (Lubbock), 277–78 craven blowhards, 356–57 Creation Monthly, 56 Creation Society, 180–81, 186

index

Crescent School, 180–81, 186–87 criticism, art, 106–7, 184–85. See also literary criticism Crosby, Alfred W., 446 Cultural Association, 60 cultural capital, 14 cultural education, 114 Cultural Group. See Bunka shūdan cultural hybridity, downside of, 3, 10–11 cultural logic, 83–85 cultural production, 18, 27 cultural renaissance program, 27 cultural resistance, 37 Cultural Revolution, 18, 268–71, 466 cultural studies, 12 cultural transmission, 257 culture: colonial, 131; government promoting, 119–20; high, 29, 35n36; indigenous, 403–6, 471–72, 478–81; outside, 110; Taiwanese, conversation on, 129–33 Culture of Mountains and Seas Bimonthly, 403–4 Cummings, E. E., 197 Dadaism, 199, 201 Dai Guohui, 353, 355–56 Dai Tian, 342 Dai Wangshu, 181, 189, 225, 323 Dao, 17, 45 darkness, 57–59 debate. See lunzhan decentralization, 20, 33n26 The Decisive Battle: A Collection of Taiwanese Fiction, 153 democracy: era of, 375; maturing, 7; rising tide of, 387; women and, 413–14 Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), 7–9 density, prose, 214 depersonalization, 245 description, 147

545

desire, 56, 411–12, 471 “Devil With a Chastity Belt” (Li Ang), 412–14 dialects, 75, 176–78, 438 diaries, 56–57, 121–24, 393–95 Diaries of Qiu Miaojin (Qiu Miaojin), 393–95 didacticism, 212, 274–75 digital age, 29 director, 371–72 dissent, 13 Dr. Zhivago (Pasternak), 319 Doi Kokoku, 112 dominator society, 446–47 Dong Nian, 311 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 124 DPP. See Democratic Progressive Party draft, military, 149 Dragon Inn (Wang Wenxing), 242–43 Dragon Race Poetry Journal, 226, 230 drama: awards, 128; Chinese, 99; nights, at Taipei High School, 100–101; proletarian, 101–2; Provincetown Players, 191. See also New Drama movement; Taiwanese theater dramatic method, 277–78 Dream of the Red Chamber (Cao Xueqin), 121, 236, 239, 278, 302, 364, 443 dream tales, 140 dress, 404–6 Du Fu, 40, 42, 216, 248 Du Pan Fangge, 441 Du Yu, 426 East Asia: art in, 107; authoritarian regime in, 10–15; contextual perspective of, 1–30; Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere in, 125–26, 132; hegemony in, 13–14; highculture quest in, 35n36; ideology of literature in, 147; modernity in, 1

546

inde x

ecological colonialism, 446 education, 7, 19; abroad, 233–34; art and, 61; in Chinese language, 390; in classical Chinese tradition, 15, 363–64; cultural, 114; in Japanese language, 4, 177, 188–89, 281, 363–64; language in, 22–23, 177, 188–89, 281, 352–53; prioritized, 323; Ye Shitao and, 363 elasticity, 213 Elegy (Harada), 317 Eliot, T. S.: on depersonalization, 245; influence of, 182, 190, 194, 215–16, 222, 245, 263, 281 elitist literature, 65 emergent, 195 emotion: literature and, 43; poetry and, 41–42, 250 Emotional Debt (Guo Lianghui), 209 English language, 226–27, 425 The Enigma of Arrival (Naipaul), 480–81 environmental history, 446 Epoch Poetry Quarterly, 178–79, 186, 230–31 era transitions, 10, 19–20, 31n9 Eroŝenko, Vasilij, 49 essays: argument, 322; modern, 321–22; prominence of, 320; as prose, 450; revolution of, 219. See also specific works Essays on Nativist Literature (Yu Tiancong), 307–9 ethics, 236–38 ethnic conflicts, 9 Everyman, 249 “Exaggeration in Chinese Literature,” 56–57 The Execution of Mayor Yin (Chen Ruoxi), 265, 268–72 existentialism, 263–64, 305, 346–47 exoticism, literature and, 110, 116, 118–19

experimental writing, 109, 194–95, 197, 261, 463–64 facsimile literature, 325 fairy tales, 451 fake poetry, 190–91 fame, 53, 73, 97 Family Catastrophe (Wang Wenxing), 242–47, 262–67 family history, 467 Fang Xin, 423 Fan Minxian (fictional character), 244 Fan Xinchuan, 60 Fan Ye (fictional character), 244–46 fascism, 14 fate, 147–48, 396–97 Fated to Meet Across a Thousand Miles (Su Weizhen), 396, 399 Fate in This Life (Yuan), 397 fathers, military family village and, 397–99 “Father’s Face” (Zhang Wenhuan), 144 fear, 242 February 28 Incident, 6, 13, 32n13, 154, 330, 359–61, 386 Fei Ming, 189, 445 Feng Wenbing. See Fei Ming feudalism, 287–89 fiction: as bai, 425–26; meta-fiction, 393; reality and, 468; symbolist, 347. See also specific works Fiction Monthly, 56 The Fig (Wu Zhuoliu), 359–61, 386 fish, 479–80 Flaubert, Gustave: Madame Bovary by, 135, 137–38, 235, 238, 443; realism and, 137, 193 Flower Garden of the Gods, 414–17 “Flower Season” (Li Ang), 347–48 folk tradition, 23–24, 155–56; literature, 85–86; songs, 65–66, 86 Footnotes to August 23rd (Zhu Xining), 397–98

index

forbearance, 250 form, 193–94, 229 Formosa, 284–85, 357, 391–92, 446 formulaic writing, 302–3 Four Years of Cultivation, 327–28 Franke, Wolfgang, 241 Free China, 161–64, 198, 201 freedom of speech, 7 Free Youth, 180 French language, 108 French literature, 109–10 frontier literature, 310–11, 386 Fuchigusa, 352 fukan (literary supplement), 18–20, 33n25, 162, 262; activism in, 419–22; China Times, 263, 423–25, 477; flourishing of, 414–15; Nobel Prize and, 422–25; politics in, 323; predicament facing, 322–27; United Daily, 223, 263, 310–19, 326–27, 332, 414–22, 424–25, 431, 456, 478 Gao Xingjian, 423–24, 444 Ge Lei, 151, 155–56 genbun i’chi (spoken and written language conformity), 21 Generals (Zhu Xining), 397–98, 400 gentry-class writing, 19 Giddens, Anthony, 25 Gide, André, 269, 365–66 The Girl with Long Black Hair (Ouyang), 222–24 globalization, 15, 20; beginning of, 408; era of, 375; migration literature and, 457–60 Goddess Mazu, 116 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 136, 138, 186, 211, 216, 443 Gong (Huang Chunming), 253 gong-nong-bing (worker–peasant–soldier) literature, 297–98, 302, 306–7 Gong Pengcheng, 435 good writing, 139–40, 434–36

547

Gordimer, Nadine, 286 governor-general, 103–4, 112, 117 grammar, 197, 261 The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck), 299, 458 grassroots manifesto, 259–62 Gray, Thomas, 227 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, 125–26, 132 Great Wall, 304 Great War, 80 Greek mythology, 85 Green, Green Grass (Guo Lianghui), 205 Greene, Graham, 442, 463, 467–68 Guo Lianghui, 315; Chinese Writers Association and, 206–11; Emotional Debt by, 209; Green, Green Grass by, 205–6; “He, She, It” by, 204; The Locked Heart by, 16, 32n16, 204–11; motivation of, 209; open letter to, 204–6 Guo Qiusheng, 23 Guo Xuyi, 63 Haidong Qing (Li Yongping), 455–56 hair, burning, 80–82 Hakka consciousness, 460–61 Hakka Taiwanese, 22, 177, 441, 460–61, 470 “Half a Smile” (Ouyang), 223 Half Pine, 41–42 Han Chinese, 3, 54, 68–69, 404, 469 Han Defa, 60 Han Shan, 46, 213 happiness, 299–301 Harada Yasuko, 317 Hara Jyuchi, 113 hard literature, 43 Hardy, Thomas, 235 Hayek, F. A., 311–12 “He, She, It” (Guo Lianghui), 204 Hearn, Lafcadio, 116

548

inde x

“The Hedgehog and the Fox” (Berlin), 311 He Fan, 314–16 Hegel, Georg, 74 hegemony, 13–14, 20, 29, 32n14 Hemingway, Ernest, 173, 215, 245, 318, 463 Heresies, 224 He Ruixiong, 427 heterodox, 266 heteroglossia, 31n9, 381–82 He Xin, 317–18 highbrow, 96–97, 301–2 high-culture quest, in East Asia, 35n36 high-culture wave, 29 historical tales, 72–73 history, 278, 284–85; environmental, 446; family, 467; instruction from, 202; intellectual paradigms for understanding, 11–13; literary, 437, 470; literature related to, 465–66; Taiwan’s trajectory, 3–10; of vernacular writing, 46–47 A History of European Literature (Morell), 43 History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan: blind spot of, 289–93; introduction to, 284–89, 344–45; Taiwan consciousness in, 286–87; Taiwan’s uniqueness and, 284–86 hobby, literature as, 108 Hohendahl, Peter Uwe, 16, 19, 32n22, 33n24 Hoklo Taiwanese, 21–22, 66, 114, 176–77, 282–83 Homer, 340 homesickness, 283, 395–400 homosexuality, 409–12 Hong Kong, 11, 20, 317 Hong Kong Trilogy (Shi Shuqing), 458–59 Hong Ling, 411 Huan Fu. See Chen Qianwu

Huang Chunming, 33n29, 242, 249, 265, 283, 479; criticism of, 309; Gong by, 253 Huang Daozhen (fictional character), 232–34 Huang Deshi, 153 Huang Hengqiu, 441 Huang Jinlian, 441 Huang Shihui, 23 Huang Shugen, 441 Huang Tianhai, 60 Huang Tingjian, 277 Huang Wuye, 41 Huang Yong, 179, 201 Hu Lancheng (Li Pan), 308, 309n1, 442–45 Humanity, 478 human nature: literature without, 293–97; understanding of, 236 human rights, in Taiwan, 354–56, 407 human spirit, literature building, 109 Hu Minxiang, 441 Hu Shi, 46–47, 57, 60, 77, 99, 192; argument essays by, 322; death of, 215, 319; Marriage by, 99; May Fourth movement and, 215–16 Huyssen, Andreas, 20 hyperbole, 57 Ibsen, Henrik, 400 identity: Chinese, 3, 9; ku’er, 410–11; of readers, 414; reinvention of, 8–11; rentong, 9; Taiwanese, 3–4, 7–10, 383, 440 ideological author, 312–13 ideology, of literature, 147 illiteracy. See literacy immediacy, sense of, 243–45 imperialism: spiritual life under, 286–87; Taiwan under, 286–92 imperial literature, 146, 249 imperial subjects, 145–48, 202, 249 Imperial University, 42

index

impressionistic author, 312 improvisation: collective, 369, 372; meaning of, 369–70; theater and, 368–73 Inae Private School, 59 Inagaki Toubei, 59 incest, 204–9 income, 295 indigenous cultures, 403–6, 471–72, 478–81 individualism, 234, 442–44 “In-Laws Next-Door” (Liao Leifu), 312 innovation, 229, 261 “I” novel, 130–31 Institute for National Language Training, 353 Institution of Criticism (Hohendahl), 16, 33n24 intellectuals: Cultural Revolution and, 270; incorruptible, 358; individualism of, 234; new, 19; role of, 250–51; suffering of, 255; Western, 269, 281 intolerance, 303 intraregional cultural exchanges, 2 introspection, 130–31 intuition, 195–97 Investigative News, 205 Iowa Writers Workshop, 277 Iron Curtain, 317 Irwin, Will, 96 Ishikawa Takuboku, 121 “isms,” 186, 201, 264–65, 382, 444 Izama Shuji, 352 Izumi Kyôka, 134–35 jade, 245 “Jade Love” (Bai Xianyong), 276–77 Jade Ruler Between Sky and Sea, 39–41 James, Henry, 173, 223, 240 Japan, 11, 21, 26, 49, 78–79; China and, 90; modernistic aesthetics in, 14–15; New Drama movement and, 99–101, 401; periodicals in,

549

106; spirit of, 147; tourism by, 309; Western influences and, 2 Japanese colonial period, 111, 113, 151–52, 155, 157; Chinese newspaper columns and, 103–4; development during, 345; introduction to, 2–6, 12–13, 15, 17, 20, 22, 31n11; Lai He and, 386; root of poetry in, 225; social changes in, 251; Taiwan consciousness and, 329–30; vernacular movement and, 37, 441 Japanese language, 37, 103–4, 113, 127, 154; education in, 4, 177, 188–89, 281, 363–64; passion and, 109; translingual generation and, 352–53 Japanese literature: education in, 363– 64; exoticism and, 110; foundation of, 112; influence of, 92, 108, 114, 135, 321; “I” novel, 130–31; kuso realism and, 134–40; legacy of, 145–46; literary scene of, 52, 88, 117–18, 225; meaning of, 42; in Morioka, 153; New Literature and, 158; poetry, 114, 168; popular, 72; in Taiwan, 111–16; war and, 144–50 Jesus, 235 Jia Baoyu (fictional character), 193, 209, 302 Jiang Binliu (fictional character), 370 Jiang Weiwen, 33n29 Jiang Xiaoyun, 418 Ji Hong, 178–79 Jing Xiaopei, 456 Jin Lian, 225 Ji Xian, 224–25 journalism, 301, 322, 325–27 journals. See literary journals Joyce, James, 194, 243, 245–46, 264, 288, 443 juancun. See military family village “Juancun Children Grow Old in the World” (Zhang Dachun), 398–99 Jude the Obscure (Hardy), 235

550

inde x

Kafka, Franz, 194, 242, 263–64, 281, 434 Karatani Kojin, 29, 32n18 Kim Saryan, 129–30 King of Chess, King of Trees, King of Children (Ah Cheng), 378–79 knowledge, building, 222 Koda Rohan, 134 kominka campaign, 5 Kong, Shuyu, 33n23 Korea: Kim in, 129–30; literature in, 97–98, 105, 115, 130; North, 10; South, 11, 20–21, 25–26 Korean War, 281 ku’er literature, 409–12 Kundera, Milan, 434 kuso realism, 5, 16; defense of, 141–43; function of, 141; Japanese literature and, 134–40; pseudo-romanticism and, 135–39, 141–43; Taiwanese literature and, 134–43; West and, 134–35 Labyrinthine Garden (Li Ang), 412–13 Lai He (Lan Yun), 24, 150, 249–50, 345, 358, 386 Lai Ho, 152 Lai Shengchuan (Stan Lai), 368–73 language: dialects, 75, 176–78, 438; in education, 22–23, 177, 188–89, 281, 352–53; English, 226–27, 425; of Family Catastrophe, 244–46; French, 108; genbun i’chi and, 21; of general public, 48–49; literature different from, 43; May Fourth movement and, 215; as poetry medium, 196–97; reform, 21, 50, 67–72, 74, 440; in theater, 127. See also Chinese language; English language; Japanese language; Taiwanese language Lanyu Island, 476–79 Lan Yun. See Lai He

Lawrence, D. H., 194, 246, 281, 288, 303 “A Lazi Woman” (Li Yongping), 451–52 League of Left-Wing Writers, 189, 258, 306 League of Taiwan Student Comrades League, 62 learning, 48–49, 68 Leaving Tongfang (Su Weizhen), 399 leftist writers, 269, 415–16 Leisurely Journey (Yu Guangzhong), 219 “A Letter from Mr. Lin” (Ye Shitao), 364 Li Ang, 31n6, 346–50, 412–14, 418 Liang Qichao, 47, 215 Lian Yatang (Lian Heng), 23, 69 Liao Leifu, 312 Liao Qingxiu, 174, 188–89, 316, 335–36, 338 Li Bai, 57, 302 life: art and, 106, 170; sacrificed to literature, 359–62; theater and, 380. See also spiritual life Li Jinfa, 180–84, 187, 189, 225 Like a Dream (Xiao Sa), 397 Li Liewen, 276 Lin Chaosong, 112–13 Lin Chengzhi, 449 Lin Chenmo, 441 Ling Shuguang, 152–53 Ling Shuhua, 216 linguistic assimilation, 37 linguistic relativity, 440 Lin Haiyin, 188–89, 419–20 Lin Hengtai, 224–25 Lin Huaimin, 265 Lin Shuangbu, 354–58 Lin Shuguang, 365 Lin Yangmin, 441 Lin Youchun, 150 Lin Yutang, 216, 219, 315 Lin Yuyi, 411 Lin Zhanmei, 42

index

Lin Zhonglong, 338, 427 Lin Zongyuan, 441 Li Pan. See Hu Lancheng Li Qiao, 430 Li Qin’an, 441 Li Rongchun, 336–37 Li Rui, 470 Lishan Farm (Zhong Lihe), 318, 335 Li Shuangze, 406 literacy, 4, 21, 45, 49, 67, 301; rates, 91; vernacular movement and, 70–71, 78 literariness, 470 literary (wen), 42 Literary Annals, 157–58 Literary Creation, 161–62 literary criticism, 88, 218, 318; benchmarks in, 235–40; importance of, 119, 192; method and practice of, 272–75, 281; of nativist literature, 308; of New Poetry, 180, 183–85; in Newsletter of Literary Friends, 175; scope of, 273; spirit of, 129–30, 146 Literary Criticism. See Bungaku hyōron literary hierarchy, 300–302 literary history, 437, 470 literary journals, 105–6; Chinese language in, 151; establishing of, 150–51; market for, 124–25; military deployment of, 148–49. See also specific journals literary media: journey of, 19–21; as public forum, 2, 15–18; in Taiwan, 15–21 literary mind, types of, 310–13 Literary Quarterly, 241, 265, 339 Literary Realm, 333–34, 344 Literary Review, 169–70, 263–65, 269, 275, 366 literary scene: building, 117–20; central, 117–18; Chinese, 52, 174–75; conflicts in, 180; Japanese, 52, 88, 117–18, 225; silence of, breaking, 153–54;

551

Taiwanese, 51–54, 88, 108, 117–20, 146, 153–54, 388–90, 421–22; Western, 52 Literary Season, 344 Literary Star, 16 literary subversion, 391–93 literary supplement. See fukan Literary Taiwan, 5, 109, 117, 136–37, 142, 149, 427 literary theory, 147, 170, 264; in grassroots manifesto, 261; of nativist literature, 344–46; xiangtu wenxue and, 298 literary youth, 95 literati: at newspapers, 322; responsibility of, 124–26; Taiwan Literary Arts and, 427–28; traditional, 19, 52–54, 73–74 literature: atmosphere in, 94–96; authenticity of, 243–44, 247; avantgarde, 159, 195, 230; border, 155, 158; bourgeoisie, 77; colonial, 23, 115–17, 131, 146–47, 149, 365, 386; combat campaigns, 27; cultural transmission in, 257; dumbing down of, 300–302; elitist, 65; emotion and, 43; enfeebled, 355–58; exciting, 93; exoticism and, 110, 116, 118–19; facsimile, 325; folk, 85–86; French, 109–10; frontier, 310–11, 386; hard, 43; history related to, 465–66; as hobby, 108; without human nature, 293–97; human spirit built by, 109; ideology of, 147; imperial, 146, 149; innovation in, 229; Korean, 97–98, 105, 115, 130; ku’er, 409–12; language different from, 43; life sacrificed to, 359–62; market share for, 29; meaning of, 42–43; migration, 457–60; of military family village, 395–400; nationalist, 164–66; nation’s fate and, 147–48; outside, 110–11; popular, 65, 72–73, 91, 164–65;

552

inde x

literature (continued) propaganda, 248, 274; pure, 43, 87, 129, 282; religious, 438; revolutionary, 165; Russian, 110; on sexuality, 471; of social consciousness, 247–49; society and, 208–9, 220, 248, 299–300; soft, 43; Soviet, 92, 298, 302; suffering and, 124; Third World, 344; tools of, 54; universality of, 43, 55, 90–91, 115, 130, 182, 248; urban, 76; value of, 55, 90–91, 114– 15, 118, 135, 163, 299, 342; war and, 144–50, 202–3; world, 52, 228; writers revealed by, 295–96; for youth, 149–50. See also Chinese literature; essays; fiction; Japanese literature; localist literature; modern literature; nativist literature; New Literature; novels; poetry; proletarian literature; Taiwanese literature; writing literature of assent, 14 Literature Quarterly, 266 Literature Review, 275–76 “Little Nan’s Diary” (Ouyang), 222–23 little theater, 379–80 Liu Ailin, 450–51 Liu Jiachang, 357 Liu Yuxi, 398 Liu Zongyuan, 40 Li Yongping, 434, 450–56 Li Yuanzhen, 406 localist literature, 14, 20, 34n33, 118, 283; local color in, 188–89; repressed, 8; vision, 23 localization, 20, 28, 34n33, 469–70 The Locked Heart (Guo Lianghui), 16, 32n16, 204–11 “The Long-Distance Runner” (Li Ang), 347–49 Long Yingzong, 23, 129–33, 249, 461 Losing Soldiers Instead of Horses (Zhang Tuowu), 398 lowbrow, 96–97, 301–2

Lubbock, Percy, 277–78 Lucas, E., 56 Lü Fu, 56, 57n1 Lu Gang, 470 Lu Hanxiu, 441 Lü Heruo, 23–24, 137, 140; direction of, 133; “Oxcart” by, 89, 153, 249 lunzhan (debate), 15–18, 32nn17–18 Luo Fu, 178–79, 198–99, 382 Luo Fuxing, 330 Luo Jialun, 216 Luo Xueliang (Ma Ge), 417–18, 420 Luo Yijun, 475–76 Luo Zhicheng, 433–34 Lü Xingchang, 359 Lü Xiulian, 355 Lu Xun, 24, 298, 322, 364, 436, 444; May Fourth and, 258; Xiaman and, 477, 478–79 Lu You, 46 macrolevel historical forces, 19–20 Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 135, 137–38, 235, 238, 443 Ma Fantuo, 196, 198n1 Ma Ge. See Luo Xueliang mainland émigrés. See waishengren Manchukuo, 120 Mandarin Chinese, 13, 21–23, 28, 283, 367; as official language, 6, 30n5, 177; vernacular, 64 The Man from Wuling (Zhang Xiaofeng), 231–35 mangroves, 332 “The Man in Qi,” 75 Mao Zedong, 164, 306 marriage, 395 Marriage (Hu Shi), 99 martial (wu), 42 martial law period, 2, 13–14, 18; Cold War and, 159; lifting of, 7–8, 159, 407, 441; political stories in, 412–13 Masses Daily, 477–78

index

Matsukaze Shigeru, 134 May Fourth, 4, 16, 27–28, 86, 155; ban on, 255–59; death of, 214–19; Hu Shi and, 215–16; influence of, 21, 24, 150, 152–53, 323; language and, 215; Lu Xun and, 258; New Literature influenced by, 152–53, 215, 229, 435–36; as periodizing concept, 254; reevaluation of, 421; West and, 215–16 media: commercialism of, 130; liberalized, 7; print, 4; sensationalism in, 9. See also literary media medicine, 166 Meiji period, 2, 111 Meiji restoration, 52 Mei Xun. See Yang Pinchun memory, 366–67 Mencius, 75, 351 meta-fiction, 393 metaphor, satire and, 96 micro-story, 326 middle-class readership, 19 migration literature, 457–60 migratory birds, 332–33 Milbrath, Lester W., 446 military draft, 149 military family village (juancun): end of, 462–63; fate and, 396–97; fathers and, 397–99; literature of, 395–400; nostalgia and, 396, 399–400 Military Literature, 164–66 Milosz, Czeslaw, 423–24 Ming Bao Monthly, 271 Ming dynasty, 46, 320 mirror, cracked, 195 Miscellaneous Verses from Southern Vegetable Garden (Momiyama), 112 “The Mission of the Intellectuals,” 49 misty-flower passers-by, 357–58 Mizuno Dairo, 112 modern art, 184–85, 195

553

Modern Chinese Poetry (Yip), 226–27 modernism, 27–28, 32n15; classicism coexisting with, 195; essence of, 196–97; in Japan, 14–15; new departure in, 220–22; rationality in, 169; in Taiwan, 14–15, 220–22 Modernist Poetry Quarterly, 168 Modernist School, 167–69, 224–25 modernity: colonialism and, 37; compressed, 10–15, 24; contramodernity, 12; in East Asia, 1; entry into, 37; vernacular movement and, 15, 46 modernization, 7, 25–26, 220 modern literature: antiromantic, 200; as art, 107; bag of tricks in, 221; essay, 321–22; form of, 193–94; influence of, 159; institution, 24–30; May Fourth movement and, 215; Military Literature and, 164–66; movement, 4, 34n32, 35n37; novels, 171–74; pilgrims, 191; prose, 213–14; research on, 389; tenets of, 167–69; world literature and, 52. See also modern poetry Modern Literature, 17, 223, 240–41, 263, 276, 366; Chen Ruoxi and, 264–65, 268–69; folding of, 266; introduction to, 191–92; one year of, 193–94 modern poetry, 163, 167, 179–80, 214; Chinese, predicament of, 226–28; crises of, 199–200; evolution of, 224–26; in Free China, 201; meaning of, 196–97; predicament of, 388–90; retrospect and, 229–31; styles, 402–3 Modern Poetry Association, 168 Modern Poetry Quarterly, 225, 230–31 Modern Poetry Society, 230 Momiyama Ishoo, 112 mono no aware (pathos of things), 136, 138 Monroe, Paul, 49

554

inde x

“Monument to a General” (Zhang Dachun), 400 Moonlit Wind, 105–6 morality: aesthetic experience and, 304; as critical framework, 236–38, 273–74; income and, 295; of scholars, 39–40 Morell, J. R., 43 Mori Ogai, 24, 112 Morioka, 153 Mori Taijiro, 112 Morning Post, 56, 323 mountains, 39–40, 403–4, 408–9 Mountains and Seas Cultural Magazine, 478 The Mountain Songs of Ma Fantuo, 196, 198n1 Mountain Spirit, 97–98 “Mouse Invites a Guest to Tea” (Wang Zhenhe), 339 The Mulberry Sea (Yuan), 350–51 Murakami Haruki, 394 musicality, 261 My Country and My Compatriots (Li Rongchun), 337 mythology, 85 Myths of Eighth-Generation Bay (Xiaman), 478 Naipaul, V. S., 480–81 Nakamura Akira, 129–33 names, recovering, 384 narrative method, 277–78 nation, fate of, 147–48 nationalism: realism and, 256; Taiwanese, 8, 16, 21–24, 33n29 Nationalist government, ROC, 159, 330, 415. See also Chinese Nationalist regime nationalist literature, 164–66 Nationalist Party, 8, 74 nationality, in Taiwanese literature, 382–83

National Language Household policy, 353 National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 33n26 National Taiwan University (NTU), 193, 243, 275, 406; Chen Ruoxi at, 267–68; Li Yongping at, 450–52, 454 native land, love of, 306–7 native Taiwanese. See benshengren nativist literature, 16, 23, 26–28, 30n4, 34n33, 469; argument over, 406; blind spot of, 289–93; Conference on Literary Arts and, 306–7; criticism of, 308; defined, 346; era of, 387; in Essays on Nativist Literature, 307–9; evaluation of, 79–80; inevitability of, 420; nationality and, 383; objection to, 76–78; pressure of, 445; promotion of, 63–66, 75–76; question of, 343–46; realism and, 280–84, 288–90, 293–97; significance of, 286; in Taiwan Literary Arts, 429–30; theory of, 344–46; Zhong Zhaozheng and, 281–84. See also History of Nativist Literature in Taiwan Natsume Soseki, 24 Natural Hualian, 408 naturalism, nihilistic, 141–42 nature, 403–5, 446–48 Naval Commemoration Day, 123 neologism, 77–78 New Drama movement: beginnings of, 98–100; Japan and, 99–101, 401; overview of, 126; Taipei High School and, 100–101; youth and, 98–103 new intellectuals, 19 New Land, 377–79 New Life Daily, 152, 161, 365 New Literature, 4, 15, 21, 52–53, 84, 113; characteristics of, 256, 437;

index

Chinese literature and, 158; in “A Comparison of Old and New Literature,” 54–55; context of, 440; disappointment in, 216–17; elitism in, 65; establishing of, 150–51, 438; Japanese literature and, 158; literati’s responsibilities and, 125; May Fourth movement influencing, 152–53, 215, 229, 435–36; phases of, 249; publications and, 105; study of, 151–52; Taiwan Literary Arts and, 91–93; uniqueness and, 155–56 New People’s Gazette, 86 New People’s Journal, 152 New Poetry, 93, 145, 163, 192; Chinese, 179–84, 224; criticism of, 180, 183–85; difficulty of, 182; grassroots manifesto for, 259–62; Modernist School and, 168–69; random talk on, 186–88; roots of, 224–26 New Poetry Weekly, 229 New Queer Cinema, 410 Newsletter of Literary Friends: criticism in, 175; launch of, 333–38; Liao Qingxiu and, 335–36, 338; Shi Cuifeng and, 335–37; Ye Shitao and, 333, 338; Zhong Lihe and, 174–78, 334–37; Zhong Zhaozheng and, 13, 174–78, 333–38, 428 Newsletter of the National Museum of Taiwan Literature, 448–49 “The Newspaper Boy” (Yang Kui), 89, 97–98, 153, 249 newspapers: Chinese columns in, 103–4, 127; literati at, 322; readers of, 323–24; types, 66. See also fukan news poem, 326 New Taiwan Daily, 112 New Taiwanese Culture, 465 New Taiwanese literature, 249 New Taiwan Journal, 112 New Theater movement, 60–61 New Tsukiji Theater, 101

555

New Village. See military family village New York Times, 424–25 New Youth, 17, 105, 254 Ngo Dinh Diem, 305 “Night Monkey” (Zhang Wenhuan), 138, 140 “Night Mooring at Maple Bridge,” 303–4 nihilism, 141–42, 199–202, 206, 264 nihilistic naturalism, 141–42 1930s writings, ban on, 255–59 Nippon Federation of Proletarian Artists, 101 Nishikawa Mitsuru, 5, 134–37, 139–42; Contemporary Literary Criticism by, 123; Literary Taiwan and, 427; “A Tale of Red Deceit” by, 140; Ye Shitao and, 364–65, 367 Nobel Prize, 317, 319, 422–25 nonresistance, 51 “no problem” group, 355–56 North American Association of Taiwan Studies, 9–10 Northern Police Bureau, 203 North Korea, 10 nostalgia, 396, 399–400 novelists, 394 novels: as art, 235–36, 239, 394; ethical issues in, 238; “I,” 130–31; modern, 171–74; psychological, 173–74; size of, 171–72. See also specific works NTU. See National Taiwan University Obashi Hyoken, 112 objectivity: of aesthetic experience, 303–4; of consciousness, 331 obscenity, 208–9 obscurity, 190 “Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse” (Bhabha), 12 Old Capital (Wu He), 464–65

556

inde x

The Old Man and the Sea (Hemingway), 173 Once (Ai), 397 O’Neill, Eugene, 339–41 One Man’s Bible (Gao), 444 “One’s Own Sky” (Yuan), 312 One Thousand Pieces of Gold, 65 “On Li Jinfa: Founder of the Symbolist School in New Poetry” (Su Xuelin), 180–84 On Reading (Zhang Ailing), 254–55 On the Island’s Edge (Chen Li), 408–9 open letter: to Guo Lianghui, 204–6; to Shiwai Min, 138–39 opera, Chinese, 143 opium dens, poetry societies as, 74 oppression, 251, 289, 385 Orchid Fan, 121 Origins of Modern Japanese Literature (Karatani), 29 Orion Troupe, 99–100, 102 Orphan in the World (Wang Qimei), 400–401 The Orphan of Asia (Wu Zhuoliu), 153, 202–3, 359, 386 Orwell, George, 301 Our Man in Havana (Greene), 467–68 An Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature (Ye Shitao), 432, 440 outside literature, 110–11 Ouyang Zi, 272; “Autumn Leaves” by, 235–40; The Girl with Long Black Hair by, 222–24; “Half a Smile” by, 223; “Little Nan’s Diary” by, 222–23; “Vase” by, 223 “Ouyang Zi’s Autumn Leaves” (Tang Jisong), 235–40 “Oxcart” (Lü Heruo), 89, 153, 249 “An Oxcart for Dowry” (Wang Zhenhe), 339–41 Pacific War, 18, 153, 249, 352–53, 360 painting, 166–68

“A Painting of Chicken Plumage” (Zhang Dachun), 399–400 Pan Qinxin, 60, 99 paradise, 231–35 paranoia, Taiwan, 382–83 parliament, 50 passion, 109 “The Past” (Yu Dafu), 56 Pasternak, Boris, 319 pathos of things. See mono no aware Peach Blossom Spring, 232–34 pearls, 245 Peking University, 47 Peng Ge, 171–74, 309n1 Peng Ruijin, 344–45 people: art belonging to, 87–89; poets of, 190 People’s Republic of China (PRC), 12, 14, 20, 26–27, 163; Cold War and, 10, 25; Cultural Revolution in, 18, 268–71, 466; Taiwan’s relationship with, 8–9, 21–22, 375 periodicals, 105–6, 124–25, 335. See also literary journals phonetics, 77–78 photography, 166–67 pictographic principle, 69 Ping Lu, 391–93 Ping Xintao, 420 piracy, 206 pity, 250–51 Plucking Stars (Lai Shengchuan), 372 pluralism, 9 Poems from the Carefree Thatched Hut (Lin Chaosong), 113 Poems of the Beautiful Island, 225 poem-song. See shige poetic techniques, 174 The Poet of Blood and Iron: Wu Zhuoliu (Lü Xingchang), 359 poetry: in Bamboo Hat, 217–18; as belles lettres, 43–44; birth of, 440–41; Chinese, 111–12, 168, 179–84, 224,

index

226–28, 402; clubs, 51–53; emotion and, 41–42, 250; in Epoch Poetry Quarterly, 178–79, 186; fake, 190–91; giant bomb on, 73–74; highbrow, 96–97; innovation in, 229; insular era of, 217; Japanese, 114, 168; language as medium for, 196–97; as literature, 43, 53; meaning of, 196–97; modern, 163, 226–28; news, 326; popularization of, 196–97, 260; professionalization of, 260; prose different from, 190; pure, 169, 189, 197; readers, 183, 187–88, 190; rites, 80–82; roots of, 224–26; sales, 187; societies, 4, 73–74, 91, 225, 230, 356–57, 383, 439; song and, 166–67; symbolist, 179–84, 187; tanka, 109–10, 114, 229; teachers, 187; value of, 51; vernacular, 46, 93; victory and, 145; as weapon, 163–64. See also modern poetry; New Poetry poets: enthusiasm of, 259–60; from Free China, 163–64; modern Chinese, predicament of, 226–28; notes of, 189–91; of the people, 190; problems facing, 389–90; respect for, 185; of roses, 83; senior, 51; translingual generation of, 352–54 “Poets of Taiwan” (Takahashi), 354 “The Poet’s Vision” (Sitwell), 179–80 point of view: importance of, 277–78; single, 173 polio style, 240–42, 435 politics: in fukan, 323; in martial law period, 412–13; sexual, 412; writers and, 122, 151, 163, 189, 406–7, 412–13; Ye Shitao and, 357 Popular Historical Romance of the Twenty-four Histories (Lü Fu), 56 popularization, 19, 65, 165, 387; of poetry, 196–97, 260; shallow formula of, 190; vernacular movement

557

and, 45, 47–50; vulgarization and, 196 popular literature, 65, 72–73, 91, 164–65 pornography, 16, 193, 204, 207–8, 300, 471 postcolonial–postmodernist theoretical formulations, 12, 24–25, 32n17, 35n39, 457 postwar generation: manifesto of, 260–62; struggles of, 386 postwar years, 2, 15, 28, 386 Pound, Ezra, 222, 228 poverty, 365–66 practical writing, 44 Praying Mantis Theater, 102–3 PRC. See People’s Republic of China presentation, 340 prewar period, 5 primary documentations, 3 print media, 4 professionalization, of poetry, 260 proletarian drama, 101–2 proletarian literature, 77, 79–80, 87–88, 138; failure of, 297–98; xiangtu wenxue and, 297–301 pronunciation, 77 propaganda: American, 15; Communist, 170, 274, 306; literature, 248, 274 “A Proposal on the Construction of Taiwanese Vernacular Writing” (Guo Qiusheng), 23 prose: in China, 211–14; coxcomb’s, 211–12; density, 214; essays as, 450; modern, 213–14; perspective on, 450; poetry different from, 190; scholar’s, 211; value of, 51; washerwoman’s, 212–13; Western, 474; Zhang Xiaofeng on, 473–74. See also specific works Proulx, Annie, 458 Provincetown Players, 191 Provincial Assembly, 188

558

inde x

Provincial Work Committee, 466 pseudo-romanticism, 135–39, 141–43 psychoanalysis, 346–47 psychological novels, 173–74 publication: opportunities, scarce, 154, 161; outlets, 109 public service, spirit of, 143 public spheres, 2, 15–18, 25, 32n22 puppet theater, 128, 401 pure literature, 43, 87, 129, 282 Pure Literature, 265–66 pure poetry, 169, 189, 197 Qian Gechuan, 156–57 Qideng Sheng, 240–42, 264–66, 435 Qing dynasty, 4, 254, 287–88, 321 Qiu Miaojin, 393–95, 411–12 Quan Wulang, 88 queer, 410, 412 “Quiet Night Thought” (Li Bai), 302 raciality, 12 racial self-determination, 50, 472 rationality, in modernism, 169 readers: happiness of, 299–301; identity of, 414; lazy, 172–73; literary issues about, 158; middle-class, 19; of newspapers, 323–24; of poetry, 183, 187–88, 190; in Taiwan, 116, 129, 183; underestimated, 190 realism, 269; Flaubert and, 137, 193; nationalism and, 256; nativist literature and, 280–84, 288–90, 293–97; tradition and, 137; xiangtu wenxue and, 297. See also kuso realism reality, 273, 309; authentic feelings about, 155; fiction and, 468; quintessence of, 183; return to, 221–22 Red Cavalry (Babel), 302 reflexivity, 25 reform: classical Chinese, 48–50; language, 21, 50, 67–72, 74, 440; social, 50–51, 83–85, 299–300

reinvention, identity as site of, 8–10 religious literature, 438 Remains of Life (Wu He), 466–67 Renaissance, 84, 195, 441 rentong (identity), 9 reportage, 325 repression–resistance model, 14 Republican Era, 6, 18, 26–27 Republic of China (ROC), 159, 294, 330, 415, 447 resilience, 14 resistance, 14, 37, 51, 155, 250–51, 345 Retrocession, 152–54, 249, 315 retrospect, modern poetry and, 229–31 revolutionary literature, 165 Rexroth, Kenneth, 423 Reyher, Ferdinand, 443 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 186 Rimbaud, Arthur, 366 rites, poetry, 80–82 Roaming (Li Yongping), 450–56 ROC. See Republic of China Romance of the Three Kingdoms, 91, 93 romanization, 68 romanticism, 134, 169, 276; lack of, 193, 200; pseudo-romanticism and, 135–39, 141–43 roses, poets of, 83 Rushdie, Salman, 457 Russian literature, 110 Russo-Japanese War, 111–13 Said, Edward, 463 salt, houses of, 349–50 samurai, 146 Sapir-Whorf principle, 440 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 305, 472 satire, 96 Sato Haruo, 96, 113 Saturday Evening Post, 179 scenic method, 223 scholars: moral character of, 39–40; prose by, 211

index

scientific writing, 43–44 scripts, 126, 128 seas, 39–40, 403–4 Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land (Lai Shengchuan), 368–73 Selected Essays on Modern Chinese Poetry, 228 Selected Poems of the 1960s, 195–98 Selected Poetry of the Sixties, 199 self-awareness, 134, 137, 388 self-confidence, 131 self-determination, racial, 50, 472 self-discovery, 350 self-introspection, 130–31 self-sacrifice, 51, 356 semantics, 77–78 senior poets, 51 sentimentalism, 137, 155, 193, 212, 276; flaw of, 222; homesickness and, 283; as passive, 250–51 serialization, 262–63, 315, 317 Series in Contemporary Mainland Chinese Writers, 377–79 Setting Moon (Peng Ge), 171–74 sexual desire, 56, 411–12, 471 sexuality, 471 sexual politics, 412 Shakespeare, William, 99, 194, 248, 301 Shao Yong, 46 Shenbao, 323–24 Shen Congwen, 323, 436, 445 Shi Cuifeng, 188–89, 315–17, 335–37 Shi De, 46, 213 shige (poem-song), 167 Shimada Kinji, 5 Shi Shuqing, 265, 458–60 Shiwai Min, 135–39 Shui Jing, 266 Silver Bell Society, 352–54 Sima Zhongyuan, 214 single point of view, 173 Sinocentrism, 7–9, 15 Sino-Japanese War, 125, 151, 323

559

Sinosphere, 15, 21 Sirius the Dog Star (Yu Guangzhong), 198–202 Sisyphus, 252, 346–47 Sitwell, Edith, 178–80, 183 Sixteen Lectures on Literature of the East (Takasu), 56 slave mentality, 158, 225 “Sleeping Lotus,” 201 slogans, 163 social consciousness, literature of, 247–49 social issues, in literature, 55 socialist: bourgeois versus, 24–30; paradigm, 18 social reform, 50–51, 83–85, 299–300 society: dominator, 446–47; literature and, 208–9, 220, 248, 299–300 Society of Imperial Subjects for Patriotic Services, 120, 139–40 soft literature, 43 soldiers, 145–46 Solitary Spirits League, 59–63 Solzhenitsyn, Alexander, 269 Song Dongyang, 310 Song dynasty, 46, 163, 239, 320, 435 songs: folk, 65–66, 86; lyrics, 46; poetry and, 166–67 Song Zelai, 345–46, 357, 437, 441, 470 The Sorrows of Young Werther (Goethe), 136 soul, body and, 273 Southern Voice, 86 South Korea, 11, 20–21, 25–26 Soviet Union: literature in, 92, 298, 302; poets combating, 163 speaking, writing and, 21, 44, 47, 67–71 Spender, Stephen, 185–86, 269 spirit: in grassroots manifesto, 260–61; human, literature building, 109; of Japan, 147; of literary criticism, 129–30, 146; of public service, 143; in Taiwanese literature, 248–52

560

inde x

spiritual life: under imperialism, 286–87; of writers, 124 Spivak, G. C., 412 spoken and written language conformity. See genbun i’chi “Spring Lament” (Ye Shitao), 364 Stan Lai. See Lai Shengchuan Starlight Theater Research Society, 60–61, 99–100 Steinbeck, John, 298, 300, 319, 325, 458 Sterne, Laurence, 242 Story of the Stone, 193, 209, 313 storytelling, 172, 174 The Stranger (Camus), 317 stream of consciousness, 173 Study Lamp, 56 subconscious, world of, 198–99, 201 subjectivity, of consciousness, 331 subversion, 391–93 succinctness, 223 Su Dongpo, 42 Sun Dachuan, 476–81 Sun Fuyuan, 323, 325 Sun Weimang, 396 Sun Yat-sen, 75, 308 surrealism, 82, 97, 186, 198–99, 201 Su Weizhen, 397, 399 Su Xuelin, 179–84, 204, 206, 216 Sweet Potato Poetry Society, 439 symbolic violence, 13 symbolism, 199; in fiction, 347; in poetry, 179–84, 187 Synge, John, 339 Tagore, Rabindranath, 212 “Taili” (Zhang Ziping), 56 Taipei: City of Displacements (Allen), 12 Taipei High School, 100–101 Taipei People (Bai Xianyong), 272–75, 278, 398, 400 Taipei Theater Fellowship, 379–80 Taipei Youth Proletariat, 60

Taiwan: accurate depiction of, 143–44; art scene in, 105–6; authoritarian regime and, 10–15; Chinese literature in, 152–53, 343; Cold War and, 11; consciousness, 159, 286–87, 291, 329–31, 344–46; culture, conversation on, 129–33; East Asian contextual perspective of, 1–30; as Formosa, 284–85, 357, 391–92, 446; historical trajectory of, 3–10; human rights in, 354–56, 407; identity in, 3–4, 7–10, 383, 440; under imperialism, 286–92; indigenous peoples in, 403–6, 471–72, 478–81; Japanese literature in, 111–16; literary media in, 15–21; modernism of, 14–15, 220–22; nationalism, 8, 16, 21–24, 33n29; paranoia, 382–83; periodicals in, 105–6, 124–25, 335; position, 290–91; PRC and, 8–9, 21–22, 375; readers in, 116, 129, 183; as ROC, 159, 294, 330, 415, 447; socialist versus bourgeois in, 24–30; subcultures in, 8; vernacular movement in, 2, 15, 21–24, 33n29, 63–82, 92–93, 114, 156, 176–78, 192, 437–38, 441; writers studying, 119. See also youth, in Taiwan Taiwan, 109, 117 Taiwan Art Research Society, 60 Taiwan Arts, 151 Taiwan bungei. See Taiwan Literary Arts Taiwan Cultural Association, 4–5, 22, 99 Taiwan Culture Award, 140 Taiwan Daily News, 54–55, 99, 152 Taiwanese Folk Songs, 65–66 Taiwanese language, 436–39; Hakka, 22, 177, 441, 460–61, 470; Hoklo, 21–22, 66, 114, 176–77, 282–83; in theater, 127 Taiwanese literature: beginning of, 150; bridge for, 448–49; canon, 431–32;

index

Communism combated by, 163–65; under construction, 440–41; developing nature of, 385; direction of, 132–33; emergence of, 344; evolution of, 224–26; field of, 11–12; as flawed expression, 156–58; folk, 86; foundation of, 112; future of, 108–9, 111–17; golden age of, 105; Hakka, 441, 460–61; history of, 437; human rights and, 354–55; imitation in, 92, 108, 114, 135, 264–65, 281–82; imperial, 146, 249; kuso realism and, 134–43; Lai He as father of, 24, 249, 386; literary media and, 15–21; literary scene of, 51–54, 88, 108, 117–20, 146, 153–54, 388–90, 421–22; local color in, 188–89; modern poetry styles, 402–3; nationality in, 382–83; nature and, 403–4; negative depictions in, 142; since 1949, 280–82; as outside literature, 110–11; past and present of, 111–17; prospect of, 109–11; regions and, 156–57; spirit in, 248–52; uniqueness of, 155–56, 284–86; war and, 144–50. See also nativist literature Taiwanese New People’s Daily, 150 Taiwanese Patriotic Literary Association, 148–50 Taiwanese People’s Journal, 150 Taiwanese People’s Newspaper, 17, 32n20 Taiwanese theater: anarchist movement, 59–63; companies, 126–27; development of, 126–28; improvisation and, 368–73; language in, 127; life and, 380; little, 379–80; New Theater movement, 60–61; puppet, 128, 401; scripts, 126, 128. See also drama Taiwan Forsythia (Wu Zhuoliu), 14, 361, 386 Taiwan Forum, 137, 154 Taiwan Labor Mutual Assistance Society, 61

561

Taiwan Literary Arts (Taiwan bungei), 344, 364–65; historical mission of, 89–94; literati and, 427–28; nativist literature in, 429–30; New Literature and, 91–93; thirty years of, 427–30; Wu Zhuoliu and, 13–14, 249, 359–61, 366, 382–83, 386, 427–29 Taiwan Literary Arts Alliance, 90, 94 Taiwan Literary Research Society, 154 Taiwan Literary Society (Taiwan wenshe), 30n2, 44–45 Taiwan Literature, 5, 117, 137, 144, 151 Taiwan New Literature, 151 Taiwan People’s Daily, 248–49 Taiwan Poetry Quarterly, 402–3 Taiwan Trilogy (Shi Shuqing), 458–60 Taiwan wenshe. See Taiwan Literary Society Taiwan Youth, 150 Takahashi Kikuharu, 354 Takasu Yoshijiro, 56 Takita Teiji, 5 The Tale of Genji, 135–36, 138–40 “A Tale of Red Deceit” (Nishikawa), 140 Tale of the Lychee and the Mirror, 438 Tang dynasty, 46, 53, 73, 163, 239, 435 Tang Jisong, 235–40 tanka poetry, 109–10, 114, 229 Tao Yuanming, 51, 232 tape-recorded manuscript, 326 teachers, poetry, 187 television, 341 tenacity, 51 texture, prose, 214 theater. See drama; Taiwanese theater Theater Association, 126, 128 theory. See literary theory thinkers, writers as, 222 Third World literature, 344 Thirty Eventful Years, 322–27 This World, This Life (Hu Lancheng), 442–44

562

inde x

thought, beauty of, 82 Three Books of Life (Chen Huoquan), 337 Three-Six-Nine Little Gazette, 66–67, 86 Three-Three Bookstore, 442, 445 Three-Three Journal, 279, 442 “Tobacco Hall” (Zhong Lihe), 252 Tokunaga Sunao, 88, 89n2 Tolstoy, Leo, 51, 130, 236, 238; selfsacrifice of, 356; War and Peace by, 135, 171, 443 tone, 223, 341 tourism, 309 tradition: constructive destruction of, 192; meaning of, 137; vanguard of, 145; westernization and, 216; Zhang Ailing and, 254. See also classical Chinese tradition; folk tradition traditionalism, 185 translingual generation, of poets, 352–54 travel, 41 “A True Account of a Fowl Crime Solved in Three Hours,” 334 truth: importance of, 170; writer living for, 137 Tsukiji Little Theater, 99–101

urban literature, 76 utopia, 267–71

Uncarved Jade, 110 Unitas, 32n17, 358, 455, 466 United Daily: circulation, 324; literary supplement of, 223, 263, 310–19, 326–27, 332, 414–22, 424–25, 431, 456, 478; Prize for Literature, 392, 417, 420, 422; Ya Xian and, 418–20, 422, 424 United States, 159, 191, 219, 281, 317, 447; propaganda, 15; study in, 233–34, 287 unity, 51, 305–7 universality: Chinese, 284–86; of literature, 43, 55, 90–91, 115, 130, 182, 248

waishengren (mainland émigrés), 6–7, 31n7, 329 Waiting for Godot (Beckett), 220–22 Walking Past Luojin (Shi Shuqing), 458–60 Wang, Taigong, 331 Wang Baiyuan, 152–53 Wang Dengshan, 95 Wang Guowei, 215 Wang Hongjun, 317 Wang Qimei, 400–401 Wang Sheng, 305–7 Wang Tiwu, 417–19 Wang Tuo, 290, 293–95, 309n2 Wang Wande, 99

“Vase” (Ouyang), 223 Venner, Norman, 96 Verlaine, Paul, 180–81, 197 vernacular movement: in China, 45–50, 63–64, 67, 92, 114; Japanese colonial period and, 37, 441; literacy and, 70–71, 78; modernity and, 15, 46; objection to, 77–78; popularization and, 45, 47–50; in Taiwan, 2, 15, 21–24, 33n29, 63–82, 92–93, 114, 156, 176–78, 192, 437–38, 441; Wu He and, 470–71 vernacular writing: in Chinese, 64, 156; historical overview of, 46–47; mission to promote, 45–48; poetry, 46, 93; popularized, 47–50; washerwoman’s prose and, 213 victory, conviction for, 144–45 Vietnam, 305, 307 villages, 282–83, 289–90. See also military family village vocabulary, 434 voices, genuine, 341 vulgarization, 196

index

Wang Wei, 303 Wang Wenxing, 435, 451, 464; Dragon Inn by, 242–43; Family Catastrophe by, 242–47, 262–67 Wang Youhua, 383 Wang Zhenhe, 265, 283, 309, 309n2, 435, 443, 470; characters of, 338–40; “Mouse Invites a Guest to Tea” by, 339; “An Oxcart for Dowry” by, 339–41; tone of, 341–42 war, literature and, 144–50, 202–3 War and Peace (Tolstoy), 135, 171, 443 washerwoman’s prose, 212–13 Water Margin, 236, 278, 364 the Way, 55, 145–46 We Have Only One Earth, 331–33 wen. See literary Wen Xin. See Xu Bingcheng West: in Chinese versus Western Cultural Debate, 16, 32n15; cultural influences from, 1–3, 7, 11–12, 16, 19, 24–27, 35n37, 54, 111, 113, 163, 191–92, 197, 220, 227–30, 256, 263–64, 267, 281–82, 288, 321, 447; folk literature in, 85; glorification of, 238; intellectuals in, 269, 281; kuso realism and, 134–35; literary scene in, 52; May Fourth movement and, 215–16; meaning of literature in, 42; nation’s fate and, 147–48; poets respected in, 185; prose in, 474; public sphere in, 16, 18 westernization, 216, 227, 238, 254, 290 White, Paul, 457 White Terror, 8, 13, 15, 365, 407, 412, 428 Whitman, Walt, 190 Who Killed XXX? (Ping Lu), 391–93 will, 347 wisdom, 200 women: democracy and, 413–14; writers, 207, 315, 357–58, 393–95 Women in Love (Lawrence), 303

563

Women Writers Association, 207 worker–peasant–soldier literature. See gong-nong-bing literature World Knowledge, 97 world literature, 52, 228 worldview, fully developed, 236 Worster, Donald, 446 writers: anti-Communist, 161–62; attitude of, 136; avant-garde, 195; basic conditions for being, 365; commissioned, 314–16; difficulties for, 154; direction of, 133; financial assistance to, 417–19; ideological, 312; impressionistic, 312; indigenous, 480; leftist, 269, 415–16; literature revealing, 295–96; living for truth, 137; new, 421–22, 430; novelists, 394; politics and, 122, 151, 163, 189, 406–7, 412–13; posturing by, 95; roots of, 342; self-introspection of, 130–31; spiritual life of, 124; Taiwan studied by, 119; as thinkers, 222; training of, 170; value of, 137–38; women, 207, 315, 357–58, 393–95. See also poets writing: bad, 139–40; enjoyable, 121; experimental, 109, 194–95, 197, 261, 463–64; formulaic, 302–3; good, 139–40, 434–36; in grassroots manifesto, 261; nature, 446–48; in 1930s, ban on, 255–59; practical, 44; quality, 91–92; scientific, 43–44; speaking and, 21, 44, 47, 67–71. See also vernacular writing Written Exchange, 366 wu. See martial Wu He: Chaos Fan by, 464, 467; interview with, 463–72; Old Capital by, 464–65; Remains of Life, 466–67; vernacular movement and, 470–71 Wu Kunhuang, 153–54, 427 Wu Naide, 465 Wu Nianzhen, 418 Wu Yingtao, 225

564

inde x

Wu Zhuoliu, 32n13, 151–53, 249, 281, 283, 338, 461; Collected Works of Wu Zhuoliu by, 360–61; death of, 359– 62, 429; The Fig by, 359–61, 386; The Orphan of Asia by, 153, 202–3, 359, 386; as paragon, 358; The Poet of Blood and Iron: Wu Zhuoliu on, 359; Taiwan Forsythia by, 14, 361, 386; Taiwan Literary Arts and, 13–14, 249, 359–61, 366, 382–83, 386, 427–29; works of resistance by, 345 Xia Danqi (fictional character), 204–5 Xia Ji’an, 263–64, 275–76, 366 Xiaman Lanpoan, 476–81 Xia Mianzun, 322 xiangtu wenxue: literary theory and, 298; merits and demerits of, 297–304; objectivity of aesthetic experience and, 303–4; proletarian literature and, 297–301; realism and, 297 Xiang Yang, 441 Xiao Sa, 397, 418 Xiao Ye, 418 Xia Yunzhuang, 41 Xie Bingying, 32n16, 315 Xie Chunde, 478 Xie Xuehong, 413 Xie Youding, 62 Xilai Convent Incident, 152 Xiong Hong, 179 Xu Bingcheng (Wen Xin), 336, 338 Xu Cheng, 318 Xu Dishan, 322 Xu Hao, 426 Xu Kunquan, 152 Xu Shanmu, 336, 338 Xu Shen, 426 Xu Shiqing, 352 Xu Xu, 319 Xu Zhimo, 186, 189, 224, 227, 255, 322–23

Yanfeng Drama Troupe, 99–100 Yang Hua, 358 Yang Jiang, 466 Yang Kui, 6, 23–24, 87, 281, 283, 358; direction of, 133; “The Newspaper Boy” by, 89, 97–98, 153, 249; questions for, 156–58; rebellious mentality of, 345; Zhong Lihe compared with, 248–52 Yang Mu, 320–22, 358 Yang Pinchun (Mei Xun), 335 Yang Qingchu, 249, 265 Yang Wanli, 46 Yang Zijiang, 336, 338 Yano Houjin, 225 Yan Yuanshu, 266–67, 451–52 Ya Xian, 179, 185–86, 200, 319, 332; A Brave New World by, 415; United Daily and, 418–20, 422, 424 Ye Di, 179 Ye Gongchao, 216 Ye Ni, 178 Ye Shan, 179 Ye Shitao, 138–40, 249, 252, 289–92, 344; “The Conquest of Taiwan” by, 364; education and, 363; “A Letter from Mr. Lin” by, 364; Newsletter of Literary Friends and, 333, 338; Nishikawa and, 364–65, 367; An Outline of the History of Taiwan Literature by, 432, 440; politics and, 357; poverty of, 365–66; split personality of, 362; “Spring Lament” by, 364 Ye Weilian. See Yip, Wai-lim Yi Jin, 317 Yilan Citizen’s Beacon Drama Troupe, 60–61 yin and yang, 67 Yin Di, 272 Yin Zhengxiong, 309n2 Yip, Wai-lim (Ye Weilian), 226–28, 264 Yokogawa Toyo, 112

index

youth, in Taiwan, 114, 116; on Chinese literary scene, 174–75; colonial culture and, 131; conversation on, 132; fame and, 53; financial assistance to, 417–19; footprints of, 334; letter to, 50–51; literary, 95; literature for, 149–50; New Drama movement and, 98–103; opportunity of, 191; prejudice against, 241 Yuan Qiongqiong: Fate in This Life by, 397; The Mulberry Sea by, 350–51; “One’s Own Sky” by, 312 Yu Dafu, 24, 56, 249, 255, 364 Yue Xiaogui (fictional character), 458, 460 Yu Guangzhong, 179, 309n1, 435; Carefree Wandering by, 219; Leisurely Journey by, 219; Sirius the Dog Star by, 198–202 Yu Tiancong, 307–9, 366 Zhang Ailing, 309n1, 366, 394, 436; On Reading by, 254–55; remembering, 442–45; tradition and, 254 Zhang Binglin, 47 Zhang Dachun, 398–400 Zhang Daofan, 328 Zhang Hezhou (Chang Hyok-chu), 97 Zhanghua New Tripod Theater Troupe, 62 Zhang Ji, 304 Zhang Liangze, 334, 360 Zhang Qishi (Beggar Zhang, Zhang Weixian), 59–61, 99–100 Zhang Taiyan, 152 Zhang Tuowu, 398 Zhang Weixian. See Zhang Qishi Zhang Wenhuan, 23–24, 120, 137–40; “A Capon” by, 138, 140; “Father’s Face” by, 144; “Night Monkey” by, 138, 140

565

Zhang Wojun, 64, 248 Zhang Xianzhong, 56 Zhang Xiaofeng: The Man from Wuling by, 231–35; on prose, 473–74 Zhang Xiguo, 265 Zhang Yanxun, 338, 352 Zhang Zai, 46 Zhang Ziping, 56 Zhan Hongzhi, 343 Zheng Huan, 338 Zheng Kunwu, 65–66 Zhishan School, 353 Zhong Lihe, 282–83, 345; correspondence of, 174–78, 334, 336; Lishan Farm by, 318, 335; Newsletter of Literary Friends and, 174–78, 334–37; “Tobacco Hall” by, 252; Yang Kui compared with, 248–52 Zhong Lihe Memorial Museum, 337 Zhongwai Magazine, 223 Zhong Zhaozheng, 32n13, 316; correspondence of, 174–78, 335–36; nativist literature and, 281–84; Newsletter of Literary Friends and, 13, 174–78, 333–38, 428 Zhou Chuanzhi, 125 Zhou Jinbo, 133 Zhou Mengdie, 200 Zhou Tianqi, 62–63 Zhou Zhirou, 188 Zhou Zuoren, 321–22, 436, 445 Zhu De, 164 Zhu Dianren, 427 Zhu Shi, 352 Zhu Tianxin, 396, 418, 463–72 Zhu Xiang, 189 Zhu Xining, 309n1, 397–98, 400 Zhu Ziqing, 186, 255 Zigzags in France (Lucas), 56 Zong Baihua, 189