I mentioned my aspirations for this page at some point during the four weeks in which I was a blogger. I took it’s name from a phrase I’ve seen a handful of times: 辞林, the forest of words, which refers to the world of literature in the same way 儒林, the forest of scholars, refers to the whole community of Confucians. I always liked this usage of forest, so I’ve tried anglicizing it, taking “letters” from the phrases “belles-lettres” — admittedly a French phrase, but one I always found quite mysterious, showing up in the kinds of 19th century novels I read as a teenager.
I would like, essentially, to understand what vernacular Chinese literature actually is — primarily the literature of the 20th century. I of course must prepare myself for the possibility that it’s not anything at all. From novels like A Flower in a Sinful Sea at the end of the Qing dynasty, to the married couples in Shi Zhecun’s stories, harboring a latent darkness between them that rivals that found in Eyes Wide Shut, to mid-century Taiwanese novelists like Pai Hsien-yung and post Cultural Revolution mainland authors (who will probably form the bulk of what I write about) — it’s all too much for me to think about. But I feel compelled to try my best to read as much as I can and write a few words about what I learn. I’m not quite sure how to do that, as I lamented in the blog post mentioned above. So I figured I’d just get right to it without thinking too much. I can engage in revisionary antics later on, if I ever figure something out.
So without further ado, we begin our walk through the forest of letters with Sun Ganlu’s most famous story, and thus far the only one I’ve read by him, 我是少年酒坛子, whose English title Chinese Literature in Translation lists as “I Am a Young Drunkard.” (I should mention at this point that I will only discuss works I’ve read in Chinese and will not read any English translations even when they’re readily available, which means half the time I’ll only have a vague idea of what it is I’d just read.)
Here’s the picture of Sun Ganlu that’s at the front of the collection I bought, made appropriately pixelly:
A lot of the difficulties I have writing about Chinese literature in general find themselves manifested quite acutely in this little short story. To put it simply, I have no idea what this story is about. Despite that, I’ll try summarizing it. The best place to start seems to be this paragraph from the second page, which sets the scene. I’ll present it in somewhat abbreviated translation:
One scorching summer evening (which, to be precise, occurred at some point in the past century) I found myself meeting a guest from the north with a melancholic expression and an excess of energy — a self-titled poet with a penchant for writing resentful stories. It was at Ostrich Qianzhuang (which once hung a sign advertising alcohol) that this “habitual memory,” (as the blind Argentinean might call it) was made complete.
I asked Xiaoxi, without any context “Can you tell me what on earth a qianzhuang (钱庄) is?” She immediately replied “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. China’s always had these places called qianzhuang, yet I have no idea what they are.” As for the blind Argentinean, that’s certainly Borges, but I’m not sure what “habitual memory” might refer to.
The protagonist sits at a table with his poet friend. The way everyone talks to the narrator, I imagine he’s still a kid, maybe 19 at most — someone who learned the art of inebriation at an early age. I’m not sure how this young alcoholic and this emaciated northern poet became friends, but here they are.
There’s a part towards the beginning of the story that I rather like where the narrator and the poet are silently listening to the conversation of the men sitting next to them while they drink. The men notice this though and violently scream at the poet and narrator, telling them not steal other people’s drinking conversation. So they try their best to make their own conversation:
“What did you do before you came to the south?”
The poet lifted his nose till it touched the back of his chair, looking quite elegant, and said loudly “I hid myself away at home. You must know, the north is a ‘hidden dragon, crouching tiger’ sort of place.” Having finished speaking, he quite mysteriously swept his gaze across everyone in the qianzhuang.
The ostrich calmly straightened his neck.
“In the south, everyone spends all their time on the streets,” I said with a hiccup.
He quickly pointed his yellowed index at me, homing in on my weakness. “Just because you’re on the streets doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
“Has anyone ever gone searching for you or trying to call upon you?” I quickly said, trying to change the topic.
“As soon as someone visits,” he kindly explained, “We leave the nest. When they’re gone, we go back to hiding ourselves.”
“Are you all hidden together, or spread in every direction?”
The conversation goes on like this, for several pages. The poet keeps saying things that the other guests at the qianzhuang, represented by some card players, find idiotic, yet the narrator seems to hold an odd admiration towards him, closely listening to everything he says. The poet mentions that as a child he had always wanted to be buried in a garden so that his corpse could become food for plants. The card players next to them get really excited about this and menacingly suggest that they have a garden right outside for him. The narrator intercedes by suggesting that he and the poet need to pee. The ostrich man tells the narrator and his poet friend that since the building’s on top of a hill, they can just go outside and pee wherever they’d like, as gravity will carry the urine away.
The poet then becomes mesmerized by an antique copper coin they find, which immediately rolls down the hill. The poet chases after it, and the narrator soon follows. He bumps into a man who sells aphrodisiacs, and when he asks him if he’d seen the poet, he says he had — that the poet had run into a group of monks and joined them in their ascetic life. And so the narrator never saw the poet again.
In my youth, exploring the infinite world of Newgrounds, I found myself playing “The Legend of Zelda and the Lampshade of No Real Significance” over and over. There’s a bunch of characters that, at first were a complete mystery to, but which I gradually realized after months of revisiting the game must be based on other Newgrounds personalities. They all have two or three lines of dialogue and some passing significance in a trading quest. I never really felt much desire to engage with the work of the people they were based on — it’s easier to be friends with video game NPCs that say the same thing over and over — a tiny cartoon face in a slightly larger house in this bite sized, clearly delimited world. This story kind of feels like that. I’m not really sure why the path through the story is the way it is, yet I find myself mentally retracing my way through it over and over.
There’s a part of the story, which I haven’t yet spoken about, mostly because I don’t understand it. Before the story proper begins, there’s a section that feels unrelated about some people who traverse a mountain in the year 1959. That part initially put me off, because its narration style reminded me of the pseudo-Biblical tone of Yan Lianke’s Four Books, a novel I didn’t enjoy at all. The story itself, with its long strings of 成语 and massive jumps in diction between the poet and all the other characters’ dialogue, is mysterious to me in the sort of way that produces endless imaginations. It makes me want to go to the top of a hill and pee. Yet I find it attached to this five paragraph introduction that makes my eyes start to wither whenever I try rereading it. Why does everything have to come in pairs like this? Everyone is carrying some part of them that I have dread having to plunge into, yet it’s precisely that part of them that carries their darkest secrets.