Rebirth 2004: A lone figure in the literary world

Chapter 301 Novels are the antidote to life, but also its poison!
"What exactly do you hate, your motherland or your mother?"

After hearing Zhang Chao's question, Li Yiyun was no longer in a hurry to leave, but leaned on the sofa in the box, unable to speak for a long time.

Zhang Chao was not in a hurry. Instead, he took a sip of coffee leisurely and said to Susan who was also sitting opposite him: "I heard that you have become a columnist recently?"

Susan closed her notebook and said proudly, "The Boston Herald. I am in charge of the "Overseas Artists" column. Every issue, I recommend an artist from outside the United States to readers, including literature, painting, music, and some contemporary art."

Zhang Chao asked with a smile: "How many times have I been there?"

Susan raised her index finger and said seriously, "One time, just one time."

Zhang Chao pretended to be dissatisfied and said, "Too little."

Susan continued, "Once, but it was divided into Part 1, Part 1, and Part 2. It was a series of reports. It was after your book The Great Doctor won the National Book Critics Circle Best Novel Award."

Zhang Chao said in a pretentiously proud and exaggerated tone: "That's pretty good."

Susan said, "The main reason is that the award dispute between you and Kiran Desai was too dramatic, and the editor-in-chief asked me to step up the coverage no matter what."

Zhang Chao said helplessly: "This is an 'unforeseen disaster' for me. In fact, Kiran Desai's winning of the Booker Prize has already proved her excellence. One more or one less 'National Book Critics Circle Best Novel' award actually makes no difference to her."

Susan pouted and said, "But her compatriots don't think so..." Then she suddenly thought of something, quickly shut up, and looked at David Miller in the aisle.

David Miller was also shocked by her remarks and quickly made a scissors gesture to her, meaning that he would ask the editor to cut out that part.

After all, when it comes to racial issues, any small flaw in the language will be magnified, especially among Indians, who are known for their unity and sensitivity.

Zhang Chao said frankly: "I really don't appreciate the practice of immigrant writers focusing too much on themes of 'cultural conflict', 'racial discrimination' and 'survival in the cracks'. It's okay to write one or two books, but it's a bit boring to write about them over and over again for one generation or two generations.

I understand that literature should speak for the disadvantaged and marginalized, and tell the untold pain and struggles... but this is not the only destiny of literature. A writer can relieve his or her own inner depression by projecting his or her own personality and experiences into his or her creation.

In this sense, fiction is an antidote…”

At this point, Li Yiyun, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly said: "...My mother is an elementary school teacher, my father is a physics professor, and the schools I attended since I was a child are all Yenching, which is also the best in China.

What a perfect family, isn't it? ..."

Zhang Chao immediately shut up and started listening; Susan opened her notebook and started taking notes.

Li Yiyun looked at the dark green coniferous forests and blue lakes passing by outside the compartment window, which formed a sharp contrast with the desolation of Nevada and Utah. It was as if he was in two different worlds.
At this time, the train has entered Colorado and continues to climb along the Rocky Mountains. The towering peaks are covered with snow, and the sun is shining on the ridges, like a dream.

Li Yiyun's voice was so calm that he seemed to be telling someone else's story: "Although my father was a university professor, he was the most fatalistic person I have ever met. He silently endured my mother's violence, loss of control, and fragility for decades, telling himself and me - 'This is all fate.'

Do you know what happens to people who believe in fate?" Li Yiyun suddenly asked Zhang Chao.

Zhang Chao thought for a moment and replied, "Will it appear...persistent, or hardworking?"

Li Yiyun shook her head, revealing a hint of sarcasm, as if to say, "So there are times when you don't know", but soon this hint of sarcasm sank into her calm narration: "Believing in fate, or in Chinese, 'accepting one's fate', will make a person calm, hardworking, happy, and even have a sense of sacredness close to converting to a certain religion.

My father, under self-hypnosis day after day, gradually reached the pinnacle of his career and became a first-class professor. But I can't do it.

Do you think I started writing in English after I came to America?"

At this point, Li Yiyun's expression finally wavered, becoming bitter and helpless: "In fact, I have been writing a diary in English since high school. Because my mother can't understand it, she won't get neurotic.

I came to America to leave my "perfect family", my tyrannical mother, and my resigned father. Therefore, the theme of my novels is always "escape" and "runaway".

I don't want to 'reach' any paradise, I know there is no paradise in this world. But there is always a place farther away from hell in this world.

You asked me whether I hated Motherland or Mother. I can tell you that I hated both. My mother's neurosis plunged the whole family into terror, and the traditions of that land blessed and magnified this terror time and time again.

My father accepted his fate because "divorce is ugly", "family disgrace should not be made public", "endure for a while to keep things peaceful", "all for the sake of the children"... Is it ridiculous? It is so ridiculous.

As a daughter, I think any resistance is "unfilial", "ungrateful", and "not knowing how to appreciate the blessings you have". Since I was old enough to understand, I have convinced myself again and again...

Finally one day, I realized that I was not the father, and I couldn’t convince myself.”

Zhang Chao and the others didn't know how to react for a moment. Especially when Li Yiyun was speaking, he used Chinese for the first time - when he was saying the proverb "Don't air your dirty laundry in public".

However, the embarrassment did not last long. Li Yiyun said self-deprecatingly: "You are right. It is indeed more accurate to express it in my native language. But I cannot write a novel in Chinese."

Zhang Chao smiled slightly and said, "Don't you want your mother to see it?"

Li Yiyun didn't say anything, which was considered as his agreement.

Zhang Chao said: "There is an old Chinese saying, 'Every misfortune contains luck, and every luck contains misfortune'..."

Before he finished speaking, Li Yiyun could not help but asked, "You want to say 'Good fortune and misfortune go hand in hand, and misfortune and good fortune go hand in hand'?" He suddenly realized that he was speaking Chinese again and quickly shut up.

Zhang Chao smiled even more happily and said, "Yes, yes. You see, it is indeed difficult to express accurately without using your mother tongue. Being born in a 'perfect family' is 'lucky' in the eyes of outsiders, but 'all the gifts of fate have already been secretly marked with a price'..."

Li Yiyun couldn't help but ask, "What exactly do you want to say? Do you want to use Zweig to laugh at me?"

Zhang Chao became serious and said, "Of course not. At least there are a few sentences today where you are my 'teacher' and have given me a glimpse into a world I have never seen or understood. For example, your description of 'the man who accepts his fate' is more vivid and accurate than what I have seen in most literary works.

I was just thinking, what price has been secretly marked on my lucky life, and when will fate ask me for this reward? "

Li Yiyun's face relaxed when she heard this. She didn't know why she suddenly said this in front of Zhang Chao, and she even felt a little regretful. Although facing her family is a compulsory course for writers, Li Yiyun was not prepared for this before today.

What was it about Zhang Chao that touched me? Perhaps it was the phrase "novels are an antidote"?
Zhang Chao continued: "… your special family experience has become the source of your creation. So whether it is "Immortality" or "What Does That Have to Do With Me?", they are just the prescriptions you prescribed for yourself.

Do you think that recreating and amplifying your own horrific experiences in novels and generalizing them into a common experience for Chinese people, or even a common experience that continues to this day, can help you find peace of mind? "

Li Yiyun said: "... maybe. But I don't think this is just my personal experience. To some extent, I am indeed reproducing the fate of the Chinese people. This fate was passed down from ancient time and space and traditions to the past and to the present."

Zhang Chao did not rush to refute, but asked curiously: "How long has it been since you returned to China?"

Li Yiyun was speechless for a moment, but after a moment he still vaguely replied: "It's been... a long time." But then he said: "Are you trying to say that I don't understand China today, nor do I understand the Chinese people today?
Indeed, you are different from the "Chinese" I have met recently and the impression I have of you. You are not me, nor are you Ha Jin. You have your own unique life.

But this does not mean that the China I describe is not 'China'. It is also China, belonging to a certain group of people, at least it is my 'China'. ..."

Zhang Chao listened to Li Yiyun patiently before saying, "I agree. I talked to someone a few years ago about how history is not a piece of polished marble with only one side, but a crystal composed of countless tiny sides. Any narrative has its value, but it can only reflect one of its - at most a few - sides.

It is your right to write novels, and no one can deprive you of this right."

Li Yiyun asked doubtfully: "So what you mean is..."

Zhang Chao asked: "You have been in the United States for more than 10 years. Have you ever thought about writing an 'American story'? Or at least a 'Chinese American story'?"

Li Yiyun fell silent. Zhang Chao said, "In the history of literature, there are writers who delve deeply into a subject, but these writers almost never use 'hate' and 'pain' to drive themselves to continue doing this."

Li Yiyun's face froze, and he asked unconvincedly, "How do you know that I can only write these?"

Zhang Chao's face turned grim at this time, and he said with some amusement: "Because Americans only like to watch these."

At this time, not only Li Yiyun, but also Susan and David Miller in the aisle changed their expressions. Zhang Chao's words seemed to have exposed something at once, revealing some unspoken rules.

Zhang Chao said: “As a foreign writer, your first appearance in front of American readers and book reviewers is that of a ‘rebel’, ‘escapee’, ‘critic’… These labels will be firmly attached to you and are difficult to remove.

They will encourage you to write more novels that 'slam the system' and 'expose the truth', and then praise you. But if one day you get tired of it and say 'I want to write something else', what will happen? "

Li Yiyun's face turned pale, and he murmured, "That's not what James said..."

Zhang Chao asked curiously: "Who is James?"

Li Yiyun said: "He...he is my writing mentor. He told me that Western writers nowadays focus too much on 'individuals' and have lost the ability to describe the 'collective voice'.

This ability also exists in writers from countries like China and Japan. He made me cherish him..."

Xu Ruiya added at this time: "He should be talking about James McPherson, a black writer and a graduate of the Iowa Writing Workshop. He is the first black person to win the Pulitzer Prize."

Zhang Chao nodded and said, "Habit is a powerful force - for authors and readers alike. When your creations are narrowly defined, you may find yourself like a cow, constantly ruminating on your own pain, and then squeezing out the milk of the flavor they want...

Oh, sorry, that metaphor was a bit harsh.”

Li Yiyun shook his head and said, "Thank you for your honesty. Or maybe you are right... You mean, I might be one of the countless 'dissidents in exile in the United States'?"

Zhang Chao did not answer the question. He just lowered his head and took a sip of coffee. Then he said to David Miller, "I can't stand drinking coffee for two days. Let's buy some tea leaves at the next stop. Tea bags are fine."

David Miller was listening attentively to the conversation between the two. Upon hearing this, he hurriedly made an "OK" gesture with his hand to indicate that he understood.

Zhang Chao then turned to Li Yiyun and said, "Whether it is true or not is not decided by me, but by you. I know that some writers, like the one you mentioned earlier, regard it as a lifelong career and the driving force behind their creation. It doesn't matter.

But what about you? Can you use hatred and pain to support your writing for decades to come? "

Then he continued: "You hate discipline and escape from the 'cage', but discipline exists in any society and culture. Just like the American literary world, writers who come here repeat the same old stories again and again..."

Li Yiyun remained silent for a long time, then suddenly said, "I would rather hear your evaluation of the technical aspects of my novel. - As far as I know, you are a technical novelist. I would like to hear your opinion."

Zhang Chao smiled sincerely at this time, organized his words a little, and then said: "I think you are always too anxious to throw the characters in your works into devastating disasters, trying to show the cruelty of the times by simply destroying their lives.

But novels are not a shortened version of life. Once you inject a soul into a character, he will have his own logic of actions and interaction with fate. Not everyone should be simply destroyed.

This makes readers like me suspect that you don't care about presenting a vivid story and some real humanity, but just roughly feed your own preset consciousness to readers.

This kind of reading experience is not pleasant. It has neither the gripping twists and turns of traditional novels nor the comprehensive display of the subtle inner world of modernism.

It is more like an installation art piece made up of children's graffiti, teenagers' diaries and adults' ramblings. It has some wonderful parts, but overall the form outweighs the content. The overly full and frequent use of symbols also makes me feel tired while reading it. "

Li Yiyun smiled and said, "So I'm not as good at writing as they say I am, right?"

Zhang Chao said: "Maybe, it's not as bad as I said."

Li Yiyun did not dwell on this question, but asked: "You said that novels are an antidote to life. Do you think they can really cure diseases?"

Zhang Chao thought for a moment and said, "Novels are indeed an antidote to life's misfortunes, but they are also poison. Any medicine is poisonous if you take too much of it."

Li Yiyun suddenly said in Chinese: "'All medicines are poisonous, right?'"

Zhang Chao smiled and said, "Very accurate."

Li Yiyun smiled. It was no longer a wry smile, a (self-)mocking smile, or a polite smile, but a smile of relief, as if a huge stone had been put down.

Zhang Chao stopped talking. Today's conversation with Li Yiyun made him feel extremely tired but also very inspired.

When he first started reading the works of this "senior" from Yanda University translated by Xu Ruiya, he really felt that she was just another stereotyped "exiled writer". In his previous life, he didn't like to read the works of these writers.

But after meeting Li Yiyun, apart from some verbal confrontations at the beginning, the subsequent discussions were not as bad as expected. Li Yiyun even opened up and talked about his family and his pain...

This suddenly made Zhang Chao alert - it turns out that when the pain brought to him by family or other personal experiences cannot be resolved, and he cannot convince himself to reconcile with fate, he will blame this pain on a larger group of people.

Explaining one's own misfortune from the perspective of "the tragedy of the times" is a kind of... instinct?
From an individual perspective, writers like Li Yiyun are no different from the frustrated middle-aged men who complain about social injustice and the decline of moral standards after getting drunk in a street pub.

However, the writer's sensitive and proud heart will alienate these emotions into unique feelings and convince himself to accept this uniqueness.

Anger is the driving force that inspires creation, but it is also the karmic fire that destroys creation.

Zhang Chao seemed to see himself before his rebirth in Li Yiyun...

Just as I was thinking about it, the long whistle of the train reminded the passengers that a new stop had arrived - the whistle sound was simulated, with a flavor of the steam locomotive era.

This stop is Denver, the capital of Colorado, and also the end point of Li Yiyun's journey.

Before getting off the car, Li Yiyun suddenly turned around and said to Zhang Chao: "Today... is a very pleasant day. Thank you, and please forgive my rudeness at the beginning. ... Well, goodbye, junior." Li Yiyun said the last two words in Chinese.

Zhang Chao stood at the door of the carriage and watched Li Yiyun go away.

At this time, Xu Ruiya and Susan also walked to the door of the carriage and said to Zhang Chao: "This station will stop for 30 minutes. Do you want to go shopping in the supermarket in the waiting hall? Didn't you say you wanted to buy tea?"

Zhang Chao was overjoyed when he heard that. He jumped onto the platform, stretched himself, and said, "Finally, we don't have to stay in the carriage anymore. Let's go to the supermarket!"

As he said that, he took the lead and walked towards the waiting hall. David Miller caught up with him, handed the ticket to Zhang Chao, and said, "You will need this to re-enter the station later!"

In less than 3 minutes, Zhang Chao and his two companions were standing in the waiting hall of Denver Union Station. There was a small cafe and bar, as well as a small supermarket for passengers to shop, which was only slightly larger than a convenience store.

Zhang Chao and his companions walked around for a while and found that there was indeed no Chinese tea for sale. They had no choice but to buy a box of Lipton tea bags and some snacks.

Just as they were about to pay, Susan suddenly pointed at the TV hanging above the cash register and said, "Look..."

Zhang Chao and Xu Ruiya looked up, and saw the scene where Zhang Chao coldly said to the reporter from The American Indian at the door of the carriage yesterday: "...I write in my own mother tongue."

The color tone of the picture has been obviously modulated, Zhang Chao's face looks gloomy and serious, and his tone is cold but also teasing.

Soon the screen switched to the anchor, and an Indian-looking anchor was shouting at the top of his lungs: "Zhang Chao is a racist!"

(End of this chapter)