Perry Link is Chancellorial Chair at the University of California at Riverside. His recent books include An Anatomy of Chinese: Rhythm, Metaphor, Politics and a translation of the memoirs of the Chinese astrophysicist Fang Lizhi, entitled The Most Wanted Man in China: My Journey from Scientist to Enemy of the State. (November 2016)
by Eliot Weinberger, with an afterword by Octavio Paz
The Ghosts of Birds
by Eliot Weinberger
Some people, and I am one, feel that Tang (618–907 CE) poetry is the finest literary art they have ever read. But does one need to learn Chinese in order to have such a view, or can classical Chinese poetry be adequately translated? In 1987 Eliot Weinberger, who has written …
The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature: Writings from the Mainland in the Long Twentieth Century
edited by Yunte Huang
Dragon in Ambush: The Art of War in the Poems of Mao Zedong
by Jeremy Ingalls, compiled and edited by Allen Wittenborn
At the annual meeting of BookExpo America that was held in New York last May, to which most leading US publishers sent representatives, state-sponsored Chinese publishers were named “guests of honor.” Commercially speaking, this made sense. China’s book industry, with sales now reported at $8 billion annually, is the second-largest …
by Sheng Keyi, translated from the Chinese by Shelly Bryant
A Map of Betrayal
by Ha Jin
Can writers help an injured society to heal? Did Ōe Kenzaburō, who traveled to Hiroshima in 1963 to interview survivors of the dropping of the atomic bomb on that city eighteen years earlier, and then published a moving book called Hiroshima Notes, help his compatriots to recover? Did Primo Levi, …
The Plum in the Golden Vase or, Chin P’ing Mei, Vol. 5: The Dissolution
by an unknown author, translated from the Chinese by David Tod Roy
During the four hundred years since it appeared, Chin P’ing Mei has been known in China as an “obscene book.” Governments have banned it and parents have hidden it from children. One widespread anecdote—a false story, but a true indication of the book’s reputation—is that it originated as a murder weapon: the author applied poison to the corners of the pages and presented it to an enemy, knowing that his foe would need to wet his fingertips with saliva in order to keep turning the pages fast enough.
Liu Xiaobo felt haunted by the “lost souls” of Tiananmen, the aggrieved ghosts of students and workers alike whose ages would forever be the same as on the night they died. His “final statement” at his trial in December 2009 opens: “June 1989 has been the major turning point in my life.” In October 2010, when his wife Liu Xia brought him the news of his Nobel Peace Prize, she reports that he commented, “This is for the aggrieved ghosts.”
Are people who think in Indo-European languages better off because their languages lead them to a clear conceptualization of an important puzzle? Or are thinkers in Chinese better off because their language gets them through life equally well without the puzzle?
It can be embarrassing for a China scholar like me to read Eileen Chang’s pellucid prose, written more than sixty years ago, on the early years of the People’s Republic of China. How many cudgels to the head did I need to catch up to where Chang was in 1954 in understanding how things worked, beneath the jargon? In Naked Earth, Chang shows how a Communist land-reform campaign descends on a village like a giant cookie cutter. Eventually the farmers, like everyone else, figure out that their personal interests depend on correct verbal performance.