Living

Author: Yu Hua
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-06-01
Features: The landlord's son, Fugui, is addicted to gambling and eventually loses his entire family fortune, leaving him penniless. In poverty, Fugui seeks medical treatment for his mother but is instead conscripted by the Nationalist army along the way and later captured by the People's Liberation Army. Upon returning to his hometown, he discovers his mother has passed away. His wife, Jiazhen, endures hardships alone, raising their two children. However, their daughter becomes deaf and mute, while their son is lively and spirited. Yet, the true tragedy begins to unfold gradually. With every page turned, we can't help but tear up, as the rare warmth in life is torn apart by death again and again, leaving only an aging Fugui accompanied by an old ox, reminiscing under the sun.
A true writer writes only for the heart, for the heart alone can truthfully reveal how selfish or noble he truly is. The heart allows him to truly understand himself, and once he understands himself, he understands the world. Many years ago, I understood this principle, but to defend it requires arduous labor and long-term suffering, because the heart is not always open—it is often closed. Thus, only writing, ceaseless writing, can open the heart and place oneself in the act of discovery, like the light of dawn illuminating the darkness, bringing inspiration suddenly.
For a long time, my works have stemmed from the tension between reality and the self. I indulge in imagination yet are tightly controlled by reality. I clearly feel my own fragmentation and cannot become pure. I once aspired to be either a fairy tale writer or a creator of substantial works. If I had become either, I believe my inner suffering would have been much lighter. But at the same time, my strength would have diminished greatly. In fact, I can only be the writer I am now, always writing for the needs of my heart. Reason cannot replace writing. Precisely because of this, I was an angry and indifferent writer for a long time. This is not just my personal struggle—almost all great writers face the same tension with reality. In their works, reality shines only when it is distant.
One must recognize that the past reality, though full of charm, is now shrouded in illusion, filled with personal imagination and interpretation. True reality—the reality of the writer's life—is incomprehensible and difficult to live with. When a writer tries to express the reality he lives with every day, he often finds it unbearable. The overwhelming truth almost always speaks of ugliness and cunning. The strange thing is why ugly things are always around, while beautiful things are far away. In other words, human love and compassion often arrive as emotions, while the opposite is always within reach. As a poet once expressed: "Humans cannot endure too much."
There are also writers who spend their lives resolving the tension between themselves and reality. Faulkner is a successful example—he found a gentle path, describing the middle ground between good and evil while encompassing both. He placed the reality of the American South within history and human spirit, which is a truly meaningful literary reality because it connects the past and the future. Some unsuccessful writers also depict reality, but in their works, reality is merely an environment—a fixed, dead reality. They fail to see how people have come to be and where they are going. When they write about petty characters, we feel the writer himself is petty. Such writers are creating realistic works, not works of reality.
As mentioned earlier, my relationship with reality is tense, and to put it bluntly, I have always regarded reality with hostility. Over time, my inner anger gradually subsides, and I begin to realize that a true writer seeks truth—a truth that excludes moral judgment. The writer's mission is not to vent, to accuse or expose, but to show people nobility. This nobility is not mere goodness but a detachment that arises after understanding all things, treating both good and evil with equal compassion.
It was in this state of mind that I heard an American folk song, "Old Black Slave." The song tells of an old slave who endured a lifetime of suffering, with his family passing away before him, yet he remained kind to the world, without a single word of complaint. This song deeply moved me, and I decided to write a story like it—a story called To Live, about a person's ability to endure suffering and their optimistic attitude toward the world. The writing process made me understand that people live for life itself, not for anything beyond it. I felt I had written a noble work.
This is a novel filled with blood and tears. It tells of a Chinese farmer's suffering and how people endure immense hardship; it speaks of the richness and breadth of tears; it tells of the absence of despair; and it tells of people living for life itself. To Live was awarded the Grinzana (1998) and selected as one of Taiwan's "Top 10 Books" (1994) by China Times, Hong Kong's "Top 15 Books" (1994) by Ming Pao, and Hong Kong's "Top 100 Chinese Novels of the 20th Century" by Asia Weekly. Together with Shu Zhong's Blood, it was chosen by 100 Chinese critics and literary editors as one of the "Top 10 Influential Works of the 1990s." The film adaptation, directed by Zhang Yimou, won the Jury Prize and Best Actor Award at the 1994 Cannes Film Festival.