A writer's virtue

Author: Lao Cun
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 1999-04-01
Features: What kind of character is a writer? This sounds like an insult. Indeed, this book is secretly insulting people, targeting the writers of that absurd era and their vain and petty hearts. The author attempts to show and critique the cultural personality and way of life of the writer community through a novel. The author also says he wants to "allow the entire nation to return to the baseline of facts and think with the perspective of big history."
Excerpt: The reason he often visited me was that he didn’t get along well with other writers in the building. He was also somewhat dissatisfied with the emerging writers. However, he made an exception for me. He and I argued about some issues, and we sometimes had disagreements that ended in a heated exchange, but due to the depth of our relationship, we never came to blows. His evaluation of reality was often inconsistent, sometimes even changing with his mood. Lately, he often spoke of trendy phrases like "maintaining a calm heart," " Submitting to solitude," and " Working in the world with the spirit of transcending it." I’ve known Feei for decades, and I often heard him utter these maxims that are common in society. But I knew very well that he appeared clever but was actually foolish. The reason Feei became my mentor was due to a story. This story happened twenty years ago. That year, I was sixteen. He came to the small town of Guozhen in Weinan, Shaanxi, where I lived, to experience life and stayed next door to my house. Before this, Guozhen had always been his "base." In fact, by the time I was just learning to crawl, he was already a frequent visitor to Guozhen. So, even though I was born and raised in Guozhen, my familiarity with the place was perhaps not as deep as his. He had visited Guozhen intermittently for over two decades. In the eyes of the locals, he was like a seasonal animal, arriving during the rainy season and leaving after it passed. When he appeared, he carried himself like a stallion, with an earnest head, looking around proudly, moving his limbs lightly. Whether on the streets or in the fields, he would walk on tiptoe, as if afraid of stepping on any insects. Occasionally, he would join familiar faces for a chat. This situation continued for many years. By the early 1980s, Feei had grown old and could no longer run, so he rarely came anymore. I’m talking about that summer. One afternoon, I had just returned from the river with a basket of green grass and was resting on the steps in front of the restaurant. He was also under the shade of the restaurant’s roof on the east side of the town. After having a few drinks or sensing something special, he was in an unusually high mood. He swayed his face, wearing glasses, and explained to the villagers, who didn’t understand what writing a book was, "Anyone can write a book as long as they are willing. Writing a book is simply telling stories. For example, the old man who feeds the bull in the east and the blacksmith who makes kerosene lamps, Zhao Bandao, both tell great stories. If they could read and write, they could write these stories down and print them, and that would be writing a book. Those who don’t understand might think writing a book is difficult, but in reality," Feei believed he had exposed the mystery of writing a book. He stretched his neck and shook his body, laughing loudly. His laughter drifted through the sky of the small town. When I heard his words, I was taken aback. The next afternoon, I went to his place next door to hear more of his insights. He wasn’t there, and the door to the cellar was wide open. I walked in and first noticed the damp smell in the cellar. Then I saw a book on the table, titled "Lu Xun’s Collected Novels." I flipped through a few pages and saw a foolish character named Ah Q, who touched the head of a young nun and couldn’t sleep at night. It was interesting, and my hand itched to write. I should add that, before this, I had already had some experiences with sneaking into gardens and stealing fruits in the village. There were also rumors about my mischievous behavior. So, without giving it much thought, I reached out and slipped the book into my clothes and hurried away.
Afterword: When I wrote The Wasteland, I stubbornly believed that writing in a popular literary style was a degradation. However, a few years ago, due to the need for livelihood, I wrote a novel in a popular style. Halfway through the book, I regretted it so much that I later hesitated to mention it to anyone. This year, I wrote another book in a style that went against my own linguistic preferences. Strangely, even after finishing the book, I felt no regret at all. Moreover, I developed a peculiar fondness for it. To use an inappropriate analogy, if The Wasteland were the wife in my household, this book would be my concubine, or a romantic encounter at a roadside inn. Of course, I am not a womanizer. But these days, people have a tendency to conform, like drinking Coca-Cola or singing karaoke. Therefore, it is inevitable to uphold one’s own principles while respecting the habits of readers. To be honest, if I couldn’t write a book of substance and circulation in a few years, it would be as if I had been sentenced to death for a market-dependent writer like me. My situation is very serious. People in Beijing are averse to "tricks" and judge people by whether they have "skill," showing how important "skill" is. The implication is that without genuine "skill," life is difficult and cumbersome. The life of selling words has given me immense pressure but also great motivation to improve myself and maintain rigor in my work. When writing, I had a faint feeling that this book would be like The Wasteland, a true "piece of work." Perhaps saying this is akin to "boasting like Wang Po selling melons." If so, so be it.
Two additional notes: First, the writers’ association mentioned in the story is not the Shaanxi Writers’ Association, but there is no doubt that it is the shadow of all those quasi-official and quasi-governmental writers’ associations. Second, the literary "loose cannon" Zhang Xiaolai in the story is not me. I only wrote him as younger and reluctant to portray him as too weak. Also, if any character or detail in the story seems too similar to reality, I must clarify that it is purely a coincidence. I did not do it intentionally.
December 31, 1998
Supplementary Afterword