Rural scenery and city sounds

Author: Qian Liqun
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2005-05-01
Features: The charm of the countryside and the bustle of the city seem to have existed since ancient times. In the prose of the 20th century, however, they carry a different significance: they are closely intertwined with the history of China's transition from self-imposed isolation to opening up to the world, with comprehensive modernization in politics, economy, and culture. With the emergence of modern industrial cities like Shanghai, people have heard the clamor of modern industrial civilization—the "bustle of the city." In the vast rural areas, although the traditional "countryside charm" remains, steamboats and diesel boats have indeed the quiet rivers, "splashing and crashing against the muddy banks," polluting the green fields and ruthlessly impacting and changing the old "countryside scenes" and "countryside charm" (Mao Dun: "Scenes of the Countryside"). Theorists and historians have seen the conflict between two civilizations in the disharmony of "countryside charm" and "city bustle" and have boldly declared: this is the historical showdown between the old China of traditional agricultural civilization and the new China of modern industrial civilization. Their rise and fall will determine the fate of China, and so on. But what reaction did Chinese writers have to this? An interesting and thought-provoking phenomenon is that when writers, as intellectuals concerned with China's destiny, rationally reflect on and explore the path of China's historical development, they almost without hesitation stand on the side of modern industrial civilization, sharply criticizing traditional agricultural civilization, with a fervor not inferior to that of historians and theorists. But when they are as writers, driven by their instinctive inner impulses, desires, appealing to "emotion," and pursuing "beauty," they seem to forget the aforementioned historical evaluation and almost involuntarily sing odes and laments for the traditional agricultural civilization, which still retains its charm but faces crises—this emotional tendency is particularly evident in the modern prose we are discussing; perhaps this is because the fundamental characteristic of modern prose is a "personal genre," emphasizing individual expression, and "writing everything with an emotional attitude" (Zhou Zuoren: "Preface to Miscellaneous Pieces"). And instinctive, subjective, emotional, and aesthetic choices can reveal certain spiritual traits of Chinese writers; we can delve into this to examine some of the prose included in this collection.
Please note the following self-reflection—"I grew up in the countryside but was raised in the city and have experienced the bitterness of life in the city. I am confident that I have been imbued with some urban qualities; I often feel that the urban temperament is a weakness, and I always want to get rid of it, but I can't. However, when I live in the countryside and reflect deeply, I realize that my blood still retains the 'earthy breath' of the countryside." The person who said this is none other than Mao Dun, the author of the epic "The Midnight." This seemingly surprising statement reminds us of an important phenomenon in literary history. Many modern Chinese writers have claimed to be "countrymen." Shen Congwen is no exception. In the preface to his prose collection "Yellow Nodding Begonia," Lu Fen openly states: "I am a person from the countryside." Li Guangtian, in the preface to his prose collection "Galleries," also claims to be a "countryman" and says: "I love the countryside and the people who live there. Even now, although I have lived in this big city for a few years, I still live and think almost like a countryman. If there is still a hint of countryside in what I write, that may be only natural." Li Guangtian also proposed the concept of "the spirit of a countryman," believing that it was the "aura" of his own and the works he liked. Without needing further examples, it is clear that modern Chinese writers have a deep and profound connection with rural society and farmers: their way of life, psychological makeup, and aesthetic tastes are to varying degrees "rooted in the countryside," an inescapable "nostalgia for the homeland," and so on. This "countryside-ness" in the temperament of writers shapes the basic face of modern Chinese literature and is an indispensable constraint on the development of modern literature, something that cannot be ignored when examining 20th-century Chinese literature.
Of course, whether referring to "countryside-ness" or the "nostalgia for the homeland," it is inevitable to be somewhat vague; it actually contains quite rich and complex connotations and can and must be analyzed in multiple layers. When it comes to "countryside charm," people first think of the style of Beijing (Beiping). The nostalgia for Beijing that best reflects the "nostalgia for the homeland" of Chinese writers is, of course, their longing for it. In people's minds, Beijing is more like an extension of the countryside than a modern metropolis, where the entire tradition of agricultural civilization is accumulated. Lao She, who grew up in Beijing, spoke of it like this—"If I were to 'have a home in Paris,' I would feel just as lonely as if I had no home. Paris, as I see it, is still too noisy. Naturally, there are also quiet and desolate places there, but they are perhaps too vast; unlike Beiping, which is both complex and bounded, allowing me to touch—those old red jujube walls! Facing the water basin, with the walls behind, sitting on the stone and watching the small tadpoles in the water or the tender dragonflies on the grass leaves, I could happily sit there for a whole day, completely at ease, with nothing to desire or fear, like a child sleeping in a cradle." Beiping reveals nature within the artificial, almost never crowded yet not too quiet: the houses in the small alleys have courtyards and trees; the open spaces are not far from the commercial streets and residential areas. The charm of Beiping does not lie in its being perfectly equipped everywhere, but in its having spaces everywhere that allow people to breathe freely; it does not lie in its having many beautiful buildings, but in the open spaces around them making them beautiful. Lao She captures in Beijing the warmth, stability, and comfort of a "home" feeling, like being "a child sleeping in a cradle"; he finds the "freedom" of space and the "leisure" of time in the "nature" of the great "universe." "Home" and "nature" are precisely the starting and destination of agricultural traditional civilization. This is what writers like Lao She are obsessed with and cherish; Lao She compares his love for Beijing to his love for his mother, which contains a desire to "find a." Another famous prose writer, Yu Dafu, in the ancient city of Yangzhou, alsoed and ultimately could not attain that touch of pastoral poetry; he repeatedly recited the lines "Ten years of a dream in Yangzhou" and felt that it was "desolate to the point where even sentiments could not be expressed," filled with a melancholic tone. The artistically sensitive Feng Zikai, from the four changes of the "West Lake boat" over the past 20 years, also discovered the loss of the traditional, appropriate, and harmonious "beauty," while at the same time feeling the oppression of "business competition" and what he called the "ailment of the fin de siècle"—the decadent spirit that clashed with traditional poetry. He believed this was "the error of the times" and thus felt the tragic "disharmony." It is precisely this inescapable "sense of loss" that formed the "searching" model of modern prose—the search for a lost past, the search for a childhood that will never return, the search for a dream that can no longer be repeated—both as themes and as structures, and as a mentality and tone. It can be imagined that these writers who have been "rooted in the countryside" and carry an unresolved "nostalgia for the homeland" would have what kind of mentality and feelings once they are thrown into the modern industrial metropolis by life, and what kind of response they would make. Thus, in the group of prose depicting modern cities like Shanghai, we unexpectedly discover (hear) a rather stern tone. Although the perspectives are different: some write about the slums of the big cities, expressing hatred for the exploiters of imperialism (Wang Tongzhao); some write about the stock exchange, where "the small red numerals created by people become the unpredictable 'fate' of the majority" (Mao Dun); some write about the, of life adventures in Shanghai's gambling dens and the "loneliness in adventure" (Ke Ling), but the negative tendency is astonishingly consistent. Only Zhou Zuoren's "negation" has a unique perspective; he not only criticizes Shanghai's "culture as that of compradors, ruffians, and prostitutes," but also discovers that the "spirit of Shanghai" is the inherent (feudal traditional) "degeneration" of China" (Zhou Zuoren: "The Spirit of Shanghai"). He hopes to achieve the true modernization of Chinese culture. Ke Ling's "Night Journey" is also worth noting. He seems to have discovered a tranquil night Shanghai; it is said that "the noisy air makes the mood restless, and the complex affairs make the soul coarse. The ugly reality wears away human nature. Only at this moment does it seem like a lake filtered after a storm, with the shadows of clouds and the light of the sky, revealing a clear and mirror-like clarity." But when he goes to small street shops to seek "a leisurely and contented demeanor" and the feeling of "returning to ancient times," he unintentionally reveals that he still yearns for a "rural world in the city," and that he is still infatuated with the traditional "quiet" civilization.
The one who can truly feel and comprehend the "beauty" of modern industrial civilization is perhaps only Eileen Chang; although Mao Dun once declared that he praised both "urban beauty" and "mechanical beauty," this was mostly a rational analysis. Eileen Chang, however,s and resonates with the pulse of the modern metropolis with her heart. Only Eileen Chang would passionately declare: "I love the city noise. More poetic people listen to the sound of pines and the roar of the sea in bed, but I can't fall asleep without hearing the sound of trams." This clearly conveys a psychological state and habit different from that of "countrymen." But digging deeper, we hear the following psychological analysis—"Our apartment is near the tram factory, but I never quite figured out what time the trams go home. The phrase 'trams going home' doesn't quite fit—everyone agrees that trams are soulless machines, while 'home' carries countless emotional connotations. But have you ever seen the special scene when trams enter the factory? One after another, like queued children, they roar and scream, happily ringing their: 'Kling, kling, kling!' Amidst the noise, there is a hint of submission born of fatigue, like children waiting for their mother to bathe them. Sometimes, all the trams have entered the factory, and only one remains, mysteriously parked in the middle of the street, as if abandoned. Looking down from above, we see only its white belly exposed in the moonlight of the middle of the night" (Eileen Chang: "Notes on Life in an Apartment"). It turns out that what Eileen Chang wants to capture is also the warmth, intimacy, and tranquility of "home." Her pursuit in cultural psychology is so with Lao She that it is almost the same; but in her emotional memory, "home" evokes the "noisy" dynamism of "children" and the quiet of "submissive fatigue," rather than Lao She's "motherly love and summons." The differences between them are also worth pondering.
What we are facing is just such a fascinating cultural phenomenon; Chinese writers can relatively quickly and relatively easily accept foreign cultural concepts and methods, and thereby arouse a passion for criticizing traditional cultural concepts and methods. But once they enter the realm of less clear, somewhat ambiguous cultural psychology and aesthetic tastes, they seem to find it difficult to resist the temptation of tradition. It is certainly easy and satisfying to simply make negative value judgments like "revival" or "nostalgia," but it doesn't seem to solve the problem. Here, not only is the national character of cultural psychology and aesthetic tastes involved, but it is also related to how we understand some of human's innate desires; Lu Xun once said, "People are mostly 'drops in the river of life,' carrying the past and flowing toward the future. If they are not truly exceptional or extraordinary, they inevitably contain both a desire to move forward and a desire to look back" (Lu Xun: "Postscript to 'Twelve People' in 'Collected Works Outside the Collection'"). That is to say, "people" in the flow of life instinctively have two opposing yet unified psychological and emotional desires: moving forward and looking back. In this sense, one can say that what is called "nostalgia" is rooted in human nature. In the preface to his prose collection "Evening Thoughts on Morning Blossoms," Lu Xun discussed the "charm of nostalgia for the homeland" and made the following psychological analysis—"At one time, I often recalled the vegetables and fruits I ate in my hometown in childhood: water chestnuts, lotus beans, water bamboo, fragrant melons. All of these were extremely delicious and appetizing; they were what made me nostalgic. Later, after being apart for a long time, when I tasted them again, they were no different. Only in memory did the old meaning remain. They might deceive me for a lifetime, making me look back constantly." Knowing they were "deceiving," yet still wanting to "look back constantly," this stubborn attachment is both touching and profound. If readers approach some of the "nostalgic" works in this collection from this perspective, such as Ye Shengtao's "Lotus Root and Water Chestnut" or Zhou Zuoren's "Stone Slab Road," they may be able to savor a different flavor.
In fact, for some modern Chinese writers, the so-called "nostalgia for the homeland" is essentially an aspiration and pursuit for a healthy human nature and a life form idealized by them. In this regard, the most representative is Shen Congwen. In "Notes on the Journey to Hunan," he wrote of the "countrymen" he cherished: "As a whole, their lives seem to be perfectly integrated with 'nature,' each living out their lives' principles in a leisurely manner, just like inanimate matter, radiating and decomposing only with the rise and fall of the sun and moon and the alternation of seasons." Shen Congwen was clearly infatuated with the original state of human nature and the life form that is in harmony with "nature," harmonious yet full of vibrant vitality. In Shen Congwen's view, such primitive human nature and life forms are "existing" (accumulated) in the ordinary "countrymen" and in the Chinese "countryside." Thus, in "The Night in Duck Nest Enclosure" included in this collection, we read the following passage—"When the night completely occupies the entire river surface, one can still see the firelight on the raft, the lights in the windows of the suspended houses, and the flickering, moving red light of torches on the riverbank. At this time, there are people talking on both the shore and the boat, and there are women singing folk songs in the dim light of the suspended houses. After each song, someone laughs and shouts. A small sheep is barking under the suspended house, with a stubborn yet gentle voice that makes one feel melancholic." The windows of these people's houses face the river, allowing them to call out to the boat people on the river. When the boat people have had their fill and had enough fun, they get off the boat, perhaps for some reason or another, one with a flickering torch pauses among the large stones, and the other stands by the window, 'Big brother, remember to come again when the boat goes down.' 'Okay, I'll come, I remember.' 'You see Shunshun and say: the meeting is over, the child Dabu is better, bring three pounds of fine flour and three pounds of rock sugar or loaf sugar.' 'I'll remember, I'll remember, you can rest assured, when I see Shunshun, I'll say: the meeting is over, Dabu is better. Fine flour, three pounds, rock sugar, three pounds.' 'Yangshi, Yangshi, it's four hundred and seventy taels in total, don't make a mistake!' 'Yes, rest assured! If you say four hundred and seventy taels, it's four hundred and seventy taels. Don't ask for more on New Year's Eve! You just remember that!' Saying this and that, I can hear it all, and at the same time, I can hear the sound of a sheep barking somewhere in the dark." Between the "stubborn yet gentle voice" of the sheep and the ordinary, trivial conversations of the villagers, there is a harmony. This river surface noise evokes a sense of tranquility—this is stillness within movement, constancy amidst change, a permanence unrelated to history, civilization, or ideas. The writer observes all this with a melancholic and gentle heart and feels something sacred. Shen Congwen said, "Here, solemnity and flow intertwine, everything is a sacred realm" ("A Sentimental Sailor and a Sentimental Woman"). Another poet, Feng Zizhan, whose experiences and style are very different from Shen Congwen, also felt "infinite eternal beauty" in "nature" that had not yet been touched by human history. He loudly called out: "Let us give the mountains and waters their original faces. We should not mix in human affairs. We can reminisce about the past in human affairs; but in nature, we wish for it to remain eternal" ("Mountains and Waters·Postscript"). Thus, in Feng Zizhan's works, we see "A Vanished Village," where the forest "was mostly like this in the primeval age. Human history has evolved for thousands of years, yet they have not changed in any way outside of human history, remaining silently facing eternity for thousands of years." Here, the mountain paths "were stepped out by people who managed the forests over the past two or three decades, showing everywhere the signs of newly being opened. The deep and shallow greens before and now have no burden of history." Here, there was once a village, "it was like a nation that had disappeared in the world, and along with it, the legends and stories it had nurtured." People "had no way to trace them, only feeling some of their lingering charm in the grass and trees." The poet truly found "nourishment for life" from the mouse grass, mushrooms, eucalyptus, and even a deer that "unexpectedly appeared" across the way as he imagined walking in the solemn pine forest "in a stormy and dim moment." Thus, "in the moment, I stepped on the land that the villagers also stepped on, feeling that although the gap between us was nearly a century, in the depths of life, we had an endless connection." Here too, one transcends time and space and all artificial boundaries to achieve a fusion of humans and nature, and the present and the past; for such "discoveries" of ",," the meaning is indeed endless.
Of course, in 20th-century Chinese prose, there are more "discoveries" in the sociological sense; readers will not find it difficult to see the transformation of the Chinese countryside and the changes in social history in Mao Dun's sketches of wartime urban scenery "Chengdu—The Great Metropolis of 'National Form'" and "Baoji—the of 'Wartime Prosperity'," as well as in Jia Pingwa's long rural epic "White Wave Street" and "Qin Opera" during the new period. Compared to the works of Shen Congwen and Feng Zizhan mentioned above, there is naturally another kind of charm and flavor. As for the many essays in this collection, which showcase the different personalities of large and medium-sized cities like Beijing, Shanghai, Qingdao, Nanjing, Yangzhou, Hangzhou, Guangzhou, Fuzhou, Chongqing, and Chengdu, as well as the unique landscapes of southern and northern rural areas, with their independent aesthetic value, it is self-evident that they also have special ethnological value. The diversified development of prose art thus presented may be even more encouraging—although readers may still feel some regrets about the diversity of styles in the essays included in this collection.