Village Scenery and City Sounds -- A Series of Books on Culture

Author: Qian Liqun
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2005-05-01
Features: The rural charm and urban clamor seem to have existed since ancient times; in the prose of the twentieth 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, as well as the comprehensive modernization of politics, economy, and culture. With the emergence of modern industrial cities like Shanghai, people have heard the clamorous "urban clamor" of modern industrial civilization. In the vast rural areas, although the traditional "rural charm" still lingers, steam launches and diesel boats have indeed the quiet rivers, "splashing and crashing against the banks of the muddy fields," polluting the green fields and ruthlessly impacting and changing the old "rural scenery" and "rural charm" (Mao Dun: "Rural Scenery"). Theoreticians and historians have seen the conflict between the two civilizations in the disharmony of "rural charm" and "urban clamor" and have boldly declared: this is a historical showdown between two Chinas—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 the fate of China, rationally contemplate and explore the path of Chinese historical development, they almost without hesitation stand on the side of modern industrial civilization, sharply criticizing traditional agricultural civilization, with a fervor no less intense than that of historians and theorists. But when they are 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; this is perhaps 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 examine some of the prose included in this collection from this perspective.
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 influenced by the temperament of urban people; I often feel that the temperament of urban people is a weakness, and I always want to break free from it, but I can't. However, when I live in the countryside and reflect deeply, I realize that my blood still retains the 'earthy scent' of the countryside." The person who said this is none other than Mao Dun, the author of the epic "The Midnight Sun." 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 Osmanthus," Lu Fen begins by saying: "I am a person from the countryside." Li Guangtian, in the preface to his prose collection "Art Gallery," 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 am almost still living and thinking 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 it to be the "aura" of his own and the works he liked. Without needing to cite more examples, it is clear that modern Chinese writers have an extensive and profound connection with rural society and farmers: lifestyles, psychological qualities, and aesthetic tastes to varying degrees have become "rooted in the countryside," an inescapable "nostalgia for the homeland," and so on. This "ruralization" of the writer's temperament determines the basic character of modern Chinese literature and is an indispensable constraint on its development, something that cannot be ignored when examining twentieth-century Chinese literature.
Of course, whether referring to "ruralization" 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 "rural 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 less a modern metropolis and more an extension of the countryside, where the entire tradition of agricultural civilization is accumulated. Shou Jingong, who was born and raised there, speaks of "Beijing" as follows—"If I were to 'live 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 has boundaries, allowing me to touch—those old red jujube walls! Facing the waterlogged embankment, 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 all day, completely at ease, with nothing to seek or fear, like a child sleeping in a cradle." Beiping manifests nature within the artificial, almost never too crowded or too quiet: even the houses in 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 some beautiful architecture, but in the empty spaces around them making them beautiful.
Shou Jingong captures in Beiping the warmth, stability, and comfort of a "home" feeling, like a "child sleeping in a cradle"; he finds the "freedom" of space and the "leisure" of time in the "great nature." "Home" and "nature" are precisely the starting and destination of agricultural traditional civilization. This is what writers like Shou Jingong are obsessed with and cherish; Shou Jingong 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 the poetic charm of the countryside, which he could not attain, and repeatedly recited the lines "Ten years of a dream in Yangzhou" from the poem, feeling that it was "desolate to the point where even sentiments could not be expressed" and filled with a melancholic tone. Feng Zikai, with his artist's sensitivity, also discovered in the four changes of the "West Lake boat" over the past twenty years 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 turn of the century"—the "decadent spirit" that clashed with traditional poetry. He thought this was "the error of the times" and felt the tragic "disharmony."
It is precisely this inescapable "sense of loss" that forms 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—is both the theme and the structure, and also a mindset and tone. It can be imagined how the already "ruralized" Chinese writers, with their unresolved "nostalgia for the homeland," would react when thrown into the modern industrial metropolis by life. Thus, in the group of prose depicting modern cities like Shanghai, we unexpectedly discover (hear) a rather severe tone. Although the perspectives are different: some write about the slums of the big city, 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 surprisingly 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 "essence 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 clamorous atmosphere makes the mood restless, and the complex human affairs make the soul coarse. The ugly reality wears down 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 the clear and mirror-like clarity of tranquility." But when he goes to small street shops to seek "a leisurely demeanor" and the feeling of "returning to ancient times," he unintentionally reveals that he still longs for a "rural world in the city" and that he is still in the traditional "tranquil" civilization.
The only one who can truly feel and appreciate the "beauty" of modern industrial civilization is perhaps Eileen Chang; although Mao Dun once declared that he praised "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 urban clamor. 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." Here, what is conveyed is clearly the psychological state and habits of modern urban people, different from those 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 make a clamor, shout, and happily ring their: 'Klin, Klie, Klie!' 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, standing mysteriously in the middle of the street, as if abandoned. From above, one can only see 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, closeness, and tranquility of "home." Her pursuit in cultural psychology is so similar to that of Shou Jingong; but in her emotional memory, the image of "home" evokes the "noisy" dynamism of "children" and the quiet of "submission born of fatigue," rather than the tender care and summons of Shou Jingong's "mother." 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 as a result, 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 tempting to simply make negative value judgments about such phenomena as "revival of the past" or "nostalgia," but it doesn't seem to solve the problem. Here, it is not only about the national characteristics of cultural psychology and aesthetic tastes, but also about how to understand some of human's innate desires; Lu Xun once said, "People are like 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 Collected Works'"). That is to say, in the flow of life, humans instinctively have two opposing yet unified psychological and emotional desires: moving forward and looking back. In this sense, one can say that the psychological and emotional tendency of "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—"There was a time when I often recalled the vegetables and fruits I ate in my hometown as a child: water chestnuts, lotus beans, water bamboo, fragrant melons. All of these were extremely delicious and appetizing; they were what made me nostalgic for my hometown. Later, after being apart for a long time, when I tasted them again, they were no different. Only in memory, there remained the old meaning. They might trick me for my whole life, making me constantly look back." Knowing they were "tricks," yet still wanting to "look back constantly," this stubborn attachment is both touching and profound. If readers approach some of the "nostalgic" works included in this collection from this perspective, such as Ye Shengtao's "Lotus Root and Water Chestnut" and Zhou Zuoren's "Stone Slab Road," they may be able to appreciate 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 life form in their ideal. In this regard, the most representative is probably Shen Congwen. In "Notes on the Journey South of the Xiang River," he wrote about the "countrymen" he cherished as follows: "Overall, their lives seem to be perfectly integrated with 'nature,' each quietly fulfilling their life's purpose, just like inanimate matter, only radiating and decomposing in the alternation of the sun and moon and the changing of seasons." Shen Congwen was clearly captivated by the original state of human nature and the life form that is in harmony with "nature," full of vitality and a harmonious life force. In Shen Congwen's view, such primitive human nature and life forms are "existing" (accumulated) in the ordinary "countrymen" and in the Chinese "homeland." 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 stilt houses, and the flickering, moving torchlight on the riverbank among the large stones. At this time, there are people talking on both the banks and the boats, and there are women singing folk songs in the dim light of the stilt houses. Each time a song is finished, someone laughs and calls out. A small sheep is barking under the stilt house, with a stubborn yet gentle voice that makes one feel melancholic. 'The windows of these people's houses face the river, so they can call out to the boat people on the river. When the boat people have had their fill and had enough fun, when they get off the boat, there might be some things to entrust, or other reasons, one with a torch stops in the large stones, and the other stands by the window, 'Big brother, remember, the boat goes down again.' 'Okay, I'll come, I remember.' 'You saw Shunshun and said: the meeting is over; what about the big ox? His knees have healed, 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. The big ox is fine. Bring three pounds of fine flour and three pounds of rock sugar.' 'Yangshi, Yangshi, the total is forty-seven taels, don't make a mistake!' 'Yes, rest assured! If you say forty-seven taels, it's forty-seven taels. Don't expect you to get more on New Year's Eve! You just remember that!' Saying this and that, I can hear them all, and at the same time, I can hear the sound of a sheep bawling 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" (Shen Congwen: "A Sentimental Sailor and a Sentimental Woman"). Another poet, Feng Zizhi, whose experiences and style are very different from Shen Congwen, also felt "infinite eternal beauty" in "nature" that had not 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 in nature; in human affairs, we can reminisce about the past; in nature, we wish for it to remain forever new" (Feng Zizhi: "Mountains and Waters·Postscript"). Thus, in Feng Zizhi's works, we see "A Vanished Mountain Village," where the forests "were mostly like this in the primeval era. 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 up. The deep and shallow greens before and now have no burden of history." Here, there was once a mountain village, "it was like a nation that had disappeared in the world, and along with it, the legends and stories it had nurtured were also extinguished." People "had no way to trace them, only feeling some of their lingering charm in the grass and trees," the poet truly found the "nourishment of 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. Thus, "in the dim and gloomy moments, I stepped on the land that the villagers had also stepped on, feeling that although the gap between us was nearly a century, in the depths of life, we had an inexpressible connection." Here too, one transcends time and space and all artificial boundaries to achieve a fusion of humans and nature, and of the present and the past; for such "discoveries" of "rural charm" and "mountain scenery," the meaning is indeed inexpressible.
Of course, in the prose of the twentieth century, there are more "discoveries" in the sociological sense; readers will not find it difficult to see the changes in the Chinese countryside and the transformation of social history in Mao Dun's sketches of "wartime urban scenery," "Chengdu—the great metropolis of 'national form'" and "'Wartime Prosperity's'—Baoji," as well as in Jia Pingwa's long rural epic "White Wave Street" and "Qin Opera." Compared to the works of Shen Congwen and Feng Zizhi mentioned above, there is naturally another kind of charm and flavor. As for the many essays included 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 the southern and northern rural areas, their independent aesthetic value aside, they also have special ethnological value, which is self-evident.
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.