6/22/21

&: Chukadon



It’s a sign of confidence that this bowl does not reveal to quick inspection that it contains half of a hardboiled egg and a slice of exquisitely soft chashu. There are only vegetables, glowing with the perfect amount of potato starch. It was good. It was surprisingly good.

I haven't eaten chukadon for years. The last time was when I still had a job and it would appear sometimes in the company cafeteria. It was fancier but less colorful. It didn't have a hidden slice of chashu, either.

It is said that chukadon was invented not too far from where I’m writing this. It was created at a shop in Asakusa that is more famous for a style of soy sauce ramen. It was probably in the Taisho or early Showa. I'm sure the shop where I ate this chukadon has its fair share of obscure innovations attributed to it. Most Chinese restaurants in the area do.

The shop where I ate that chukadon is not far from Yanaka Ginza, a shopping street in the Yanesen neighborhood that is famous for its attractive gentrification. There are no kissaten left there, as far as I can tell, but mostly shops selling tat and cat-related pastries. The last bath house was turned into an art gallery. It’s nice to walk through, though.

Yanaka Ginza’s gentrification should have been visited on many other traditional arcades around East Tokyo. It could have saved Irohakai, which, when every vital store had closed, had its roof ripped off and cars run through it. The bath house on Joyful Minowa is still operating, but it’s more likely to be turned into an apartment block or a Maruetsu Petit than an art gallery.

The Chinese restaurant where I ate my chukadon is closer to Yanaka Cemetery than the shopping street. When I ate there on a quiet weekday, there were three other customers. They ordered ramen. The TV was playing the noon singing competition (I don’t know the name of it, but it’s the one where amateur singers get the chance to perform for a minute or so, then have their performance judged, with a sequence of bells letting them know their score). The married couple that run it are elderly. The shop will likely close soon after one of them passes away or becomes unable to work. It’s like many businesses in East Tokyo.

The indigenization of Chinese cuisine in Japan is interesting, although I have nothing original to say about it. Chukadon is not a foreign food, exactly, even though it was invented at a shop run by people originally from Guangdong. Nobody would say that chukadon was Chinese. But, then again, nobody would say chop suey was Chinese, would they? They were probably both invented by people from Taishan, if I had to bet money on it. But, like I said, I have nothing interesting to say about this. It is worth mentioning that unlike the chop suey Chinese shops I grew up, the people running a restaurant selling chukadon are very unlikely to be ethnically Chinese—and if they are, their connections to the Motherland are limited. The same is true here. The couple running it are both originally from the Northeast. They both came to Tokyo in the 1960s.

I left the restaurant and walked back home through Uguisudani (I believe the bridge from Ueno Sakuragi to Negishi and Uguisudani is called Kaneiji Rikkyo Bridge, if you want to be specific).

Like all red light districts in Japan, wherever you go, Uguisudani is home to a few great Chinese restaurants. Here, unlike the one where I ate my chukadon, they are run by people from the Motherland, usually with a menu—except for the lunch specials—only in Chinese. They reflect the backgrounds of the Chinese women that work in the sex industry.

In Uguisudani, there is a shop that sells daroumian. I was too full to eat there, but I detoured out of my way to walk by and make sure that it was still in business.

I noticed that a Vietnamese grocery store had opened up nearby.

6/17/21

&: Takashimaya



I used to buy magazines from Players Newsstand on Main Street. It was a small, narrow shop beside the abandoned facade of Heasman's Furs. The building is still there, one of the holdouts of the early twentieth century building boom not yet taken by wrecking ball or fire, but that corner—Heaseman’s and Players—has been taken over by a permanent makeup clinic, an immigration consultant, and a retirement planner. If you turned right on Fairford, at City Hall, you'd pass a bunkerlike sewing machine service shop before arriving at the offices of the Times-Herald. Some of these details are unimportant; I’m setting the scene. This is the place where I would play at being an adult. I would buy magazines from Players Newsstand and then walk down Main Street to the National, sit at the counter, order an iced tea and a French fries, and flip through the pages. I was trying to reenact Gary Hyland poems. But by that time, it was only theater. Players didn’t last much past that point in time; the National held on but under new ownership and most of the block around it was destroyed in a fire; most of the old buildings on and off Main got pulled down; Gary Hyland died and no new poets had been born; Main Street was mostly forgotten when the Walmart went in on the edge of town; and I moved away.

This is a short essay about my love for Takashimaya. I am referring to the store in Nihonbashi. I have been to other locations, but the Nihonbashi store is the one that is important to me. And I am talking only about its main building, not the annex or side buildings.

Unlike Mitsukoshi, it’s not grand enough to be intimidating. Unlike Shibuya Parco or Laforet Harajuku, it’s not cool enough to be intimidating.

It was built in the 1930s, making it younger than most of those brick fortresses on my adolescent Main Street; it feels older.

I’ve often tried to put into words the appeal of living in the past in Tokyo. I live in a venerable shitamachi neighborhood with temples and parks and rows of nagaya, but that’s not what I mean, really. I mean: you can live as if it’s 1982. You can feel the end of things, but they’re still hanging on. You know that Takashimaya’s elevator attendants are maintained for nostalgia or the comfort of the elderly women spending Bubble Era pensions or because of the Japanese insistence on not changing anything, but they remain, nevertheless, without feeling like mere curiosity or tourist attraction. I mean: there are people in this city making a living as elevator attendants. There are other people still earning a living in Takashimaya as cobblers and seamstresses and as white-gloved, pillbox hatted desk attendants…

The bursting of the asset price bubble has kept rent low enough that I can earn a living as a freelance writer and translator, and still within a few subway stops of luxury department stores, which I can occasionally make purchases at. It’s still 1982.

Takashimaya feels like a relic and it feels like it will be gone someday or taken over completely by multinational chains, but it’s still there.

I set the scene above to say this: I have always wanted to live in the past, but not the distant past. I am happy to pretend it’s 1982.

The ground floor and the basement of Takashimaya are the best places to watch people. The ground floor feels a bit like a market hall, with stalls set up throughout, then a few anchor stores on the margins, like Hermès and Goyard. The basement sells food. Again, it’s a bit like a market stall. It connects onto the Hibiya Metro. (There’s a word in Japanese for department store basements, I could report to you: depachika. But it just means “department store basement,” which you can say in English, too, even if it’s broken up by spaces. I like the sound of it, though. And it doesn’t mean “department store basement” except in the most literal way, but rather a gourmet food hall. It’s the place to buy ninety dollar melons and find the satellite shop of an ancient Kyoto katsuobushi dealer or a fancy Alsatian bakery…) (I am describing the place without the presence of shoppers from China and Southeast Asia. That’s how it’s been for almost two years now.)

These are spaces almost exclusively occupied by women. Women shop there and women work there. The women that shop there are older; the women that work at older, stuffier shops like Goyard, or local shops are slightly younger than them; the women that work at shops for fashionable new brands are young. Men are found only on the fifth floor, where men’s wear is sold, or perhaps selling furniture on the seventh floor.

Takashimaya is a place for women. It’s a place where mostly women work, selling things mostly to women. I like that about it. It’s an escape. I spent most of my life in places where women were unwelcome. For most of my life, I worked construction or in slaughterhouses or warehouses. I like the company of women.



Takashimaya feels like it’s part of the cities I dreamed about, reading books as a kid. It’s a place where you can see the wealthy and know that they live a short distance from where you live and might buy their bread in the same basement bakery. They are wealthy and their lives might be glamorous, but they still live in apartments that are too small and that might occasionally be invaded by rats. I can tell you, when I was a boy, I heard stories about the richest man in my town. He owned a car dealership and had let his wife open a coffee shop on Main Street in an old bank. He lived in a gaudy house in a subdivision on the edge of town. I never met him. His name never made the newspaper—and eventually there was no newspaper because it was traded between multinational conglomerates and shut down because it made no money.

In the real world, men with undergraduate degrees and a good haircut can't hope to work for the same company their entire lives. There are still a few here. There are still men here with briefcases. This is all hanging by a thread.

It’s romantic. I appreciate the way that Takashimaya lets me believe in the romance. All of this is fake, of course.

By holding on to 1982 or whatever year in the past, Takashimaya necessarily recreates a more egalitarian way of life. Tokyo is still a more egalitarian place than my post-industrial adolescent Main Street, but Takashimaya looks further back.

I went there this afternoon and stopped to look at a pair of women's shoes. The shoes cost several thousand dollars. The odds that I will buy them are very low. There are reasons for that, other than that price. The woman working at the shop told me to take a seat. She began asking me questions about the woman that I would be buying them for. When I said that I liked the color but that I was put off by the bow on the toe, she brought out a catalogue for the next season, offered her card, and tried to arrange a time for me to come back when the shoes arrived.

I’m a rube, I already told you. I fall for the romance. I like the theater.

I like the women that work at department stores. It’s one of those occupations like hotel housekeeping or running food where the esteem they’re held in is nowhere near equal to the dedication and knowledge they—at certain levels— require. But there’s a certain glamor to it, which those jobs don’t have. You are hired because you are beautiful and exemplify some vague idea of the brand. And if you work at *****, you get to wear ***** loafers.

There’s an interesting phenomenon in Japan where women working at clothing stores become celebrities. I think this comes from gyaru magazines like egg profiling them, then Shibuya 109 shop blogs. None of the Takashimaya shop women are featured on blogs, though, as far as I know. They exude professionalism *** ****** **********. The ******* ***** **** ** *** *** ****** counter. They ****** **** ****, slightly intimidating, and with ****** **** *** ***.

Here, again, it’s a bit of that 1982, as well—people working in retail as a viable career, probably decently compensated! Maybe that’s not true anymore, or it’s probably true for comparatively few people working in retail…

I like spending money, too. I like dreaming about spending money. Takashimaya is a good place to do that. I bought ** ******** * ***** *** **** ******* ** ******* **** ****** ****. It makes me **** ******. I remember the day I *** * *** ***** ** ** **** You can see Takashimaya in this picture. There’s the glass roof over the avenue between the main building and annex. ****** *** * **** **** * ***, *** *** * ***** **** ***** **** **** **** *** ** ******** ******. I like the idea of ******* ** ********* * **** ** ***** just so I can **** *** while *** ****** *****. I never had any money growing up and I never had any savings. I still **** **** ****** *** ** **** *** * **** ****** to be stupid. That’s fantasy, too. That’s theater.

I like looking at what Takashimaya sells, even when I don't buy it. I never went to an art museum before I was in my twenties, but I'm not intimidated by retail. I can understand retail. I like window shopping.



You can see Takashimaya in this picture. There’s the glass roof over the avenue between the main building and annex. Find the sign that says Concept LABI TOKYO and go up from there.

Takashimaya is in Yaesu. That's something else I like about it. It's not in Shinjuku or Shibuya or Ikebukuro. I usually take the Hibiya Metro to get to Yaesu, but once a month or so I work from *** ********** ***** or I take ** **** ***** ** **** *** ** nice sheets. I like the way Takashimaya sits in Yaesu, which is a bit like sleazy commuter hubs in any part of the city. It’s surrounded by office buildings. I like the way it looks at night. It reminds me to spend ** ***** ** * ******* ******* ****** *** ** **** ******* ** * ******* *******. I like the way it looks on a rainy night.

5/26/21

&: Notes after watching Sisters Stand Up 姐姐妹妹站起来 (1951) and Love in the Wasteland 遗落荒原的爱 (1994)

Wenhua Film Company 文华影业公司 had been responsible before Liberation for some of the most important films of the 1940s. I’ll name two of them: Long Live the Missus! 太太万岁 (1947) and Spring in a Small Town 小城之春 (1948). They were among a small number of film companies that kept making movies after Liberation in 1949.

Those attempts to keep going under a new regime are sometimes interesting. There was This Life of Mine 我这一辈子 (1950), adapted from a Lao She novel, and spanning the late Qing to the start of the May Fourth Movement in 1919, and the anticapitalist black comedy Window on America 美国之窗 (1952), which features Shi Hui 石挥 as a brutal capitalist that tries to sell sponsorship deals on the suicide of a disaffected worker… Peculiar movies for the time. They were on the Maoist message, mostly, but they were too ambiguous to satisfy the new artistic regime. There’s a reason that Wenhua didn’t last long and got folded into state studios.
You can see it in Sisters Stand Up 姐姐妹妹站起来 (1951). Set in Beiping in 1947, a girl named Daxiang 大香 (Li Meng 李萌) is sold by her mother to a trafficker claiming to be able to get her a job at a factory. She’s quickly passed to a brothel. The cruel madam (Li Lingyun 李凌云) and the cops on her payroll thwart her mother’s attempts to liberate her. Daxiang gets branded with a hot iron and her mother jumps into a canal. The women at the brothel are systematically tortured. An example: the madam and her husband (Cui Chaoming 崔超明) find out one of the girls—Yuexian 月仙 (Su Yun 苏芸)—has syphilis, so the madam beats her nearly to death, and nails her in a coffin while she pleads feebly with her tormentors.

Sisters Stand Up goes the right direction: the People’s Liberation Army arrives, the brothels are emptied out and the women taken into custody for training and treatment. The former prostitutes are overseen by Comrade Fang 方同志 (Ding Wen 丁文), a plump young woman in fatigues. It suddenly feels as if you’re watching a different movie!

Comrade Fang is out of place, obviously, in the brothel, which makes sense, but the slogans she bellows at the girls make no sense based on what we have just seen. What I mean is: the first half is about the horrors of the sex trade in 1940s Beiping, and nobody in the audience would ever mistake it for any kind of ode to the time and place—but it’s not as black-and-white as it should be… The character of Comrade Fang clashes with the cruel madam, but she makes no sense when placed alongside the morally ambiguous figures in the movie. To put it more simply: Comrade Fang comes off as robotic, while the rest of the characters in the movie are flesh and blood. There’s too much humanity on display for the audience to take seriously the politics of class struggle. That's even on display in what's supposed to be the ideologically correct ending. At a struggle session, the madam and her husband appear foolish and arrogant, maybe a bit sheepish… Too human, at least. They’re fully realized characters. They feel relatable. As do the rehabilitated sex workers, who call for them to both be shot in the head.

But to return to Comrade Fang and the girls, it’s interesting to think about those scenes in relation to contemporary discourse about gender. The ideal revolutionary was not male or female. Desire between the two sexes should not be represented in films. This is how Dai Jinhua 戴锦华 puts it, talking about the movies of 1949 to 1959: women no longer appear as objects of the male gaze, but femininity also disappears as a gender separate from masculinity “...女性形象不再作为男性欲望与目光的客体而存在,她们同样不曾作为独立于男性的性别群体而存在.” Or: with the disappearance of the language of desire from the narrative and no erotic gaze, the characters in films become genderless "电影叙事中欲望的语言及人物欲望目光的消失,银幕上人物形象呈现为非性别化的状态."

This is a problem for Sisters Stand Up. Comrade Fang is sufficiently genderless, but the brothel workers could never be.

There are other problems, politically, too, I would say… (Here, I’m lifting from Paul G. Pickowicz's China on Film: A Century of Exploration, Confrontation, and Controversy and its discussion of Sisters Stand Up.) It’s never explained why the brothel workers need a special type of rehabilitation. Why will participation in labor save them? After all, they were just laboring. Or is prostitution a special type of labor? Is sex work really work? Well, I’m sure you have an answer. But is it a special type of work? Again, you might have your own answer. But it’s not quite clear, at least from the movie.

It’s interesting to skip ahead four decades to Love in the Wasteland 遗落荒原的爱 (1994), which is a movie about what happens after the liberated former prostitutes leave their training center.
In the 1950s, a group of women liberated from brothels in the cities have arrived at a reclamation settlement in the Northeast. This makes sense, historically: the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps 新疆生产建设兵团 supposedly often recruited women liberated from brothels or other sectors of the economy no longer feasible after 1949. One of the agricultural workers with the Corps—Ji Gang 纪刚 (Chen Xiguang 陈希光)—falls in love with one of the women—Wen Xiu 文秀 (Song Jia 宋佳)—but her identity is eventually exposed. Wen Xiu is already pregnant with Ji Gang's child when he rejects her. She ends up marrying the mute Wu Qi 吴起 (Li Xinmin 李心敏). He dies a short time later. Eventually, Ji Gang takes pity on Wen Xiu and their son, dropping off firewood, defending the boy from bullying, and sending him money when he goes away to college…

Sisters Stand Up was made a time when prostitution was in the process of being wiped out completely and Love in the Wasteland was made a time when market reforms and social chaos had revived the profession—so, of course, it’s set in the 1950s, but it’s actually about the present.

Talking about the period directly after Reform and Opening began, Dai Jinhua says that China once again experienced the destruction of the old order and the construction of a new order, one aspect of which was the reaffirmation of patriarchal power “...中国社会经历著一次旧秩序的破坏与新秩序的重建;那么,似乎这一新秩序的内容之一是男权的再确认.” As reform and marketization accelerated, the expansion of patriarchal power and sexual discrimination kept pace “而伴随改革开放及商业化进程的加快,男权与性别歧视也在不断地强化.”

Sisters Stand Up shows the state establishing its power, taking wayward women under its control. There is no more desire. Labor will set everyone free. But in Love in the Wasteland—and again, we’re treating this as a movie about postsocialist conditions rather than a historically accurate look at the 1950s—the Party is mostly vacant. Ji Gang is not uncoincidentally the the head of the production brigade, meaning he should also represent state power, but he seems uninterested in the ideological requirements of the post—not to mention he abandons a pregnant woman! In the postsocialist era, the Party and the state are absent and patriarchal power has replaced them.

This is why it's so clear that Love in the Wasteland is a movie about the 1980s and 1990s, rather than about the 1950s. It's not an attack on overreaching state power, but a vision of what happens when the state is receding. In a way, it could even be seen as nostalgic for the 1950s (not the 1950s of the film, confusingly, but for a different imaginary 1950s, if that makes any sense).

It's interesting, too, to think about when the two films were made. The early 1950s was a time when politics and culture were still being sorted out—the idea of how you could use culture to spread an ideological message and how you could be certain that politics was firmly in control over culture... By 1994, with the film industry taken apart by uneven reform and no clear ideological message, you could get away with pretty much anything. One movie made at the dawn of a new age; the other made while that new age was being thoroughly repudiated.

5/6/21

&: Opera (1, The Fiery Stallion 火焰驹)

For the last year or so, I’ve been attempting to watch every film made in the People’s Republic of China between roughly 1988 and 1992. This is easier than it sounds. Part of the appeal of watching and writing about these films is that the vast majority of them have seen no serious criticism. There’s occasionally writing in Chinese, but it’s usually confined to a few notes in a film magazine, noting the cast and the director. In English, outside of any picture screened at foreign festivals—and even including the bulk of those films—there’s rarely a single review.

There are reasons for that: the movie industry was in the doldrums and nobody was going to see these movies, let alone taking them seriously, and it was hard to find them outside of bootleg VCDs, since quite a few were rarely screened and got erratic distribution.

The other day, I went to watch an opera. I mean, I went to stream an opera online. Since I translated Jia Pingwa’s Qinqiang 秦腔 I’ve had some interest in Shaanxi’s local opera. I even went to see some productions when I was in Xi’an in the last couple years. But so, when I went to find out more about what I was about to watch, I found that nearly nothing had been written about it in English.

There are reasons for that: this is an artform with a long history, but it hasn’t made a dent in the Occidental consciousness. The academic and popular writing on Chinese opera focuses mainly on Beijing opera 京剧 and Shaoxing opera 越剧. Most writing in Chinese focuses on those two forms, too. There are complicated reasons for that, which are not worth discussing here.

I feel like I should include some kind of further pitch—why you would want to sit through a three hour Shaanxi opera 秦腔—but I don’t have one. For me, I like the music and I like the costumes and the stories are engaging once I get the basics. It’s an important, living artform that has a history stretching back centuries. You could dedicate your life to discovering everything there is to discover about Shaanxi opera.

Knowing the basic story is the key, though. So, here, my idea is to tell the story behind a popular Shaanxi opera 秦腔 drama. This story appears in other operatic traditions, but it's best known as a Shaanxi opera.

It's also mentioned in Jia Pingwa’s novel, so if the translation is ever released, you might it helps your enjoyment of the book.

I think knowing the story is the only way to sit through an opera. I was watching an interview with young people about local opera in Shaanxi and the ones that didn’t care for it said about the same thing: “I have no idea what they’re singing about.” You can pick up the story as you go along, but it can be tough.

I’m not an expert on Shaanxi opera. I’m sure there will be errors.

This is another benefit of nobody having written about them extensively before: I can make errors and anyone that knows better will probably appreciate my effort enough to offer a correction, or they’ll write me off as a rank amateur without digging deeper, or they’ll write something themselves...

I'm going to start with The Fiery Stallion 火焰驹.

Sometimes a film version can be the best way to get a grip on the story, since they tend to simplify things and emphasize narrative to fit the form and the runtime, but the 1958 version of The Fiery Stallion is somehow more confusing than sitting through a production of the opera.

I couldn’t tell you the actual source of the opera’s narrative. Most of these are adapted from historical or traditional stories. But this one is credited to Li Shisan 李十三 (Li Fanggui 李芳桂) (1748-1810).

All of my knowledge of Li Shisan comes from Chen Zhongshi's 陈忠实 famous short story about him—"Li Shisan Turns the Millstone" 李十三推磨—which imagines him as a failed bureaucrat that becomes a passionate but impoverished writer, relying on handouts from locals. He made a living selling scripts to shadow puppet players—these were more specifically píyǐngxì 皮影戏, and even more specifically wǎnwǎnqiāng píyǐngxì 碗碗腔皮影戏, but I’m not qualified to say much more than it refers to a specific strain of Shaanxi opera popular in Weinan 渭南, which is where Li Shisan lived and worked, accompanied by a shadow play with characters made from animal hide.

The Chen Zhongshi story ends Li Shisan’s death, hounded by men acting on the Jiaqing emperor's call to root out obscenity in the arts. Whether or not that was the case, I only have the Chen Zhongshi story to go on.

The setting of The Fiery Stallion is Bianliang 汴梁, I believe, which is almost where modern day Kaifeng 开封 is (I think the changing course of the Yellow River necessitated the move, among other things, but, again, I'm not an expert), so probably sometime in the Northern Song (960-1127). One evil imperial minister—Wang Qiang 王强—is conspiring to stitch up another minister—Li Shou 李绶—by attacking his son—Li Yanrong 李彦荣.

Now, I'll pause here to say that I'm using clips from a production by the venerable Sanyi Society 三意社, filmed last year for CCTV-11, the national broadcaster's xìqǔ 戏曲 channel, devoted to opera, drama, etc.

The subtitles are my own and they tend toward glossier translations that lose a bit of the poetry of the original. The point is to get to know the story, though.


Wang Qiang has conspired to make it look as if Li Yanrong 李彦荣 has disgraced himself while fighting at the northern border, possibly defecting to the other side. Since there’s no reliable communication with the remote garrison, it’s hard to confirm the details of Li Yanrong’s campaign. He reads a proclamation that Li Shou will be imprisoned, his possessions confiscated, his house sealed, and his family expelled from the capital. Yanrong's mother—referred to throughout as just Mother Li 李母, I believe—his wife—begs for mercy, but eventually she takes Yanrong's wife—Zhou Ruiju 周瑞菊—and his younger brother—Li Yangui 李彦贵—and flees for Suzhou 苏州.

Their reason for going to Suzhou—at least several weeks’ travel away, especially as they’re on foot—is that Yangui is engaged to a young woman—Huang Guiying 黄桂—that lives there. Since the two families are joined by the engagement, Yangui hopes to be welcomed into her home.

The opera shows us the horrible journey they make, then it cuts to Huang Guiying and her maid Yunxiang 芸香 in Suzhou.


It’s one of the more famous scenes from the opera, and this duet aria is often performed as a piece by itself. When you watch it for yourself, you'll appreciate it more. But we're just telling the story here. In the opera, it introduces us to two central characters and shows us their relationship: Guiying was wasting the afternoon in her room, pining after her Yangui, but pragmatic and empathetic Yunxiang has dragged her out into the garden to show her the flowers. (In this production, it’s Ma Lulu 马路路 playing Yunxiang and I think she’s pretty great.)

Guiying is clearly still in love with Yangui, and hoping to eventually join him in the capital. She has no idea of what’s happened to him. But Guiying’s father—Huang Zhang 黄璋—has learned of the unpleasantness. He vows not to let his daughter marry the brother of a traitor. Right as he’s breaking it to his Guiying that the engagement will be called off, Yangui shows up, seeking refuge.


With his daughter and her maid listening in from the corridor, Huang Zhang breaks it to Yangui that the engagement is off. Yangui doesn’t quite get it at first. He asks how Huang Zhang could suddenly change his mind, since he had personally helped arrange the marriage.

Huang Zhang hands Yangui twenty taels of silver and tells him to get out. Not only is the engagement off, but Yangui, his mother, and his sister-in-law are left with nowhere to stay.

The section from Guiying and Yunxiang in the garden to what happens after Yangui arrives takes up more time than anything else in the opera, so I'm simplifying things greatly.


The next scene shows us Yangui in simple clothes. Here, the actor does a good job, I think, of transitioning from the smooth-cheeked dullard princeling to a man almost adjusted to life on the streets of Suzhou. He tells us about the state of himself and his family after being expelled from the capital and his former father-in-law's home. They seek refuge at a temple and he goes out on the streets of Suzhou, carrying water to earn money.

This is another scene sometimes sung as an aria, and it also gives its name to another version of the opera, performed in other traditions, called simply Selling Water 卖水.


It’s Yunxiang that spots him first. She’s out in the garden and sees him staggering up the street. None of the main characters in the opera accomplish much, but marginal figures like Yunxiang push things forward.

If not for her, Yangui might go on dragging water around town, and Guiying might go on mooning around the estate—but Yunxiang invites him into the garden and they arrange a secret rendezvous.

The two lovers and their matchmaker in the garden are unaware that their plans have been overheard by Wang Liang 王良, Huang Zhang’s right hand man. He rushes to tell Huang Zhang what he knows and the two men conspire to disrupt the meeting.

The next scene is an introduction to Ai Qian 艾谦, a horse dealer that happens to be a friend of the Li family, hanging out in Suzhou. He’s another seemingly marginal character that pushes the narrative forward. The fact that he’s a horse dealer also suggests that we’re going to find out why the opera is named The Fiery Stallion.

And back to the rendezvous.

On a moonless night, Yangui approaches, calling out to Guiying. Yunxiang—coming in Guiying’s place because she’s been kept from leaving—arrives from the other direction, calling out to Yangui.

Before they can find each other in the darkness, Wang Liang finds Yunxiang, stabs her, and drops the blade by her side. Hearing her cries, Yangui rushes over. Wang Liang emerges from the shadows and demands to know why Yangui killed the poor girl. He’s been framed!

Yangui gets trussed up and dragged off to prison. His execution date will be Mid-Autumn Festival 中秋节.

It seems as if Yangui will be put to death, since his family no longer has any power, and the powerful Huang Zhang is pulling the strings. Li Yangui's mother breaks down, lamenting the injustice. But she’s overheard by Ai Qian, the horse dealer. He revealed in his first soliloquy that he owes the Li family a favor, and this seems like the perfect time to repay it.

He has a horse—the Fiery Stallion—he says, that will be able to carry him out to the northern border and back. He vows to get help.


Ai Qian takes off for the border. No matter how fast the horse is, it's going to be a long, treacherous ride, and there is always the danger that might fall into the hands of Wang Qiang's men.

We eventually get a scene of him in Li Yanrong’s camp, sorting things out, but he still has to make it back.

He still hasn’t returned by Yangui's execution date. We see Guiying, dressed in mourning clothes, seemingly on the brink of sanity, clutching a blade and preparing to end her life beside her lover. She meets Yangui's mother on the road to the execution grounds. Yangui’s mother is furious at her, suspecting that she and her father conspired to have her son executed. She slaps Guiying. But it gets sorted out eventually. They head to the execution grounds together.


This isn’t a tragedy, so you can guess how the rest of it plays out.

There's some final drama with Yangui tied to a stake, meeting his family for a final time, with Guiying taking out a dagger and trying to cut her own throat. But Ai Qian and Yanrong show up at the last moment.

Yangui is saved. Justice is restored. We have a happy ending.

My idea is that now you can go and watch the full production.

The scene of Guiying and Yunxiang in the garden is beautiful by itself, but it’s all the more impressive when you know that Guiying’s lover is in flight from the capital and that Yunxiang is doomed to be murdered in an alley by another member of the household. Guiying twirling in her mourning clothes is beautiful without context, but it’s more significant if you know that she’s concealing a dagger that she will try to use to slit her own throat at her condemned lover’s feet.

I’ve simplified the plot, but now you can pick up the subtleties. You have some foundation, I hope.

The production these clips have been pulled from was performed by the Sanyi Society and filmed in Xi’an last year for CCTV-11. You can watch it here, as long as the link works.

3/21/21

&: Ruined City reading guide, second part


This is an attempt to write about Howard Goldblatt's translation of Ruined City 废都 by Jia Pingwa 贾平凹, maybe notes for something more formal, maybe just a guide for myself to find stuff later, or maybe an excuse to pull out parts I like.

The first part is here.

Like I said there, this is also just something to do, a way to stay focused while reading along. I sometimes feel like when I'm not translating a book that I don't read it close enough.

This part has more ragging on the translation, too, if you're into that. I think Goldblatt tends to use very stiff, archaic language that deadens the dialogue, but I have a lot of sympathy. Since I'm only going to get one English translation of this book in my lifetime, I think criticism is fair. And I have my own translations of Jia Pingwa that you can read for yourself, so some of this criticism will hopefully help improve my own work.

Page 103 to 113. Gossip as foreplay.

This section, I believe, is the first time we hear about Zhuang Zhidie’s side business, running a bookstore.

He returns home and finds his wife and Hong Jiang 洪江 going through the store’s paperwork. It was a good month, with the arrival of a new Jin Yong 金庸 novel. But they've been unable to get in any copies of Lady Chatterley's Lover, the bestseller at the city’s other shops.

Hong Jiang gives Zhuang some advice:
"After running the bookstore for a year, I have a pretty good picture of the market. Writing books is not as good as selling them, and editing books is better than both. Many bookstores now edit their own books, either by buying a publishing house outright or by printing books illegally. Chapbooks are all about sex and violence, and there's no need for proofreading. With print runs in the millions, those people are getting rich. You know Xiaoshunzi on Zhuquemen Street, a stinking little shit who can barely read. Well, he hired some people to cut and paste erotic passages from other works and put out a book that made him a hundred and fifty thousand. Now he rides around in a taxi and eats exotic seafood at the Tangcheng Restaurant every day."
"I know all that," Zhuang said. "But that's not what we should be doing." / "I knew you'd say that," Hong said. "But there's something Shimu and I have talked about. A bookseller produced a martial arts novel by someone named Liu De. They're having trouble selling it and are offering it to us at half-price. I was thinking we could take it and change the cover. We can give the author's name as Jing Yong. I'm sure we'll make a bundle.
A couple interesting things here…

We once again return to the new position of the artist in the postsocialist era. Hong Jiang chides Zhuang for wanting to keep secret his role in running the bookstore, telling him that wénrén 文人 doing business is perfectly fine.

The look into the world of bookselling at the time is quite fascinating. This was a time when books were indeed big business. It was a confluence of several factors—opening up to the outside world, a massive audience, relaxation of censorship, excitement around culture. I highly recommend Consuming Literature: Best Sellers and the Commercialization of Literary Production in Contemporary China by Shuyu Kong, which goes into more about the book business and Jia Pingwa’s own ventures in particular. When Zhuang Zhidie is talking about book sales and people selling out by including “cut and paste erotic passages” he might as well be talking about Ruined City.

Howard Goldblatt’s use of “chapbooks” strikes me as odd, but it might just be me. The original says xiǎocèzi 小册子. I always think of a chapbook as a step above a zine, which is probably what these were, I guess. These are books printed—that’s made clear by Hong Jiang—with a shūhào 书号 (equivalent to an ISBN, required to sell a book legally), suggesting that “cheap paperbacks” might be more descriptive than “chapbooks.”

Some people have described a dìtān wénxué 地摊文学, or a literature of the bookstall. Something like Lady Chatterley's Lover fits in perfect there, especially with the sort of lurid borderline pornographic covers slapped on risque classics… But also Ruined City fit in there, too, especially when people started copy and pasting erotic scenes into it! I haven’t even gotten to the erotic scenes in Ruined City yet, I realize. But there’s one right after this scene, when Zhuang and Niu Yueqing go to bed that night.

Their foreplay is gossip. How fitting! That night, it’s about Wang Ximian's wife and her younger days as a clerk at a department store.
As she went on, she reached out to touch him and found his erection. So she guided him on top of her. □□ □□ □□ [The author has deleted 51 words.] She cried out and curled into a ball.
"So, you couldn't hold out, either," Zhuang said.
So, that’s what I mean by copy and pasting erotic scenes back into Ruined City.

Jia uses the conceit of the author censoring his own work to erase the hot stuff that he never actually wrote. It’s a brilliant way to make a book sexy without having to write out the sex, and the reader automatically slips in whatever’s on their nasty mind…

But anyways, they gossip for a while after that, and Zhuang Zhidie brings up the idea of hiring some help, thinking of Liu Yue.

The next morning, we get more gossip, this time from the dead, as Niu Yueqing’s mother, who is no longer able to tell the living from the ghosts starts sharing underworld gossip. He takes an in-law out to her husband’s grave.

It’s an interesting scene, but I don't have much to say about it.

I’d rather reproduce Zhuang Zhidie’s shopping list, left for him by Niu Yueqing:
...two catties of pork, one cattie of spare ribs, a carp, a tortoise, half a cattie of squid, half a cattie of sea cucumber, three catties of lotus roots, two catties of chives, one cattie of bean pods, one cattie of cowpeas, two catties of tomatoes, two catties of eggplant, two catties of fresh mushrooms, three catties of thick osmanthus liquor, seven bottles of Sprite, three catties of tofu, a half-cattie each of some Korean side dishes, two catties of mutton, one cattie of cured beef, five preserved eggs, one roasted chicken, one roasted duck, half a cattie each of cooked pork liver, pork belly, and smoked sausage. Also, he needed to bring from the Shuangren fu house a bottle of Wuliangye, ten bottles of beer, a pack of peanuts, dried mushrooms and wood ear, a bowl of sticky rice, a sack of red dates, and a handful of rice noodles. In addition, he had to buy a can of peas, a can of bamboo shoots, a can of cherries, a cattie of sausage, two catties of cucumbers, one ounce of thin seaweed, and three ounces of lotus seeds.
One of the many lists in Jia Pingwa’s novels… (How annoying is it to use “cattie” in a modern translation? Have you come across the term anywhere but in a translation from Chinese? What’s wrong with just using jīn 斤? Why not take a jīn as a half kilo and do the conversion? I don’t know.)

So, a lunch party is being planned…

Page 113 to 139. More feet, more gossip, more Britishisms.
At the crack of dawn, he rode over to Zhou Min's house at 8 Ludang Lane. Tang Wan'er was up, working on her hair in front of a mirror. Zhou Min was crouching beneath a grape trellis brushing his teeth. With foam still in his mouth, he was beside himself with joy when he saw Zhuang walk in.
I wonder if we could track down the address there, 8 Ludang Lane, 芦荡巷副字八号... I’m sure it would be easier to poke around on foot, but right now, all I have is Baidu Maps’ street view service.

We can get a general feel for the area. It doesn’t look like it’s changed much since the early 1990s. It feels like the sort of apartment block that Tang Wan'er and Zhou Min might have rented a place in.

But it makes me wonder why Jia decided to include that address.

When Zhuang gets there, he sees Tang Wan’er is wearing the shoes, which she has not told Zhou Min came from his mentor.

Zhuang gives her another gift: one of the bronze mirrors from Zhao Jingwu. He tells her it's from the Kaiyuan 开元 reign of the Tang dynasty, and it suits her, since her surname is Tang.

Zhuang and Tang Wan’er are left alone at the house for just a while too long, and things start to happen...
When he reached out to steady her, she fell into his arms as if on a pulley. He turned her around, and they found each other's lips; they stayed that way for a long time, breathing hard through their noses, as if glued together. □□ □□ □□ [The author has deleted 23 words.]
Zhuang pulled away.
"Wan'er," he said, "I finally have you in my arms. I'm very fond of you."
"I'm fond of you, too," she said, as tears ran down her face. He tenderly reached out to dry them. Then he kissed them away. ... Before they knew it, their hands were roaming over each other's body; soon his hand snaked down, but her skirt was so tight, he could only tug anxiously at the waistband. She stepped back to unhook her skirt, and his hand slipped in; she was wet. □□ □□ □□ [The author has deleted 23 words.]
"I desperately wanted to touch your feet that day when I gave you the shoes."
Chinese literature is not known for forthright descriptions of human sexuality, especially like these, which seem particularly genuine. You can see why—despite in this case the conceit of self-censorship—Ruined City became an unofficial sexual education textbook in the days before porno VCDs and the internet.

Zhuang Zhidie and Tang Wan’er make love. Many words are deleted.

She is amazed that he has taken an interest in her, a common girl from the countryside.

Finally, Zhuang scurries home to start preparing for the party.

I’m missing a few plot points here. A major one is that Zhuang plans to borrow a large sum of money from Wang Ximian to get the fake Jin Yong book printed. That’s the point of the lunch party. But it turns out Wang Ximian is already in Beijing, and his wife has arrived alone.

Also Zhao Jingwu shows up with Liu Yue. Niu Yueqing takes an immediate liking to her.

Much of this section is chit-chat—more gossip!

I feel like one of the failings of Goldblatt’s translation is the way it deals with dialogue. This is always tough. It’s harder to mark out registers in written Chinese, I would say, compared to English. It’s harder, for example, to give a feel for accents since it’s not a phonetic language…

What do I mean, though?
"Don't be in such a hurry. You've just arrived, and you haven't even had time for your sweat to dry. I won't need your help yet."
"You really are a dajie. I'm not a guest here. I was eager to come today precisely because I knew you'd have a house full of guests, and there's work to be done. Otherwise, why am I here, to enjoy the festivities?" Liu said.
The first speaker is Nue Yueqing and the second is Liu Yue. One is a cultured woman from an aristocratic family, and the other is a maid with a primary school education, freshly arrived from the countryside. Why does the register feel so formal for both speakers? In a way, it feels like Niu Yueqing is being more informal here than the translation suggests:
牛月清一把拦了,说:"决不要动手,才来乍到,汗都没退,谁要你忙活?!" 柳月说:"好姐姐,我比不得来的客人,之所以赶着今日来,就是知道人多,需要干活的,要不我凭什么来热闹?!"
Here’s an alternative:
"I don't want you to lift a finger,” Niu Yueqing said. “You just got here. The sweat's still dripping off you from the walk over. Just take it easy!"
"You really do treat me like a younger sister,” Liu Yue said, “but I'm not any more important than your guests. The main reason I was in such a rush to get here today is because I knew you'd have a house full of people. I should be helping out. I didn't come just to enjoy the party!"
I also generally have a problem with Howard Goldblatt’s archaisms. To have someone referred to as, "That little tart" is off putting. I can’t not hear it in a posh British accent. But is there anything to his choice?

First, two definitions: “a woman who dresses or behaves in a way that is considered tasteless and sexually provocative” and, marked as dated, “a prostitute.” The line in the translation is: "’That little tart is mocking me. What have I ever done to her?’" In the original, it’s: “这小肠肚蹄子,倒揶开我了,我可没得罪了她呀!” This isn’t an open-and-shut case, it turns out. We have to unravel that insult—xiǎochángdùtízi 小肠肚蹄子—before we can begin… I’m tempted to just give this one to Goldblatt and move on. But, hmm, I guess 小肠肚蹄子 is from xiǎotízi 小蹄子, “little hoof,” which is used frequently in Dream of Red Mansions 红楼梦 (I was reminded of this by 影响中的创造:贾平凹小说的独异生成, 樊娟). The origin of that phrase might be because of the resemblance between a hoof and a vulva, but that seems unlikely, and it’s probably from some northern dialect (or that’s what my brief research tells me). That doesn’t matter, though, because I’m still not sure what 小肠肚蹄子 means.
《红楼梦》中有多处“小蹄子”及其变形的骂法,王希眠老婆说唐宛儿小肠肚蹄子的说法也有了出处。其实在民间也有用蹄子来形容人的,也可以传达表粗内亲的意思,这里则有嗔怪之意。
So, this suggests the meaning is related to 嗔怪, suggesting less tart and more sulky or ungrateful or generally unpleasant in—with the 蹄子 there—a particularly feminine way. It makes sense, given the next line, dào yékāi wǒ 倒揶开我, “She’s actually mocking me!”

But I got so, so, so far away from the point that “tart” is just an archaic and strange word. But I guess 小肠肚蹄子 is possibly an equally archaic and strange word. I don’t know. But I still think Goldblatt gets the meaning wrong here, and I still hate “tart.”

It’s a pain sorting all this stuff out. I have sympathy.

The dinner party eventually gets started, with everyone trying to force Zhuang and his wife into shows of marital bliss, while his new concubine-cum-maid, and his apprentice’s wife and fresh sexual conquest look on. And the flies return...
Tang Wan'er laughed soundlessly as she cast an unhappy glance at the meddlesome Liu Yue, who was laughing merrily, her eyes on Tang, who ignored her and looked away to see a fly above a flowerpot on the windowsill. It flitted over and landed on the tip of Zhuang's ear. With a cup in his hand and his arm linked with Niu Yueqing's arm, he could only shoot the fly away by shaking his head. It stayed put. If there is such a thing as divine intervention, Wan'er mused, let the fly land on my head. To her amazement, it did just that, drawing a private smile from her as she sat motionless.
The fly ends up doing a nosedive into Niu Yueqing's cup, and Tang Wan'er offers her own to the hostess.

I’m recording that just in case I want to sum up Jia’s flies later.

As the party goes on, there’s a drinking game played, with people reciting idioms. You have to recall an idiom that begins with the last character of the one said before you. So, if it’s táng'érhuángzhī 堂而皇之, "strikingly large in physical scale," then the next one could be zhī-hū-zhě-yě 之乎者也, particles from classical language, meaning "literary jargon," and the next one could be yègōnghàolóng 叶公好龙, "professed love of what one really fears," because 也 is homophonous with 叶, and so on… Howard Goldblatt’s work is cut out for him here, and he does a great job of reforming the translated idioms so they can work in the game.

After everyone is drunk, things break down again, everyone moving off into smaller groups. Meng Yunfang tells Zhuang Zhidie about Huang Defu giving property back to the nunnery and Huiming being put in charge. Meng wants Zhuang to help out with a request from the nunnery for an apartment to be allotted to them in a nearby block. In return, Zhuang asks Meng to tell his fortune. It's not promising. He sees the sign for imprisonment.
”But luckily you have water in your karma, which, when put alongside the symbol for imprisonment 泅, means you can swim away and be rescued. However, you will be rescued only if you keep yourself afloat. If not, you could be in serious trouble."
"This is all rubbish," Zhuang responded, before getting up to refill Meng's teacup, his mind filled with trepidation.
Again, I wonder why Howard Goldblatt uses so many Britishisms! He’s an American, translating a book for an American publisher.

But anyways, that closes this section.

Page 139 to 145. Niu Yueqing's dream.

We’re still at the party, but Niu Yueqing has had too much to drink and goes to lay on her bed. She wakes up yelling and everyone crowds into the room. She doesn’t remember much of the dream, but it involved a burning bus and Zhuang Zhidie refusing to help her.

Zhou Min rushes back to the office.

His article about Zhuang is sending shockwaves through the city. Jing Xueyin has found out about it, too, and feels humiliated. Zhou realizes that he's gotten himself in trouble.

The rest of this section is a discussion about Jing Xueyin’s position in local politics and the cultural bureaucracy.

Page 145 to 156. Flutes.

This section begins with Niu Yueqing and Liu Yue going to Wang Ximian's house to pick up the money the Wangs are loaning to her. I like the details of them carrying the money back, Liu Yue walking behind Niu Yueqing, holding a rock in her hand, just in case someone tries to rob them. While returning home, they pass a billboard advertising the Zhuang Zhidie article in Xijing Magazine. Liu Yue is sent to buy a copy. When they get home, Niu Yueqing goes off to bed, then Liu Yue makes some dinner. She goes outside to get some fresh air, just as Zhuang Zhidie rolls up on his scooter.

Zhuang watches four women playing cards by the side of the road. They interrupt their game to talk to a "big-boned woman" drying persimmons outside her door. The woman playing cards explain that she sells dried persimmons dusted with talcum powder (dried persimmons have a dusting of natural sugars that come out as they dessicate).

Zhuang, for whatever reason, goes to confront her about the claim. He bullshits with her for a while, and she pops out her false teeth, prompting a jokey chat about fake eyebrows and fake breasts. As he walks away, one of the women observes that Zhuang Zhidie might be fake, too.
Zhuang overheard her comment and began to wonder. Recalling what he had done with Tang Wan'er, which seemed like a dream now, he had the nagging feeling that he might not be Zhuang Zhidie after all. If he was, how would a coward like him have the nerve to do something so daring? If he wasn't, then who was he? He paused to light a cigarette, and for the first time in his life, he noticed that the shadow of his cigarette smoke was not grayish-black, but dark red. Abruptly turning his head, he saw an elongated figure jump to the base of a wall, a sight so startling it gave him goose bumps. But when he looked closer, he realized it was his shadow, cast onto the wall by the reflection of sunlight from the opened glass door of a store. Not a man who was afraid of ghosts or the supernatural, he was nonetheless scared by his own shadow.
This strange scene of depersonalization calls to mind the parallel frequently drawn between Zhuang Zhidie and "Zhuang Zhou Dreams of Being a Butterfly," about a man wondering if he has dreamed of being a butterfly or if he is a butterfly dreaming of being a man.

Zhuang Zhidie no longer feels as if he is himself, or he wonders who the hell he might be... The boundary between reality and dream start to get blurry.

He has just come from developing some pictures he took at the party. He's shocked to see that all of the backgrounds in the photographs are sharp, but the figures in them are faint and spectral. It's as if his camera has captured the liminal blurriness creeping into Zhuang's life.

As Zhuang walks into the house, Liu Yue whispers that Niu Yueqing is upset over the magazine article. Zhuang and Niu talk about the article, with him insisting most of it is nonsense, nothing but gossip.

Suddenly, Zhou Min arrives. Zhuang invites him in for dinner. He puts a cassette in his stereo. It's a hissy recording of someone playing a flute. Did I mention yet that Zhou Min often goes up to the city wall to play his xūn 埙 (a xūn is like an ocarina)? Well, he does, and that's what Zhuang recorded. He praises the playing, with Zhou Min finally admitting that it was him on the recording.

Niu Yueqing emerges and scolds him for a while, but not much is resolved.

Page 156 to 169. Pear tree, moles.

This section is one of the most surprising in the book—I mean… Jia is a writer known for his bad boy masculinity, I suppose, but the book does have what I think are fairly honest portrayals of feminine desire, as well. I think they’re honest, but I’m also not a woman, so I have no idea.

At this point, Zhou Min is suffering. He has written the article and is dealing with the fallout. And Tang Wan’er is suffering, too. She is desperately in love with Zhuang Zhidie, but he seems to be ignoring her.
That night, the moon was as bright as water. As usual, Zhou Min went to the city wall to play his xun. Wan'er shut the gate and went in to take a bath. Then, draping her nightgown over her naked body, she went out and sat on the lounge chair under the pear tree. Utterly lonely, she thought about Zhuang Zhidie: Why don't you come? Were you, like all the other men, just satisfying a sudden urge that day and put me out of your mind once it was over? ... He would not be like that. The look in his eyes when he first saw her, his timid approach, and his madly urgent behavior when they were together gave her the confidence that he was truly fond of her. ... Zhuang had started out shyly, but once he entered port, he was immensely living and tender; his many tricks and techniques had finally taught her the difference between the city and the countryside, and between one who was knowledgeable and one who was not. ... She touched herself as she followed this line of thought, until she began to moan and groan... She was writhing and squirming on the chair. □□ □□ □□ [The author has deleted 37 words.] The chair creaked and inched slowly toward the pear tree; squinting at the moon through the branches, she fantasized that it was Zhuang's face.
Zhou Min eventually comes home, and Tang Wan'er slips out and calls Zhuang's house. She finds out Zhuang is at the Municipal People's Congress.

Zhou Min feels abandoned by Zhuang Zhidie, as well, since most of the anger about his article is coming from Jing Xueyin, and he expects Zhuang to back him up.

Tang Wan’er decides to track down Zhuang Zhidie at his hotel. This is the point where the novel is at its most pornographic, with Zhuang and Tang having sex for the first time without any constraints, in complete privacy.
When she heard him say she had a mole down there, she looked for it in the mirror, while imagining how much he loved her. The worker in Tongguan had never noticed the mole, nor had Zhou Min. Nor even had she.
"Is it good to have a mole there?" she asked.
"Good, maybe. I have one there, too." He showed her.
"That's wonderful. We'll be able to find each other no matter where we go," she said. "Is the door locked? No one will come in, will they?"
"Now you're worrying about the door? I'm not sharing with anyone, so no one will come in."
She remained in his arms.
I’ve always liked that part about the mole on her vulva.

My relationship with this book has always been twisted up with the girl that introduced this book to me. I wrote about that before:
The first copy I ever held … belonged to the first girl I fell in love with. That was many, many years ago now. I don't know how reliable these memories are. But I think I remember her copy being a first edition, published by Beijing Publishing House ... It had the cover with the crumpled ball of paper on its. I forget where the girl—and her name was Xinran—got it, but I imagine it was probably plucked from a tarp laid out at the used book market outside Kuaizaiting Park in Xuzhou. I might have the name of the park wrong, but you'd know the place I mean, if you've spent any time in Xuzhou. There used to be a zoo in the park, and, legend had it, at least, a tiger had once broken out of its pen and mauled a man. They had a used book market there, though, mostly old men selling old novels and those glossy books of nude photographs that somehow skirted anti-pornography laws. The book was carefully wrapped in an RT-Mart flier, like all of Xinran’s books.
I used to always note the small mole or freckle peeking out of her lower right eyelid, and say that it would protect her from being counterfeit.

Before I could read Chinese, she read Ruined City to me, interpreting as she went. I can’t help but think about her, re-reading this section.

Following their lovemaking, Tang Wan’er launches into a monologue that stretches on for several pages in translation, in which she explains what she wants out of her relationship with Zhuang Zhidie. She wants to marry him, but she also wants him, in the shorter term, to make sure Zhou Min is fine.

He gives his own monologue in response, where he tells her his life story in brief. It’s basically an extended excuse why he would love to marry her but can’t:
“But I have to mourn the fact that we met too late. Why didn't you come to Xijing earlier? And why didn't I meet you back in Tongguan? I've also thought about marrying you, even about how our lives would be if we were a couple. But what about reality? ... A huge storm would erupt if I were to ask for a divorce now. ... What would Niu Yueqing do? ... But I can tell that we will eventually succeed. I want you to remember this: Please wait for me. I will marry you sooner or later. You must trust me."
She nodded. "I trust you, and I will wait for you."
They make love again, then Zhuang Zhidie slips out to give his speech. Tang Wan’er lets him go, then slips out after.

Page 169 to 177. Bureaucracy.

At the start of the next section, Zhuang Zhidie runs into Huang Defu, who we last near the beginning of the book, advising the mayor, then helping out with the nunnery. Zhuang asks Huang about the plan to convert a unit in a nearby apartment block into a literary salon (I have lost track of the exact details here). He says he’ll arrange something with the mayor.

Zhuang Zhidie calls home and hears from Hong Jiang that the book they purchased the rights to is selling well.

Zhuang has a lengthy meeting with the mayor. This section is somewhat uninteresting to me, but it does give a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes of the literary bureaucracy rubbing up against the real bureaucracy.

The section ends with Zhuang Zhidie spraining his ankle coming downstairs.

11/13/20

&: Ruined City reading guide, first part


This is an attempt to write about Howard Goldblatt's translation of Ruined City 废都 by Jia Pingwa 贾平凹, maybe notes for something more formal, maybe just a guide for myself to find stuff later, or maybe an excuse to pull out parts I like.

I started reading the original for the first time around 2006, when it was still officially banned. I managed to finally work my way all the way through it sometime around 2013.

When the book was unbanned several years ago, an English translation followed, completed by the most famous translator of modern Chinese literature, Howard Goldblatt. It came out through the University of Oklahoma Press (they also published my translation of Dong Xi). I have skimmed it many times, but I have to admit that I have never read it very closely.

So, there will be summaries and notes and quotes, but probably also some critiques of the translation and maybe even some attempts at making my own translations. Maybe. We'll see. It's a way to force myself to read it.

If you know nothing about the book, a brief explanation: the novel that made Jia Pingwa famous, published in 1993, banned shortly after. Jia returned to writing, but never really wrote a purely urban novel again (that's set to change, though). It's about a famous, established writer from the countryside, who's lived in the provincial capital for years, and gets mixed up with a rival from his old hometown. There's also lots of sex, which is one reason why it was banned for over a decade.

Page 12 to 22. An exquisite opening.

I’ve always been in awe at the way Jia Pingwa opens Ruined City.

He begins with an yìshì 异事, a "peculiar affair,” a “strange thing." These are what Kam Louie calls "strange anecdotes," which have deep roots in Chinese literature, but which crop up again in the roots-seeking fiction of the 1980s (see: “Searching for Cultural Roots: Rediscovering Things Confucius Did Not Say”), as writers looking to record folk religion and looking for something to fuel their own magical realism rediscovered supernatural tales.

Here, the yìshì begins with two friends visiting the tomb of Yang Guifei 杨贵妃. They find a crowd of people scooping up handfuls of dirt, take some of their own, and plant flower seeds in it. When a flower starts to grow, they decide to take it to the Yunhuang Temple 孕璜寺, where Abbot Zhixiang 智祥大师 makes a prediction that it will “bloom on four-stems, but it will be short-lived.” That prediction comes true. But the story ends with one of the men accidentally pouring boiling water over the plant while drunk.

It ends anticlimactically, as the yìshì anecdotes in Jia’s novels normally do: “Devastated by what he had done, he smashed the pot, after which he fell ill and was sick for a month.”

The book then slides into a second yìshì, but without introducing it as such. Looking out over a cityscape, someone looks up and sees four suns, all arranged in a “T” formation (or a 丁 formation). Jia pans down to a beggar standing on a traffic island, dressed in a silk banner stolen from the Yunhuang Temple, who recites a satirical poem about the nine urban classes.

And then we get the new mayor of Xijing hearing about the satirical poem, which is circulating through the city, and a young man named Huang Defu 黄德复, one of the mayor’s trusted advisors. This shifts us abruptly from yìshì to guānshì 官事 (there must be a better antonym for yìshì, but I hope this works), the affairs of bureaucrats. Plans are made to revitalize Xijing, the ancient Western Capital:
The mayor wasted no time in seeking appropriations from the central government, at the same time that he was amassing local funding in support of a project of unprecedented scope: it included refurbishing the city wall, dredging the moat around it, and building an amusement park, rich in local color, on the banks of the moat. He also rebuilt three city avenues: One with Tang dynasty architecture was designed for the sale of books, art, and porcelain. On a second avenue, styled after the Song dynasty, local and provincial snacks were sold. Local handicrafts, folk art, and specialty products were available on the third avenue, which boasted a mixture of Ming and Qing architecture.
When the beggar recites another poem criticizing the mayor, we focus back on him, making his rounds as an unofficial recycler, winding up back at Yunhuang Temple, where he watches the qigong masters teaching breathing exercises.

Abbot Zhixiang has a premonition that something strange was about to happen (yìyàngzhīshì 异样之事). The next day a relic of Sakyamuni is discovered in a temple not too far from Xijing. That night he sits in meditation and says to himself: “‘These days … there are hardly any wolves, vermin, tigers, or panthers still in the world, for they have all been reincarnated as human beings. That is the source of so much evil. Meanwhile, great numbers of qigong masters and people with odd talents have arrived in Xijing in recent years. Maybe the heavens sent them to save humanity.’” At that point, he decides to make his own contribution, and starts holding classes on qigong.

One of his students is Meng Yunfang 孟云房.

Qigong is only the latest fad he has taken part in. Seven years prior, he was obsessed with red tea fungus. He met his wife through the hobby of cultivating the fungus. The couple went through various other health fads, going from “laying on of hands” to vinegar eggs to a drink of chicken blood. “Unfortunately, the chicken blood produced an undesirable side effect: the wife’s pubic hair fell out.” When she goes to a neighbor to get a “secret remedy handed down from his ancestors,” Meng Yunfang rejects her and forces her to sign divorce papers.

He marries another woman, named Xia Jie 夏捷, and they move together to a small home near the Yunhuang Temple.

When Meng starts hanging around the temple, the abbot spots him:
On one occasion he was met by Abbot Zhixiang, who stopped him from running off by saying, “Don’t I know you?”
Meng nodded. “The abbot has a wonderful memory. Apparently you remember me.”
“Of course I do. Did that plant of yours die?”
“Yes,” Meng replied, “and everything turned out just as you had predicted.”
We return suddenly to the start of the novel, making the first complete circuit.

And I’ll include this, even though I’ve gotten as far as I want to get: he meets a young nun named Huiming 慧明. And we get another kind of shì 事, which is Fóshì 佛事, Buddhist affairs, which is what Meng Yunfang claims he’s doing when his wife catches him flirting with the nun. So, we go from The Tomb → The Flower → The Temple → The Sun → The Beggar → The Mayor → The Temple → The Flower, from yìshì 异事 to guānshì 官事 to Fóshì 佛事, beginning with Meng Yunfang (without knowing it’s him, or who his friend is) and ending with Meng Yunfang.

In ten or so pages, we get an idea of what sort of world we’re about to enter (with real magic and false), various levels at which to observe it (from the mayor’s office, from the temple, from the streets), a mixture of registers (a poem in doggerel, the Buddhist language of the temple and Meng Yunfang, dirty jokes (the situation with Meng Yunfang’s wife’s pubic hair) and bureaucratic verbiage).

Extra notes:

Qigong 气功: A fifth of China's urban population was "directly exposed to qigong during the 1980s or 1990s, either attending healing lectures or practicing qigong gymnastics and breathing exercises in parks and public spaces" (this is from "Embodying Utopia: Charisma in the post-Mao Qigong Craze" by David Palmer, in Nova Religio, 2008). In 1990, CCTV broadcast a documentary called Chinese Superman 华夏超人, a four part documentary about qigong master 气功大师 Yan Xin 严新, who claimed mystical powers. It drew the link between his practice and scientific discoveries, positioning qigong as a phenomenon that could be explained through modern science. Yan Xin also famously claimed to have put out a forest fire. Many of the masters were quite powerful. Zhang Xiangyu 张香玉, who claimed healing powers, managed to hold rallies in Beijing after June of 1989, because she had the support of key Party members. In the 1990s, many of the masters were rolled up. Zhang Hongbao 张宏堡, leader of Zhong Gong 中功 and alleged rapist, ended up escaping to America where Trent Lott supported his asylum. Li Hongzhi 李洪志 and his group mostly fled to America, where they have helped destabilize the political system. What a great detail to include qigong in this novel!

Page 22 to 33. Idlers, male anxiety, anthropology.

The translation reads: Over a period of years, Tongguan County, four hundred li east of Xijing, had become home to iderlers and ne'er-do-wells who complained about anything and everything, settling over society like a swarm of bottleneck flies. One of that crowd, a man named Zhou Min...

At first I suspected ”bottleneck flies” was a typo and was about to riff on it. But now, I’m not so sure. Searching for the term, I find the first hits in other Goldblatt translations. In Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh: "Bottleneck flies were already swarming over them." In The Garlic Ballads: "Green bottleneck flies had settled on it." In Red Ivy, Green Earth Mother: "She felt like a piece of rotten, oozing meat, covered with maggots in the blazing sun, with blue bottleneck flies buzzing in and out." Other than that, there's a paper called "The Surprising Genetics of Bottlenecked Flies" in Science in 1987, but that's about genetic bottlenecks. It’s not a typo but I’m not sure why an editor wouldn’t slice it out.

What does the original say? 西京东四百里地的潼关,这些年出了一帮浪子闲汉,他们总是不满意这个不满意那个,浮躁得像一群绿头的苍蝇。其中一个叫周敏的角儿... Just cāngying 苍蝇. Could it be blue bottle fly? Probably. Is that what Goldblatt had in mind? I can only assume.

Carlos Rojas has written a whole paper on this novel and sort of about flies. It’s called “Flies' Eyes, Mural Remnants, and Jia Pingwa's Perverse Nostalgia,” positions, 2006. Howard Goldblatt’s “bottleneck” fly reminded me to check that essay.

But anyways, we’re introduced here to a central character, Zhou Min 周敏, and a place called Tongguan 潼关, which is eighty miles east of the capital. Zhou Min meets a beautiful young woman at a dance hall. It turns out that Tang Wan'er 唐宛儿 is married. Eventually, Zhou Min and Tang Wan'er flee to Xijing and rent a house.
Their passion cooled after a month or so, and their money was running out. To Zhou Min, this was what a man could expect from being with a woman. Wan'er was beautiful and glamorous, they were living in a big city, and yet none of this brought him the satisfaction he sought or helped him find what he was looking for. There were new movies to see, fashionable clothes to wear, and plenty of accessories to buy. What he lacked were new ways of thinking, fresh ideas. There were no changes in the morning sunlight scaling the city wall, the same flowers bloomed in the garden, and even though women now wielded more authority than their husbands did, they were still limited to one day—Women's Day—on March 8th. An eighty-year-old man could be a bridegroom, but he was still an old man. Zhou Min who was nore mired in depression, could not reveal these thoughts to Wan'er, and was reduced to making his way to the city wall in the mornings and evening to play his flute. But that did not solve the problem of finances, so he went looking for work, and found it at the neighborhood Clear Void Nunnery, where several side rooms were being renovated. Since the workers were paid daily, he was able to buy a fish and a half jin of fresh mushrooms each day to take home for her to make dinner.
Masculine anxiety, which there is a lot of in Jia Pingwa’s work. Zhou Min stood out in the countryside for his pale skin and louche manner, hanging out at dance halls and seducing married women, but in the city, he finds that he stands out, still, as a man without new ideas, still rusticated. In the course of his work, Zhou Min meets the nun named Huiming. She introduces him to Meng Yunfang. Meng and Zhou become fast friends. Zhou eventually asks Meng if he might be able to get him a job with a newspaper.

And we get some of the cultural anthropology that makes up a lot of the novel, with Meng Yunfang explaining two types of xiánrén 闲人: shèhuì xiánrén 社会闲人 and wénhuà xiánrén 文化闲人 (some work on Jia Pingwa’s novel gives a translation for xiánrén as “idlers.”).

I wrote somewhere else that “Jia is an anthropologist as much as he is a poet.” I was referring to his work set in the countryside of Shaanxi, where he’s fond of describing folk traditions, but it’s just as true in this work set in the city. That’s what’s going on in these descriptions of the various xiánrén. The first group:
"I'll tell you. There are two types of special individuals called 'xianren': one type is known as social xianren. There might have status in society, they might not; they might be employed they might not be. For the most part they are energetic, spirited, capable individuals who like to meddle. They enjoy moving commodities around, they're good at meditating, they love to eat, drink, gamble, and go whoring, but they do not smoke opium. They pull scams, but they don't mug or rob people. They know how to create a disturbance and how to put one down. ... They are represented by four individuals, their unofficial leaders, widely known as 'the Four Young Knaves.' ... Want to know how best to describe them? You can get a good idea by listening to their jargon. They don't call money cash, they call it 'handles.' A good buddy is a 'steel brother,' getting on with a woman is 'drilling a hole'..."
And the second group:
"Now I want to tell you about the second type: cultural xianren. There is a person in Xijing who hasn't heard of the Four Young Knaves. But the 'Famous Four' are even better known. ... The painter Wang Ximian is number one. He is forty-five years old, a former jade factory carver who began painting in his spare time, and became famous within a few years. He was recruited by the Xijing Academy of Traditional Art, but chose instead to go to the Wild Goose Pagoda as artist in residence. ... His income far exceeds that of other painters. What sets him apart is his uncanny ability to copy the masters, from Shi Tao to Bada Shanren down to Zhang Daqian and Qi Baishi. …
These four figures all represent various facets of the postsocialist literati, liberated or cast adrift from a culture industry regulated by the state. Before Reform and Opening, cultural products could not really be commodified. But in postsocialist China, commodifying cultural products was a necessity.

Wang Ximian 汪希眠, for example, has steered clear of more legitimate institutions, where he could rise in the artistic bureaucracy, to seek his fortune selling forgeries at the Wild Goose Pagoda. Rather than being sustained by the state, he makes a living off tourists: "The pagoda is an essential tourist attraction for foreigners, among whom his paintings are extremely popular, especially his albums."

Wang Ximian is clearly not a wénhuàrén 文化人, motivated by and defined by art and culture, but a wénhuà xiánrén 文化闲人, first and foremost a xiánrén 闲人, an idler or layabout, and only by how he makes a living connected to the world of wénhuà 文化.
"For the next in line, walk down any street or lane in the city to look at the shop signs, and you will know the name Gong Jingyuan. During the Republican era, the shop-sign calligrapher everyone wanted was Yu Youren. But even at his peak, Yu was not as popular as Gong Jingyuan. Like Wang Ximian, he has to drive the women away, but he isn't burdened with Wang's infatuations. He has a good time with whoever comes along and quickly forgets her when it's over, which is why so many women call themselves Gong Jingyuan's lover, all of them women whose names he is unable to recall. ... The problem is, he's addicted to mahjong and can lose as much as a thousand yuan in a night. He covers his losses with calligraphy. He has been arrested three times for gambling, and each time the police let him out after he wrote calligraphy for them. ...
It’s interesting, reading into Gong Jingyuan 龚靖元—and the other figures here—something of Jia Pingwa. Jia, like Gong, is a renowned connoisseur of local food, and his calligraphy is also up all over the city, especially at restaurants. But the gambling addiction separates him somewhat.

And we get another aspect of the postsocialist literatus: making a living on the margins, or having close contact with life on the margins—shèhuì xiánrén 社会闲人 living off of wénhuà xiánrén 文化闲人.
"The third person is Ruan Zhifei, head of the Western Philharmonic orchestra. He started out as a Shaanxi opera performer whose father had taught him such tricks of the trade as fire breathing, hair tossing, and tusk playing. But when the local opera began to lose its appeal, playing to dwindling audiences, he quit and organized a local song-and-dance ensemble with all of his opera performers. ... But in recent years, as the popularity of the song-and-dance ensembles waned, the members of the troupe have drifted away in two groups, one moving to the countryside, the other opening dance halls in the city. Even at the unheard-of cost of thirty yuan to get in, those places are mobbed every night.
Jia’s later novel Qinqiang 秦腔 picks up some of this (as do other books, but this one in particular), with opera troupes going rogue in the city, doing anything to make a living, and finally disbanding. While performers in the time before Reform and Opening would have been guaranteed a living and an audience, times are tough for someone like Ruan Zhifei 阮之非, trained originally in the local opera.
"The fourth individual ... lives a quiet, unassuming life. Although his wife runs the Taibai Bookstore near the Forest of Steles Museum, he neither has nor cares about money, and is content to stay home and write about things that interest him. ... Where those four are concerned, he is at the top of the heap and is the most accomplished; his fame is the most far-reaching and he comes from hometown—Tongguan."
That fourth individual is the central character of the novel: Zhuang Zhidie 庄之蝶. We’ll save more discussion of him for later, but it’s interesting that he’s marked out as different from the other wénhuà xiánrén.

Meng Yunfang secures a job for Zhou Min at the Xijing Gazette by writing a note in Zhuang Zhidie’s name to someone named Jing Xueyin 景雪荫, who works for the Department of Culture.

Extra notes:

Dance halls, gēwǔ 歌舞厅 and wǔchǎng 舞场, started to spring up in the late 1970s as not much more than rented spaces with a boombox and some cassette tapes. Social dancing fell victim to the 1983 strike hard campaign against liúmáng 流氓 crimes and the atmosphere of concern over social liberalism. By autumn of 1984, dance halls began to re-open, with heavy restrictions which were eventually lifted in the late 1980s. The dance halls were for the urban working class, local and migrant. They were a place for couples to court and sometimes a place for migrant men to pay for the company of a young woman (the notorious mōbā 摸吧 or mōmo wǔtīng 摸摸舞厅 or hēiwǔtīng 黑舞厅 or hēisānqū 黑三曲 or fùfèi wǔtīng 付费舞厅).

Page 33 to 39. Looking at the translation, the arrival of Zhuang Zhidie, a cow.

Goldblatt's reputation as a translator has taken a beating over the years, at least among fellow translators. I don't love all his choices in this book. I wish his translation was ruder in places. But I'm mostly satisfied.

I thought it might be fun to take a few samples, mostly at random and check them out against the original, and attempt my own translation.
唐宛儿一整天没有见到周敏的面,知道是在外边为工作奔波,将中午做了的麻食又温了一遍,就热水洗了身子,漱了口,换一身喷过香水的时兴裤头和奶罩,专等着男人回来慰劳他。但周敏一时未回,就歪在床上读起书来。夜深听得门外脚步响,身子就软溜下来,把书遮在脸上装睡着了。周敏敲门,门却自开,原来并未插关,进来看床灯亮着。妇人悄然无声,轻轻揭了书本,人睡得好熟,就站着看了一会睡态,不觉凑下来吻那嘴唇,妇人却一张口将伸进的舌头咬住,倒吓了周敏一跳。
周敏说:"你没有睡呀!脱得这么赤条条的,也不关门!"妇人说:"我盼着来个强奸犯哩!"
Tang Wan'er knew that Zhou Min was out looking for work, since she hadn't seen him all day, so she warmed up the leftover noodles before taking a hot shower, rinsing out her mouth, and changing into a perfumed bra and panties to reward him on his return. But she waited and waited, finally sitting up in bed to read. It was quite late when she heard footsteps at the door. She quickly lay down, covered her face with the book, and pretended to be asleep. When Zhou Min knocked at the door, it swung open on its hinges, unlocked. He saw that the bedside lamp was on, but she made no noise, so he carefully lifted off the book and saw that she was asleep. He stood there for a moment drinking in the scene, then leaned over and gently kissed her on the mouth. She surprised him by opening her mouth and clamping her teeth around his tongue.
"So, you've been awake! What's the idea of lying here half-naked with the door unlocked?"
"I've been waiting here, hoping to be visited by a man with rape on his mind!" she said.
I'm using this section mostly because I want to know what “perfumed panties” are.

So, and now I’ll attempt by own translation, intentionally avoiding what Goldblatt has done already, just to make it interesting:
Tang Wan'er didn't find it unusual that Zhou Min had been gone all day. She figured he was out looking for work. In the evening, she heated up the cat's ear noodles that she'd make for lunch, then went to wash up. She rinsed her mouth out, and changed into some fashionable lingerie that she spritzed with perfume. She was ready to thank her man in the way that a woman should. After a while, when Zhou Min still hadn't come home, she lay down on the bed and cracked a book. She was awoken hours later by footsteps outside. She stretched, and covered her face with the open book. When Zhou Min knocked at the door, it swung open, unlocked and unlatched. He saw that the light was still on over the bed. Since Tang Wan'er seemed not to be awake, he reached out to take the book off her face. She looked as if she was sleeping deeply. He stood for a while and watched her, then, without really thinking, he bent down to kiss her on the lips. Tang Wan'er opened her mouth and bit him. Zhou Min jumped back in fright.
"I thought you were asleep!" Zhou Min said. "What the hell are you doing laying here half-naked with the door unlocked?"
"I was hoping a rapist would come in and find me," Tang Wan'er said.
Not much difference, I suppose. And now we know what perfumed panties are (喷过香水的时兴裤头和奶罩, or, literally, "spritzed with perfume fashionable underwear and bra").

But let’s keep going.
妇人问:"景雪荫长得什么样儿,这般有福的,倒能与庄之蝶好?" 周敏说:"长得是没有你白,脸上也有许多皱纹了,脚不好看。但气势足,口气大,似乎正经八百,又似乎满不在乎的样子,喜欢与男人说笑的。" 妇人把男人的头推到一边,嫌他口里烟味大,说:"哪有女人不喜欢男人的!" 周敏说:"我听孟云房说了,她是个男人评价很高、女人却瘪嘴的人,她没有同性朋友。" 妇人说:"我猜得出了,这号女人在男人窝里受宠惯了,她也就以为真的了不得了。如果是一般人,最易变态,是个讨厌婆子。她出身高贵,教养好些,她会诱男人团团围了转,却不肯给你一点东西,这叫狼多不吃娃,越危险的地方越安全。" 周敏说:"你这鬼狐子,什么都知道,可潼关县城毕竟不是西京城。她若是那样,庄之蝶一个条儿就那么出力?!"
Again, I feel as if Goldblatt’s rendering could be improved upon...
"What does Jing look like?" Wan'er asked afterward. "She's a lucky woman to be on such intimate terms with Zhuang Zhidie."
"You have nicer skin; she has wrinkles. And ugly feet. But she has a commanding presence and speaks with authority. She impressed me as a woman who likes to flirt."
Wan'er pushed his head away because of his smoker's breath. "Show me a woman who doesn't!" she said.
"Meng says she gets high marks from men, but that she has no female friends."
"I'm not surprised," Wan'er said. "She's obviously been spoiled by men, which of course boosts her ego. Sooner or later, most women like that turn into shrews. But a highborn woman with a decent upbringing can wrap men around her finger and give nothing in return. How does it go--wolves don't eat their young, and there's safety in numbers."
"You're quite a know-it-all, aren't you, you sly fox? But Tongguan is no Xijing. If she's what you say, how could a note from Zhuang Zhidie have such an effect on her?"
But let’s see:
"What does this Jing Xueyin look like, anyways? Lucky woman to be so close with Zhuang Zhidie."
"She's darker than you are, lots of wrinkles... She's got ugly feet, too. She carries herself well, though. She's got a way with words, I guess you could say. But I could never tell if she was taking me seriously, or if she couldn't give a damn. She's a bit of a flirt."
Tang Wan'er pushed Zhou Min away, wrinkling her nose at the stale smoke on his breath. "That's normal," she said.
"The way Meng Yunfang told it, she's the type of woman that men admire and women despise. All of her friends are men."
"I could've guessed," Tang Wan'er said. "She's been spoiled by the men in her life for so long that she thinks she's really something special. She's lucky to come from a good family. If she hadn't, a woman like that would be a terror for her husband. As it is, she can run the men in her life without ever having to give anything up to them. You know the saying, 'a wolf doesn't eat its pups.' The safest place for her is also the most dangerous."
"My clever little fox," Zhou Min said, "you forget that this is Xijing, not Tongguan. That note from Zhuang Zhidie disproves everything you just said. You should've seen the effect it had on her."
Well… what does all this prove? Let’s keep a close eye on the translation, but I don’t think I did anything groundbreaking here. I still feel as if I don't know what Tang Wan'er is talking about with wolves eating their puppies.

But anyways, that gets us into this section, with Zhou Min delivering a jade bracelet in thanks to Xia Jie for the help of her husband, and asking her about Zhuang Zhidie, trying to figure out exactly why he has such power over Jing Xueyin.

That night, Tang Wan'er demands more details, then tells Zhou Min that she's fantasizing about fucking Zhuang Zhidie. Shortly after that, Zhou Min starts to read everything Zhuang Zhidie has written.

Zhou Min takes up his post at the Xijing Gazette, eventually getting an offer to write something. Tang Wan’er suggests he write up the story of Zhuang Zhidie.

He writes a lengthy piece using gossip from Xia Jie, without actually naming Jing Xueyin. Before the article goes to print, he tries to get an audience with Zhuang Zhidie, who has so far been back in Tongguan.

Zhou Min arrives at the Writers Association and sees a man drinking milk from a cow: “The man laughed and patted his prominent belly before lying down, taking one of the cow's teats in his mouth and squeezing.”

Just remember him.

But Zhou Min still can’t find Zhuang Zhidie.

Tang Wan’er suggests they have a banquet to welcome him back to the city. Meng Yunfang sets it up.

Page 39 to 53. Dinner party, Wang Cuncai, love at first sight between Tang Wan’er and Zhuang Zhidie.

Zhou Min and Tang Wan'er prepare to greet Zhuang Zhidie. Tang Wan'er prepares by trying on various outfits. Zhou Min goes over to a restaurant down the block to borrow everything they'll need. Meng Yunfang and his wife arrive with a bottle of osmanthus liquor and a bag of apricots.

Meng Yunfang goes into the kitchen and starts cooking. But after a while, when Zhuang Zhidie doesn't show, Meng goes looking for him. He goes to the Clear Void Nunnery, where he runs into Huiming. It's not stated but the timing seems to suggest that they did more than chat, since an hour passes before he returns to the house and sees Zhuang Zhidie's scooter parked in the alley.

Zhuang Zhidie is standing in front of a used book seller’s stall, and he shows Meng Yunfang a copy of his own collected works, dedicated to Gao Wenxing 高文行. Zhuang signs it again, and puts it in his bag, preparing to send it back to Gao.

When he finally arrives, Zhou Min and Tang Wan’er are impressed by how casual and friendly the famous writer is, and note that he hasn’t lost his Tongguan accent.

This section contains a fun Jia Pingwa repetition in it, about the performer of “Hanging a Painting.” This is a common feature of Jia’s novels, repeating scenes and references. The most repeated has to be the story about a man learning about a devout monk that sealed himself in a box and remained perfectly preserved even after death, and then a layman trying to copy that feat and ending up a puddle of sludge and bones.

The translation reads:
“Have you seen Tongguan’s Chen Cuncai in the flower drum opera Hanging a Painting?”
”I’ve seen many of Dance Master Chen’s performances,” Tang Wan’er replied. “He’s in his sixties and wears tiny shoes, yet he can leap onto the back of a chair, toss a paper ball into the air, and kick it before it lands. He was popular before Liberation. People in Tongguan used to say they’d rather watch Cuncai dance in Hanging a Painting than rule the nation.”
”Opera is one thing, dance is another,” Xia Jie said. Red-faced, Wan’er sank down into the sofa with a perplexed look, more or less tuning Xia Jie out.
And the original:
庄之蝶说:"你看过潼关陈存才的花鼓戏《挂画》吗?" 唐宛儿说:"陈老艺人的戏我看过,六十岁的人了,穿那么小个鞋,能一下了跳到椅被上,绝的是抓一个纸蛋儿,空中一撂,竟用脚尖一脚踢中!解放前他就演红了,潼关人说:宁看存才《挂画》,不坐国民天下。" 夏捷说:"戏剧是戏剧,舞蹈是舞蹈,那不是一回事的。"唐宛儿脸红了一层,便窝在沙发里不动,似听非听地迷糊着。
And let’s look at Qinqiang written almost two decades later…

I’ll use my translation:
“If you go to see a big concert in Xijing, you’ll see how pathetic these opera shows are.”
“It wasn’t always like that,” the woman said. “Caiwa, back in the day… When he performed Hanging a Painting, everyone saw it. They even had a saying: I’d rather see Caiwa sing Hanging a Painting than be the leader of the whole Republic of China.”
“But that was back in the ’20s!” the man said.
“Well, we have our Mrs. Wang now.”
“That old bird that does Picking Up the Jade Bracelet wherever she goes, right? Supposedly, she gets a red sash…”
“You… you…”
“I’m serious.”
The original:
“你要是在省城参加一次歌星演唱会, 你就知道唱戏的寒碜了!” “我可告诉你, 王财娃演戏的时候,咱县上倒流行一句话: 宁看财娃《挂画》,不坐民国天下。” “那是在民国。” “现在 有王老师哩!” “不就是一辈子演个《拾玉镯》,到哪儿能披个红被面么。” “你, 你……” “我说的是事实。”
I show the translation uncorrected here, to show I’m not above self-criticism. I’ll let you draw your own red Xs over my mistakes.

But I had no idea what Jia Pingwa was talking about! It was one of the outstanding issues that I asked him about on my penultimate trip to Xi’an ahead of completing the book, but his answer was so vague that I realize now I would have had to know what he was referring to before I asked.

He uses two different names—Chen Cuncai 陈存才 and Caiwa 财娃—and seems to suggest both are locals to their respective regions—Tongguan 潼关 and Shangluo 商洛—but I’m sure anybody familiar with local opera would get that the reference was to Wang Cuncai 王存才, Pu opera 蒲剧 performer of the Republican Era.

Supposedly, the huadan 花旦 role in Pu opera involves a fair amount of balance work 跷功 (on stilts, basically), acrobatics, and, occasionally, chair work 椅子功. I’ve now seen a modern performance of Hanging a Painting 挂画 with Du Lina 杜丽娜 in the same role, along with the Yuncheng City Pu Opera Troupe 运城市蒲剧团, mounting the chair as Wang Cuncai would have done.

The performance is available here. The thin, elegant Du Lina probably has an easier time of it than Wang Cai would have. Having only seen the performance done by Du Lina, I have nothing to measure it against. Her singing is fantastic, though. I can say that.

Let’s return to Ruined City.

It’s clear from that passage that Zhuang Zhidie and Tang Wan’er have something going on.
After slicing the pork, Wan'er turned on the gas stove, and as the flames popped, she let her thoughts roam. She placed a small mirror on the chopping board, which allowed her to see Zhuang in the other room. As far as looks go, he can't be considered handsome, but it's strange how after only just meeting him, I find him so appealing, looking better by the minute. Back home in Tuangguan, Zhou Min impressed me as a smart, capable man who had some talent. But Xijing is, after all, Xijing, and next to him, Zhou Min merely looks clever. By this point in her reverie, the oil had turned hot, and she hurried to dump in the tofu. But she mistakenly tossed in some wet ginger. Pow! Hot oil spurted out of the pan and spattered on her face. "Ow!" she cried out, dropping into a crouch in front of the stove.
She returns to the party, but Tang Wan’er’s exasperated appearance, and the new imperfection in the form of a blister on her cheek, seems to set Zhuang Zhidie on fire. He excuses himself to the bathroom and masturbates while thinking about her.

I like the image of Tang Wan'er looking at herself looking at Zhuang Zhidie. It calls to mind another observation in the book (and repeated in Qinqiang, as well)—someone asks the gender of a fly on a mirror and the response is: it has to be a female fly, because even female flies love looking at themselves in the mirror. She is looking at the object of her desire, but also looking back at herself.

Also, somewhere in there, Zhou Min realizes the pot-bellied man he saw drinking milk from a cow on the road was Zhuang Zhidie.

Page 53 to 64. The Niu family, puttering, instruments of torture.

Instead of going home after the dinner party, Zhuang Zhidie goes to see Ruan Zhifei at the Writers Association (the Literary Federation in Goldblatt’s translation), then back to his place for more drinking.

Ruan Zhifei takes Zhuang on a tour of his apartment, showing off his imported wallpaper and furniture, then letting himself into his wife's room, where a man is in bed with Ruan's wife. Ruan doesn't seem surprised by the scene, and when Zhuang asks who it is, he refuses to answer. Ruan gives Zhuang a pair of women's shoes, since he has a surplus. Zhuang leaves and tries to get in touch with Jing Xueyin, possibly to gift her the shoes.

At this point, we hear the legend of the Niu family.
Fifty-five years earlier, an eccentric by the name of Niu had lived on the bank of the Wei River in the northern outskirts of town. ... At the time, General Yang Hucheng had ended his bandit career in central Shaanxi and become a powerful force in Xijing. He invited the eccentric Niu to be his aide. ... Soon thereafter, the Henan warlord Liu Zhenhua laid siege to Xijing. After meeting stiff opposition for eighty days, Liu tried the Japanese tactic of tunneling into the city. The residents knew what the enemy was up to, but did not know where the tunnel ended, so at night they buried earthenware vats filled with water and regularly checked to see if they were disturbed. ... The eccentric arrived, dressed in traditional garb, and after walking through the city, street by street and lane by lane, he rested on a boulder at the martial-arts school to smoke his water pipe.
"Dig here to create a lake," he said after twelve puffs on his pipe. Yang Hucheng was doubtful, but he had all the city's water brought over. The tunnel ended at the bottom of the lake, and when it broke through, all the water flowed out of the city. Liu Zhenhua was forced to retreat. A grateful Yang rewarded the eccentric with a house on Shuangren fu Avenue ... so his son moved into town.
Zhuang's wife, Niu Yueqing 牛月清, is the granddaughter of the eccentric. His son, and her father, established a water company at the site granted to him by Yang Hucheng 杨虎城.

And flies appear again:
He took the brick from the scooter rack and carried it inside.
"Don't bring that filthy thing into the house!" Niu Yueqing complained.
"Look closer," Zhuang said. "It's from the Han Dynasty."
"You've piled up so many of those in the other house that people can't get in the door; now you want to do the same here. You say they're from the Han; well, the flies in the house are from the Tang!"
Carlos Rojas refers to the flies in Ruined City (and in the preface to Old Xi’an, where there are also flies from the Tang) as “transhistorical spectral presences whose imperial-period associations stand in open defiance of the forward march of modernity.”

It’s a beautiful piece of academic writing, but I’m not sure I get it. It doesn’t matter.

Niu Yueqing’s mother lives in the apartment, too, and she is a bit of a spectral presence herself, sleeping in a coffin, and obsessing about her deceased husband, who she thinks she can still see.

For the rest of the section, Zhuang bullshits with his wife, and his friend, Zhao Jingwu 赵京五. We learn that the best hulutou 葫芦头 (not unlike conventional paomo 泡馍, in that stale bread is broken up into the broth, but with pork intestine in it) can be found at Chunshengfa 春生发 in Nanyuanmen 南院门, but the product at Fushunlai 福来顺 is inferior. Zhao Jingwu explains his love life. Zhuang’s wife goes out to return a back scratcher. Zhao eventually invites Zhuang Zhidie to see an old home that the mayor is going to demolish. When his wife returns, he tries to give her the shoes, but she turns them down for being “instruments of torture.”

I thought Michael Orthofer at the Complete Review was quite perceptive in his observation that Ruined City is “remarkable for its willingness to putter along through the everyday, in contrast to so much modern fiction that insists up spectacular and dramatic incident after incident.” This section is a fine example of that.

Page 64 to 75. Calligraphy.

Zhao Jingwu introduces a job to Zhuang Zhidie: write about my aunt's cousin's chemical plant. He takes Zhuang to see the old house that he mentioned before.

I quite like the extended descriptions of the home:
A detached protective guard on the frame, peeling black paint on the doors, and six missing metal fasteners marred the gateway. A pair of unicorns in relief decorated the high bluestone gate pier. Iron rings were inlaid in the outer walls, which were fronted by long purple stones. Seeing how intently Zhuang was looking everything over, Zhao told him that the rings were for tethering horses, while the long purple stones were known as mounting stones. In earlier days, rich families rode horses down the street; bells fastened to the reins rang out, and the hoof beats pounded rhythmically. ... The carving on the gate pier particularly impressed Zhuang, who said that the residents of Xijing had excavated and restored just about everything else, but no one had paid any attention to the pier gate carvings. If he went around making stone pier rubbings, he could publish a book of them.
Zhao leads Zhuang into the courtyard, which is home to several families and Zhuang himself, who has a room in the back. Zhao explains how the process of reform in the 1950s tossed out the wealthy residents and installed the poor. It turns out that Zhao is a descendant of the wealthy family that was once the sole tenant of the courtyard home. "The whole street was ours," he says.

Zhuang draws a comparison between the dilapidated courtyard and his own hometown:
"The world is changing all the time," he said. "This is what a once-magnificent home has deteriorated into. Pretty soon even this will be gone. Tongguan is my ancestral home, and as one of the most strategic spots in the Central Plain, it has been the site of many glorious chapters in our history. But ten years ago, the county seat was moved, and the town became a wasteland. I went back not long ago and sat in one of the old buildings. I couldn't stop sighing. When I came back, I wrote an essay about it; maybe you read it."
"I did," Zhao replied, "which is why I invited you here today. Maybe you can write about this sometime."
Zhao Jingwu tries to run him through the collection of antiques that he has collected in his room, but Zhuang Zhidie is distracted by a woman cradling a baby out in the courtyard. It turns out that she’s a maid for a wealthy family, and looking after the child at home. Zhuang is taken by her beauty.

Zhao gives Zhuang a pair of bronze mirrors, asking for one of Wang Ximian's paintings in exchange.

Director Huang 黄厂长, the factory owner, arrives.

The factory boss agrees to take them out for hulutou and gives Zhuang a bottle of liquor, candy, and cigarettes. "Foreign cigarettes are too strong for me," he says, which is what Jia Pingwa told me when I tried to give him a pack of Marlboros after he gifted me a carton of Zhonghua.

Zhuang Zhidie writes a piece of calligraphy for the factory boss:
Zhuang thought for a moment, then wrote:
The wind dances gracefully when the butterfly comes
The person departs and the moon laments
"What does that mean?" Zhao asked. "The butterfly [die] in the first line is clearly from your name, and the moon [yue] in the second line is probably your wife, Niu Yueqing. I can figure out your use of 'gracefully' and 'laments,' but not 'comes' and 'departs.'"
I feel Goldblatt’s pain here, since these sorts of things are impossible to translate without tossing in some of the original, which reads: 蝶来风有致, 人去月无聊.

He goes on to write a couplet for Zhao Jingwu:
There is no heavenly message for savage demons
The moon is dark in the presence of starlight
The original is: 百鬼狰狞上帝无言;星有芒角见月暗淡

But, anyways, suddenly there’s a knock at the door. It’s the nanny from the courtyard. She wants to meet the famous writer, but calls Zhuang a liar when he claims to be the man she’s looking for, since he looks a bit shabby. He asks her name. It’s Liu Yue 柳月. He finally convinces her by writing a couplet:
In the wild the sky presses down on trees
By the clear river the moon comes near people
It’s a line from a Meng Haoran 孟浩然 poem, called Spending the Night on Jiande River 宿建德江: 移舟泊烟渚,日暮客愁新。野旷天低树,江清月近人。
The boat is moored beside the misty island,
As the sun goes down, my sorrow grows anew.
Out on the plain, the trees and heavens meet,
The moon seems close to me on this clear water.
Zhuang Zhidie tries to get her to come on as his maid, but Zhao Jingwu interrupts, saying she has a contract with another family. The final agreement is that Liu Yue will join Zhuang’s household after the contract expires.

Page 75 to 82. Feet, cows.

A particularly masterful section, running from Tang Wan’er flirting, Zhuang’s foot fetish, a boozy dinner, nighttime street scenes, and the wisdom of a cow.

Zhuang Zhidie decides to stop off at Zhou Min's place on the way to dinner and finds him out but Tang Wan'er home.

He gazes into her eyes and sees himself looking back: "He looked into her eyes, in which a tiny human figure appeared. It was his reflection.” It recalls Tang Wan’er looking at him in her mirror, too, I think.

He tells her that he can tell her fortune by studying her physiognomy. That includes her beautiful feet:
Zhuang reached out but stopped before touching her and simply pointed to a spot below the ankle. She took off her shoe and raised her foot until it nearly touched his face. He was surprised by how lithe she was and noticed what a dainty foot she had. The transition from calf to foot was flawless, her instep so high it could accommodate an apricot. Her toes were as delicate as bamboo tips, starting from the long big toe and progressing down to the short little one, which was wiggling at that moment. Zhuang had never seen such a lovely foot, and he nearly let out a shout.
He rushes out to grab the box of shoes that his wife turned down. He slips the stilettos onto her feet and rushes back to have lunch with the factory boss and Zhao Jingwu.

He gets wasted at lunch, then rides back home on his scooter, telling his wife he's going to spend his wife at the Literary Federation compound. When he goes out again, he runs into an old friends:
The fading sunlight created a haze. Birds on the drum tower set up a din as wonton and kebab peddlers turned on lanterns and fired up stoves in front of the gate. Children crowded around an old man selling cotton candy. Curious as to how it was made, Zhuang walked over and watched the man spoon sugar into the spinning head and saw it emerge as fine, cottony threads. When he looked up, he spied Aunty Liu and her milk cow walking up to the gateway. ... When the cow saw him, she mooed loudly, sending children scrambling away in fright. "You haven't bought any milk in days, Mr. Zhuang," Aunty Liu said. "Aren't you staying in the compound?"
And we finally get the story of the cow: Aunty Liu was originally a "vegetable peddler" on the outskirts of the city, and Zhuang met her on a research trip, after which he suggested she buy a milk cow.

That night, after Zhuang sees the cow outside the Literary Federation, Aunty Liu leads it over to the wall, where Zhou Min is playing his flute.
The cow turned thoughtful as she lay on the ground chewing her cud:
When I was at Mount Zhongnan, I knew that the history of humans is tied up with that of cows. To state it differently, either humans evolved from cows or cows evolved from humans. But that's now how they see it. Humans say they evolved from apes. How could they possibly think that? ... Humans lie in order to have a clear conscience while keeping us enslaved forever. ... Are cows, like fleas, so insignificant that they have no reason to exist in this vast, chaotic world? No, we are enormous creatures—large bodies, four strong hooves, and steely pointed horns fit for battle—and yet, in a world where humans are under assault by all other wild creatures, cows alone stand by them ... Ah, you humans! You have conquered cows by forsaking fairness and with the invention of the whip.
The cow describes her mission, to "infiltrate this flourishing city in a cow's native state of being."
I am a philosopher, I truly am. I must keep close watch over this city to evaluate the lives of its human inhabitants and serve as a bovine prophet during the transitional period between humans and cows.
What does all this mean?

Is the cow another one of Zhuang’s women? If so, what does it mean that he suckles at her teat while debasing himself in the road, crawling around in the dirt? Maybe Zhuang’s women nurture him, while also forcing him to debase himself, too. Zhuang’s foot fetish and Tang Wan’er’s feet in his face feels as submissive as crawling under a cow to drink its milk.

Is there meant to be a connection between the cow—niú 牛—and Zhuang’s wife—Niu Yueqing 牛月清? Maybe.

Zhuang tells Aunty Liu to buy a cow because the milk in the city is “watered down.” Does he see in the cow something of himself, bringing authenticity from the countryside, to a city of “watered down” writing/masculinity/living? Yes, there must be something to that.

Why is it a “transitional period”? Does that have anything to do with the titular state of the city? What is the relationship between the humans and the cows and the “wolves, vermin, tigers, or panthers” that the abbot mentions have disappeared because they have all been “reincarnated as human beings.” I don’t know.

The cow will appear again, so maybe we’ll get some answers.

Page 82 to 94. Gossip.

Back at Shuangren fu, Zhuang Zhidie is pressing real money to spirit money to make it more effective in the underworld, and Niu Yueqing is having a ring made for Zhuang out of some silver hair ornaments she inherited. He goes out into the road to burn the spirit money, while Niu Yueqing's mother calls to the dead to come and get it. They gossip for a while about a woman up the block that's become pregnant, then some idle talk about how people evade family planning policy. While they're burning the paper, "the Wang woman" 王婆婆 comes over.

The Wang woman was a “one-time prostitute,” probably before Liberation, judging by the detail that she married a secretary to Hu Zongnan 胡宗南, who retreated to Taiwan with Chiang Kai-shek in 1949. She had...
...borne him a son who died in a motorcycle accident as a young man. A few years later, the former secretary died, leaving her, a childless widow, to live out her days alone, hard, lonely days. She had opened a private nursery in her spacious home two years before. Since she lived nearby, she visited often to gossip. ... Some six months earlier, she had wondered aloud why Zhuang and Niu Yueqing still did not have a child at their age, a comment that Niu Yueqing's mother found heartbreaking. She explained that her daughter had been pregnant the year after she was married, but because they were not ready to have a child, she had had an abortion. The second time, they had said that he wanted to wait till he was fully established before having a child, so that pregnancy was also terminated. ... The Wang woman said she knew of a secret formula that guaranteed not only pregnancy, but the birth of a son.
Niu Yueqing is unable to conceive again. She gets some patent medicine from the Wang woman, which is supposed to guarantee results. That night, she pushes Zhuang Zhidie to have sex with her. He’s unable to maintain an erection.
Zhuang was deflated; Yueqing was unsatisfied. She told him to bring her to orgasm with his hand, after which they rolled over and went to sleep. Not another word was spoken that night.
The next day, Zhuang goes out to the factory, gets a tour, and pounds out an article. His work done, he gets an urge to see Tang Wan’er.

He doesn't want to risk seeing Zhou Min, though, so he goes to a small local bar to drink. A young man at the counter is so distracted by a magazine article that he accidentally takes some sausage off Zhuang's plate.
Zhuang laughed.
"What are you reading that has you so absorbed?" he asked.
"You wouldn't know, but this is about Zhuang Zhidie. Do you know who he is? I've read his works in the past but had no idea he's just like us."
"Is that so?" Zhuang said. "What does it say?"
"It says that Zhuang was a foolish child. In elementary school he thought teachers were the greatest people in the world. Then one day he went to the toilet and saw his teacher urinating. It was an eye-opener. 'Even teachers need to pee!' he said, as if they never needed to relieve themselves. Naturally his teacher glared at him, but didn't say a word, while Zhuang looked on and wondered out loud, 'Do teachers have to shake it, too?' Complaining that the boy had a low sense of morality, the teacher reported this to his father, who gave him a good beating."
It's the latest issue of Xijing Magazine, and Zhou Min's article, "Stories of Zhuang Zhidie." He decides to keep reading, hoping to learn something about himself:
Zhuang could make you happy and he could embarrass you. He could tell you how to recognize a female fly by seeing where it lands; if it alights on a mirror, it is female, for even a fly wants to be pretty. When he is dragged over in a public place to have his photo taken, he can put on a miserable look and say he was a horse in his previous life, not a warhorse or a beast of burden, but a beribboned pony at a tourist site, where it is mounted for picture-taking. ... As he read on, Zhuang came to the part about a romance from years before with a coworker at a magazine office; with many things in common, they were deeply in love, but ultimately parted ways owing to a strange combination of circumstances. ... No name was given, but the outline of the story was clearly based on his relationship with Jing Xueyin. ... Where had Zhou Min gotten his material? What bothered Zhuang was how Jing would react after reading the article. ... Beset by worries, Zhuang put down the magazine and rushed over to the editorial office of Xijing Magazine, his desire to see Tang Wan'er gone.
Page 94 to 103. Gossip, gossip, and more gossip.

There are some interesting things here, with Zhuang and the article in Xijing Magazine: Jia Pingwa is writing about Zhou Min writing about Zhuang Zhidie, but the reader might assume that Jia Pingwa is writing about himself.

Jia Pingwa’s association with Zhuang Zhidie is unmistakable, I would say. Their biographies are quite close. And when this book came out, part of the controversy around it was because of that identification between author and protagonist.

It’s not a particularly Chinese literary thing to see the author in his creation, and read in autobiographical elements, right? But… I would say it’s more common in the Chinese literary world to conflate the two. Bonnie S. McDougall’s Fictional Authors, Imaginary Audiences: Modern Chinese Literature in the Twentieth Century is the best resource on this, I think, in general, and the idea of autobiographical writing lending authenticity to work, and the idea of an audience projecting itself onto the writer (and another idea: "...the 'self' which is invoked in many twentieth-century Chinese literary works is not necessarily the 'self' of the individual but the 'self' as a member of the particular social group to which they belong.”)

There’s also in the idea still popular in China that literature should be didactic, the problem of “moral responsibility” of the author—what I mean here is: the author has a responsibility for their work, so they are closely identified with it, maybe especially if it communicates what are seen as bad moral lessons (and see Narrating China: Jia Pingwa and his Fictional World by Yiyan Wang for more on this in particular).

So, when the novel goes to print and people start worrying about the sex and corruption and general moral disorder in the book, part of the problem is that Jia is seen as the protagonist.

And their biographies are similar, too, all that aside: both arrive from the countryside and become literary stars, and both have somewhat complicated love lives, etc. I don’t want to gossip, though.

It’s interesting, though.

You have to wonder who Jia Pingwa is gossiping about while having Zhuang Zhidie decry gossip-as-literature.

This section begins with a lengthy explanation of how Zhuang Zhidie came to be an editor at Xijing Magazine twelve years earlier and how he met Jing Xueyin. He decides to stop by his old office and get to the bottom of the article.

Zhou Min appears, serving tea to Zhuang, who is gossiping with his old co-workers.
”Zhuang Laoshi, this is my first article, so please don’t be stingy with your views.”
Putting the lighthearted banter aside, Zhuang said that he had come specifically because of that article, which he found somewhat troubling. Zhong tensed up.
”What bothers you about it?
”Everything is fine except for the part about my relationship with Miss X. It was overblown, and there could be repercussions.”
”I considered that,” Zhong said. “I asked Zhou Min where he got his material, and he said it was all based on fact.”
”It looks real, but the way it’s written, it feels different. No names are mentioned, and yet the circumstances of the people involved are self-evident. You know that Jing Xueyin and I were close, but we never had a romantic relationship.”
Zhuang and the editor, Zhong Weixian 钟唯贤 come to an agreement that someone from the magazine will go to Jing Xueyin and explain what’s going on. After that, a mahjong game begins between Zhuang, Gou Dahai 苟大海, Li Hongwen 李洪文, and Xiao Fang 小方. The gossip continues. They talk about the boss, Zhong Weixian:
”That man has suffered plenty,” Gou said. “On top of being labeled a Rightist for twenty years, he married an awful woman. She came here last month and, in front of everyone, scratched his face bloody.”
”What can he do?” Zhuang asked. “They were already living apart when we were together in the Department of Culture, and he panicked every time she came to see him. We encouraged him to get a divorce, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I don’t know how he’s managed all these years, especially now that times have changed.”
Zhuang Zhidie is happy to gossip, but Zhou Min broke a key rule: keep it around the mahjong table. You can’t print gossip in a magazine! Everyone knew about Zhuang’s love life, but nobody was shameless enough to try to profit off of it.

The men around the table eventually settle on who’s going to pay for lunch (it’s guànchang bāozi 灌肠包子, translated as "pork jelly buns"). They go out to a teahouse after, and Zhuang walks home alone late in the evening, thinking about Tang Wan’er—but instead of her, he runs into the beggar we saw at the start of the book, who gives us another blast of doggerel about official corruption.