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Thirty years after China's literature began to develop in new and exciting directions, the general consensus of Chinese public opinion seems to be that it's not nearly exciting enough. No one doubts the achievements of the Chinese economy but the achievements of Chinese literature are less obvious.
Where are the masterpieces? Who is winning the international prizes?
Anxiety is the natural reaction and following that, either vague resentment that the writers aren't working harder, or else the sense that someone should do something to help them, as fretting parents might coach children through college entrance exams, or as the State cares for its wards.
Underlying this is the lingering belief that China's writers are beholden to their nation, that they are in some sense public servants, and their work should function either as an adornment to the nation's glory, or else as part of a general program of public edification.
Whatever difficulties Chinese writers face in creating "great" literature, this sense of public ownership of Chinese literature is not helping. The great works of world literature are often deeply rooted in a certain time and place, a certain language and culture, but at the same time they belong to no one, or to everyone.
They are the creations of individual minds, minds with the ability to take the world as we know it and transform it into something bizarre and alien.
Almost by definition then, no one knows a writer's business better than the writer. Breathing down her neck will at best distract, and at worst, make writing impossible. The best true help a writer can hope for is that of a skilled and sympathetic editor, who sees the path the writer has chosen for him or her and can keep them to it. Unfortunately, that's the one kind of help Chinese writers have a very hard time getting.
The general unhelpfulness of public scrutiny is embodied nowhere so dramatically as in China's own literary tradition.
Who are the creators of China's greatest works of literature? Drunken hermits, wandering philosophers, failed officials, scions of once-great families reduced to humble dwellings and a job in a garden on the outskirts of the capital.
Chinese literature has always thrived in adversity; today's kinder, gentler society may have only introduced a newer challenge, perhaps even harder to overcome.
Any involvement tends toward interference. The best help might be no help at all: Simply close the door of the writer's study, and quietly walk away.
If we can succeed in abandoning our hopes for them, they may fulfill and even exceed those hopes.
Eric Abrahamsen is founder of Paper Republic, a gathering of foreign literature lovers dedicated to translating and promoting contemporary Chinese literature.
(China Daily 06/01/2011 page38)
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