The ultimate scientist

Arguably China's most-watched writer Mo Yan takes on the family planning policy in his new novel and shares why he thinks that 'of all things, life is most valuable', with Liu Jun

Mo Yan, one of China's most prolific and acclaimed writers, has once again placed his characters in a "laboratory of human souls" to test the essence of humanity. And he does this by taking on a sensitive issue.

In an exclusive interview with China Daily at his home in Beijing, the 55-year-old author shared his thoughts behind his new work Frog (蛙), released by the Shanghai Art and Literature Publishing House last month.

Best known for the novella Red Sorghum, which Zhang Yimou adapted to the big screen, the writer shot to stardom in the 1980s, pouring out works set in his hometown Gaomi in East China's Shandong province.

In his new work, the "King of Gaomi" bases the protagonist on an aunt, who was a rural doctor in the 1950s and helped deliver thousands of babies, including Mo. The writer is clearly in awe of his aunt, now 76, calling her a marvelous gynecologist and pediatrician, who "can cure a baby suffering diarrhea with just a small pack of powder".

"We grew up surrounded by our aunt's laughter. I've always wanted to do a biography of her," Mo says with a slight Shandong accent. "Of course," he is quick to add, "a lot of my novel is pure imagination".

The life of the rural gynecologist is woven into China's family planning policy that began in the 1970s. Mo never raised the subject with his aunt for fear of hurting her, but says he can imagine her torment and repentance.

In the novel, Aunt chases after a woman, pregnant for the second time, on a surging flooded river. When she finally reaches the woman, who is already in the throes of labor, she has a change of mind and decides to save both mother and child.

"As a novelist, I must throw my characters into the crashing waves of conflict, where fierce battles arise in the depth of their souls," Mo says. "I create a 'lab of human souls' - a special environment that one won't encounter often in life. Then I put my characters inside and test the human soul."

Mo says he is aware of the heated debates on whether the family planning policy should continue. He also notes that a Chinese official said at the recent Copenhagen conference that thanks to this policy, China, and the world, have been saved the burden of 450 million more people.

"The conscience of a writer does not allow me to avoid this issue," he says. "Writers shouldn't stop [discussing] something simply because the West criticizes China for it."

By picking up this very sensitive issue that has affected almost everyone in the country, and looking at it objectively, Mo hopes that people will finally see that "of all things in the world, life is the most valuable".

The novel has a unique structure: Each of the five chapters begins with a letter written by the narrator - Chinese writer Ke Dou or Tadpole - to the Japanese writer, Yoshito Sugiya.

Many have speculated the Japanese character is based on Kenzaburo Oe, the 1994 Nobel laureate in literature.

In 2002, Oe followed Mo to his hometown for a documentary by NHK. The two had three conversations that lasted more than 10 hours. Oe was so fascinated by Mo's aunt that they visited her during the Spring Festival.

However, Mo denies the suggestion that the novel was intended for Oe. He says he even threw away the first draft of some 100,000 words in 2006 and went for a more straightforward narration.

But what explains the correspondence with a Japanese?

"It is a polyphony structure," Mo says. While the main thread of the novel revolves around the moral dilemmas faced by Aunt in carrying out the family planning policy, the Japanese writer adds an extra dimension.

In the novel, the Japanese writer's father commands a Japanese garrison in World War II. He captures Aunt and her family to trap her grandfather - a legendary doctor of the Eighth Route Army.

The writer later apologizes for the atrocities of his father's generation.

Mo points out that while some Japanese still refuse to admit to Japan's invasion of China, some have bravely shouldered the historical responsibilities.

"What the Japanese writer [of the novel] does is an example for us Chinese," Mo says, adding that many Chinese blame others for disasters such as the "cultural revolution" (1966-76) and seldom look inwards for possible reasons.

Many critics say that Mo's works depict too much blood and violence, and this is also true of his new work. The author's retort is that those who see only blood and violence in his novels have failed to understand him.

A more drastic example of such graphic violence is Sandalwood Punishment (2001), which has drawn harsh criticism for its description of a gruesome torture.

"It is a complete twisted comedy, exploring human nature as executioner, onlooker and victim, all in one," Mo says proudly, adding that he has taken "a step further" in the exploration of human nature pioneered by great writer Lu Xun (1881-1936).

However, the best defense of his works came from a totally unexpected quarter.

Last October, Mo gave a speech at Ausberg, Germany. In the audience sat a German professor who stood up and said criticisms of Chinese writers for depicting violence were groundless.

He cited a German soldier's letter to his parents describing his slaughter of Chinese, women and children included, in the 1900s near Mo Yan's hometown.

The professor then compared the protagonist of Sandalwood Punishment, a leader of the farmers' uprising who died in the torture, to Jesus. The rebel could have left, but he stayed, so his death could awaken the people.

"For a Western reader to reach such a conclusion and defend a Chinese writer, citing the crimes committed by his own people, is truly admirable," Mo says.

His early works, such as Red Transparent Radish (1985), were brilliant, drawing richly upon his hometown. But one can sense an agony, especially with regard to the teenage protagonists.

At 12, Mo's family was categorized as "rich mid-class peasant", which was close to "class enemy". Mo had to drop out of school and herd cattle. Alone, he took to talking to clouds and grasshoppers. His father never smiled, nor did he allow his four children to talk much.

When he left to join the army at 20, Mo decided he would never return. In a speech at Stanford University in 2000, he said "loneliness and hunger were my fortunes of creation".

Asked if he had reconciled with his father and sad childhood, Mo smiled and said that as he grows older, he understands why his father acted the way he did.

"He suffered much pressure and humiliation. When he came home, all he saw was his children in rags crying for food and a house teetering on the verge of collapse. If I were him, I might not have done better. The conflict [with his dad] disappeared long ago."

For those critics who feel Mo's works are surreal and phantasmagoric, the latter half of Frog offers a keen insight in today's social issues, such as surrogate mothers. The part where Ke Dou is chased and beaten up by a boy who stole his money, reminds people of how absurd society has become.

"He [Ke Dou] has a revelation: Evil cannot be annihilated. Like wolves and tigers in the forest, we can't wipe off all evil. They are there for a reason," Mo says.

"Without evil, good and beauty cannot exist. Only where there is evil, can goodness and beauty shine more brilliantly."

The following is the excerpt from Frog, translated by Professor Howard Goldblatt, who also translated Su Tong's Boat to Redemption covered on China Daily Nov 17, 2009.

Sir, I was the second child my midwife aunt delivered.

When my mother's time came, my grandmother did what tradition called for her to do: She washed her hands, changed clothes, and lit three sticks of incense, which she stuck in a burner in front of the ancestral tablets. Then she kowtowed three times and sent all the males in the family outside. It was not my mother's first delivery: two boys and a girl preceded me. You're an old hand at this, my grandmother said, you don't need any help. Just take your time. My mother replied: Mother, I don't feel so good about this one, there's something different. My grandmother wouldn't hear of it. How different can it be? she said. You don't expect to have a unicorn, do you?

My mother's feeling did not betray her. My brothers and sister all came out headfirst. Me? Leg first.

My grandmother was scared witless when she saw that tiny calf of mine emerge. There's a popular saying in the countryside that goes: If a leg is foremost, then you owe a ghost. Owe a ghost? What does that mean? It means that someone in the family had an outstanding debt in a previous life, and that the person owed returns as a newborn baby intent on making life hard on the woman in labor. Either mother and child die together or the child hangs around till a certain age, then dies, leaving the family destitute and devastated. So Grandma tried her best to appear calm. This one, she said, is born to run - a lackey. He'll grow up to be an official's go-fer. Now, don't worry, she said, I know just what to do. She went out into the yard, where she picked up a copper basin, brought it back inside, stood at the foot of the bed, and beat it like a cymbal with a rolling pin - Bong! Bong! Come out, she shouted, come out now! Lao ye wants you to deliver a feathered urgent message, so you're in for a whipping if you don't come out right this minute!

Sensing that something was seriously wrong, Mother tapped on the window with the bed whisk and shouted to my sister, who was waiting anxiously out in the yard, Man - my sister's name - go fetch your aunt, and hurry!

Quick-witted as always, my sister ran straight to the village administrative office, where she asked a man there, Yuan Lian - Yuan the Face - to phone the township health clinic. I later retrieved that ancient hand-crank telephone as a keepsake - I still have it. You see, it saved my life.

It was the sixth day of the sixth lunar month, a day when the Jiao River overflowed its banks and submerged the local bridge, although the way waves crashed over the bridge stones made it easy to see where the bridge stood. Du Bozi - Du the Neck - who had been fishing in the river, saw my aunt speed down the opposite bank on her bicycle, sending sprays of water at least three feet into the air as she crossed the bridge. The way the river had turned into rapids, if my aunt had fallen into the water, well, Sir, I'd never have made it into this world.

My aunt rushed in through the door dripping wet and took charge.

Mother later said that seeing my aunt walk in the door immediately put her mind at ease. She said that the first thing my aunt did was take Grandma aside and say, with unmistakable sarcasm, Dear Sister-in-law, why in the world would he want to come out with you making all that racket? With a lame attempt at defending herself, Grandma said, Children crave excitement, so why wouldn't he want to see what the noise was all about? My aunt said she grabbed hold of my leg and yanked me out like unearthing a radish.