To Live

If I had to name my favorite contemporary Chinese novelist, besides Yu Hua, I couldn’t find a better answer. The reasons are, first, because I’ve read few novels, so naturally there are even fewer works I can say I like. Second, because I like Yu Hua’s understanding of human nature in his works. Although Wang Xiaobo’s works are more inspiring and full of shining points everywhere, I feel Wang Xiaobo’s personality is too different from mine. I don’t know if he’s a glib person—his language style always has a cynical feeling, funny but not likable to me, though still worth reading. Books are bridges for spiritual communication between authors and readers. I like works that resonate with my own spirit. They both strengthen my attitudes that I was half-convinced about and correct those erroneous views. There are also some works that, although not acceptable to people, their ideas may have already surpassed our current level and need to be read carefully—like a kind of crawling long-distance worship and cultivation. Only after many years will one reach the holy and sublime palace.

The human nature in Yu Hua’s works is that most authentic human nature facing reality, the most ordinary and plain human nature. He doesn’t conceal history, nor does he criticize history. He just places characters in a grand environment and lets them grow. Most people, when facing pressure, have an attitude of resigned acceptance yet unwilling to be lonely. In the end, they still achieve nothing repeatedly. Their own character and attitude are worn smooth by time, revealing a kind of inclusive warmth—without despair, without complaint, as if seeing through everything in life. This is the human nature in Yu Hua’s works, and this is most precious. Speaking of this, I can’t help but think of another novel, Lu Yao’s Ordinary World, which I also like very much. Unfortunately, I’ve only read one of Lu Yao’s works, and that was during high school, so I dare not comment rashly.

The reason I want to write about this is because, months after reading Yu Hua’s novel To Live, today I watched Zhang Yimou’s film of the same name adapted from it, and it brought me no less sense of desolation. It turns out Zhang Yimou was once so talented. It’s a pity he’s fallen to his current state. Starting from Hero, one film after another has been met with curses. Has he really exhausted his talent? I don’t think so. Such a big country shouldn’t be unable to produce a master who can make films. Iran, with a smaller population than us, has Children of Heaven. India, which is economically more backward than us, can make 3 Idiots. There are many reasons for this situation. First is the despicable and shameless domestic cultural censorship system. Films, TV, and books are all trampled before being presented to the public. Therefore, authors and directors will castrate themselves once before submitting for review. Second is the prevalence of utilitarianism. To make more money, they make some incomprehensible blockbusters. And the second reason may be the evil consequence of the first point. A country doesn’t only have main melody and colorful history—they can also have reality and future. But reality and future are precisely too sensitive. Those directors don’t know what else they can film, so they have to use some lowbrow spoofs, time-travel, and other period dramas to fool the public. There’s an even more tragic fact. The State Administration of Radio, Film, and Television says don’t make too many ancient themes either. Since the Anti-Japanese War started in the Ming Dynasty as China’s main melody, I guess in the future everyone will only be able to watch a sci-fi blockbuster where one Chinese person shoots a hundred Japanese people.