The Republic of Wine

You were absolutely right when you said that if I applied myself diligently to the study of the craft I’d have a brilliant future in Liquorland, never having to worry about where my next meal or next suit of clothes came from; I’d have a house, status, money, and a bevy of beautiful women. But I am a young man with ideals, not content to steep in alcohol for the rest of my life. I want to be like the young Lu Xun, who gave up the study of medicine for a writing career; I want to give up alcohol for a writing career, to use literature to transform society, to transform the Chinese sense of nationhood. In pursuit of this lofty goal, I would gladly lose my head or spill my hot blood; and since I’m willing to do that, how could I concern myself with worldly possessions?

Mo Yan, Sir, my heart is set on literature, so firmly that ten mighty horses could not turn me from my goal. My mind is made up, so you needn’t try to change it. And if you do, I’m afraid that my feelings for you will turn to loathing. Literature belongs to the people. Why then should you be permitted to write, and not me? One of the you have to host a meal, go ahead. If a gift is required, you have my blessing. Ill take care of expenses (please remember to get receipts).

‘Meat Boy’ took a lot of effort to complete, so Citizens’ Literature is my first choice. I have my reasons: First, Citizens’ Literature is China’s ‘official’ literary magazine, in the forefront of new literary trends. Publishing a story there is better than publishing two in a provincial or municipal magazine. Second, I want to adopt the tactic of ‘pound away at one spot and forget the rest.’ That’s the only way to break into that mighty fortress, Citizens’ Literature¹.

With respectful best wishes,

Your disciple

Li Yidou

PS: A friend of mine is off to Beijing on business, and I’ve asked him to deliver a case of twelve bottles of Liquorland’s finest, Overlapping Green Ants, which I helped develop in the lab. I hope you enjoy it.

Li Yidou

III

Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies

How are you?

Thanks for the Overlapping Green Ants. The color, bouquet, and taste are all first-rate, though I get the feeling there’s a lack of harmony somehow, sort of like a girl with lovely features who lacks that indefinable appeal to make her a true beauty. The liquor from my hometown is known for its high quality, too, though it doesn’t compare with what you make in Liquorland. According to my father, before Liberation [1949], in that little, underpopulated village of ours, there were two distilleries producing sorghum liquor, and both had recognizable names. One was Zongji, the other was Juyuan. They employed dozens of hired hands, not to mention mules and horses and all the noise that went along with it As for making liquor out of millet, well, just about every family in the village did it, and it was pretty much a case of wine-scented air above every house. One of my father’s uncles once gave me a detailed explanation of how the distilleries operated, including the distilling art, the technology, management, things like that. He’d worked at Zongji for over a decade. His descriptions produced a wealth of material for the chapter Sorghum Wine’ in my novel Red Sorghum. The pervasive smell of liquor in and around my hometown was also a constant inspiration.

Liquor interests me very much; I've thought long and hard about the relationship between it and culture. The chapter ‘Sorghum Wine’ in my novel gives a pretty good picture of my thoughts on the subject. I've long wanted to write a novel on liquor, and making the acquaintance of a true-to-life doctor of liquor studies like you is the great good fortune of three lifetimes. Ill probably be bombarding you with questions from now on, so please stop referring to me as ‘Sir.’

'I've read both your letter and the story ‘Meat Boy,’ and have many thoughts to share with you, in no particular order of importance. I’ll start with your letter: i. In my view, the human traits of arrogance and humility are contradictory and interdependent at the same time. It’s impossible to say which is good and which is bad. The truth is, people who appear to be arrogant are in fact humble, and people who seem to be humble, deep down are quite arrogant. There are people who are arrogant at certain times and under certain circumstances, but extremely humble at other times and under different circumstances. Absolute arrogance and life-long humility probably do not exist. Your ‘drunken arrogance’ is, to a large extent, a chemical reaction, and no fault can be found in that. So your feeling of self-satisfaction after you’ve been drinking is fine with me, and a couple of well-placed curses toward Citizens⁹ Literature don’t break any laws I’m aware of, especially since you didn’t include any slurs against their mothers or anything. All you said was. If they decide not to publish it, they must be blind.’

2. Mr Li Qi had reasons for writing his novel the way he did, and if you don’t like it, just toss it aside and forget it. If you run into him someday, give him a couple of bottles of Overlapping Green Ants, then make yourself scarce. Do not – repeat, do not – make the mistake of adopting the revolutionary-romantic tactic of giving him ‘the verbal fight of his life.’ This fellow is closely connected to the criminal underground. His meanness is matched only by his brutality, and he’ll stop at nothing. There’s a story going round about a Beijing literary critic who wrote an article critical of Li Qi’s literary offerings one night, after putting away a fine meal, and published it in some newspaper. Before three days had passed, this literary critic’s old lady was kidnapped by Li Qi’s men and taken to Thailand, where she was sold into prostitution. So take my advice and stay clear of this individual. There are plenty of people in this world God himself wouldn’t offend. Li Qi is one of them.

3. Since you say your mind is made up to devote yourself to literature, I’ll never again advise you to play the prodigal son, if for no other reason than to keep you from loathing me. If a person inadvertently provokes someone into loathing him, there’s nothing he can do. But if he does it intentionally, it’s like ‘rolling your eyes up to look in a mirror – a search for ugliness.’ I’m ugly enough already, so why would I roll up my eyes?

You saved your strongest language for those lousy bastards’ who want to ‘monopolize the literary establishment.’ I couldn’t be happier. If there are lousy bastards out there trying to monopolize the literary establishment, I’ll curse and yell right alongside you.

I was an instructor at the Baoding Officer Candidate School more than ten years ago, and several hundred students took my classes. I seem to recall two named Liu Yan. One was fair-skinned and always glowering; the other was dark-skinned, short and fat. Which one works with you?

Where having harsh words for Wang Meng is concerned, I really can’t recall, but I think I did read his essay urging young writers to engage in a little cold self-evaluation, you know, size up the situation. It’s possible I felt it was an attack on me, which likely made me very uncomfortable. But it’s unlikely I’d launch an attack on Wang Meng in a class in which I was promoting communism.

If you want to know the truth, I’ve never tossed away my beggar’s staff, and if I were to toss it away someday, I’d surely not go out and ‘beat up a beggar,’ would I? But there are no guarantees, since people can’t dictate the changes they’ll undergo throughout their lifetime.

Now for your story: 1. You call it grim realism.’ Can you tell me what that means? I can’t say for sure, although I have an idea. The contents of your story make me shudder, and all I can say is, I’m glad it’s fiction. There’d be big trouble if you’d written a journalistic essay with the same contents. 2. As for publishability, normally there are two standards that apply: ideological and artistic. I can never figure either of them out. And I mean just that. I’m not pussy-footing. Fortunately, Citizens’ Literature has a fine crop of editors, so let them decide.

I’ve already sent your story to the editorial department of Citizens’ Literature, and as far as hosting a dinner or sending gifts is concerned, I’m afraid I don’t know enough about either to even try. Whether that stuff works with big publications like Citizens’ Literature or not, that you’ll have to find out for yourself.

Wishing you

Good luck,

Mo Yan