Posted by Joel Martinsen on Friday, September 18, 2009 at 8:26 PM
Yang Xianhui's Chronicle of Jiabiangou (夹边沟纪事), a book of stories of a rightist camp in Gansu Province during the 1950s, was recently translated by Wen Huang and published under the title Woman From Shanghai.
Subtitled "Tales of Survival From a Chinese Labor Camp," the book tells fictionalized accounts the author collected from former inmates of starvation and other horrors during the course of re-education through labor. When the stories were first published, the collection was called "China's Gulag Archipelago."
So what's a woman in a qipao doing on the cover? At the San Francisco Chronicle, Fan Wu describes the story in which she appears:
A disconnect between a book's cover and its content is not anything rare. In July, YA author Justine Larbalestier posted a public complaint to her blog expressing disappointment with the decision to put a photo of a white girl on the cover of her novel about a main character who is black (and inspired by WNBA star Alana Beard). And old classics are constantly being repackaged to appeal to particular audiences: check out Emily Brontë dressed up like Stephenie Meyer's Twilight.
The cover of Woman of Shanghai seems to follow a recent trend in book-covers in the west: the headless woman.* Nara Schoenberg noted the phenomenon in a 2008 article for the Chicago Tribune:
Although Woman from Shanghai may not be written for the same audience as those books, it does appear to be marketed with a particular audience in mind.
Writing for the Book Review supplement in the August 30 issue of Southern Metropolis Daily, Berlin Fang, a translator who resides in Oklahoma, suggested that the Woman from Shanghai cover is symptomatic of a larger problem affecting China-themed literature in English, particularly memoirs by overseas Chinese. He argues that the related themes and similar marketing of many of these books creates an unbalanced impression of Chinese literature and of China in general among western readers:
Scar Literature Pushes Through AmericaBerlin Fang / SMD*
Peng Lun put up an image of the cover of an English-language book on his blog. On the cover was a Chinese woman in a qipao, only the lower half of her face and her bright red lips visible. The title was Woman of Shanghai, and the subtitle was "Tales of Survival from a Chinese Labor Camp." Peng Lun said that only after looking carefully did he realize that it wasn't a novel about China written for the pleasure of foreigners by an author of Chinese descent such as Lisa See or a light Chinese novel by a Wei Hui-style woman author, but rather an English translation of Chronicle of Jiabiangou, by Yang Xianhui. That's right: if you feel that cover blurbs are unspeakably vulgar, then take a trip to an American bookstore to see the China-themed books for sale — you'll probably be apoplectic.
Why is this the case? It's a complex issue that involves elements of confidence and cultural power, but for a short answer we can take a look at a few China-themed books that sell well on the American market. Many of the books on shelves in American book stores are memoir-style novels about the abominable Cultural Revolution, and there are quite a few memoirs as well, all of which lead to a confused sense of time. Bookstores here sell Emily Wu's Feather in the Storm: A Childhood Lost in Chaos (暴风雨中一羽毛), Anchee Min's Red Azalea (红杜鹃), Jaia Sun-Childer's The White Haired Girl: Bittersweet Adventures of a Little Red Soldier (白毛女), and also Rae Yang's Spider Eaters: A Memoir (吃蜘蛛的人) and Zhai Zhenhua's Red Flower of China: An Autobiography (中国红花). A few of Da Chen's books, such as Colors of the Mountain (山的色彩) and Brothers (兄弟, not the Yu Hua novel) also seem to be along these lines. Two American friends of mine recommended Brothers, and one even sent me a copy, but I have not read it yet. Like Garrison Keillor says, once you reach sixty you realize that life is catching up on you, and you find you need to give up doing certain things, like reading Russian novels.* I've reached middle age, when burdens are heaviest and time tightest. I read scar literature in Chinese back in my youth, so do I have to read it again in English and endure another round of suffering?
These books are trendy in America on the one had because of the first batch of overseas students to find their feet after the Cultural Revolution lived lives that were basically carefree and so were able to start writing. The Chinese writers who emerged were mostly a group born in the 50s and 60s who had spent childhood and adolescence during the era of rusticated youth and the Cultural Revolution that they described in their books. When they came to America, they were cut off from Chinese life, so what would you have them write? Having grown old, all that is left to that generation are bitter memories.
People who grew up in a transitional China had no place to find their feet. Hard at work, they had no means of writing about their lives in China during the 1980s and 90s, even though those experiences would be even more valuable when written out because they would tell of Chinese life in a different environment. But this requires time and means. If we take another look in another decade or two, overseas Chinese writers may present an entirely different picture.
As Library Journal describes it, the majority of these memoirs are written by Chinese women who have come to America, and thus they mostly have the faces of Chinese women on their covers. Perhaps in some cases it is the man who supports the family after coming to America, so the woman has time to write. Subjectively, therefore, there is nothing wrong about the choice of subject matter, yet coming over and over, creates a phenomenon to the point that the publisher of the translation of Yang Xianhui's Chronicle of Jiabiangou hitched it to the "women's Cultural Revolution + Communist China + Scars" bandwagon. Evidently the publisher is very familiar with this road.
Some of Amazon's descriptions of memoirs of China are even more straightforward: there's the line "I was raised on the teachings of Mao and on the operas of Madam Mao, Comrade Jiang Ching,"* and a cover showing a Chinese woman. Such treatment is in line with the traditional understanding some American readers have of China: this is a painful place full of oppression and devastation. There is nothing wrong with an individual author writing about this material, but enough of it turns into a phenomenon that will prop up certain prejudices. Americans do not know much about China, so everyone takes advantage of the same familiar elements: Chinese restaurants are called either Panda or Great Wall. Reading about China, then, people anticipate pain and persecution, they expect to see wounds, little realizing that this is but one facet of China. Sometimes, to cater to westerners' stereotypes about China, authors will indulge in depicting persecution or even exaggerate their characters. On the Barnes and Noble website, an anonymous commenter wrote of Da Chen's Brothers, "The main characters seem improbable, larger than life."*
American readers also have a snobbish side. You might not find favor by pandering, but you'll end up strengthening publishing's prejudices and clogging up the road for other subject matter. Immigrant literature of other countries inhabits a much wider range of roles. Peng Lun recommended to me two novels this year. One was the biography of Sudanese immigrant Valentino Achak Deng*, in which Deng survives regufee camps in Africa to reach Atlanta only to be nearly killed by thugs, a contrast that brings a new force to immigrant literature. The other was Joseph O'Neill's Netherland,* whose protagonist is an immigrant living in post-9-11 America. Though the novel spares no efforts to mock and satirize the US, it made best-seller lists, won awards, and was recommended by Obama. This demonstrates that immigrants who pursue literature in a uncensored environment have the latitude to not adhere so rigidly to stereotypes.
Which reminds me of a seemingly unrelated topic that is actually slightly connected: the export of culture (and overseas Chinese have a responsibility here as well).
If you say that Chinese books published in the US are basically complaint literature divorced from a contemporary Chinese context — a uniform, rigid genre — then it's the same with movies. Check out Netflix, America's largest online movie rental company, and look under the foreign film category for Chinese movies. You'll see an expanse of flesh, or else a bunch of fighting, as if Chinese films are all sex or violence. Either the fist or the pillow, and we don't know how to shoot anything else.
At a national level, this appears like trade issue. According to the Yilin Publishing House website, Ever since China entered the WTO its cultural trade deficit has been growing. In the arts marketplace, the ratio of imports to exports is 10:1; for publishing, 6.84:1; copyrights, 10.3:1. And in the film market, the ratio in 30:1. In other words, China does not have all that much to export to begin with. But if this is the kind of stuff that does get exported, where does the problem really lie?
The US government has lodged another complaint with the WTO saying that China is engaging in cultural protectionism and that the country must further open up its markets. I support additional opening up, but it is our own problem as to whether we'll be able to compete after opening up, or whether we'll be able to go out ourselves. In China's film and book sectors, the current state of exports is truly abysmal. These are not trade problems, but cultural problems. Cultural problems must ultimately be solved by cultural means. Can official letterhead fix the problem of fists and pillows in exported movies and make-up on the covers of books?
* * *
In a wrap-up of a series of translation and publishing panel discussions held at the recent BIBF, Eric Abrahamsen of Paper Republic remarked on the difficulty of exporting literature and culture:
In the case of Justine Larbalestier's Liar cover, considerable outcry among her fans and the book world in general led her publisher to back down and change the cover.
The cover of a different version of Woman of Shanghai that shows up in the catalogs of some online booksellers bears an even closer resemblance to Lisa See's Shanghai Girls.
Yang Xianhui's international publishers seem set on chasing the trend that Berlin Fang describes in his article, and despite the favorable reviews the translation has been receiving, it's quite possible that many readers will judge the book by its cover and either pass it over, or be disappointed by what they find inside.
Links and Sources
Jobs in China
Henry on The Eurasian Face
Caroline W on Big in China
Michael on Julia Lovell on translating Lu Xun's complete fiction: "His is an angry, searing vision of China"
Brandon K. on Clueless academic takes on popular fantasy novels
China Media Timeline
Major media events over the last three decades
Danwei Model Workers
The latest recommended blogs and new media
Books on China
The Eurasian Face : Blacksmith Books, a publishing house in Hong Kong, is behind The Eurasian Face, a collection of photographs by Kirsteen Zimmern. Below is an excerpt from the series:
Big in China: An adapted excerpt from Big In China: My Unlikely Adventures Raising A Family, Playing The Blues and Becoming A Star in China, just published this month. Author Alan Paul tells the story of arriving in Beijing as a trailing spouse, starting a blues band, raising kids and trying to make sense of China.
Pallavi Aiyar's Chinese Whiskers: Pallavi Aiyar's first novel, Chinese Whiskers, a modern fable set in contemporary Beijing, will be published in January 2011. Aiyar currently lives in Brussels where she writes about Europe for the Business Standard. Below she gives permissions for an excerpt.
Front Page of the Day
A different newspaper every weekday
From the Vault
Classic Danwei posts
+ Korean history doesn't fly on Chinese TV screens (2007.09): SARFT puts the kibbosh on Korean historical dramas.
+ Religion and government in an uneasy mix (2008.03): Phoenix Weekly (凤凰周刊) article from October, 2007, on government influence on religious practice in Tibet.
+ David Moser on Mao impersonators (2004.10): I first became aware of this phenomenon in 1992 when I turned on a Beijing TV variety show and was jolted by the sight of "Mao Zedong" and "Zhou Enlai" playing a game of ping pong. They both gave short, rousing speeches, and then were reverently interviewed by the emcee, who thanked them profusely for taking time off from their governmental duties to appear on the show.