It's interesting how you framed this discussion around a Chinese tech canon, and the observation about Lei Jun's early inspiration is particularly insightful regarding how intellectual lineage shapes innovation. It actualy makes me think of how I approach reading about AI, always looking for those foundational texts that might spark a new perspecive, much like a well-structured Pilates flow can completely redefine how you understand body mechanics.
For your amusement: Back in the late 90s, I made the following observation about kungfu culture and the Chinese intelligentsia:
The newborn popularity of martial arts culture can be seen in relation to a complex of social issues on the mainland. It was in part a popular response to the official negation of Cultural Revolution ideology, a corollary to the spiritual confusion that ensued and an expression of the longing for a sense of cultural continuity (one that was based in popular traditions, rather than on elitist or Confucian/Communist models).
Although the object of serious study, if not reverence, in Hong Kong and Taiwan since the 1970s, it was not until the late 1980s that scholars and critics on the mainland began to investigate the importance of kungfu culture in contemporary Chinese life and the reasons for its overwhelmingly popular following. In early 1989, for example, Wang Zheng, a reporter writing in the People’s Daily, pondered the question of why so many top-ranking intellectuals, not to mention average readers, were devotees of modern kungfu fiction:
‘Some Chinese intellectuals complain that “life is a bore.” . . . It seems that today, when people should be thanking their lucky stars that life is “peaceful and uneventful,” there’s a feeling that people don’t have any way of expressing themselves to the extent of their abilities. Meanwhile, Chinese intellectuals remain bound by the traditional sense of mission and social responsibility; thus they are itching to do something with their lives... In the great dramas of kungfu novels, they can find a passionate release, even if the actual fighting is fairly meaningless. ... The heroes of these novels do not have to worry about distinguishing good from bad, nor do they care one whit for convention, propriety, or the law; they do what they feel like, have no regrets and no complaints. Although they endure incredible hardships, in the end poetic justice is always theirs. This clearly gives intellectuals who are totally powerless to extricate themselves from the Way of the Golden Mean a certain kind of spiritual comfort.’
Wang argued that readers were excited by the personal possibilities with which the reforms presented them but were frustrated by their impotence in the face of the actual economic maelstrom in which they lived. “They are burdened by heavy workloads,” he wrote, “undernourished and weighed down by endless household chores.” They did not dare go against prevailing conventions, attempt to leave their mark on the world, or create any excitement in their lives. Only in kungfu fiction could they find an escape, “a momentary reprieve in the chivalrous personalities of heroes who were willing to fight to the death to protect their integrity.”
Here Wang Zheng makes a perceptive observation concerning the seemingly paradoxical nature of contemporary Chinese life: “Perhaps there’s some advanced genetic factor in our cultural makeup: the scholars [descendants] of the Yellow Emperor may be living in a preindustrial society, yet strangely enough, they experience the same sense of indifference and isolation as the inhabitants of the postindustrial world.”
Wang went on to suggest that readers were able to overcome the sense of desperate isolation they felt by relating to the figure of the martial arts hero “bearing his sword through the vast wilderness, don’t-ask-me-where-I’m-from-or-where-I’m-going, silently and proudly living with the unlimited solitude and loneliness [of his existence].”
Whereas in the past, Wang comments, the Chinese intellectual could abandon the world for the life of a recluse in the mountains; today he has no alternative but to search for an escape in books. …. And so on and on.
— See In the Red (Columbia University Press, 1999), pp.83-84
It’s so true — thank you so much for sharing this insightful point!
The wuxia world has always felt like a moral alternative universe for China’s intelligentsia and tech elites — a realm that’s both connected to and detached from reality. It’s deeply rooted in Chinese tradition and contemporary experience, yet free and lawless enough to let individuals pursue transcendence and personal dreams.
What strikes me most is how intensely individualistic wuxia stories are — almost like Westerns, in a way — especially compared with other Chinese genres.
This is completely new to me — thank you for sharing the link! I’ll give it a careful read.
Jin Yong’s novels have always struck me as profoundly Han-centric and deeply romanticized visions of Chinese history. It’s hard to imagine that they drew so extensively from Western literary traditions. But when I think back on his narrative style — the intensely personal perspective and the way the story unfolds from within the protagonist’s consciousness — it suddenly all makes sense.
I love such examples of cultural hybridity, they add to rather then detract from our appreciation of the complex fabric of creativity. You might also enjoy this:
You might not know, by Jin Yong actively drew on French picaresque fiction for inspiration. Liu Ts’un-yan 柳存仁, a formidable scholar (and my Classical Chinese teacher), suggested this to him in the 1950s. The individualism of the Chinese knight-errant is actually more rooted in French romance than an imagined Chinese tradition.
Since popular universal blog clients abroad are not accessible in China due to the firewall, the Chinese blogging environment remains relatively insular. Currently, everyone commonly uses an app called Xiao Yu Zhou (Little Universe). After searching, I found interviews you mentioned featuring Yang Zhilin, Li Xiang, Yu Kai, Zhang Xiaolong, etc.—but unfortunately ,these are only available in Chinese.
Do you have any sense of how much 网文 (AKA Chinese web fiction) has influenced tech circles so far? I got the sense that (at least among the masses) Jin Yong and wuxia in general have been fading recently in favor of newer web novel fantasy subgenres like xianxia and xuanhuan.
It's interesting how you framed this discussion around a Chinese tech canon, and the observation about Lei Jun's early inspiration is particularly insightful regarding how intellectual lineage shapes innovation. It actualy makes me think of how I approach reading about AI, always looking for those foundational texts that might spark a new perspecive, much like a well-structured Pilates flow can completely redefine how you understand body mechanics.
Thank you for liking this piece!
Afra:
For your amusement: Back in the late 90s, I made the following observation about kungfu culture and the Chinese intelligentsia:
The newborn popularity of martial arts culture can be seen in relation to a complex of social issues on the mainland. It was in part a popular response to the official negation of Cultural Revolution ideology, a corollary to the spiritual confusion that ensued and an expression of the longing for a sense of cultural continuity (one that was based in popular traditions, rather than on elitist or Confucian/Communist models).
Although the object of serious study, if not reverence, in Hong Kong and Taiwan since the 1970s, it was not until the late 1980s that scholars and critics on the mainland began to investigate the importance of kungfu culture in contemporary Chinese life and the reasons for its overwhelmingly popular following. In early 1989, for example, Wang Zheng, a reporter writing in the People’s Daily, pondered the question of why so many top-ranking intellectuals, not to mention average readers, were devotees of modern kungfu fiction:
‘Some Chinese intellectuals complain that “life is a bore.” . . . It seems that today, when people should be thanking their lucky stars that life is “peaceful and uneventful,” there’s a feeling that people don’t have any way of expressing themselves to the extent of their abilities. Meanwhile, Chinese intellectuals remain bound by the traditional sense of mission and social responsibility; thus they are itching to do something with their lives... In the great dramas of kungfu novels, they can find a passionate release, even if the actual fighting is fairly meaningless. ... The heroes of these novels do not have to worry about distinguishing good from bad, nor do they care one whit for convention, propriety, or the law; they do what they feel like, have no regrets and no complaints. Although they endure incredible hardships, in the end poetic justice is always theirs. This clearly gives intellectuals who are totally powerless to extricate themselves from the Way of the Golden Mean a certain kind of spiritual comfort.’
Wang argued that readers were excited by the personal possibilities with which the reforms presented them but were frustrated by their impotence in the face of the actual economic maelstrom in which they lived. “They are burdened by heavy workloads,” he wrote, “undernourished and weighed down by endless household chores.” They did not dare go against prevailing conventions, attempt to leave their mark on the world, or create any excitement in their lives. Only in kungfu fiction could they find an escape, “a momentary reprieve in the chivalrous personalities of heroes who were willing to fight to the death to protect their integrity.”
Here Wang Zheng makes a perceptive observation concerning the seemingly paradoxical nature of contemporary Chinese life: “Perhaps there’s some advanced genetic factor in our cultural makeup: the scholars [descendants] of the Yellow Emperor may be living in a preindustrial society, yet strangely enough, they experience the same sense of indifference and isolation as the inhabitants of the postindustrial world.”
Wang went on to suggest that readers were able to overcome the sense of desperate isolation they felt by relating to the figure of the martial arts hero “bearing his sword through the vast wilderness, don’t-ask-me-where-I’m-from-or-where-I’m-going, silently and proudly living with the unlimited solitude and loneliness [of his existence].”
Whereas in the past, Wang comments, the Chinese intellectual could abandon the world for the life of a recluse in the mountains; today he has no alternative but to search for an escape in books. …. And so on and on.
— See In the Red (Columbia University Press, 1999), pp.83-84
It’s so true — thank you so much for sharing this insightful point!
The wuxia world has always felt like a moral alternative universe for China’s intelligentsia and tech elites — a realm that’s both connected to and detached from reality. It’s deeply rooted in Chinese tradition and contemporary experience, yet free and lawless enough to let individuals pursue transcendence and personal dreams.
What strikes me most is how intensely individualistic wuxia stories are — almost like Westerns, in a way — especially compared with other Chinese genres.
See also:
https://chinaheritage.net/journal/travelling-in-the-opposite-direction-jin-yong-me/
Hi Geremie,
This is completely new to me — thank you for sharing the link! I’ll give it a careful read.
Jin Yong’s novels have always struck me as profoundly Han-centric and deeply romanticized visions of Chinese history. It’s hard to imagine that they drew so extensively from Western literary traditions. But when I think back on his narrative style — the intensely personal perspective and the way the story unfolds from within the protagonist’s consciousness — it suddenly all makes sense.
Now I see the connection much more clearly
Afra:
I love such examples of cultural hybridity, they add to rather then detract from our appreciation of the complex fabric of creativity. You might also enjoy this:
https://chinaheritage.net/journal/louis-chas-the-deer-the-cauldron-in-english/
Oh, and there’s this, by John Minford and funded by Jin Yong himself, published in 1993 in the academic history journal that I used to edit:
https://www.eastasianhistory.org/sites/default/files/article-content/05/EAH05_01.pdf
Afra,
You might not know, by Jin Yong actively drew on French picaresque fiction for inspiration. Liu Ts’un-yan 柳存仁, a formidable scholar (and my Classical Chinese teacher), suggested this to him in the 1950s. The individualism of the Chinese knight-errant is actually more rooted in French romance than an imagined Chinese tradition.
Geremie
Wonderfully said
Since popular universal blog clients abroad are not accessible in China due to the firewall, the Chinese blogging environment remains relatively insular. Currently, everyone commonly uses an app called Xiao Yu Zhou (Little Universe). After searching, I found interviews you mentioned featuring Yang Zhilin, Li Xiang, Yu Kai, Zhang Xiaolong, etc.—but unfortunately ,these are only available in Chinese.
Do you have any sense of how much 网文 (AKA Chinese web fiction) has influenced tech circles so far? I got the sense that (at least among the masses) Jin Yong and wuxia in general have been fading recently in favor of newer web novel fantasy subgenres like xianxia and xuanhuan.