Disclaimer: This post was originally written in Chinese and translated into English by GPT-5.2.
The Latter Half of Shen Congwen’s Life is a major work by Professor Zhang Xinying of Fudan University from last year. At the time, I saw this book on the bestseller list, but never had the chance to buy a copy and read it. At the end of September, I inadvertently learned of a library essay contest soliciting book reviews; among the two recommended titles, one was reader-recommended—and it was precisely The Latter Half of Shen Congwen’s Life. I therefore developed a strong interest in this book. I bought a copy during the National Day holiday and read it carefully, and found it to be a biography with solid writing and considerable feeling. I’ve never been particularly keen on Shen Congwen, and I have long been dissatisfied with his long-winded, complicated, muddled, and inarticulate choice of words and sentence-making. For example, when I first opened this book, on page six I saw a sentence Shen Congwen wrote to Zhang Zhaohuo: “When writing this letter, I wrote it completely as happily as a love letter, filled with affection and written in a fussy, piecemeal way!” What kind of sentence is that? At that time, the only thing I was interested in was exploring the psychological mechanism behind Shen Congwen’s “not writing” in the latter half of his life, and the meaning of this cultural phenomenon under a specific historical context. Unexpectedly, this happened to coincide with the spirit of the “Explanation” the author wrote at the beginning of the book. This kept me quite attentive throughout the entire reading process. In addition to reading this book, I also found Shen Congwen: Chronological Biography, Research Materials on Shen Congwen, and Zhang Xinying’s paper “From Abstract Lyricism to Delirious Ravings—Shen Congwen in the 1940s” to read alongside it. During that period, everywhere my eyes fell, it could truly be said, was “Shen Congwen,” “Shen Congwen.” Who would have thought that while I was updating my views on Shen Congwen, I also no longer dared to point fingers at him. Even so, I will briefly talk about two impressions this book gave me.
On the selection of materials. This book has considerable feeling; this feeling radiates from the inside out, from the biographee’s spiritual world into the author’s words—or, more accurately, it comes from the author and the biographee. After finishing the book, I could not help but make an association: on the level of the soul, might the author be “a modern-day Shen Congwen”? After “establishing a relationship” with Shen Congwen and entering “Shen Congwen’s world,” was the author unable to extricate himself? Between the author and the biographee there seems already to be “no distance”; it must be said this is the book’s greatest strength.
This “no distance” can be seen in the selection of writing materials. Numerically speaking, the latter half of Shen Congwen (1902—1988)’s life should take 1945 as the dividing line, yet the author abandons 1945 and chooses 1948, which naturally reflects deliberate intent. Judging from the author’s “Explanation” at the front of the book, we might simply say: the author did this to avoid “doing repetitive work that is broadly similar,” thereby distinguishing his book from “several” biographies of Shen Congwen’s first half that “narrate in fairly detailed and brilliant fashion.” As to what exactly these biographies are like, I don’t know, and the author didn’t say. But it is clear that the matter is by no means that simple. In his paper “From ‘Abstract Lyricism’ to Delirious Ravings—Shen Congwen in the 1940s,” the author meticulously depicts the spiritual development trajectory of Shen Congwen the “countryman” amid the turbulence of the 1940s—namely, how Shen Congwen developed from a fanatical contemplation of “the abstract”—the noun-meaning of abstraction itself, the abstract derivation of turbulent reality—to, finally, lonely delirious ravings and even an attempted suicide in a “lucid” state. And 1948 was precisely the watershed of Shen Congwen’s shift from “abstract lyricism” to delirious ravings; it was the peak of Shen Congwen’s “abstract lyricism” in the 1940s. From this we can see that 1948 was an extremely critical year in Shen Congwen’s life. On the one hand, taking it as the beginning is enough to serve as a microcosm of Shen Congwen’s spiritual development trajectory in the 1940s, and to lay the groundwork for Shen Congwen’s later spiritual state; on the other hand, 1948 was also the eve of conflict and change between the old and new eras, and such contradiction, when reflected in a person, becomes a high degree of ideological chaos. Therefore, using 1948 as the start of the whole book can both structurally eliminate unnecessary cumbersomeness—so that readers are not left at a loss in the course of reading along with the biographee’s “abstract lyricism”—and, in terms of content, be unobtrusive, reasonable, and capable of gripping the reader’s heart. Take my reading experience at the time as an example:
Before reading this book, I knew very little about Shen Congwen. When I saw, in Chapter One, Section One, Shen Congwen telling his wife that he wanted to “grow young in separation,” and telling his child “you must work hard,” “write ten or twenty books” to catch up with Tolstoy, I could not help but find it very strange. The situation had already deteriorated, the country was still in chaos, and this deterioration and chaos seemed likely to reach a peak, leaving in the end only what he called “the tragedy of national suicide,” yet he wanted to “be young” in a gloom-laden world, and before abandoning literary creation wanted to “write ten or twenty books”—he was so contradictory! In the midst of contradiction, he still wanted to “patch up the ruins” and realize a “fool’s dream”—how could that be possible? The stark reality threw into relief the ridiculousness and powerlessness of his full ideal; earnest as he was, “if he didn’t break, he would go mad.” Sure enough, half a year later, in January 1949, “amid unprecedented feelings of isolation under intense stimulation,” he “became mentally deranged.” Not satisfied with mental derangement, he attempted suicide. A marginal note in Shen Congwen’s letter to Zhang Zhaohuo dated January 30 moved me most:
Give me a not too painful rest; no need to wake up, and that will be fine. What I say, no one at all understands. Not a single friend is willing to understand, dares to understand, that I am not insane. Everyone hems and haws and dodges; everyone is afraid to get involved. What is this? People must rest; what is wrong with tidying oneself up? Even Wang Xun, who studied philosophy, doesn’t understand; only then did he truly take me for a madman. I think many people are joining in the plotting to harm me, because there’s something exciting to watch…… I have no premise; I only hope for an ending that isn’t too embarrassing. No one is willing to understand; all of them dodge past it. Completely in isolation. Isolated and in despair, I did not possess the illusion of living. I ought to rest like that!
In the very first chapter, the author strikes first by showing us Shen Congwen’s complex yet real world amid a great upheaval; it cannot be said to be without emotion. The wonder of emotion lies in the heart; there is no use saying more. If one does not properly understand this chapter, then Shen Congwen’s spiritual world in the latter half of his life will have no root to seek—this is where the author’s intent in selecting materials lies.
Here, I want to focus on the author’s so-called methodology of “strict direct quotation.”
In the “Explanation” at the beginning, the author says his writing intention is:
When I write about Shen Congwen’s latter half, I must write not only factual social experiences and encounters, but also his personally long inner life in turbulent years.
This clearly stated intention is in fact a basic quality that a qualified researcher must possess. Researching a person cannot be separated from the concrete backdrop of the times, because people are products of reality, and people are within it. But precisely because of this, a realistic biography must reflect certain characteristics and even the essence of that era. Shen Congwen is a writer with an important position in the history of modern literature, and also a distinctive “countryman”; the turning points and experiences of his latter half are full of legendary color, and against the equally “legendary” backdrop of a great age, the cultural phenomenon he represents is quite meaningful. However, when writing about such a representative figure, overemphasizing “his personally long inner world,” or, in practical operation, downplaying the concrete historical backdrop, becomes a bias.
In order to pursue such an effect of emphasis, the author chooses a method of using Shen Congwen’s texts to explain Shen Congwen. He says:
But rich, complex, long-term personal spiritual activity cannot come from conjecture, imagination, or fabrication; it must be seen in his own statements…… If I were a reader, compared with the author expressing things on behalf of the biographee, I would rather see the biographee directly express himself.
However, even if “the biographee directly expresses himself” is true, can it achieve realism? If it is not realistic enough, can it be true? Why does the biographee express himself this way and not that way? Does “it must be seen in his own statements” necessarily make it true? Is “his own statements” enough? What about the parts he does not say?
This is a huge topic. Put briefly, in my view, when the author wrote about Shen Congwen’s latter half, he made a most basic error—namely, he had a psychological presupposition that was far too subjective. This presupposition elevates Shen Congwen far, far too high; when readers lift their eyes, they see only the author’s words of praise and admiration, and his language of sympathy as if personally felt, but they see no critical inquiry, no rational probing whatsoever—this is almost equivalent to engaging in Shen Congwen’s “personality cult.” Under such worship, what we see is only “Shen Congwen,” “Shen Congwen.” To say everything must come from Shen Congwen indeed gives us a definite sense of evidence and makes it easy to be convinced, but at the same time it also very easily drives the reader’s “self-involvement.” After becoming involved, with the reader located within Mount Lu, can they obtain a glimpse of Shen Congwen’s true face? This is precisely where the defect of downplaying the historical backdrop lies. And what the author brings us is only a sense of the times, nothing more.
In short, the era and the individual are in a mutually evidentiary relationship; neither can be neglected. Every person is other people’s environment, and also their backdrop. Therefore, on the great historical stage, we do not wish to see Shen Congwen’s one-man show, the “three prominences”; we also want to see the myriad beings. In these people’s eyes, we want to see Shen Congwen.
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