Lijia Zhang's Reading List

"Lu Xun, who was active in the early 20th century, is my favourite Chinese writer. His unparalleled insight into the national psyche remains unmatched. His prose is witty, razor-sharp and unflinching in its critique — yet never loses its essential humanity. The title character, Ah-Q, has become a byword in Chinese culture, a living symbol of self-deception, false bravado and the quiet tragedies of the human condition. When we were growing up, my sister and I even used to call our father “Ah-Q” — he was a pretentious man who liked to pose as grander than he really was. Kong Yiji is another example of a character who pretends to be somebody he is not. That’s the enduring brilliance of Lu Xun: he distilled psychological truth into unforgettable characters. Often called “the surgical knife of the Chinese soul,” Lu Xun’s work is a harsh yet necessary mirror. His 1918 short story Diary of a Madman marked the beginning of modern Chinese literature, being the first to adopt the vernacular language and break away from classical conventions. He was a leading figure of the New Culture Movement and remains deeply embedded in Chinese education — his stories are still studied in school. I remember being especially struck by Gu Xiang (“My Old Home”), which explores memory, change and disillusionment through a deceptively simple visit back to one’s hometown. There is no doubt: Lu Xun would not have survived under Mao’s regime. His fierce independence and moral clarity would have made him a target. But precisely because of that, he remains a towering literary and moral figure, whose voice continues to cut through the noise of nationalism, sentimentality and denial."

"Fortress Besieged is widely regarded as one of the masterpieces of 20th-century Chinese literature, and rightly so. I was introduced to it in the early 1980s by my first boyfriend, and while the novel holds emotional value for me, it also left a deep impression because of the writing, which felt unlike anything I had encountered before — ironic, urbane, and blisteringly sharp. It is a sharp reflection of Chinese intellectuals then and now. Qian Zhongshu has a rare gift for wit that skewers both individuals and society with equal elegance. The novel follows Fang Hongjian, a young Chinese intellectual returning from Europe with a fake PhD, who stumbles into a farcical marriage and a disastrous university job. The famous metaphor in the title says it all: “Marriage is like a fortress besieged — those outside want to get in, and those inside want to get out.” It’s funny, poignant and ruthlessly observant. Qian’s descriptions are wickedly precise. I still remember the passage where he writes about Tang Xiaofu, Fang’s romantic interest, describing her beauty as “a whiff of fragrance in a stinking world — it can only soften the stench, not remove it.” The novel is filled with such lines: beautifully crafted, painfully true. Fang himself is a perfect antihero — vain, indecisive, full of pretence, and yet strangely sympathetic. He’s a stand-in for a whole generation of educated, directionless men caught between East and West, tradition and modernity."

"Mo Yan’s Red Sorghum , first published in 1986, is a searing, genre-defying family saga that left an indelible mark on me. Although I don’t love all of Mo Yan’s work, this novel — his breakout masterpiece — remains my favourite. It’s bold, brutal and vividly imaginative, blending folklore, memory and myth into a fractured yet cohesive whole. The non-linear narrative structure, composed of five interconnected novellas, suits the story’s mythic tone and historical sweep. Set during the Japanese occupation, the novel explores love, betrayal and survival through the lens of a rural family. The characters are morally complex and deeply human — nothing is black-and-white, which is very different from how the people who fought against the Japanese were described in books when I was growing up. In those books, the characters are all heroes, handsome and perfect human beings. In Red Sorghum , Yu Zhan’ao, the narrator’s grandfather, is a bandit turned guerrilla fighter, capable of both ruthless cruelty and heroic leadership. He kills his lover’s husband to marry her, yet also becomes a respected patriot. Mo Yan doesn’t glorify or condemn him; he lets the contradictions stand. Dai Fenglian, the grandmother, is equally compelling. Fiercely independent and sexually assertive, she shatters the mould of the submissive rural woman. She is both loving and manipulative, driven by her own desires and deep maternal instincts. Even the villagers and resistance fighters are shown in shades of grey — capable of both bravery and barbarism. War, in Mo Yan’s vision, does not purify; it exposes. The prose is lush, poetic and earthy. I still remember his phrase “华丽的肚肠子” (“gorgeous entrails”) — only Mo Yan could describe gore with such grotesque beauty. His magical realism creates a world that is hyperreal, where metaphor and reality are inseparable. Above all, Red Sorghum is a meditation on human nature under pressure. It shows how ordinary people, when pushed to extremes, can become both monsters and heroes."

"This novel offers a refreshing and unexpected take on the Cultural Revolution. Rather than dwelling on trauma, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress tells a gentle, bittersweet story of awakening — intellectual, sexual and emotional. It’s about how literature can open a window to the world and, more importantly, to the self. The Seamstress starts as a naïve village girl, but when two ‘sent-down’ youths secretly introduce her to forbidden Western novels, something shifts. Through Balzac and Flaubert, she begins to imagine a life beyond her narrow mountain village. It’s a beautiful metaphor for liberation. Yes, Dai Sijie was sent to a village in Sichuan, his home province, to work as a ‘sent-down’ youth. The novel was indeed inspired by his own experience. He later went to France to study. I find it particularly interesting how many Chinese-born writers living abroad, like Dai Sijie, create works that are more accessible to Western readers. This novel, while firmly rooted in the Chinese countryside, speaks to universal themes: desire, freedom and transformation. The tone is charming, nostalgic and quietly radical. It doesn’t shout; it sings. And at its core, it reminds us that books are more than paper and ink — they are vessels of possibility, escape, and reinvention. Writing in a different language often brings about fresh perspectives. Samuel Beckett wrote Waiting for Godot in French , then translated it into English. In her memoir In Other Words , Jhumpa Lahiri reflects on her journey of learning Italian, and how she feels a sense of freedom writing in it. Writers choose or reject languages for different reasons. In a poignant essay titled “ To Speak Is to Blunder ”, my fellow Chinese-born writer Yiyun Li describes how she “disowned” her mother tongue as a way to detach herself from certain cultural and emotional burdens. I like her work very much, by the way. Ha Jin is another Chinese who writes in English, and I really enjoyed his novel Waiting . For me, English represents hope. At 16, I was taken out of school by my family and put to work in a rocket factory. Bored to death while greasing machine parts, I decided to teach myself English as a means of escape. My only sanctuary within the factory compound was a rubbish dump around the corner from my workshop. Whenever I could, I would go there to study. Amid the buzzing flies and the stench rising from rotten food, I could feel my horizons expanding. English changed my life, and my adopted language allowed me to explore and express thoughts and ideas in ways that Chinese didn’t always permit. As I mentioned, I find that the books of some Chinese writers who live abroad are much more palatable for international readers. For example, almost all writers inside China use the omniscient point of view, which I personally find very awkward. Whereas the writers who live overseas know the storytelling from both in and outside China, and they know how to tell the story using the best techniques, so they can take the best from both Chinese and Western traditions. Liu Sola wrote a novella in 1985 called You Have No Choice, which totally broke the storytelling tradition — there is no obvious plot line. It is an avant-garde landmark in Chinese literature, about a group of young music students and their search for authenticity and self-expression in a rapidly changing society. A literary friend recommended this novella to me when I was still working at my rocket factory. I read in one go — I couldn’t put it down because it is so refreshing, original and different. It also marks the rise of female voices breaking patriarchal and ideological confines. Eileen Chang ’s stories from the 1940s are very good. I think she was very insightful, especially about the relationship between men and women, even though her insight didn’t free her from the pain she suffered at the hands of lovers. I also used to be a huge fan of San Mao but I don’t like her anymore. When I was young, I was fascinated by her account of living in the Sahara desert with her Spanish husband. At that time there was no way I could travel, so her exotic world and romantic escapades fascinated me. There are many other 20th century female Chinese authors worth mentioning, for example Tie Ning, Zhang Jie and Ding Ling. I am revising a historical novel inspired by Qiu Jin, China’s first feminist and revolutionary — one of the most colourful and compelling figures in modern Chinese history. She loved to cross-dress, rode through town on her white horse, practised martial arts, and drank like a fish. And I am writing a novel about love and parenthood, what love means. It’s mostly set in China but the main characters are non-Chinese."