During a visit to France in the early 1970s, Chinese Prime Minister Zhou Enlai was asked about the significance of the French Revolution.
“It’s too early to say,” he replied.
I have retold few quotes as often, and with equal delight.
But there is also another quote that reads: never check out a good story.
The American diplomat Chas Freeman, who served as an interpreter during Enlai’s visit, has come forward and said that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Enlai believed that the question concerned the French student revolt of 1968.
I guess Enlai’s misunderstood quotes fit too well into the stereotype of “clever Chinese”.
This has made me reflect on how Asians in general and Chinese in particular are portrayed in the culture.
In my spotify list they flutter past, Iggy Pop’s “China girl”, Vapor’s “Turning Japanese” and Aneka’s “Japanese boy”; people who are mysterious, elusive, and generally otherwise. And above all many. When I was little, it was rumored that if all the Chinese jumped down from a chair at the same time, the earth would crack.
Note how the “Chinese” are introduced in the latest season of “The Castle”. They arrive in droves, suggestively illuminated from behind, impersonal and faceless, and we understand that now there will be trouble.
They arrive in droves, suggestively illuminated from behind, impersonal and faceless, and we realize that now there will be trouble
Strikingly often they have sinister skills, much like Batman villains, we never meet Chinese who are a bit half-hearted or fall victim to passions or impulses, who in short are humans, and Western heroes always take home the game because they think outside the box, while the Chinese are entangled in nuffros and rationality.
Comedian and screenwriter has long been able to calmly incite these stereotypes. In crowded situations, they have been able to pull out the tired cliché that they “kick up”. China is a swine-rich dictatorship and is expected to endure a few things. Which the Chinese do too. Which further reinforces the image of them as enigmatic and unfathomable.
When there is controversy about Konstfack’s room “White Sea”, no nervous teachers suggest that it should change its name to “Yellow Sea”. And if a derailed Danish activist started a fire on “Conversation with Confucius”, he would at most be tapped on the shoulder by a neighborhood police officer who made him aware of the local fire regulations.
In an attempt to scrape courage after the facilitator Chas Freeman’s adaptation, I want to end with a story that no one can sabotage because I myself have witnessed it.
For about thirty-five years ago I visited the United States with a dozen young writers from all corners of the world. The now dormant propaganda unit United States Information Agency was responsible for the violins.
The Chinese poet Li Wei joined a few days later than the rest of us, there was some paper that the authorities wanted him to sign where he promised not to reveal anything disparaging about his homeland, but Li Wei had refused.
We were curious about him. He had bushy sideburns and spoke crisp English. We were housed in a summer empty college in a den in Virginia. I shared a room with him. The first day I asked if there was anything in particular he wanted to see. After various retakes, I understood that he wanted to go to an arms store. I thought he was a fool and / or a weapon fetishist, but during the walk he told me that it was inconceivable to him that the state had so much confidence in its citizens that they were allowed to arm themselves. He must see it with his own eyes.
In the evening had at the seminar. The subject was our writing methods. One flimsy author after another laid out the text lengthwise and crosswise, the Dutchman was stabbed with the Filipino poet, who was supported by the essayist from Colombia and supported by the Australian playwright.
The hours passed. Many began to long for the evening’s first icy Moosehead.
When it was Li Wei’s turn to tell about his method, he cleared his throat and said:
– When I write, my mind follows my pen. When I rewrite, my pen follows my mind.
That is all. You could hear a chopstick falling in the classroom.
Bengt Ohlsson lives in Stockholm. He was born in Östersund and has participated in DN since 1984. He was awarded the August Prize in 2004 for his book “Gregorius”. His latest novel, critically acclaimed “Midsummer Night’s Dreams”, came in 2020.
Here you can read more chronicles by Bengt Ohlsson.