Chapter Two
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn:
Literary Debates in Republican China,
1919-1949
Jianhua Chen
Literally, the term huaijiu means “cherishing the past.” But, as it is presently
used in urban China, especially in Shanghai, it refers to the nostalgia for the
metropolitan splendor of the Republican era. For instance, in the essay entitled
“Imagined Nostalgia,” Dai Jinhua describes how contemporary Chinese intellectual elites nostalgically express their contradictory sentiments about past and
present. For her, nostalgia connotes a wide range of meanings including the
gratification attending material progress, a desire to catch up with the rest of the
world, an expression of discontent by gazing backward, a drifting ship with split
identities, a sexualized and romanticized memory of revolution, and an imagined
space to construct a new individual. 1 In addition, no less important is the nostalgia for the “Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies school” (Yuanyang hudie pai) and
the classical language (wenyan). Although distinct in nature, with one concerning literature and the other language, these two nostalgic trends are closely related to the “new versus old” debate of the early 1920s. In their nostalgia, Chinese scholars today are rethinking the meaning of modernity and the role that
the “May Fourth Movement” plays in Chinese modernity.
Since the 1980s innumerable reprints of Butterfly literature, published in response to nostalgia for the urban splendor of old Shanghai, have been rewarded
with commercial success. At the same time Butterfly literature has become
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popular owing to favorable academic reappraisals and the “rewriting of literary
history” (chongxie wenxueshi). 2 This resurgence of Butterfly literature signifies
nothing less than an ironic turn after more than half a century’s neglect. Overtly
or covertly, it delivers a political message—the Butterfly writers are victims of
the May Fourth canon and the Chinese revolution. Although “May Fourth
canon” and “Butterfly writers” are by no means monolithic entities, 3 in contemporary China these two terms are defined by a collective memory of the bitter
past in revolutionary politics. As a result, in the field of literary studies, “May
Fourth” and “Butterfly” (or respectively “pure literature” chun wenxue and
“popular literature” su wenxue) are considered to be diametrically opposed. For
instance, in the eight-volume Compendium of Essays of the Mandarin Ducks
and Butterflies School (Yuanyang hudie pai sanwen daxi) published in 1997, the
editors present Butterfly prose as a refined aesthetic genre. By adopting the term
daxi, they subtly challenge the established canon, the 1935 ten-volume Compendium of New Chinese Literature (Zhongguo xin wenxue daxi), which has been
accepted as the monument of May Fourth literary achievements. Similarly, in his
History of Modern Chinese Popular Literature (Zhongguo jin xiandai tongsu
wenxue shi) published in 1999, Fan Boqun asserts that modern Chinese literature
should consist of “two wings,” the May Fourth literature and the Butterfly
School. His view has significantly revised the historiography of modern Chinese
literature, heralding the end of the May Fourth canon. 4
In tandem with the resurgence of Butterfly school, to write in classical Chinese is no longer taboo. This is exemplified in the case of Jiang Xinjie who won
national acclaim for writing an essay in classical language at the 2001 National
College Entrance Examination. Rather than an isolated event, Jiang’s rise to
fame brought to the surface an undercurrent that had begun since the late 1980s.
To rebuild a national culture in the global age, wenyan is brought back to life
after its burial almost a century ago. For instance, Shen Xiaolong, a linguist at
Fudan University, calls for a “cultural linguistics” to reshape the study of the
Chinese language on the basis of its own tradition. He sharply criticizes the
modernization or Westernization of the Chinese language since the early twentieth century, including the May Fourth baihua movement, the systemization of
Chinese grammar, and the romanization and simplification of Chinese characters. 5 Meanwhile, Ke Ling and Zhou Ruchang, writers of the May Fourth generation who survived the Cultural Revolution, also express strong resentment
over the “violence” done to the Chinese language. They lament that most writings in baihua look “pale and weak,” like an anemic patient, and that this was an
“unwelcome legacy” (houyizheng) of the May Fourth writers who had brutally
amputated wenyan. To make his point, Zhou Ruchang proclaims, “Wenyan,
wenyan—a language from the ancient Chinese past and a miracle of human
creation—is not ‘fierce floods and savage beasts.’” 6
With the resurgence of the Butterfly school and the increase of interest in
wenyan, it is clear that the two pillars of the May Fourth canon—literary revolution and language reform—can no longer sustain it. But it remains unclear why
the May Fourth writers triumphed over the Butterfly school in the 1920s. Given
the fact that the main arguments of the May Fourth leaders are not totally con-
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
53
vincing, why did the Butterfly writers fail to put up a strong fight? Why did they
become mute when facing the accusation of being jiu (old fashioned) for writing
in classical Chinese? How did jiu, as opposed to xin (new), become so ideologically loaded that it rendered the Butterfly writers speechless? To shed light on
the formation of the May Forth canon, in this essay I reexamine the debate about
the “new literature” (xin wenxue) and the “old literature” (jiu wenxue) in the
1920s. This “new versus old” debate, although of complex background and diverse ramifications, was shaped primarily by two factors. The first was the establishment of baihua as the “national language” (guoyu) in the early 1920s.
This “linguistic turn” not only elevated baihua to be the new national language,
but also unleashed the political and commercial forces that made baihua the
center of national culture. The second was the ideological implication of the
terms xin (new) and jiu (old). As baihua was promoted as the new national language, wenyan was relegated to the status of a relic. And as wenyan was demonized as being old, the all-encompassing label of Yuanyang hudie pai was created
to signify the “old school” (jiupai) with all of its trappings such as decadence,
perversion, and anachronism. Throughout this process, there was a bitter irony.
From the outset, the Butterfly writers, alarmed by the attack of the “new” writers,
felt pressed to respond. Probably underestimating their opponents, they reacted
too aggressively and ultimately ended the debate in frustration and a strange
silence. Their frustration and silence, in turn, helped to vindicate the “new” writers in continuing their campaign to modernize Chinese literature and the Chinese language. As demonstrated below, it was through this reciprocal process of
attack, response, and further attack that the “new” and “old” writers co-created
the May Fourth canon.
The New versus Old Debate
In current scholarship, there is little discussion of the social and political roles of
the Butterfly writers, as if they played no part in fighting against warlordism,
partisan politics, and foreign aggression. This imbalance gives rise to an image
of the Butterfly writers as pedantic and selfish, using their knowledge of classical imagery and poetic allegories in pursuit of profit. Upon closer examination,
however, this image is totally wrong. First and foremost, many of them were
members of the Southern Society (Nanshe), a literati organization promoting
Republican constitutional politics, largely inheriting the late Qing intellectual
dream of making a modern China on the model of Western civil society. Some
leading editors, such as Bao Tianxiao (1876-1973), Wang Dungen (1888-1950),
and Zhou Shoujuan (1894-1968) passionately promoted social reforms by publishing periodicals and newspaper supplements. For example, as Joan Judge has
shown, Bao Tianxiao was an articulate spokesman for local self-government
when he wrote for Shibao (Times Magazine) during the first decade of the twentieth century. 7 In addition, Bao published the women’s magazine Funü shibao
(Women’s Times) in 1911 and the baihua fiction magazine Xiaoshuo huabao
(Pictorial Story Magazine) in 1917. Like many popular writers in the Republican
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period, Bao did not discuss his political views in public. Even in his memoir
written in the late 1940s, he hardly mentioned his early political commitment in
Shibao. 8 But that does not mean that he was apolitical.
Despite the Butterfly writers’ reluctance to articulate their social and political visions in public, Perry Link points out that intentionally or unintentionally,
their fiction provided a “psychological comfort” to urban dwellers who were
struggling to cope with the crowded space and the fast-paced life of modern
cities. 9 In other words, the “cultural politics” of Butterfly writers lay precisely in
their attention to pleasure and ordinariness, diverting their readers’ attention
from the harsh reality of urban life. Take, for instance, Wang Dungen, the editor
of the literary page “Free talk” (Ziyou tan) in Shenbao from 1911 to 1914. On
that literary page, he created a column for “playful essays” (youxi wenzhang),
where he published satirical writings on public affairs. Mostly contributed by
common readers the essays, claiming to be “neutral” (zhongli), directly criticized the Republican president Yuan Shikai and his political rival Sun Yat-sen.
Presented in playful and humorous ways, these writings functioned both as entertainment and political critique.
Further testimony to the social and political significance of the Butterfly
writings is the fact that the debate on the “new” and “old” literature took place
in the early 1920s, when commercial battles for readership and political battles
for national unification joined forces. In the beginning of 1921, to curb the ebbing of its readership, the Commercial Press (Shangwu yinshuguan) appointed
Mao Dun (1896-1981) as the chief editor of Short Story Magazine (Xiaoshuo
yuebao), one of the most influential literary periodicals in Shanghai. An ardent
proponent of “May Fourth literary revolution,” Mao Dun soon converted the
magazine into the mouthpiece of the Literary Association (Wenxue yanjiu hui). 10
It immediately aroused fear and fury among the Butterfly writers. In the same
year, no sooner had Mao Dun embarked on reforming Short Story Magazine
than Zhou Shoujuan created a weekly forum called “Special fiction page”
(Xiaoshuo zhuanhao) in the “Free Talk” section of Shenbao. The special forum
joined the “new tide” in a manner strikingly similar to that of Short Story Magazine, introducing more than twenty foreign writers like Balzac, Zola, Poe, Conrad, and Gorky, many of whom were then unknown in China. Like Mao Dun,
Zhou himself was an accomplished modern writer. In 1917 when Chen Duxiu
(1879-1942) and Hu Shi (1891-1962) discussed launching a literary reform in
New Youth, Zhou published his three-volume Collection of Short Stories by Famous European and American Writers (OuMei mingjia xiaoshuo congkan),
which was praised by Lu Xun (1881-1936) for its literary merit. A passionate
champion of western-style love and marriage in his numerous writings in Saturday and “Free Talk,” Zhou was adored by young readers as the “God of Love.”
It was no surprise that at the end of 1920, he was asked by the Commercial Press
to help Mao Dun start the “New Tide Column” in Short Story Magazine to spark
a literary discussion. Against this background, it is clear that personal rivalry as
well as commercial interest played crucial roles in the polemics between Zhou
and Mao Dun.
Despite their shared goal in introducing Western literature to China, there
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
55
were major differences between Zhou Shoujuan and Mao Dun. For Mao Dun,
literature was a complex field encompassing translation, literary criticism and
studies of literary history. 11 In contrast, Zhou and his fellow writers gave priority to fiction, and they limited the “Special fiction page” to the discussion of
fiction as a diversion in metropolitan life. In other words, they looked at fiction
as xiaoshuo (small talk) and chatted about it, empirically and fragmentarily, in a
casual manner. Zhou, in particular, seemed to indulge himself in the sensual
world, often writing short notes to fill blank corners of Free Talk, commenting
on various topics with his particular sensibility and taste. “The best fiction,” he
once wrote, “carries with it a magic no less than that of a beautiful woman—
everyone loves it and nobody can resist it.” 12 For Mao Dun and other members
of the Literary Association, this narrow view of literature typified the Butterfly
school—unbearably frivolous, vulgar, and sexual.
To a certain extent, Mao Dun was right about the Butterfly school. Rather
than giving literature the lofty task of saving the nation, Zhou and his friends
insisted that the function of literature was to provide pleasure, aesthetic or sensual. When Mao Dun and his cohort were devoted to the theory of revolutionary
emancipation, and were eager to build a universal humanist discourse centering
on wenxue (literature) rather than xiaoshuo (small talk), Zhou and his group perfected their sensual and aesthetic approaches and deliberately avoided using
such neologisms as wenxue. 13 Yet the debate between the two sides was more
casual than academic, and more emotional than rational. There were neither
common ground nor shared terms that would enable either side to communicate
its ideas to the other. In many instances, when Mao Dun brandished new concepts and theories, Zhou could hardly respond in similar terms. Prefiguring their
predicament a few years later, the Butterfly writers usually became speechless,
as if tongue-tied, when accused of harming the youths and the nation with their
irresponsible writings. Their public image, once tied to the “black curtain fiction” (heimu xiaoshuo), the best-sellers in the late 1910s, reinforced their perceived link with the underworld, vividly captured in Zheng Zhenduo’s epithets,
“literary beggars” (wengai) and “literary prostitutes” (wenchang).
Wenyan and Popular Literature
It is important to remember that the “new versus old” debate was primarily
about language. The Butterfly writers supported the classical language and saw
no need to replace it with the vernacular. As a leader of the Butterfly school,
Zhou Shoujuan argued that what determines new or old is not the form but the
content. He reminded the new writers that using new theory and terms from the
West did not necessarily mean new, and that classical language was capable of
expressing a modern spirit. Another issue in the debate was translation. 14 For
Mao Dun, Zhou Zuoren (1885-1968), and Zheng Zhenduo (1898-1958), translation must be accurate and standardized, assisted by imposing European grammar
onto the Chinese language. To support their argument, they pointed to Lin Shu
(1852-1924), who committed numerous mistakes in his translations into the
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classical language. For Zhou, however, the virtue of Lin’s translation was the
beauty of its language and its analogical imagination.
To many Butterfly writers, who were often accused of writing for money,
the debate was a commercial war. Although they reacted under pressure, and
were often uncomfortable engaging in theoretical arguments, they were confident in their command of their readership. Zhou, for instance, was so sure of
readers’ support that he adopted a laissez-faire policy. He said: “In my opinion,
it is best to let the new writer pursue the new, and the old pursue the old. Each
does what he likes, and let the reader choose.” In an acid tone, he added, “If disapproval arises out of jealousy, or if attacks, actually, are launched in the name
of criticism, it shows small-mindedness.” 15 In this context, we can understand
why Mao Dun harshly criticized Zhou’s short story “A Gramophone Record”
(Liushengji pian) in his essay “Naturalism and Contemporary Chinese Fiction,”
published in Short Story Magazine in 1922. The story, Mao Dun concluded,
though popular at the time, was not sufficiently well crafted to qualify as “fiction.” A popular author, Mao Dun opined, was not a “writer” until he demonstrated his literary skills. 16
Zhou’s “special fiction page” lasted from January to August 1921, a total of
thirty issues. His withdrawal did not stop the debate; instead it continued with
increasing heat. In 1922, many popular journals and newspapers, such as Bao
Tianxiao’s Sunday (Xingqi), Yu Daxiong’s Crystal (Jingbao), and Zhang
Shewo’s The Smallest (Zuixiao) joined the dispute. Among them, Bao’s Sunday
deserves special attention because of its self-proclaimed neutral stance in the
discussion (more on this below). By contrast, Crystal took an aggressive stance,
as exemplified in Yuan Hanyun’s (1890-1931) strident attack on Mao Dun.
Among members of the Literary Association, Zheng Zhenduo was the most
morally combative. His volleys aimed at the popular writers called them impudent “literary beggars,” saying that their only happiness was to make more
money by selling pleasure. 17 Later, he further insultingly portrayed them as “literary prostitutes,” likening all the popular magazines to streetwalkers fighting
each other over customers. 18 To him, beggars and prostitutes in Shanghai were
parasites or accomplices of vicious capitalism rather than representatives of the
oppressed or victimized. In June 1921, when someone proposed a truce between
the two sides, Zheng refused. “There is no possibility of conciliation if two
things are extremely opposed to each other,” he replied. “Magazines such as
Leisure Time (Xiaoxian zhong) and Saturday, managed by those frivolous men
of letters in Shanghai, have nothing to do with literature. . .” 19 Zheng’s extremist
stance evinced a moral conviction that allowed no room for negotiation.
Strictly speaking, the new writers never formed a united front against the
Butterfly school. Only members of the Literary Association and the League of
Left-wing Writers continued a tireless campaign against the Butterfly school in
the 1920s and 1930s. The hard-liners included Mao Dun, Zheng Zhenduo, Ye
Shaojun (1894-1988), and Lu Xun, who published their writings in Short Story
Magazine and the newspaper literary page The Literary Thrice-Monthly (Wenxue
xunkan). After the May Thirtieth, however, the “May Fourth” group was split.
For example, Hu Shi and Xu Zhimo (1896-1931) kept a distance from the “new
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
57
versus old” debate and made friends with the Butterfly writers in Shanghai.
They allowed their photos to appear in the Shanghai Pictorial Magazine
(Shanghai huabao) edited by Zhou Shoujuan, and remained unperturbed when
this prompted the taunting epithets “Sage Hu,” and “Great Poet Xu.”
More interesting was the attitude of the Creation Association (Chuangzaoshe), which showed no interest in opposing the old literature. On the contrary
its members Yu Dafu (1896-1945) and Cheng Fangwu (1897-1984) complained
about the Literary Association’s aspiration to literary hegemony. In dismay Mao
Dun accused these “new” writers of not supporting the new literature. Later, he
was pleased by Cheng Fangwu’s essay “The Road Astray” (Qilu) published in
the Creation Quarterly (Chuangzao jikan) in December 1922. 20 Adopting a
somewhat apologetic tone, Cheng nonetheless made a symbolic attack on the
Butterfly writers as representatives of the “petty bourgeoisie” in urban Shanghai. 21
Among all the new writers, none was as committed as Lu Xun to battling
the Butterfly writers. In the early 1930s, as a left-wing leader, he warned his
fellow writers not to forget the task of opposing the Butterfly school. 22 He never
concealed his abhorrence of Butterfly works; he once said that whenever he saw
them, he had an urge to throw them into the trash basket. Yet as a filial son, Lu
Xun seldom neglected to amuse his mother by sending her novels by Zhang
Henshui (1867-1959), bestsellers of the time, but noting that he himself had not
read them. Despite his limited knowledge of Butterfly fiction, Lu Xun played a
unique role in the “old versus new” debate. With his eccentric style, he sniped at
his enemies; his choices of target reflected his insights and deliberation, and
more importantly, he rarely missed. He seldom called anyone by name; but
when he used the term “Yuanyang hudie,” or “Yuanyang hudie ti”, he suggested
writing that was low-taste, helplessly outmoded, and morally decadent, exemplifying what he called the diabolical yangchang (foreign concession) culture of
Shanghai. The best example was his 1931 speech in which he introduced a new
label “caizi jia liumang” (the talented scholars plus the hooligans) for those “rotten” writers in Shanghai. The label, although sarcastically amusing, was by no
means whimsical. Showing his erudition, Lu Xun evoked the late-Qing courtesan novels of sixty years earlier. As we know, Lu Xun later enshrined his view of
the Butterfly school in his Brief History of Chinese Fiction (Zhongguo xiaoshuo
shilue) and in his article “On the Historical Evolution of Chinese Fiction”
(Zhongguo xiaoshuo de lishi bianqian), both of which were canonized as major
writings of the May Fourth New Literature.
Bao Tianxiao’s “Sunday Discussion”
In response, some Butterfly writers began publishing their writings in 1922 in
the popular weekly magazine Sunday edited by Bao Tianxiao. In the magazine,
the “Sunday Discussion” (Xingqi tanhuahui) section had roots going as far back
as “Free Discussion” (Ziyou tanhuahui) in the “Free Talk” section of Shenbao
presided over by Wang Dungen in the early 1910s. As a literary forum, “Sunday
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Discussion” was less aesthetic than Zhou Shoujuan’s Semi-Monthly Discussion,
and less high-minded than Mao Dun’s Short Story Magazine; but it was less
partisan than Zheng Zhenduo’s Literary Thrice-Monthly or Yu Daxiong’s Crystal. Like Shenbao’s “Free Discussion,” all writings were in the form of biji—
short, direct and dialogical. On the whole, they shared an even-tempered character, reminiscent of Shibao’s proclaimed goal—“With the public interest as our
priority and aspiring for impartiality” (Yi gong wei zhu, bu pianxun yi dang). In
the “Opening Remarks” (Yuanqi) of “Sunday Discussion”, Bao stated: “Topics
are open, no matter whether it is about politics or literature, quotations or comments, daily news or celebrity anecdotes. This is a forum open to everyone.” 23
Interestingly, a stylistic requirement came later. In the third issue, Bi Yihong
(1892-1926), well-known for his social novels, added a note saying that this
column needed a bit of satire that would not aim to irritate the reader. 24 The
guidelines for manuscript submission, appearing in the first issue, were progressive by the standards of the time. They stated that the magazine would prefer
baihua writings but it would consider wenyan writings in the forms of biji and
xiaopin (sketch). This balanced linguistic approach meant free choice, which
was more deliberate than emotional, more open-minded than authoritarian.
However, the contributors to the magazine quickly changed their tack. Bi
Yihong, for instance, worried that as the “new” literature penetrated the publishing market, classical Chinese literature became marginalized. To drive home his
point, he commented: “In the past three years, the poems of Li Bo (701-762) and
Du Fu (712-770) could no longer compete with Ibsen’s A Doll’s House.” 25 His
disdain of Ibsen was made clear when he described Li’s and Du’s works as having permanent artistic value while A Doll’s House was only good in making a
quick profit. A few authors followed suit by criticizing Hu Shi’s promotion of
baihua. Some of them thought that baihua would never be as rich and elegant a
language as wenyan. For instance, Wu Xu wrote, “In classical poetry, a profound
meaning is expressed in a few words, and a complex feeling is conveyed concisely. Now the new writers have opposed using wenyan, but their works can
never have the capacity of the classical language.” 26
In the debate, the Butterfly writers directed their critiques or complaints
primarily at Mao Dun and Zheng Zhenduo. Sometimes their critiques might
come circuitously, such as their attack on Zhu Xiang (1904-1933). The attack on
Zhu, who used the new grammar to write unreadable poems, was in fact aimed at
Mao Dun’s theory of “Europeanizing grammar.” For instance, Jing Nian asked:
“Our Chinese language is not bad; it is neat and flexible. Why must we imitate
the way foreign people speak?” 27 Apparently referring to Mao Dun’s Correspondence column in Short Story Magazine, Wu Xu stated that he always heard the
new figures teaching patriotism, but he seldom found them promoting a love of
the Chinese language. 28 Referring to Zheng Zhenduo, Sheng Lao said, “Our
readers should read what they can understand. If they cannot understand it, why
should they read it? If things can be said straightforwardly in one’s own way,
why is there a need to imitate the foreigners?” 29
These discussions and complaints tended to be partial and parochial, with a
clear-cut distinction between the new and the old camps, yet on occasion there
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
59
were sober voices that blurred the line between new and old. For example, Yi
Liang wrote, “In today’s China, the platforms of the new and old literatures are
like military confrontations between the South and North. One does not listen to
the other. Actually each side has its merits and shortcomings. So I suggest that
both sides calm down; let each side look for its own shortcomings and the
other’s merits. Moreover, I hope there will be scholars who are neutral and constructive.” 30 Rather than providing an eclectic solution, he sought something
beyond the combative situation. On the other hand, many writers saw the new
literary currents as necessary and inevitable even though they were not part of
the “new” group. Qin Lou, for instance, expressed his joy in seeing the disappearance of the traditional “four-six” parallelism, and he criticized the novelists
in the old camp for being “conservative.” 31 Similarly, a calm, thoughtful tone
can be found in Ling She’s notes. In praising the short stories by the new writers
Bing Xin and Ye Shaojun, the author thought that even the Europeanized style
should not be excluded. Meanwhile, he also appreciated the works by the “old”
writers like Bao Tianxiao and Bi Yihong. 32 As a whole, “Sunday Discussion”
presented a diverse, open, and fair-minded discussion of “new” and “old” literature. It was in stark contrast to the univocal and overbearing discourse in the
journals controlled by Mao Dun and Zheng Zhenduo.
The Silence of the Butterfly Writers
As the debate of the early 1920s shows, the Butterfly writers responded to the
attack of the leaders of “new” literature, and to different degrees they were willing to articulate their views on literature and society in a public forum. Yet, they
fell strangely silent in late 1922, and their silence persisted despite continuous
attacks from the leaders of new literature. A case in point is Zhou Shoujuan. As
we recall, he was among the first in the Butterfly School to respond to Mao
Dun’s challenge, but he chose to keep silent after Mao Dun’s harsh critique in
the autumn of 1922. This collective silence among the Butterfly writers is enigmatic. Some literary historians suggest that the “old” writers had to give up
fighting because they were “beaten” by May Fourth literature. This might be
true from the standpoint of the “new” writers. But if we adopt Ted Huters’s view
that the cultural arena of early Republican China was undergoing a drastic
change due to commercial and ideological competition in the printing industry, 33
the silence of the Butterfly School was in part a result of their loss of cultural
advantage, particularly their linguistic position, in vindicating their social status.
In the literary field of the early 1920s, despite partisanship, institutional rivalry, and competition for cultural leadership, there was a speedy transition from
the use of wenyan to baihua. This process of linguistic and literary reform was
charged with diverse intellectual and political forces such as the state apparatus,
the new academic elites, the national educational system, and an ideology of
modernity centered on “historical progress.” The “linguistic turn” in the early
twentieth century was perhaps the most essential cultural transformation in
modern China. 34 In the process of inventing a national language, intellectual
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consensus and cultural cohesion came into being. After the appearance of Mr.
Ma’s Grammar (Mashi wentong) published by Ma Jianzhong (1844-1900) in
1898, intellectuals and the Chinese government had assiduously pursued the task
of establishing a standard national language; language reform became a primary
objective in the collective dream of a unified and powerful China. A few years
before the downfall of the Qing Dynasty in 1912, the proposal for “unifying the
national language” (tongyi guoyu) was passed, and the term guoyu (national
language) was ordered to replace guanhua (official language). As this guoyu
movement was carried on by the Republican government immediately after its
founding, additional impetus was provided by the May Fourth baihua movement.
When Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi proclaimed a “literary revolution” in New
Youth in 1917, their articles were written in wenyan. In the following year, almost all articles in the journal were in baihua, but nonetheless had little impact
on the literary scene. When the “national language movement” started under the
leadership of the Ministry of Education, it had little to do with the new literature
movement. Yet in 1918, Hu Shi wrote an article entitled “On the Constructive
Literary Revolution” with an ambiguous subtitle “The Literature of National
Language and the Literary National Language” (guoyu de wenxue—wenxue de
guoyu), indicating that he sought to merge the new literature movement with the
new language movement. 35 In 1919, he and the other May Fourth writers Qian
Xuantong (1887-1939), Zhou Zuoren and Liu Fu (1891-1934) entered the
“Committee for a Standard National Language” of the Ministry of Education. 36
No doubt they worked ardently in this official institutional setting, playing a
crucial role in the national language movement. A series of programs mandated
by the government was carried out throughout the country, such as the “Phonetic
Letters” in 1918, the “New Punctuation Marks” in 1919, and the “Chart of National Pronunciation” in 1920. Against this background, it becomes hard to
imagine that the New Literature could have succeeded without such linguistic
reinforcement by the national government. 37
In 1922 the new linguistic and literary movements were in full swing; as a
result, although wenyan was still in use in various realms, baihua was legitimized politically and ideologically, and established as a dominant institution of
national education. From 1920 to 1922, as a decisive step forward for the national language movement, the Ministry of Education ordered that the category
of guowen (national written language) be changed to that of guoyu (national
spoken language) in all primary and middle schools, and the textbooks began to
change from wenyan to baihua. 38 A new commercial war broke out as publishing houses hastily compiled and sold new “national language textbooks.” 39 Baihua thus came to dominate the contents of textbooks, and teaching the standard
language was required as a professional qualification; consequently, literature
was redefined by the new language.
Understandably, in this sweeping process of unifying the national language,
the distinction between the “new” and the “old” literature was charged with
ideological judgment. The advertising pages of the Short Story Magazine during
1921 and 1922, show that dozens of new textbooks on pronunciation and romanization, and methods for teaching the standard language, were published.
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
61
The literary scene changed rapidly with baihua moving toward the center, and
shortly afterward there appeared new literary periodicals in baihua to capitalize
on the reader market. In July 1923, in the essay “Miscellaneous Thoughts” (Zagan), Mao Dun acclaimed, “in only half a year more than a dozen literary periodicals have been inaugurated. This is definitely a sign that the new literature is
developing day by day.” 40 Facing a sea change in the reader market, the Butterfly writers could do little to reverse the trend. Some of them made critical adjustments just to survive. For instance, Recreation World (Youxi zazhi) magazine,
edited by Yan Duhe (1889-1968) and Zhao Tiaokuang (1892-?), was a kind of
pure entertainment as its title suggested. With a low-profile position it kept aloof
from the “new versus old” debate. In May 1922, however, the magazine undertook a “major reform” by taking away from its table of contents various categories rooted in the classical literary tradition such as gechang (sing-song theater),
quhai (the sea of fun), xielin (a forest of humor), and yifu (the house of games).
This reform, according to the editor’s explanation, resulted from listening to
“readers’ suggestions.”
In hindsight, there are few explanations as to why the Butterfly writers suddenly lost their voice in the late 1922. Some of them might have been pragmatic
and more interested in their business than ideological confrontation. Others,
driven by their mingshi pretensions, might feel reluctant to continue arguing.
Despite their different reasons, it is not difficult to imagine that once baihua was
established as the national language by the government, all of the Butterfly arguments for the classical language became ungrounded. And, in the “old versus
new” debate, the term jiu assumed a special meaning signifying the passé, the
outmoded, and the unworthy, as in the phrases jiupai (old school), jiu xiaoshuo
(old fiction) and jiu wenxue (old literature). In this cultural climate, any public
utterance from the “old” camp seemed out of place.
The Linguistic Resistance in Popular Literature
Despite the attacks from the Leftists, the Butterfly writers continued to thrive
throughout the 1920s and 1930s. They commanded a lion’s share of the reader
market by focusing on everyday life and aiming at urban readers. Part of their
success was due to their linguistic flexibility. After the literary polemic of the
early 1920s, many of the Butterfly writers wrote in both baihua and wenyan,
which allowed them to reach a larger audience. A prime example was the SemiMonthly (Banyue) magazine edited by Zhou Shoujuan, which became an instant
success after founding in 1922. Earlier, in arguing with Zheng Zhenduo about
the “spirit of all mankind,” Zhou Shoujuan stated that he wanted to explore a
third path for his popular periodicals, i.e., to continue literary production for
diversion and meanwhile to adopt Zheng’s idea to raise literary quality. 41 True to
his word, under Zhou’s leadership Banyue was an elegant periodical aimed at
both quality and fashion, breaking new ground in film criticism, photo contests,
and women’s writings. Most important of all, in an attempt to attract more readers, the editor published works written in either vernacular or classical language.
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After the early 1920s the Butterfly writers seemed to avoid confronting the
New Culture writers, but their voices, discontented yet tactfully modulated,
could be heard occasionally. For instance, in his critical essay about Gui
Youguang (1506-1571), the Ming essayist, Hu Jichen (1886-?) called his readers’ attention to the beauty of Gui’s classical language. 42 In the Youth Companion (Liangyou huabao) edited by Zhou Shoujuan, there appeared a letter by
Meng Qiao mocking the new pronunciation system in romanized letters. 43 There
were also attempts to write the history of popular literature in the modern era
that stressed the contribution of the Butterfly writers. Fan Yanqiao (1894-1967),
for instance, published his History of Chinese Fiction (Zhongguo xiaoshuo shi)
in 1927. 44 Focused primarily on the popular fiction and periodicals since the late
Qing, Fan’s book offered an empirical and impartial account of literary writings
from a pluralistic perspective. Although written in wenyan, Fan was neutral with
regard to the “new” and “old” literature, so much so that he wrote pages on the
New Literature and even quoted the “Manifesto of the Literary Association.”
The linguistic flexibility and literary modernity of Butterfly writers underscore the irony of calling them jiu (old). Whether or not they participated in the
early 1920s debate, most of the Butterfly writers never denied the value of the
vernacular language; rather, they adopted a bilingual approach, publishing in
both baihua and wenyan whenever needed. On this score, Zhou Shoujuan is
again a prime example. Despite being a leader of the “old” writers, Zhou published bilingually from the outset of his literary career. In 1911, he published
The Flower of Love (Ai zhi hua), a vernacular “reformed drama” (gailiang xinju),
in Short Story Magazine. Appearing earlier in the same year was “The Plaints of
a Fallen Flower” (Luohua yuan), a short story in classical language, in Women’s
Times. In Famous European and American Short Stories, Zhou’s anthology of
translated works published in 1917, there were 18 of a total of 50 stories rendered in baihua. In the same anthology, he introduced important literary and
cultural innovations related to urban modernity. In 1919, after he took the editorship of the “Free Talk” in Shenbao, he renovated the literary page by creating a
new lead column entitled “Xintan” (New Talk) in which he promoted a new urban lifestyle, such as going to cinema, writing love-letters, and following in the
footsteps of romantic legends in the West. All in all, despite being labeled as
old,” Zhou was as progressive as those who called themselves “new” writers.
Occasionally, other Butterfly writers also showed their progressive side. In
1926, Bao Tianxiao published a biji note “The Beginning of Baihua Language”
(Baihuawen zhi shi) in Shanghai Pictorial in which he detailed the founding of
the magazine Pictorial Story in early 1917. 45 Bao recalled that when he began
publishing Pictorial Story, Hu Shi and Chen Duxiu were promoting a “literary
revolution” in New Youth; but their “literary revolution” was somewhat halfhearted because their essays were still written in wenyan. Urged on by his friend
Chen Songping, an activist of the guoyu movement in Beijing, Bao launched
Pictorial Story to support baihua. The lesson of the story, according to Bao, is
that it was Chen Songping, not Hu Shi, who was the real leader of the baihua
movement.
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
63
In an ironic way, although it started with the “new” writers, the spread of baihua was actually spurred on by the Butterfly writers. For instance, the literary
page “Forest of Delight” (Kuaihuo lin) in the Daily News (Xinwen bao) edited by
Yan Duhe was well established in Shanghai in the mid-1910s. In 1918, the page
was headed by a “Playful Works” (Xiezhu) column in which only essays written in
the classical language were published. But beginning on July 14, 1919, a new column “Conversation” (Tanhua) appeared, featuring Zhou Shoujuan’s essay “On the
Chinese Character” (Guoren zhi texing) in baihua. For almost two months, “Conversation” replaced “Playful Works” as the leading column in “Forest of Delight.”
Obviously the new column with its change of language indicated a conscious attempt of the press editors to respond to social upheavals and mass politics. More
importantly, despite their stance in the “old versus new” debate, the Butterfly writers played a significant role in spreading baihua.
Thus, the Butterfly writers’ adoption of baihua in the mid-1920s was arguably
a passive response to the New Culture Movement. From a linguistic perspective,
however, it is clear that since the late 1910s, their use of baihua had grown steadily and reached its peak in the 1920s. Certainly their use of baihua was not the
same as that of the “new” writers, and was often mixed with their own grammar
and tastes derived from wenyan. Yet, compared with the “new” writers, the Butterfly writers were more open-minded and flexible. Whether their decision to adopt
bilingualism was due to political necessity or commercial interest, they were the
ones reaching out to the other side. Consciously or unconsciously, they exemplified an urban culture which promoted diversity, plurality, and intermixing. This
urban culture of openness lasted into the 1940s when Zhou Shoujuan revived The
Violet (Ziluolan) magazine with the editorial statement: “Our magazine embraces
everything—literature and science, fiction and prose, playfulness and seriousness,
vernacular and classical language.” 46 More than the “new” writers, Zhou and the
other Butterfly writers were devoted to literary diversity and bilingualism.
Nostalgia for an Organic Past
To a great extent, it is this openness and flexibility of the Butterfly writers that
has captured the imagination of contemporary Chinese intellectual elites. In their
nostalgia for the metropolitan splendor of the Republican era, they long for the
return of a pluralistic cultural arena in which debate, exchange, and intermixing
will be free and open. More than anybody else, Zheng Min, a well known senior
modernist poet and professor at Beijing Normal University, exemplifies this
nostalgia for an organic past. In 1993, she published in Wenxue pinglun an essay
entitled “A Fin-de-Siècle Retrospect: The Han Language’s Reform and China’s
New Poetry” in which she sharply criticized the May Fourth language reform.
Zheng’s essay began with a biting question: Why has modern Chinese poetry
failed to produce masterpieces like those in classical poetry? 47 She answered it
in linguistic terms by criticizing Chen Duxiu and Hu Shi for their tyrannical
declaration that the classical language was dead and the vernacular was living.
From then on, she continued, Chinese culture became a wounded body, and the
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May Fourth tyranny sapped the life of new poetry. In Zheng’s diagnosis, what is
behind the clear divide between the living and dead language is a “dualist oppositional mode of thinking” (eryuan duikang siwei xingshi) invested with oppression, absolutism and violence. For her, these antagonist modes—vernacular
language versus classical language, proletarian culture versus capitalist culture,
and traditional literature versus revolutionary literature—have been dominant
throughout the modern era and severely damaged the development of Chinese
literature and culture.
According to Zheng, this dualist mode of thinking originated in the May
Fourth period, and its violent nature is exemplified in Chen Duxiu’s categorical
rejection of wenyan in his proclamation: “There is no room for any discussion.”
Invoking Saussure’s concept of langue, she argues that both Chen Duxiu and Hu
Shi ignore the fact that language is a semiotic structure of culture; so in their
denial of wenyan they absurdly truncate Chinese culture as a living body. Zheng
is particularly harsh on Hu Shi who she thinks should not have adopted the “unhealthy mentality” of trashing his own cultural treasures, given his erudition and
knowledge of Chinese and foreign culture. 48 Although Zheng makes extensive
use of Western literature, linguistics and Sinology to reevaluate wenyan’s expressive and aesthetic capacities, unique to the Han language, her essay delivers
an important message: Chinese must heal their cultural wound from the past and
develop an answer to the global age.
Of course, Zheng’s article does not represent the full spectrum of contemporary Chinese views on the “new versus old” debate; nevertheless, it evinces the
enormous change in the social and cultural conditions in 1990s China. In the
larger context of globalization, nostalgia implies both the longing for something
lost in the present, and the anticipation of its recovery in the future. Since the
early 1990s, a linguistic revolution has silently swept the country, in which the
term “Hanyu” (the Han language) is widely used to replace “putonghua” (standard language)—which is derived from the baihua movement of the 1920s. This
new “linguistic turn” not only parallels that of a century ago, but also sheds light
on the meaning of modernity in 21st-century China. Driven by the demand for
tolerance and plurality, this new language consciousness is a double-edged
sword. On the one hand, it subverts the baihua canon that has dominated the
cultural arena for almost a century; on the other hand, it reaffirms national unification under the name of Hanyu, historically a more hallowed term than yuyan
(language) or guoyu (national language). This new “linguistic turn,” like the
nostalgia for cosmopolitan splendor, represents a fundamental change in the
Chinese discourse of modernity. 49 For the Chinese of the twentieth-first century,
modernity no longer means learning from the West; rather, it means the search
for national essence in response to the cultural pressures of globalization.
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
65
Notes
1. Dai Jinhua, “Imagined Nostalgia,” trans., Judy T. H. Chen. Boundary 2 24, no.3
(1997): 143-161.
2. Among numerous reprints of Butterfly works, noticeable are those collections
combining commercial strategy with academic concerns. For example, Fan Boqun, ed.,
Zhongguo jin xiandai tongsu zuojia pingzhuan congshu (Nanjing: Nanjing chubanshe,
1994); Fan Boqun and Fan Zijiang, eds., Yuanyang hudie-Libailiu pai jingdian xiaoshuo
wenku (Nanjing: Jiangsu wenyi chubanshe, 1996); Wei Shaochang, ed., Yuanyang hudie
pai Libailiu xiaoshuo (Tianjin: Chunfeng wenyi chubanshe, 1997); Yu Runqi, ed.,
Qingmo Minchu xiaoshuo shuxi (Beijing: Zhongguo wenlian chuban gongsi, 1997); Yuan
Jin, ed., Yuanyang hudie pai sanwen daxi (Shanghai: Dongfang chuban zhongxin, 1997).
In these series compiled by literary specialists, every selected text was provided with the
information of its original publication, so that the text can entertain general readers and at
the same time be used for academic research.
3 See Michel Hockx, “Is There a May Fourth Literature? A Reply to Wang
Xiaoming,” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture, 11, no. 2 (Fall 1999): 40-52. An
earlier version of this response appeared in Jintian in 1994. Also Denise Gimpel has
questioned the validity of using the term Yuanyang hudie pai, which was totalized and
biased in the history of modern Chinese literature, in current scholarly works. See “A
Neglect Medium: The Literary Journal and the Case of The Short Story Magazine, 19101914,” in Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 11, no. 2 (Fall 1999): 53-106.
4. Fan Boqun, “Xulun” (Introduction), in Zhongguo jin xiandai tongsu wenxueshi
(Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999), 35.
5. See Shen Xiaolong, Zhongguo wenhua yuyanxue (Chinese cultural linguistics),
especially the chapter entitled “Zhongguo wenhua yuyanxue de lishi fansi” (Historical
reflections from the perspective of Chinese cultural linguistics) (Changchun: Jilin jiaoyu
chubanshe, 1990), 75-106.
6. Zhou Ruchang, “Baihua yu wenyan” (Baihua and wenyan), Wenhui bao (June 11,
1998), 8.
7. Joan Judge, Print and Politics: Shibao and the Culture of Reform in Late Qing
China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 175.
8. In the 1980s, Perry Link in his interview with Bao Tianxiao briefly commented:
“Pao T’ien-hsiao did rather well at keeping up with the gallop of his times. For the years
1900-1920 he even deserves credit for some important acts of leadership, his polite disclaimers notwithstanding.” See “An Interview with Pao T’ien-hsiao” in Liu Ts’un-yan,
ed., Chinese Middlebrow Fiction: From Ch’ing and Early Republican Era (Hong Kong:
The Chinese University Press, 1984), 242.
9. Link, Perry, Jr., Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies: Popular Fiction in Early Twentieth-Century Chinese Cities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 20.
10. See Wang Xiaoming, “A Journal and a ‘Society’: On the ‘May Fourth’ Literary
Tradition,” Modern Chinese Literature and Culture 11, no. 2 (Fall 1999): 1-39.
11. Theodore Huters, “Lives in Profile: On the Authorial Voice in Modern and Contemporary Chinese Literature,” in Ellen Widmer and David Der-wei Wang, eds., From
May Fourth to June Fourth: Fiction and Film in Twentieth-Century China (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 274-275. See also Wang Xiaoming, 28.
12. Shenbao (Feb. 12, 1921): 14.
13. In the Correspondence section, Mao Dun once complained that he could not pursue his reforms as he wished; he was restrained from above. More than once while prais-
66
Chen
ing his readers’ suggestion to change the name Xiaoshuo yuebao to Wenxue yuekan (Literature monthly), Mao Dun expressed his frustration that this was beyond his ability, for
the matter of naming involved the nature of the magazine and the policy of the publishing
house.
14. Shenbao (May 22, 1921): 14.
15. Shenbao (March 27, 1921):14.
16. Xiaoshuo yuebao 13. 7 (July 10, 1922). This essay was regarded as an important
critical work in May Fourth literary theory. See Marián Gálik, Mao Tun and Modern
Chinese Literary Criticism (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1969), 75; C. T.
Hsia, A History of Modern Chinese Fiction (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971),
161;Rey Chow, Woman and Chinese Modernity: The Politics of Reading between West
and East (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 40-42; Wei Shaochang, Wo
kan Yuanyang hudie pai. Shanghai: Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1962, 7.
17. Zheng Zhenduo, “Xiaoxian?” (Leisure?), Wenxue xunkan 9 (July 30, 1921). See
also Rui Heshi and Fan Boqun, eds., Yuanyang hudie pai wenxue ziliao (Fuzhou: Fujian
renmin chubanshe, 1984), 734-735.
18. Zheng Zhenduo, “Wenchang” (The Literary Prostitutes), Wenxue xunkan 49
(Sept. 1922). See also Yuanyang hudie pai wenxue ziliao, 740
19. Zheng Zhenduo, “Xin jiu wenxue zhi tiaohe” (On the reconciliation between the
new and old literature). Wenxue xunkan 4 (June 1921). See also Yuanyang hudie pai
wenxue ziliao, 726-727.
20. Mao Dun, “Huiyi lu 5” (Memoir 5), in Mao Dun zhuanji (Research materials on
Mao Dun), ed. Tang Jinhai et al. (Fujian: Fujian renmin chubanshe, (1983) 1, 490-91.
21. Cheng Fangwu, “Qilu.” Chuangzao jikan 3 (Jan. 1927): 1.
22. Hu Feng, Hu Feng huiyi lu (Reminiscences of Hu Feng) (Beijing: Renmin
wenxue chubanshe, 1993), 19.
23. Xingqi 1 (March 1922).
24. Xingqi 3 (April 1922).
25. Xingqi 1 (March, 1922).
26. Xingqi 7 (April 1922).
27. Xingqi 1 (March 1922).
28. Xingqi 11 (May 1922).
29. Xingqi 18 (July 1922).
30. Xingqi 11 (May 1922).
31. Xingqi 10 (May 1922).
32. Xingqi 19 (July 1922).
33. See his article in this volume.
34. According to Fan Boqun, there were three debates between May Fourth and Butterfly writers from the late 1910 to 1930s. Basically, he provided a historical account of
the debates. See Minguo tongsu xiaoshuo: Yuanyang hudie pai (Popular fiction in the
republican era: the Butterfly school) (Taipei: Guowen tiandi zazhishe, 1989), 12-29.
35. Hu Shi, “Jianshe de wenxue geming lun” (On the constructive literary revolution), New Youth 4, no. 4 (April 1918): 289-303.
36. See Li Jinxi, Guoyu yundong shigang (Outline history of the national Language
movement) (Shanghai: The Commercial Press, 1934), 71. In describing the relationship
between the national language movement and the New Youth’s literary revolution in 1919,
Li wrote, they “totally reinforced each other. This was an event of great importance.”
37. See Wang Feng, “Wenxue geming yu guoyu yundong zhi guanxi” (The relationship between the literary revolution and the national language movement), in Wan Ming
yu wan Qing: Lishi chengchuan yu wenhua chuangxin (The late Ming and the late Qing:
Canon Formation and Linguistic Turn
67
historical dynamics and cultural innovation), ed. Chen Pingyuan, David Der-wei Wang
and Shang Wei (Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 594- 615 Wang chronicled the
process in which the two movements merged, and he concluded that the new literary
movement “finally replaced wenyan by political force.”
38. See Li Jinxi, Guoyu yundong shigang, 107-121. In his 1927 preface to Hu Shi’s
A Literary History of the National Language (Guoyu wenxue shi), Li emphasized that
1920 was “the great turning point in four thousand years of history” because the Ministry
of Education ordered the primary schools throughout the country to replace classical
language with the vernacular. See Li Jinxi, “Guoyu wenxue shi xu” (Preface to Literary
History of the National Language), in Hu Shi xueshu wenji(Essays on Hu Shi’s scholarship), ed. Jiang Yihua (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1998), 15.
39 . Zhongguo da baike quanshu—Yuyan wenzi juan (Chinese encyclopedia—
language and characters) (Beijing: Zhongguo da baike quanshu chubanshe, 1988), 124.
See also Li Jinxi, Guoyu yundong shigang, 108-110.
40. Mao Dun, “Zagan” (Miscellaneous thoughts), Mao Dun wenyi za lun ji (Shanghai; Shanghai wenyi chubanshe, 1983), 145-46.
41. Zhou Shoujuan, “Shuo xiaoxian zhi xiaoshuo zazhi” (On fiction magazines for
leisure), Shenbao (July 17, 1921): 18.
42. Hu Jichen, “Gui Youguang de xiaoshuo wenxue” (On Gui Youguang’s fictional
literature), Xiaoshuo shijie (Fiction World) 3, no. 1 (1925). See also Yuan Jin, ed., Yuanyang hudie pai sanwen daxi, 110-116.
43. Meng Qiao, “Guoyu zimu gei xiyang zimu de yi feng xin” (A letter from the National Language alphabet to the roman alphabet), Liangyou huabao (May 1926): 21.
44. Fan Yanqiao, Zhongguo xiaoshuo shi (History of Chinese fiction) (Shanghai:
Huaxia chubanshe, 1927).
45. Bao Tianxiao, “Baihuawen zhi shi” (The beginning of baihua), Shanghai huabao
115 (May 27, 1926).
46. Zhou Shoujuan, “Xie zai Ziluolan de qianmian” (A preface to the Violet), Ziluolan 1 (April 1943) 8.
47. Zheng Min, “Shiji mo de huigu: Hanyu yuyan biange yu Zhongguo xinshi
chuangzuo” (A Fin-de-Siècle retrospect: the Han language’s reform and China’s new
poetry), Wenxue pinglun, 3 (1993): 5-20.
48. Zheng Min, “Shiji mo de huigu,” 9.
49. See Jianhua Chen, “The ‘Linguistic Turn’ in 1990s China and Globalization,” in
Critical Zone 1: A Forum of Chinese and Western Knowledge, ed. Q. S. Tong, Shouren
Wang, and Douglas Kerr (Hong Kong University Press, 2004), 119-38.