Last year, Yang Zhihan entered the public eye with a razor-sharp edge. Her collection of short stories, “A Block of Solid Ice,” won the 2023 Blancpain-Imaginist Literary Prize, and published “After Dusk” soon after. When it comes to her label as a northeastern writer, Yang Zhihan doesn’t care much: “As long as readers continue to read the novels, and as long as I can still make a little progress, it’s fine.”
Just as suggested by her pen name, Yang Zhihan looks so quiet and introverted in all her photos. I scrolled through her WeChat Moments and after a long time, I found something that revealed her personality: “I do not utter many words, but inwardly I’m a beacon of fire.” During the interview, she said that the atmosphere of nearing graduation was so evident that perhaps saying this could provide some comfort: “I’m not what you normally see.”
Due to a strong sense of internal and external contrast, Yang Zhihan grew up feeling out of place in the Northeast. Fortunately, the charm of time lies in sifting rather than forgetting. It was only after she moved away from her hometown of Qiqihar that she realized that the people of her hometown and the frozen past behind every family were the very reasons why she had to write.
On an April day in Beijing, I read “A Block of Solid Ice” and “After Dusk” back-to-back. At first, the story is filled with strange scenes and murders, and one cannot be immune to the steep chill of the writing even in the warmest hinterland of spring. But the more you read, the deeper Yang Zhihan’s writing sinks into the thrills and trivialities of everyday life, the closer it gets to the people who are the true residence of Northeast China.
This conversation with Yang Zhihan began with the feature “New Voices of Northeast China,” which was co-presented by ARTBDL and the Northeast Asia Art Archive. We hope to ask questions to those creators who have a relationship with Northeast China in terms of their identity, threshold, and scene of creation, and try to distill the lines and texture of Northeast China’s contemporary narrative. This is the third piece of “New Voices of the Northeast,”
In order to discuss the “new” in Yang Zhihan’s works, we have to talk about the Northeast that has been portrayed by literary works in recent years. It was once the glorious eldest son of the Republic, but also a place of decadence after it collapsed in the “wave of layoffs”, and eventually condensed into the tragic comedy of countless Northern families in the stories of writers such as Shuang Xuetao and Ban Yu. In their stories, people are wrapped in layers of history and family narratives, and are never in control of their own destinies.
Yang Zhihan also likes to write about an ancient era, but has no intention of revealing specific clues about it. Born in 1994, she did not experience the changes of the times. But in Qiqihar, a “city in a glass jar,” she feels the slow and stagnant nature of the Northeast, and the efforts of the North-easterners in defending the integrity of their interpersonal relationships.
It was a kind of pre-modern emotional relationship, original, unthinking, even a bit raw. Almost all of Yang Zhihan’s characters suffer from it: a divorced restaurant owner’s wife, a teenager who hates his family of origin, two female vendors competing with each other in a shopping mall… They dare to expose the hypocrisy and unpleasantness in it, but even if there is only a little bit of electric current-like warmth, they would still hold it tightly in hand. To Yang Zhihan, it is those subtle human feelings that allow us to see the complexity and multifaceted nature of people.
But this does not mean that the trauma and tragedy of the previous generation have dissolved. The scars of the past are still looming, but in Yang Zhihan’s writing, people are able to seek a way out for themselves with the will to survive, believing that “things cannot be resolved, but people still have to live.” In the end of many of the stories, people who have been hurt come together with uncertain futures, forming families and friendships that have nothing to do with blood.
In a sense, stripped of all the stares and symbols, she writes about an old and new Northeast: one that has yet to shake off the haze of the past, and at the same time desperately needs to be covered with new hope. Back to Yang Zhihan herself, the significance of writing for her is both small and great. She says that you need to experience something to truly understand the feeling. Because of writing, she is willing to look into everyone’s heart, and it has also made her truly empathetic.
Apples, Cranes and Barbecue
When did you decide that you wanted the Northeast to be the background of your writing?
YANG Zhihan: In fact, every time I write, I reconsider this question. It’s not because I was born in the Northeast that I would naturally write about the Northeast. I must have a story in mind first, and then consider whether the story is more appropriately designed in the Northeast or elsewhere.
When I first started writing, I would identify the memories that struck me the most, and of course they all happened in the Northeast. For example, the first story I wrote was “Canned Yellow Peach.” It was during one of those days when I was bored and I wanted to try to write about someone, like doing a writing exercise, and then an old relative came to mind. We didn’t really know each other very well and it’s just that she had been in my life. With growing time, distance, and age, I felt more and more that her emotions, which were overlooked at the time, were exactly what literature should seek to uncover.
What do you think of the labels of Northeast writer and “Northeast Renaissance” on yourself?
YANG Zhihan: I don’t particularly agree with it, but I don’t reject it either. It’s like a nail to the wall, and for that nail there’s nothing special about it. People always have to step over a threshold before they can see what’s outside the door. But it’s fine even if I’m always thought of as a northeastern writer, as long as readers continue to read the novels, and as long as I can still make a little progress, it’s fine.
When I was browsing through the short reviews on Douban, I found that many people commented that your novel is “not northeastern enough.” How do you feel about that? Maybe it’s because all the literary works in Northeast China over the years have taken place in the context of the “wave of layoffs,” but even when you write about Northeast China in the 1990s, you don’t intentionally emphasize the context of the time.
YANG Zhihan: At first I couldn’t really accept it, but then I thought about it, that just shows that you are writing in a way that makes people less comfortable. At least, it allows people to know that there are other ways to look at the Northeast. Like when I was a kid, I ate apples, and for a long time, I thought apples should all be red like Fuji or ralls janet. It wasn’t until I ate a green apple that I had to admit that it was also an apple.
We may have things in common in our work, but each person’s writing is still, surely, dictated by what an author wants for himself or herself. I could write about the Northeast industry and the “wave of layoffs,” but those things don’t have the same emotional impact on me. In my family, only my maternal grandfather worked in a factory, but he retired without any trouble so I didn’t experience any of these. The ones that touched me more were the ones I really wanted to write about, right?
So do you indeed feel that many people’s understanding and imagination of the Northeast region are somewhat narrow?
YANG Zhihan: In fact, we people from the three northeastern provinces often think of ourselves as a whole. Especially when you are out of the region and meet people from the Northeast, there is a sense of closeness between fellow-townsmen. This kind of closeness doesn’t seem to exist among other provinces. But on the other hand, the Northeast is so large and spans so many different natural zones that although it snows in winter, the amount of snowfall varies. Some cities are relatively warm throughout the year, such as Dalian, while it’s windy all year round in Qiqihar.
Qiqihar is a very quiet little city. There aren’t many outsiders here, and the streets are clean because there are not many people producing garbage. The natural environment around the city is excellent, but not developed to the point of exploitation. The sky is so blue it looks almost unreal. Qiqihar is most famous for its cranes and barbecue. But when you think of cranes, you think of them as floating and ethereal, so how can they be associated with barbecue sizzling in fierce flames? I think the contrast is quite strong. Our barbecue is also not quite like those in other cities, where each family brings their own oven out and cooks right on the street.
Until now, every time I go home, I still feel that Qiqihar is like a city in a glass jar, without much influence from the external environment. Maybe only those who have been to Qiqihar can better understand what I’m talking about. In contrast. Shenyang changes quite slowly, but it’s like this huge machine, with an old heart that’s still beating and the beating is quite strong. It’s also like someone who is well versed in the ways of health, just living life at a slow pace.
Defending the Integrity of Relationships
Reading your novels, I can often feel that this is written by someone of the same age.
YANG Zhihan: Maybe many people feel the same way. I always say to my friends that it may take decades, not just a day or two, before we realize that we are actually living in a whirlpool. Maybe my thoughts are a bit scattered, but what I’m trying to say is that we are indeed living in a time of change. When we were young, we thought that online shopping and calling a cab with an app were advanced technology, but nowadays, various social platforms have made it possible for us to know everything about the world without leaving our homes. Our living conditions have changed drastically and our emotions are also changing significantly.
Is this perhaps why you like to write about the 90s as you remember them? Because the atmosphere of that era disappears too quickly before we can experience it fully?
YANG Zhihan: You’re right. I don’t really miss a specific era or a specific thing, but I miss the way people interacted with each other at that time.
In Northeast China, the general environment changes relatively slowly, so people’s emotions and feelings between people are relatively unaffected by the external environment. The larger the city, the more emotionally constricted people are, but the North-easterners defend the integrity of these relationships as if it were something they cared about most. It’s often said that North-easterners love a society based on personal relationship, and it is indeed true. North-easterners particularly valued emotions.
Do you think there is a northeastern style of interpersonal relationship?
YANG Zhihan: There are some very subtle things in Chinese interpersonal relationships. In Northeast China, these relationships are more condensed into rules that can’t be expressed in words or defined by law, but are understood by each other. There are pros and cons. If I see something in you, I’ll be nice to you, or I’ll try to make things difficult for you and put you in a tight spot.
At the end of the day, I still care more about the emotions between people, because emotions endure. Although many people criticize the society based on personal relationships for lacking the spirit of contract, sometimes it is those subtle human feelings that let us see the complexity and multi-faceted nature of humans.
Fierce Love
In your novels, the relationship between mothers and daughters seems to be more subtle and complex than any other family relationship.
YANG Zhihan: Among all family relationships, I do care most about the mother-daughter relationship. I feel that the mother-daughter relationship naturally exists in a zone that cannot be reached by other intimate relationships. It’s a relationship between two women where one nurtures the other, but the two are not immune to the competition and suspicion that are part of their nature. A mother-daughter relationship is intimate, more than any other relationship. Unlike a father-son relationship, where many fathers think their sons are like them but there are things they just don’t talk about.
You once wrote, “The women of this land are all alike.” How would you summarize the qualities or commonalities of the women of Northeast China?
YANG Zhihan: I can only say that the women in my family are very strong and resilient, and are not afraid of losing face. So as an outlier in my family, I was actually able to better explore this quality in them.
They always feel like they can solve any problem, as long as they follow that bright path, so why create unnecessary twists and turns? But sometimes, those artificial twists are precisely the inexplicable areas within emotions that require a glance or a word of encouragement. Although they excel at solving your problems, they aren’t as good at easing them. In their eyes, all your issues are stubborn and require drastic measures. They’d rather you endure the pressure to cure the disease, regardless of your feelings. That kind of love is still a kind of fierce love.
The northeastern women I’ve met are the ones who call the shots at home. In my first novel, I indeed depicted numerous scenes of domestic violence, which I believe precisely reflects the weakness of men in such an environment. Unable to express themselves verbally and feeling guilty, they resort to violence.
The Assertive
In “The Eternal Snowless Great Temple,” you wrote, “No matter how good the rules are, there are still people who get eliminated. In comparison, the latter may fit rules that the general public couldn’t even imagine.” Looking back at your upbringing, I’m curious to know which category you would place yourself in: someone who fits into mainstream rules, or someone who has their own set of rules?
YANG Zhihan: I can’t say what kind of person I am. When I talk to my friends, I am always analyzing someone, as if it’s an occupational habit. But when it comes to myself, I can’t be analyzed by anyone. I can’t define myself, but I can only say that I am a person of strong contrasts.
My character, which you should be able to feel when we talk, is actually a bit out of place in the Northeast. When I was a kid, my parents were very busy with work, and for a long time I had conversations with myself. It’s not that I’m aloof or don’t have friends; I really enjoy spending time on my own and can’t let go of my inner richness. It can’t be replaced by other social activities.
Even today, I still feel the same way every time I go back home. I used to feel a little hurt, but now I can laugh at myself and it’s kind of fun. I also often have a childish prankster’s mindset and it’s best not to be seen.
What do you think about the impact of quality education on writing?
YANG Zhihan: I think of the lyrics of a song by Cui Jian: I received basic education through basic efforts. I think it’s actually important to make basic efforts. I was indeed a good student in the eyes of my teachers, and it would be too pretentious not to admit it. I was quite assertive in the eyes of the teachers and I would talk to them and talk back to them calmly.
When I was in elementary school, I was encouraged by my teacher to start writing a serialized novel when she assigned us the task of writing a diary every day. When I was older, I wrote an essay every day. I think it’s important to write when you’re an adolescent, because there will never be a time when you’re so emotionally rich and confused about the outside world. The confusion of a newborn is certainly different from that of an adult.
You started out by writing online literature. I am curious if that had anything to do with your reading experience. How have your reading habits changed?
YANG Zhihan: When I was young, reading was like an adventure. Every week, I would go treasure hunting at a big bookstore. The first few floors were filled with educational materials, and only a small section on the top floor was dedicated to literature, mostly with books that didn’t sell well. I didn’t know which books were good, so I would pick one that caught my eye. Books also have a way of recommending other books; starting with Murakami Haruki, I was led to Raymond Chandler, and then to Kafka and Duras, and so on. I also liked reading books from my parents’ study, ranging from “Drifting Women” and other street literature to “White Deer Plain” and “Ruined City.” Although my parents thought some of these books were too mature for me at the time, they never stopped me. When they weren’t home, it was another adventure.
Sometimes I joke around. When chatting with friends, I joke that I read with “Three Heroes and Five Gallants” in my left hand and “The Brothers Karamazov” in my right hand. I don’t know if reading is beneficial, but at least I didn’t go too far off track.
Nowadays, I might not be as interested in street literature, but if I run out of books, I’d still read it. I think it’s important to objectively view our past experiences; forgetting history is betrayal. There were reasons why those books stirred my emotions at the time.
You Can’t Fake Writing
You’ve lived in Hangzhou since college, what does it mean to you to write about people and things there while being far away from the Northeast?
YANG Zhihan: It’s a rather comfortable distance that allows me to better organize my emotions and memories. There are some things that, when expressed in words, feel completely different from the usual occasional thoughts.
I think we all have had similar experiences: when our impression of a person is too detailed or when we are too familiar with someone, it becomes difficult to truly observe them. Even if a fictional character is archetypal, the person in real life and the person in the novel must be two different people. You should fill in the details of the story through your own observations.
AI really like a line from “Rebecca”: “For the first time, I felt the approach of disaster. Although it wasn’t a calamity for all humanity, it seemed more heart-wrenching than a global catastrophe because it was so close.” I believe this reflects your genuine feelings as an author. I also wonder if it represents your attitude towards writing.
YANG Zhihan: I’m very happy you noticed it; it is indeed true.
Usually, I write because something has moved me deeply, capturing my emotions to the point where I feel compelled to express them. It has to reach that level of intensity. Writing, as we say in the northeastern dialect, cannot be faked. If something doesn’t move you that much, you can still write about it, but it won’t carry that intense emotional impact beneath the words. The text itself can pretty much prove this point.
Were you in the Northeast during the pandemic?
YANG Zhihan: Yes I am… No, I’m not. You see, that’s the funny thing about writing. Although the emotions are real, I tamper with my memories while writing. You asked me if I was at home during the epidemic, and I subconsciously answered yes, but now I remember I wasn’t. I was in Hangzhou for the first two years of the epidemic, and I didn’t even go home for the Spring Festival. Sometimes I can’t tell if what I’m writing about actually happened. If not, what was the real situation like?
Complexity Is a Commonality
Your characters all have a commonality of being in a complex web of relationships and at the same time being ostracized by that web. I’m curious as to why you are fascinated by such a state, and to what extent you empathize with these characters?
YANG Zhihan: Actually, everyone’s interpersonal relationships are quite complicated. Are there any really simple relationships? I don’t think so. People themselves are quite complicated. I used to think that my own family was an ordinary family, but if you are sensitive enough, or if you are willing to look into everyone’s heart, you will find that he or she has experienced so much pain and suffering, just that you may not have been there on those occasions.
Complexity is actually a commonality. The reason why the main characters in my novels seem to be so unhappy is because they realize that the world is so complicated, and I’ve only found the tip of an iceberg. When you realize that, you’re actually able to pull back and look at those relationships.
Many of your characters are fueled by hatred for their actions, but in the second novel, “After Dusk,” that hatred seems to be slightly defused in a different form. How do you feel about this shift in your writing?
YANG Zhihan: I wonder if this shift exists. I think there is hatred in most relationships between people and it may just be temporarily hidden. And I don’t believe that after a relationship is broken, you can get up the next day and wash your face or cry and forgive each other and make up. I really don’t trust that kind of relationship.
Have you seen “Gone with the Wind”? Brad told Scarlett that he couldn’t convince himself that a torn shirt with a patch was new. It’s just that I have to live, and I want to live well. I’ve been aggravated and treated harshly, so why don’t I find a way out for myself?
So what you’re saying about defusing is really about living comfortably, which is a basic need for survival. People still have to live, but things can’t be defused.
This is probably what makes you different from other northeastern writers. Your characters are not entirely hostage to the times and destiny, but will actively seek a way out for themselves.
YANG Zhihan: Our focus is different. The characters of other northeastern writers may be hurt by the times, but mine basically had self-inflicted sins or self-abandoning issues, and they need to be broken before they are rebuilt. Moreover, when a person has experienced pain and has already fallen to the bottom, even taking just one step forward is progress upward.
But my story basically still has some warm parts, just like this sentence I wrote: Warmth is a small electric current, it niggles, but doesn’t sting you.
Better Understanding
How do you view the recent trend of “cutting off ties” with relatives, which has become popular on social media in China over the past two years? More and more only-child generations are passively cutting off relationships with relatives.
YANG Zhihan: I can understand. I often say that unlike friends, family is not a choice made in adulthood. While friendships are based on shared interests, family ties are in our blood, something we cannot choose. You may not like their attitudes on certain matters, but there are genuine emotions and feelings that cannot be replaced. I prefer to remember the good times. Moreover, many elders’ relationships with the world seem to still exist, but in reality, they have become distant or even severed. It takes a lot of patience to deal with elders.
I guess we can only be wary of becoming the kind of elders who constantly preach. It’s difficult to change a person in any relationship. Endure what you can, focus on the positive aspects, that’s all we can do. I don’t know if what I’m saying is another form of preaching? I can only say, try not to hurt others, because sometimes, the damage is hard to repair.
What’s the biggest benefit you’ve gained through writing?
YANG Zhihan: Better understanding. As you spend more time with a character, even if they are fictional, you gradually get to know them, shedding some of your initial biases.
In reality, many things aren’t understood until experienced. Writing has given me the opportunity to imagine myself as someone else, and through that, I’ve discovered that each person is their own unique universe, even your understanding of yourself is very limited.
