| The Republic of Wine by Mo Yan |
Not only does he write about the
underworld, he must also have a considerable
number of fans there. Mo Yan's admirers
boast that he is one of the most pirated and
frequently banned authors in China. Even
his name—which literally translates
as "don’t speak"—adds
to the sense of defiance
and transgression in his
ouevure. Mo Yan, born
under the name Guo
Moye in Gaomi in
Shandong province in
1955, speaks out force-
fully in his many books,
mixing in social com-
mentary with the magical
realism and fanciful story lines. The
influence of Gabriel García Márquez can be
seen in his work, but Mo Yan has also
expressed his admiration for Tolstoy,
Faulkner and Turgenev. His novel Red
Sorghum served as the basis for an award-
winning 1987 film of the same name, and
was the picked as the favorite novel by
Chinese readers in a 1996 survey. "There are
certain restrictions on writing in every
country," Mo Yan has commented, but he
has made a career out of pushing the
envelope, although sometimes dressing up his
critiques in symbolic or quasi-allegorical.
form "One of the biggest problems in
literature is the lack of subtlety," Mo Yan has
explained. “A writer should bury his thoughts
deep and convey them through the
characters in his novel."
underworld, he must also have a considerable
number of fans there. Mo Yan's admirers
boast that he is one of the most pirated and
frequently banned authors in China. Even
his name—which literally translates
as "don’t speak"—adds
to the sense of defiance
and transgression in his
ouevure. Mo Yan, born
under the name Guo
Moye in Gaomi in
Shandong province in
1955, speaks out force-
fully in his many books,
mixing in social com-
mentary with the magical
realism and fanciful story lines. The
influence of Gabriel García Márquez can be
seen in his work, but Mo Yan has also
expressed his admiration for Tolstoy,
Faulkner and Turgenev. His novel Red
Sorghum served as the basis for an award-
winning 1987 film of the same name, and
was the picked as the favorite novel by
Chinese readers in a 1996 survey. "There are
certain restrictions on writing in every
country," Mo Yan has commented, but he
has made a career out of pushing the
envelope, although sometimes dressing up his
critiques in symbolic or quasi-allegorical.
form "One of the biggest problems in
literature is the lack of subtlety," Mo Yan has
explained. “A writer should bury his thoughts
deep and convey them through the
characters in his novel."
| ROGUES GALLERY: MO YAN |
Reviewed by Ted Gioia
In my travels through China, Hong Kong, Taiwain,
Singapore, Japan, Indonesia and other parts of Asia,
I have experienced first hand the unusual culinary
arts and competitive drinking games of these
cultures. One of my frequent traveling partners
delighted in unusual fare—
and eventually paid the price
for it, suffering untold ago-
nies due to the side effects
of dining on a parasitic-
ridden scorpion. But before
that toxic event, which
almost put him permanently
out of commission, he
ensured that I was treated
to deer tendon, crispy eel,
snake, and a host of other
delicacies that he insisted,
with great vehemence, that
I enjoy to the fullest. As for the drinking, I count
myself lucky to have survived the potent maotai
and the oft-repeated toast gan bei—the equivalent
of "bottoms up"—instructed, as I was, that not to
finish every drop would be considered an insult.
Alas, if I did empty the cup, it would be quickly be
refilled and another toast would ensue.
Dinnertime, in these settings, was often a game of
survival and subterfuge.
Now an author has done justice to this deadly
aspect of Chinese food and drink. Mo Yan—who
had previously employed liquor as an over-arching
metaphor in his book Red Sorghum, which served as
the basis for an 1987 Oscar-nominated film—
returns to the subject in The Republic of Wine. This
absurdist, noir-camp mystery is set in Liquorland,
a mythical province where cuisine and spirits take
on a sinister aspect.
Ding Gou'er, a celebrated investigator, has been
sent to Liquorland by the Higher Procuratorate to
look into allegations of cannibalism. Rumors
have reached Beijing authorities that some
unhinged gastronomists in that region have taken
to dining on young boys. "We all hope there isn’t
a word of truth in this accusation," Ding Gou'er's
boss tells him. "Use any means necessary to carry
out your mission, so long as it’s legal."
Our investigator takes these words to heart,
perhaps too much so, and shows little restraint
or discretion in his pursuit of the supposed
malefactors. But seldom has any detective been
more haplessly befuddled while on the job.
Wine and a woman prove to be Ding Gou'er's
undoing, and soon he is caught in a downward
spiral from which he cannot extricate himself.
He is forced to participate in a series of com-
petitive drinking confrontations, where he fares
badly, and even ends up unwittingly dining on
the very dish he has been sent to eradicate.
The investigation never gets back on track, but
our author Mo Yan hardly seems to care. Instead
he immerses the reader in the crude exoticism of
Liquorland and its leading inhabitants, and the
novel that started out as a detective tale turns into
a nightmarishly Rabelaisian account in which the
line between realism and fantasy blurs….and
eventually disappears completely. Along the
way we meet a bizarre cast of characters, seem-
ingly chosen for their outrageousness: Diamond
Jin, a local party official, who possesses an
"oceanic capacity for liquor," and never gets
intoxicated no matter how much he imbibes;
Yu Yichi, a dwarf and restaurateur, who aims to
seduce every beautiful woman in Liquorland, and
is well on his way to meeting that goal; a
dangerous "Lady Trucker" who flirts one
moment and attacks the next; a scaly demon boy
who leads a revolt of the children destined for
cooking and consumption; a professor of spirits
who heads into the hinterlands, hoping to learn
how make superior wine from white apes.
The narrative structure is highly unconventional.
Chapters alternate with letters between Mo Yan
and a fan of his, named Li Yidou, who is an
aspiring writer and doctoral student in liquor
studies residing in Liquorland. Every letter from
Li Yidou is accompanied by a short story, each of
which deals with some aspect of Liquorland and
its dark side. Eventually these short stories
converge with the account of Ding Gou'er and his
ill-fated criminal investigation. Mo Yan becomes
an increasingly important character in his own
novel, traveling to Liquorland to see things first
hand.
Mo Yan the author is rather harsh on Mo Yan the
character, describing him as a "puffy, balding,
beady-eyed, twisted-mouthed, middle-aged
writer." The author soon falls prey to the same
competitive drinking that laid low his prize
investigator Ding Gou'er. In the final pages, the
novel turns into a crazed stream-of-consciousness
free-for-all, with punctuation and conventional
syntax abandoned—perhaps, as Mo Yan mentions,
in imitation of Joyce’s Ulysses, but maybe just as
the ultimate literary evocation of intoxication.
The symbols are there to decipher, beneath the
outrageous plot lines. The image of respected
officials feasting on citizens is both disturbing,
and all too easy to interpret—so it comes as no
surprise to learn that The Republic of Wine,
written in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square
protests, was banned in the People's Republic
after its 1992 publication in Taiwan. Here too
the figure of the "failed detective," a recurring
meme of the postmodern mystery, takes on larger
overtones, incorporated into this story of a whole
community given over to drunkenness and self-
indulgence. Here failure, contrary to that
famous bit of movie dialogue, may well be the
only option.
Even so, those seeking coherence over exuberance
may find themselves put off by the drunken
stumblings of The Republic of Wine. Many things
get started over the course of this book—a love
affair, a crime investigation, a literary career, etc.
—but few of them reach fruition. Whenever Mo
Yan seems to be settling into his story, he is certain
to surprise you a few pages later by moving on to
something different. But he invariably compen-
sates for the discombobulated story line with an
excess of vivacity, color and sheer extravagance.
You might have a hangover after closing the final
page, yet isn't that what you should expect from a
book built around feasting, drinking and revelry?
Perhaps our author has turned his metaphors
upside down, and instead of writing a book in
which food and drink are mere symbols in the
story, he has cooked up a story that must be
consumed as if it were food and drink…no
matter how hard this tall tale might be to swallow.
Ted Gioia's latest book is The Birth (and Death) of
the Cool.
In my travels through China, Hong Kong, Taiwain,
Singapore, Japan, Indonesia and other parts of Asia,
I have experienced first hand the unusual culinary
arts and competitive drinking games of these
cultures. One of my frequent traveling partners
delighted in unusual fare—
and eventually paid the price
for it, suffering untold ago-
nies due to the side effects
of dining on a parasitic-
ridden scorpion. But before
that toxic event, which
almost put him permanently
out of commission, he
ensured that I was treated
to deer tendon, crispy eel,
snake, and a host of other
delicacies that he insisted,
with great vehemence, that
I enjoy to the fullest. As for the drinking, I count
myself lucky to have survived the potent maotai
and the oft-repeated toast gan bei—the equivalent
of "bottoms up"—instructed, as I was, that not to
finish every drop would be considered an insult.
Alas, if I did empty the cup, it would be quickly be
refilled and another toast would ensue.
Dinnertime, in these settings, was often a game of
survival and subterfuge.
Now an author has done justice to this deadly
aspect of Chinese food and drink. Mo Yan—who
had previously employed liquor as an over-arching
metaphor in his book Red Sorghum, which served as
the basis for an 1987 Oscar-nominated film—
returns to the subject in The Republic of Wine. This
absurdist, noir-camp mystery is set in Liquorland,
a mythical province where cuisine and spirits take
on a sinister aspect.
Ding Gou'er, a celebrated investigator, has been
sent to Liquorland by the Higher Procuratorate to
look into allegations of cannibalism. Rumors
have reached Beijing authorities that some
unhinged gastronomists in that region have taken
to dining on young boys. "We all hope there isn’t
a word of truth in this accusation," Ding Gou'er's
boss tells him. "Use any means necessary to carry
out your mission, so long as it’s legal."
Our investigator takes these words to heart,
perhaps too much so, and shows little restraint
or discretion in his pursuit of the supposed
malefactors. But seldom has any detective been
more haplessly befuddled while on the job.
Wine and a woman prove to be Ding Gou'er's
undoing, and soon he is caught in a downward
spiral from which he cannot extricate himself.
He is forced to participate in a series of com-
petitive drinking confrontations, where he fares
badly, and even ends up unwittingly dining on
the very dish he has been sent to eradicate.
The investigation never gets back on track, but
our author Mo Yan hardly seems to care. Instead
he immerses the reader in the crude exoticism of
Liquorland and its leading inhabitants, and the
novel that started out as a detective tale turns into
a nightmarishly Rabelaisian account in which the
line between realism and fantasy blurs….and
eventually disappears completely. Along the
way we meet a bizarre cast of characters, seem-
ingly chosen for their outrageousness: Diamond
Jin, a local party official, who possesses an
"oceanic capacity for liquor," and never gets
intoxicated no matter how much he imbibes;
Yu Yichi, a dwarf and restaurateur, who aims to
seduce every beautiful woman in Liquorland, and
is well on his way to meeting that goal; a
dangerous "Lady Trucker" who flirts one
moment and attacks the next; a scaly demon boy
who leads a revolt of the children destined for
cooking and consumption; a professor of spirits
who heads into the hinterlands, hoping to learn
how make superior wine from white apes.
The narrative structure is highly unconventional.
Chapters alternate with letters between Mo Yan
and a fan of his, named Li Yidou, who is an
aspiring writer and doctoral student in liquor
studies residing in Liquorland. Every letter from
Li Yidou is accompanied by a short story, each of
which deals with some aspect of Liquorland and
its dark side. Eventually these short stories
converge with the account of Ding Gou'er and his
ill-fated criminal investigation. Mo Yan becomes
an increasingly important character in his own
novel, traveling to Liquorland to see things first
hand.
Mo Yan the author is rather harsh on Mo Yan the
character, describing him as a "puffy, balding,
beady-eyed, twisted-mouthed, middle-aged
writer." The author soon falls prey to the same
competitive drinking that laid low his prize
investigator Ding Gou'er. In the final pages, the
novel turns into a crazed stream-of-consciousness
free-for-all, with punctuation and conventional
syntax abandoned—perhaps, as Mo Yan mentions,
in imitation of Joyce’s Ulysses, but maybe just as
the ultimate literary evocation of intoxication.
The symbols are there to decipher, beneath the
outrageous plot lines. The image of respected
officials feasting on citizens is both disturbing,
and all too easy to interpret—so it comes as no
surprise to learn that The Republic of Wine,
written in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square
protests, was banned in the People's Republic
after its 1992 publication in Taiwan. Here too
the figure of the "failed detective," a recurring
meme of the postmodern mystery, takes on larger
overtones, incorporated into this story of a whole
community given over to drunkenness and self-
indulgence. Here failure, contrary to that
famous bit of movie dialogue, may well be the
only option.
Even so, those seeking coherence over exuberance
may find themselves put off by the drunken
stumblings of The Republic of Wine. Many things
get started over the course of this book—a love
affair, a crime investigation, a literary career, etc.
—but few of them reach fruition. Whenever Mo
Yan seems to be settling into his story, he is certain
to surprise you a few pages later by moving on to
something different. But he invariably compen-
sates for the discombobulated story line with an
excess of vivacity, color and sheer extravagance.
You might have a hangover after closing the final
page, yet isn't that what you should expect from a
book built around feasting, drinking and revelry?
Perhaps our author has turned his metaphors
upside down, and instead of writing a book in
which food and drink are mere symbols in the
story, he has cooked up a story that must be
consumed as if it were food and drink…no
matter how hard this tall tale might be to swallow.
Ted Gioia's latest book is The Birth (and Death) of
the Cool.
| New Angles on an Old Genre |
| Postmodern Mystery |
| Postmodern Mystery is a web site devoted to experimental, unconventional and postmodern approaches to stories of mystery and suspense |
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Reviews and Responses
Tipping My Fedora
Waggish
Conceptual Fiction
Great Books Guide
The New Canon
Ted Gioia's homepage
Ted Gioia (on Twitter)
American Fiction Notes
The Art of Reading
The Big Read
Blographia Literaria
Books, Inq.
Bookslut
Booksquare
A Commonplace Blog
Conversational Reading
Crimespree Magazine
Critical Mass
Dana Gioia
The Elegant Variation
Fictionaut
In Search of the Classic Mystery
Joseph Peschel
Light Reading
The Literary Saloon
Los Angeles Review of Books
Maud Newton
The Millions
The Misread City
Mystery Fanfare
The Neglected Books Page
Nota Bene Books
Open Letters Monthly
Readerville
The Reading Experience
Reviews and Responses
Tipping My Fedora
Waggish