A veteran novelist reflects on sincerity shaped by hardship, recalls rural memories, and explains how conscience guides writing across decades of steady work, Yang Yang reports.
For Chinese writer Li Rui, the most precious lesson in writing is not technique or reputation, but to be honest, earnest, and sincere.
“Don’t let yourself be swayed by various social trends. Write honestly. Respond to changes genuinely, from the heart with conscience and sincerity,” says Li at a talk on his writing career with David Der-wei Wang, professor of Chinese literature at Harvard University.
“One so-called truth arrives and colors the world one way. Another follows and changes it to a different color. Truth keeps changing. As individuals, especially as artists or writers, being sincere, earnest, and honest is, I believe, what matters most,” he says.
Born and raised in Beijing, Li was 19 when he was sent to a village called Dijiahe in Lyuliang Mountains in Shanxi province as an educated youth in 1969 during the “cultural revolution” (1966-76). There, he worked in the fields for six years. Within three of those years, both his parents died.
“At that time, my family had collapsed. I took on side jobs to survive, collecting acorns. I often found myself alone with a sack deep in the forest. The deeper I went, the more it felt like I was the only person left in the world, with nothing but the sound of dry leaves underfoot and the sound of forest waves moving through the trees,” he says.
Sitting alone in that forest, under a tree, he experienced a sudden sense of unity with the universe. Personal loss and all the upheavals of fate became an invisible education for him.
“Without this experience, the underlying tone of all my later works would not exist,” he says.
“No book has ever inspired me as profoundly as the Lyuliang Mountains did.”
In despair, Li decided to fight against his fate in the only way available to him — by writing.
At the discussion, Wang recalls a story about Li’s passion for writing when he was about 22 years old.
At that time, Li was trying hard to prove himself as a writer. One day, he heard that a well-known author had arrived in the county, and decided to seek his advice. Li rose early in the morning to catch a tractor ride but missed it, and spent much of the day chasing after it on foot. By nightfall, his legs were badly swollen.
In 1974, Li published his first short story in Shanxi provincial literary magazine Qunzhong Wenyi (People’s Literature and Art).
“The story of you rushing to meet that author adds a special significance to your first published work. Not every piece of writing can truly allow us to relive the hardship behind it, nor the sincerity and dedication, or the sheer physical effort a young author poured into it,” Wang says.
He says he sees a young and energetic educated youth pursuing his dream of writing with an almost hysterical determination, trying to prove through his words that his efforts and existence mattered.
“This process almost has the flavor of an absurdist hero, and perhaps even a failed hero, because his work didn’t immediately demonstrate his remarkable talent. It took many more years of practice and perseverance, step by step, to finally achieve the dreams he had back then,” Wang says.
“It moves me deeply,” he says,”that earnestness.”
In 1986, Li published his first book Hou Tu (Deep Earth), a collection of short stories, which Li said in previous interviews was the true beginning of his literary career.
Later, he published works including short story collections and novels such as Jiu Zhi (Former Site), Trees Without Wind, Silver City, and No Clouds for Ten Thousand Miles, as well as essay collections. His works have been translated into English, French, Japanese, German, Korean, Vietnamese, and Swedish. In 2004, he received the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres (Order of Arts and Letters) from the French Ministry of Culture.
