Born in the city of Lengshuijiang in Hunan Province in 1986, Wu Qi is one of the leading literary figures of his generation. He has worked as a journalist at Southern People Weekly and Across, and as the translator of James Baldwin. He currently works at One-Way Space (Danxiang Kongjian 单向空间), an independent bookstore in Beijing, where he serves as the chief editor of One-Way Street Journal (Dandu 单读) and as a board member of the One-Way Street Foundation. The journal specializes in cultivating avant-garde literature as well as the new worker writing in China. Its title is an homage to Walter Benjamin’s 1928 essay. In 2022, Wu Qi published a book-length conversation, Self as Method, with the anthropologist Xiang Biao, which probed contemporary Chinese subjectivity and literary expression. A second volume, translated by David Ownby, will appear next year.

Among Wu Qi’s talents, his skill at interviewing is widely recognized by his peers. Instead of asking Wu to interview someone for this issue, Granta decided to interview the interviewer.

Editor:

Does literature in China today occupy a different place than it did in your parents’ generation?

Wu Qi:

For my parents’ generation – they were born in the 1950s and 1960s – writing literature was still aspirational. It was still a dream held by many people. Now, it occupies a lesser place in Chinese culture. It no longer has the same exalted status. One can have a very basic and stable career as a writer, or one can storm to great fame. Or, of course, one can be scorned.

The population interested in literature is still quite large, with brand new writers appearing every year. A novel that sells well can make a writer rich in a matter of days. My feeling is that literature today is no longer as abstract and mysterious as it once was – it no longer commands a central position. It has become more tangible, palpable, and arguably even more democratized. But it has also become more vulgar. Once anything starts to be associated with money, sales, fame and power, it is like a cat discovering a mouse. The rules of the game become more complicated.

Editor:

What attracted you to literature in the beginning? What writers of fiction were you first exposed to, growing up in Hunan Province in the 1980s?

Wu Qi:

Books were scarce before college, but the social climate of the economic opening of the 1980s still had an underlying influence. Even if you didn’t read at all, you’d agree that literary classics were good and important. When I was a kid, I would occasionally immerse myself in big books like Dream of the Red Chamber and The Count of Monte Cristo.

The teachers in middle school encouraged us all to pursue these great books – to read beyond our textbooks. All through school we heard about the Chinese classics, as well as the Western classics – people like Charles Dickens. It might be that you couldn’t actually find copies of all these books, or read many of them, but you heard the names. You knew there was a different world out there.

When I entered Beijing University in 2004, and first had access to its library, I cherished the opportunity to catch up on pioneering literature. It was a frenzy of reading. My peers and I were all reading the works of Mo Yan, Yu Hua, Su Tong, Wang Anyi, Chi Zijian, Han Shaogong and Han Dong, the writers of the previous generation. I still remember where their books were shelved in the university library. We were captivated by their storytelling skills and their style, but they also collectively demonstrated the possibility of a future that involved reading and writing books, one where writers directly faced and even criticized social reality. For me, this was the possibility promised by literature. That’s where this all began. I think for my generation, we all share this story, more or less.

Editor:

What about the generation below you – people born in the 1990s and the 2000s?

Wu Qi:

They have a different mindset. What they see is the huge success of these writers from the 1980s and 1990s, financially as well as culturally. But the literary value of this work is less clear to them. They struggle to find writing that addresses what is really happening in society now.

So there is a sort of generational gap opening up. The younger generation have stopped hearing about these older names in terms of literature – rather, they hear of them as success stories. There’s a disconnect. If you really talk to the younger generation – people here in China who actually read, who care about literature, who care about society – you’ll find they are not talking about those classic works. They’re waiting for their own story to be written.

Editor:

If I were a young aspiring writer in China, not particularly political, what would I do now? What is a standard trajectory?

Wu Qi:

First, you’d start with the internet. Some people emerge with a real bang online, especially with genre writing – horror, crime or love stories. But if you’re talking about literary writing, then you would probably start by looking at literary journals. Official journals are still the main channel for young writers starting their careers. There are also some smaller local journals in different provinces. And people can always come to us, at One-Way, and other smaller independent places.

As a young writer you have to build up your network. Get to know editors, or professors – and you can quickly become connected, because the official literature community is very small. You can also try to get to know the members and even presidents of the various Writers’ Associations, which would give you a much better chance of having your stories published.

If you’re in your twenties, of course, you’re going to hate this. You’re going to hate that this kind of networking is so mainstream. It’s not the only road to success, but it’s a major one. And you will probably persuade yourself to take part, because you will find it so much easier than anything else.

Even ten years ago the story would have been different. Back then, we still had market-driven newspapers and magazines.

Editor:

So ten years ago you wouldn’t have to go through, say, the Writers’ Association of Hunan Province, or be connected to various older, well-known writers?

Wu Qi:

Back then the best route for people who wanted to write was probably to study journalism – to study it and to work at it, as some kind of alternative to literature. Starting around 2012, newspapers and media organizations began to be regulated by the state once again. Journalists were no longer allowed to do the same kind of stories as before. So the press lost much of its positive, productive function to the writing community, and long-form journalists began losing their jobs. Many of them now focus on books instead of
long articles.

Editor:

Because book publishers will still publish and pay for that kind of writing?

Wu Qi:

Yes – there’s no other way to do it. Of course you can always self-publish online, for free. But then you can’t make a living. Publishing a book has become one of the few options left open. But to do that you need to have a book in the first place, right? You need an open span of time to be able to finish a book – it’s not like writing an article. And also, if you are a new author, it’s hard to make a career based on the money you earn from books.

Editor:

How do writers negotiate censorship? Even such established figures as Yu Hua and Mo Yan have had books banned on the Mainland that are published elsewhere.

Wu Qi:

A constant negotiation goes on between writers and the authorities. Every writer knows where the line is. The decisions of writing are major decisions – major political, career-defining decisions. It’s a question of whether you want to have a professional life here in Mainland China. If you say or write something wrong, and it’s published and publicized, you know the consequences. It’s all quite clear. Writers know the deal.

Editor: How did you decide to start your own journal?

Wu Qi:

Journalists like me, editors like me, we all needed to find a way to work. I started at the One-Way Street bookstore, which was launched by a group of former journalists, who were still enjoying well-paid careers. They could support an independent bookstore by themselves at that point, and I started working there as an editor.

I thought it was going to be temporary. I thought some other media organization would emerge, but instead the new generation all moved toward social media. Now you need to be a kind of influencer – what people here actually call a ‘Key Opinion Leader’ (KOL) – to support yourself in the media industry. I decided to stay on, and continue using my traditional media skills to edit, translate, and publish.