English: A Novel

Paperback | March 30, 2010

byWang GangTranslated byMartin Merz, Jane Weizhen Pan

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"I loved this book and can't stop talking about it. . . Transcendent." -Carolyn See, The Washington Post

In the tradition of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, Wang Gang's English is a captivating coming-of- age novel about the power of language to launch a journey of self- discovery. When a new teacher comes to school-a tall, elegantly dressed man from Shanghai carrying an English dictionary under his arm-twelve- year-old Love Liu turns away from Chairman Mao's little red book and toward the teacher's big blue book for answers to his most pressing questions about love and life. But as a whole new world begins to open up for him, Love Liu must face a test more challenging than any he'll take in the classroom.

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"I loved this book and can't stop talking about it. . . Transcendent." -Carolyn See, The Washington Post In the tradition of Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, Wang Gang's English is a captivating coming-of- age novel about the power of language to launch a journey of self- discovery. When a new teacher comes to school-a tall,...

Wang Gang is a critically acclaimed novelist and screenwriter in China. English is based on his experiences growing up in western China. He lives in Beijing. Martin Merz, a native speaker of English, has a degree in Chinese language and literature from Melbourne University in Australia and is completing a master’s degree in applied tr...

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Format:PaperbackDimensions:320 pages, 7.7 × 5.1 × 0.7 inPublished:March 30, 2010Publisher:Penguin Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0143116541

ISBN - 13:9780143116547

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Table of Contents Title PageCopyright Page ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEEN AFTERWORDVIKINGPublished by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published in 2009 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.  Copyright © Wang Gang, 2004Translation copyright © Martin Merz and Jane Weizhen Pan, 2009 All rights reserved Originally published in Chinese as Ying Ge Li Shi by People’s Literature Publishing House, Beijing. Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyrighted works:“The End of the World” by Arthur Kent and Sylvia Dee. Copyright © 1962 (renewed) by Music Sales Corporation (ASCAP) and Edward Proffitt Music. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. .“Moon River,” music by Henry Mancini, lyrics by Johnny Mercer. © 1961 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, Tenn. All rights reserved. Used by permission. PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. eISBN : 978-1-101-02241-2  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.ONEIAround May of that year, the city of Ürümchi was bathing happily in the sunlight cascading down from the Tianshan Mountains. Like a fluttering snowflake, I drifted into the classroom, then sat down and stared out at the snow and the sun. Ürümchi’s often like that: Sunlight mingled with snowflakes splashes right onto your face. This was springtime in Ürümchi, when you know-it-alls from the other side of the pass have already begun to tire of looking at your peach blossoms and your open fields.No one called out for us to stand when Ahjitai walked in. The classroom was like the wilds by a river, and we were buzzing little insects. Ahjitai walked forward a few steps. Garbage Li cried out, and our eyes all turned toward our teacher.We hadn’t expected Ahjitai would actually come.I had put her chances at less than 50 percent.Ahjitai stood on the podium, tears running down her face as she got ready to speak.You should have figured out already that all the boys were sad that day because Ahjitai was leaving. She was beautiful, her skin snowy white—she was a “double turner.” I should explain: “Double turner” is a term from Ürümchi that means the mother is Uyghur and the father Han Chinese, or the other way around.We had stopped learning Russian the year before, and from that day we would not be learning Uyghur. We weren’t really interested in languages. We were interested only in women like Ahjitai. She might have been a teacher, but the curve of her neck and her tears were things I yearned for at dawn much more than the sun.Ahjitai was leaving. Can you imagine what that meant to us?She scanned the classroom. At that moment all the boys held their breath as if awaiting a verdict. There had recently been rumors about Ahjitai. Someone even said she had boarded a truck and, sitting up front next to the driver, gone to Kashgar, where her mother is from. But rumors are just that. Here she was, standing on the podium, so Garbage Li was right—she would still teach the last class.Ahjitai turned. Chalk in hand, she wrote five words on the blackboard: The Sayings of Chairman Mao.She’d hardly finished writing when she turned to us and said, “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you.”The boys whooped and began to fly about like sparrows. Ahjitai smiled. Whose smile could match hers? Whose lips could compare with hers? Suddenly Garbage Li cried out, “Long live Chairman Mao!”The whole class laughed—even the girls. Then everybody shouted: “Long live, long live Chairman Mao!”Ahjitai waited for the clamor to subside, then asked, “You really want to learn Uyghur that much? You want me to stay?”The classroom fell silent. The boys were not interested in any language—not even Chinese, let alone Uyghur—and the girls had hankered for English classes for a long time. Like the first spring rains, English would soon drift over the Tianshan Mountains and fall on the riverbanks of Ürümchi and the swamps of the Seventeen Lakes beside the school.Ahjitai suddenly locked her eyes on mine: “Love Liu, you’re daydreaming. What are you thinking about?”My face turned red. The whole class was looking at me. I stood up. This was the first time Ahjitai had questioned me like that.“Nothing,” I stammered.She smiled and asked me to sit down.I hesitated, then said, “Miss Ah, you—”“I’ve told you many times,” she interrupted, “don’t call me Miss Ah. Call me Miss Ahjitai, and from now on just call me Ahjitai. Anyway, I’m not going to be a teacher anymore.”“You’re not leaving, are you?” I asked.“I am leaving,” she said. “I’m going to work in commerce.”I sat down wondering what “work in commerce” meant. Did it mean she would work in a shop? Which one?“I want to learn English with you,” Ahjitai said. “I saw your English teacher yesterday. His name is Second Prize Wang.”The boys groaned.Ahjitai smiled. “All right,” she said, “class dismissed.”Our eyes followed her as she walked out. Again I stared at her fair hair as it swayed like lake grass.It was quiet, very quiet. No one said a word.Russian was gone. Uyghur was gone. English was coming.IIGrowing up, I would often stare blankly at the snowy peaks and the sky, wondering why we couldn’t choose where to be born. Why was I born in Ürümchi, a place where snow still falls in May and even June, and then turns the ground into a muddy quagmire? In spring, everything is waterlogged from the melted snows. I would walk along roads glittering with reflected sunlight, and silvery objects would wink at me in the distance. On days when classes were canceled, I would look toward the horizon to see what was out there shimmering like water. I went once to Yamalike Hill, but there was only dirt and sand. I also went to the East Hill Graveyard, where people were often executed by firing squad.Ever since I was a child I have felt Ürümchi to be a lonely place. Or maybe I was just lonely there.When I was four I went to Nanking with my parents. The journey was long; I thought we’d never make it. When at last I saw before me this huge city, I felt giddy at the sight of the tall buildings and the crowds.Mother said, “This is where Daddy and Mommy grew up and went to school. Look, these are plane trees from France.”It was the first time I had heard the word France.“Where is France?”“Where? In Europe.”“Where is Europe?”“Across the sea.”“Where is the sea?”“There are many seas.”“Then why haven’t I seen one?”“There are no seas in Xinjiang.”“Why are there no seas in Xinjiang?”“There was a sea at one time, but it dried up.”“Why did you have me in a place where even the sea dried up?”Hearing me fire off questions like this, Father took over: “There are no seas in Xinjiang, but we have the Tianshan Mountains.”Mother added, “Every spring, the snow on the Tianshan Mountains melts, and the water flows into the Ürümchi River. . . .”“Why did you have me in Ürümchi? I don’t want to be from there. I want to be from here.”What I really wanted to say that day on the streets of Nanking was this: “I want you to have me here. I want to be born in Nanking.”My parents looked at each other for a moment, slightly embarrassed. They were smiling. Love was in their smile.Mother said, “Do you know why we gave you the name Love Liu?”I didn’t want to listen. Mother had told me before. “I’m dizzy,” I said.I immediately switched my mind to something else. Ever since I was a child, I could quickly divert my thoughts when I didn’t want to hear something, directing them to the sky, the mountains, or the sea that I had not yet seen.Really, there is nothing as tragic as being forced to be born somewhere, because once you come out, everything is already decided, and nothing can be changed.Growing up in a bleak backwater, drinking water from the melted snows of the Tianshan Mountains, you discover that people from Nanking see you as different—your skin is rougher, your accent makes people laugh. And even when you tell them Ürümchi is a city, they still ask, “You ride horses to school, don’t you?”I was forced to be born in Ürümchi, but what about my parents? Were they forced to live there? And why did they give me an awful name like Love Liu? Love represents compassion, nobility. Doesn’t that sound pretentious? Love Liu, Love Liu. It really is a pretentious name.That day in Nanking, the air felt like it was on fire. After I put the last piece of duck in my mouth, Father took Mother and me to buy a phonograph. Carrying the phonograph out of the store, Father walked in front with Mother, and I followed. We walked along a path lined with plane trees. After turning a corner, we entered a small wooden building. Father knocked on the door of an old classmate’s home, and we were let in. Father and his classmate sat for a while, contemplating each other. “Returning to Xinjiang tomorrow,” Father finally said to his classmate. “Don’t know when we’ll be back again.”His classmate’s eyes misted up. “Yesterday,” he said, “I looked again at that photograph you sent me.”Father smiled modestly.“I want to see the photograph,” I demanded.The classmate took it out of a drawer, passed it to me, and said, “Love Liu, you’re going to be like your father.”The photograph was of a building, which I immediately recognized as the Nationalities Theater. I had been there to watch movies and Uyghur song-and-dance performances. Uyghurs play the dap drum, and their voices are more vibrant than those of Han Chinese. Did they ever wonder, as I did, why they were born in this place without seas?In the graying photo I saw a dome and white columns. Father was an architect, and this was his work.Father took the photograph from me. Looking at it with pride, he said, “I brought you another photograph today, a picture of our family taken in front of the Nationalities Theater.”Mother took out the photograph and passed it to the classmate. The three of us were at the entrance to the theater. Father was holding me, Mother’s arm in his. Father’s glasses were crooked. It was probably my fault.The classmate examined the photograph and said, “Love Liu looks just like you.”“Never mind the people,” Father replied. “Just look at the building.”The classmate retrieved a phonograph record from a cabinet. “This is for you,” he said to my father. They uncovered the phonograph and put on the record. The music started.I asked Mother, “Why can’t I hear the Uyghur dap drum?”“It’s a violin and a piano,” she said, “not a dap drum and a rawap.”“I don’t like how it sounds,” I declared.What I really meant was that it sounded strange to me. It was a sound that didn’t exist in Ürümchi, where I heard mostly Uyghurs playing dap drums and plucking rawaps. When I was small there was a popular song called “My Rawap.” It’s beautiful—I can assure you it’s the most beautiful music in the world. It conveys the vast desolation of Xinjiang. But my parents wanted me to listen to this stuff—a violin, they said. Father’s classmate kept on telling Father that the composer’s name was Glazunov.I listened for a short time, then fell asleep. I know I had a dream, and that parts of my dream were imagined, like Nanking and Glazunov, and parts were real, like Ürümchi and “My Rawap.”IIIOne sunny day that crisp cold May, I walked along a muddy road, lunch box in hand, to take food to my father. That morning he’d mentioned he wouldn’t be home for lunch because he had to finish a painting.A wall had been put up right in front of the theater. Father was standing on some scaffolding. He had just finished painting someone’s head and was now painting the shoulders. Everyone was skinny in those days, except this guy. It was Chairman Mao.I walked up and said, “Dad, time for lunch.”He ignored me, focusing on the portrait.“Dad, lunch,” I persisted.Without turning around he asked, “Does it look like him?”I glanced at the painting. “One ear is missing,” I commented.“What do you know?” Father snapped. “This is according to the laws of perspective.”“One ear is missing,” I insisted.Father became annoyed and stopped painting. He adjusted his glasses and started to climb down from the scaffolding as nimbly as a monkey at West Zoo. After a few swings between the steel pipes and the wooden boards, he jumped to the ground.I saw sweat on his forehead. “Painting is hard work, right?” I asked.“That depends on the subject,” he replied.“Look,” I said, “can’t you tell an ear is missing?”“If you have the chance, you should also become an architect when you grow up. The basics of drawing . . .” As he spoke, he took a huge bite out of a maize cake and bit down on his finger. He checked his finger and saw only teeth marks; the skin wasn’t broken. He grinned. “I’m just a glutton,” he said. “It’s been a while now. I haven’t eaten meat since the Spring Festival. The taste of pigs’ feet is a distant memory for me.”Father began to grind the maize cake with his teeth. The sound reminded me of a cement mixer. I stared at the portrait, engrossed by its missing ear.Father probably noticed my fixation. “Let me explain the laws of perspective,” he lectured. “Look at me. If I stand at this angle, you can see only half of my face, one ear, and the outline of my nose and lips, right? What if I turn a little?” While speaking, he put the last piece of the maize cake into his mouth and turned a bit.“I can see that ear,” I said cheerfully.He was visibly irritated. “Can you?” he demanded. “You can’t. You can see only my head and my face. If you really want to see my ears, I have to be like this.” Just as he was about to turn again, he tensed up.Two men approached from a nearby building, one tall and the other wearing glasses. The one wearing glasses was Director Fan.Father looked nervous. “Go home now,” he ordered. “Tell your mother I’ll be back early today if I can finish.”“I don’t have classes this afternoon,” I responded. “I can watch you paint.”“Go home,” Father insisted.I did not move. I could see helplessness and even fear in Father’s eyes. My presence was clearly making him more nervous. Looking at him, I started to hesitate, thinking I would leave if he asked me again. But it was too late. The men were standing right in front of us.The tall man looked at the portrait and said, “Exactly the same, really. It looks exactly like the one I saw at Tiananmen Square.” Suddenly he paused. “Why is there a left ear but no right ear?” he asked.I was secretly pleased with myself—Father was wrong for sure. I was the first one who’d noticed. He just wouldn’t admit it.Father looked at the portrait and began to explain. “Director Fan, Commander Shen, this is according to the laws of perspective. Think about—”“What damn laws!” Commander Shen snarled. He glared at Father. “Hurry up! Put the ear back.”Father didn’t move. A huge smile appeared on his face. “It won’t work if I add another ear,” he insisted through his smile.The tall man came up and grabbed Father’s hand. Then he changed his mind and tweaked Father’s ear. He tugged gently at first, then pulled roughly when he felt Father was not cooperating. “Now! Get up there and put the ear back.”Director Fan, the one wearing glasses, was smiling all the while. “He wants you to put it back. Just do it,” he chimed in.Father still hesitated. He turned to Director Fan, pleading with his eyes. He knew Director Fan was an educated man who understood more than just the laws of perspective.I wanted to laugh with them, but when I saw the man pulling my father’s ear like that, I couldn’t. I wanted to tell them to let go of my father’s ear, but I didn’t dare speak. Somehow my ear hurt a bit, too.Father nimbly climbed back up on the scaffolding. Looking up, I saw his hair quiver, his glasses glinting in the sunlight. He took up his brush and added an ear to the right side of the face. We were all stunned—the image looked weird. It did not resemble a normal person’s head.“You’re messing around,” the tall man rebuked. “You’ve painted the ear too big.”Father rubbed out the ear and painted it smaller. Chairman Mao’s image looked even funnier.“It won’t work,” Father pleaded again.The tall man yelled, “You come down, then.”Director Fan joined in. “Hurry up.”Father climbed down and looked at the portrait with them. All of a sudden Director Fan slapped Father in the face. Father almost fell to the ground. “I know what’s on your mind,” Director Fan barked. Then he turned to the tall man for approval.“Brush it all off. Start again!” Commander Shen ordered.As they were about to leave, I jumped forward and grabbed Director Fan’s leg. “Why did you hit my father?” I cried out.Director Fan smiled. “You are still a child,” he said. “You will have to make a clean break from him when you’re a bit older.”I clung to his leg.“Pull your son off, will you!” he yelled at Father.“Come here!” Father shouted at me. “Let go of uncle.”I held on. Father came over to pry my hands away, but I still would not let go. He then kicked me hard on my butt. It hurt a lot, and I finally let go of Director Fan’s leg.The men left. Director Fan continued talking to Commander Shen as they walked away.Father waited until they were gone, then asked, “Did that hurt?”I shook my head.Father sighed. “I’ll start all over again in the afternoon. I’ll paint a full frontal this time, so there will be two ears.”“He hit you. Why didn’t you hit him back?”“He’s tall—I can’t take him.” Seeing my face contorted with rage, Father gently patted my head.I looked at the ear Commander Shen had pulled. “Then why did you hit me?” I asked.Father smiled. “Silly boy, who else could I hit?”His words are burned into my memory. It is said there is always something that can make you cry. Let me say it again: There is always something that can make you cry—and it is seeing your father get beat up.IVI couldn’t sleep that night. The smile on Father’s face after he was slapped whipped about in my mind like washing left out on the line in a storm. Later, I heard Father weeping in another room. It was spooky, like the sound of wind howling through Wulabo Gorge.I quietly got up, went to my parents’ bedroom door, pushed it open a crack, and peeked in.Father was indeed crying. He said to Mother, “They actually hit me. The left side of my face still hurts. They don’t understand, they just don’t understand. And there is no way you can explain anything to them.”Mother stroked his face and asked, “Is this where it hurts?”“I really didn’t expect it. They didn’t criticize me or hit me during the struggle session last year. Why today?”Mother tried to comfort him. “Maybe they were in a bad mood today,” she said.“Do I have more white hairs?” Father asked.Mother smiled. “Come to me.” Father then meekly lowered his head onto her belly and let her pluck his white hairs. Mother searched meticulously, pulling them out one by one. Father was at ease, like a dog enjoying his master’s every stroke. He moaned after each hair was plucked and then moved his head closer to Mother.Mother was also relaxed. “It’s spring again.” She sighed. “Another year has passed.”“Who needs a spring like this?” Father said.Mother was tiring of plucking Father’s white hairs. “Are you feeling better now?”“Guess who killed Bai Wen?” Father asked.Mother paused. “He killed himself,” she said.“No, his wife killed him.”Mother seemed puzzled.Father continued: “He would not have died if his wife had been like you. Men who commit suicide are really killed by their wives.”“Last night I actually dreamed about that phonograph record he gave us,” she said.“Let’s listen to some music,” Father said.“No,” Mother countered, “we’re lucky we haven’t been kicked out of this apartment and sent packing to Iron Gate Pass, or even Karasahr. And you want to risk listening to that stuff?”“I’ll keep the volume down.”“I just said no,” Mother protested.

Bookclub Guide

INTRODUCTIONIn a remote village tucked away in northwestern China, in the middle of Chairman Mao’s decimating reign, a young boy is falling in love—with women, with language, and with the mystery of adulthood. In Wang Gang’s novel English, the aptly named Love Liu tells the story of his coming of age in the middle of the Cultural Revolution, when a man with a book was the most dangerous figure imaginable.Love Liu’s world is constructed, literally and figuratively, by three great forces—his mother, his father, and Mao. The cavernous school he attends (when classes are not suspended for political reasons) was designed by his architect father. His mother, also an architect, is busy with plans for a bomb shelter that will make her the toast of the local Communist Party. And everywhere Love Liu goes, he is both menaced and comforted by the paintings, the sayings, and the songs of Chairman Mao. Into this carefully orchestrated, minutely supervised world comes an outsider: Second Prize Wang, the new English teacher at the school. Unlike the other adults in Love Liu’s life, Second Prize Wang wears elegant suits and cologne, and his Shanghai ways give him the tantalizing air of a foreigner. What’s more, he carries with him an English dictionary—a book that seems to hold the answers to Love Liu’s most pressing and secret questions about love and life.While Love Liu and his schoolmates—the bright, troubled Sunrise Huang and the rowdy, impoverished Garbage Li—busy themselves with children’s games and gossip, they are not immune to the political crisis unfolding among their elders. All three are bound up in their parents’ troubles, and the combination of childlike logic and a paranoid society is deadly.As Love Liu and Second Prize Wang begin to gather steam on a collision course with the culture of suspicion that surrounds them, Wang Gang reveals with precision and deep sympathy the effects of a totalitarian state on individual lives and minds. ABOUT WANG GANGWang Gang is a critically acclaimed novelist and screenwriter in China. English is based on his experiences growing up in western China. He lives in Beijing. Martin Merz, a native speaker of English, has a degree in Chinese language and literature from Melbourne University in Australia and is completing a master’s degree in applied translation at the Open University of Hong Kong. Jane Weizhen Pan, a native speaker of Chinese, is a professional translator as well as an interpreter in Mandarin, Cantonese, and English. She lives in Melbourne, Australia. A CONVERSATION WITH WANG GANGQ. How does your own experience of growing up in western China inform this novel?I was born in the Xinjiang region in China’s far west and grew up in the capital city of Urumqi along the old Silk Road. It is true that in response to some Chinese reporters who asked whether this novel is autobiographical, I described it as “semiautobiographical” as my experience during my childhood of growing up in Urumqi certainly played a role in shaping the narrative. I readily admit to being the kind of writer who always draws on real-life experiences. Although some of the details in the book are fictionalized, I still wrote them as if they had happened to me. In the end, I can’t really draw a clear-cut line between what is fictional and my own actual life story.Are any of the characters based on people you’ve known or heard about?Yes. All the characters are based on actual people. I came to know them quite well, as many were neighbors of mine in Urumqi during my youth. When I returned to my old neighborhood for a visit, many of them had passed away, which in Chinese is described as “rising to the sky.” On one occasion when I visited my father’s tomb in Xinjiang, I really felt I could see the spirits of my father and his many departed neighbors. Just as in life they lived together, so too were they neighbors in death. I could only wonder whether there was a Cultural Revolution in heaven.Q. Was the decision to make Love Liu’s parents both architects a significant one in your mind—given that Second Prize Wang “intrudes” on the school constructed by Love Liu’s father?This arrangement was not invented but based on real life. Love Liu’s parents in real life were architects who designed many buildings in Xinjiang, including schools, theaters, and office buildings. As an English teacher, Second Prize Wang naturally walked into one of Love Liu’s father’s buildings. This setup enhanced the relationship between the characters in the novel. The son was going through growing pains and became close to his teacher. While the English teacher became the boy’s best friend and guardian, the father became a stranger to his own son at the school he proudly constructed and viewed as one of his achievements.Q. How has the novel been received in China? Has its reception been surprising to you?The novel was very “hot” in China. In 2004, it was awarded the “Best Novel” prize as voted by critics and readers. The novel was also well received in Taiwan, where it was given its most prominent literary prize, the Top Ten Best Book Award in theChina Times (a major newspaper in Taiwan). Both of these came as surprises to me, since the topic of the novel is the past, years long gone. But in both Mainland China and Taiwan, intellectuals and general readers are very fond of the book, which surprises me quite a bit—I didn’t expect to see this kind of reaction. The sales were also very good, well over 100,000 copies in a market where many books never sell more than a couple of thousand.Q. What is the significance of the characters’ names—Love Liu, Garbage Li, Second Prize Wang?Love is what I long for, so I used it as the name of the boy. It conveys my wish for the most basic human relationship. I am no longer interested in the debate over love versus hate among people, but deep inside me I am still longing for love. As for the other names I used in the novel, I can tell you these are real names of real people.Q. Can you talk about the differences between how you see Second Prize Wang and how the young Love Liu sees him?I see Second Prize Wang as a child. Love Liu sees him as an adult because when he was learning English from Second Prize Wang he was only ten years old, but when I wrote the novel, I was in my forties. I’d like to add that as a writer I see all the characters as children.Q. Does the song “Moon River” have a special meaning to you personally? Why did you choose it for the book?To many Chinese intellectuals, early American films became one of the most romantic and best memories of their lives. Yesterday a friend told me he had watched Roman Holiday many times. Films like Roman Holiday and Breakfast at Tiffany’sallowed many Chinese people to open up a boundless imagination to a more beautiful world. “Moon River” is a song etched deeply into our memories. It became the echo of our most tender spot in our inner world. Its lyrics sent me to another world, a world separated by the Tianshan Mountains located in Xinjiang and the tyranny of Chinese society. In those extremely suppressed times, “Moon River” brought me endless dreams for freedom.Q. What does the English dictionary itself represent to you in this book? Why did you choose English as the language that so enchants Love Liu?First of all, it is a true story from real life. Love Liu (actually myself as a child) had a special affection for English because it was more than just a language for us—it was the complete opposite of the tyranny and brutality we confronted in our lives. Although we could not, at that time, have a full grasp of the civilization that was hidden behind the English language, when it entered our inner world through stories we were able to fantasize about it. And as we fantasized, we also idealized it.The English dictionary was like an encyclopedia for children like Love Liu at a time during the Cultural Revolution when no other books were available for us to read. Children like Love Liu learned about the world from the words and definitions in that dictionary.Q. English is told from Love Liu’s perspective as an adult. Why did you choose to give it this reflective air, rather than telling the story without his wry commentary?Love Liu is a child, and Wang Gang is a matured writer. They should have their own perspectives that should be clearly separated. But in recalling the past, my emotions tend to overwhelm my rational side. Therefore, Love Liu sometimes changes to an old man and Wang Gang turns out to be a child.Q. Who is your favorite character in the book, and why?My favorite character is the father, who is portrayed as a very vulnerable person. During the Cultural Revolution, he was a complicated man with visible flaws, and he had many fears. In order for him and his family to survive, he did much that was wrong, and even committed crimes. But he truly loved his son and wife. Like the Jews facing the Nazis, he had to make choices. He was no hero. His wife understood him, protected him, and prevented him from committing suicide—which many other men did in those days. Later, when changes gradually took place in China with the so-called open-up and reform, the Chinese people began to have a little bit of the normal freedoms of human beings, but he still stubbornly clung to his past, unwilling to see his country enter a new phase. By this time his wife had moved on and left him behind, and ultimately he died in despair. The world is full of such small and petty people like him in any era, and he reflects our attitude toward life as we struggle and become increasingly complicated over time. DISCUSSION QUESTIONSArchitecture plays an important symbolic role in this book. What does the school that Love Liu’s father designed represent to you? How does the entrance of Second Prize Wang into that school illuminate its importance? Similarly, the bomb shelter that Love Liu’s mother builds plays an important role both in the local Maoist regime and in his relationship with her, not to mention with Ahjitai. What parallels do you see between the physical construction of the bomb shelter and the emotional construction of those relationships? When Sunrise Huang and Garbage Li conspire to murder Sunrise’s stepfather, they succeed without immediate consequences. Yet there are countless instances in the novel when a twist of words or a difference of opinion is not only noticed but considered criminal. What accounts for this lopsided system of justice? Why do you think the song “Moon River” has such a great appeal to Love Liu, Second Prize Wang, and even Love Liu’s father? Which of the characters in the book did you identify with the most and why? Certain words, like compassion, kind, soul, and most of all love, are mystifying to the young characters in English (see page 151). Why do you think this is? What do you make of the relationship between Love Liu’s mother and the principal of his school? Do you think she truly loved him, or was she doing what she felt she had to do in order to protect her husband and son? Love Liu and his friends are dealing with commonplace adolescent struggles—crushes, friendships, frustration with parents—in a very unusual and high-stakes time. Can you think of examples from your own life when a universal experience is made unique because of cultural circumstances? The children are surrounded by so much propaganda that they easily incorporate Maoist sayings into their own speech. How do you think this affects their emotions and decisions? Why do you think Love Liu does not achieve the kind of success as an adult that his parents wished for him?

Editorial Reviews

One of The Wall Street Journal's Two Best Works of Fiction of the Year about Asia "Its story-telling and its narrative are both straightforward and clear . . . allow[ing] the drama of the story to open up naturally, unpretentiously . . . and yet also to crescendo into a tour de force of a conclusion. . . . [The translators'] English-and their English-is as fluid and conversational as Wang Gang's Chinese." -Rain Taxi "Refreshing . . . Anyone who has dreamed for something bigger in life will relate to the story." -Lijia Zhang, The Wall Street Journal Asia "Equally tender and searing . . . More than any other book I've read about Communist China, English conveys a sense of the time and place with clarity, authenticity and compassion." -Tiffany Lee-Youngren, The San Diego Union-Tribune "Deftly explores the politics of language during those treacherous times." -Travel + Leisure "A fascinating and loving portrait of a painful childhood full of fond memories [that] allows us to glimpse the humanity we all have in common. For that reason, the book does what good literature should always do." -The Quarterly Conversation "A heart-wrenching coming-of-age story during one of the most tumultuous periods of modern history." -BookDragon "A 'Catcher in the Rye in China.' . . . This book's style reminded me of Waiting, the 1999 National Book Award-winning novel by Ha Jin. . . . I truly enjoyed this book." -Sarah Phoenix, Minnesota Reads "This compelling coming-of-age novel . . . paints a vivid picture of what life was like during the Cultural Revolution, with paranoia, suspicion, and distrust informing every relationship, even the closest ones." -Booklist "The pure friendship between the teenage boy and his English teachers is movingly beautiful; the depiction of the intellectuals of that particular period cuts to the bone. I highly recommend it." -Mo Yan, author of Red Sorghum