The Boat Rocker: A Novel by Ha JinThe Boat Rocker: A Novel by Ha Jin

The Boat Rocker: A Novel

byHa Jin

Hardcover | October 25, 2016

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about

From the award-winning author of Waiting and War Trash: an urgent, timely novel that follows an aspiring author, an outrageous book idea,and a lone journalist’s dogged quest for truth in the Internet age.

New York, 2005. Chinese expatriate Feng Danlin is a fiercely principled reporter at a small news agency that produces a website read by the Chinese diaspora around the world. Danlin’s explosive exposés have made him legendary among readers—and feared by Communist officials. But his newest assignment may be his undoing: investigating his ex-wife, Yan Haili, an unscrupulous novelist who has willingly become a pawn of the Chinese government in order to realize her dreams of literary stardom.

Haili’s scheme infuriates Danlin both morally and personally—he will do whatever it takes to expose her as a fraud. But in outing Haili, he is also provoking her powerful political allies,and he will need to draw on all of his journalistic cunning to emerge from this investigation with his career—and his life—still intact. A brilliant,darkly funny story of corruption, integrity, and the power of the pen, The Boat Rocker is a tour de force of modern fiction.
HA JIN left his native China in 1985 to attend Brandeis University. He is the author of seven previous novels, four story collections, three volumes of poetry, and a book of essays. He has received the National Book Award, two PEN/Faulkner Awards, the PEN/Hemingway Foundation Award, the Asian American Literary Award, and the Flannery O...
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Title:The Boat Rocker: A NovelFormat:HardcoverDimensions:240 pages, 8.6 × 6 × 0.9 inPublished:October 25, 2016Publisher:Knopf Doubleday Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0307911624

ISBN - 13:9780307911629

Reviews

Rated 3 out of 5 by from ok but not as good as his other books
Date published: 2017-03-16

Read from the Book

ONE A week before the fourth anniversary of 9/11, my boss, Kaiming, barged into my office, rattling a three-page printout in his hands. “Look at this, Danlin,” he said, dropping the papers on my desk. “This is outrageous! How could they claim that George W. Bush had agreed to endorse a book by Yan Haili? Everyone can tell it’s a lie the size of heaven.” I picked up the printout, an article from The Yangtze Morning Post. It raved about “a landmark novel,” not yet released. I had recently signed a book contract myself and was used to the hyperbole of the book business, but it was the novelist’s name, Yan Haili, that took my breath away. She was my ex-wife. That brassy bitch—she never stopped vying for attention. The article, printed in the newspaper’s literary and art supplement, gushed that her novel, Love and Death in September, was an exotic, whirlwind love story, set by turns in North America, China, Australia, England, Russia, and France. Haili had been working on a potboiler for as long as I’d known her. She’d called it “a fabulous transnational romance.” It was yet another project that she hadn’t been able to finish. She had never succeeded in finding the center of the story, nor could she connect the various episodes into a plot with a satisfying ending. She had shelved the book again and again, and I’d thought the project was long abandoned. But now—I scanned the article in disbelief—her publisher was claiming the Administrative Office of the Chinese Communist Party had been contacted by the White House, and that President Bush would endorse the English translation of Haili’s novel! Why? Because the book “embodied the cooperative spirit between the United States and China in the global war on terrorism.” Shoot me if that was true. The bitch will never change, I realized. I wouldn’t let her get away with it this time. I’d figure out a way to expose all her chicaneries and vanity. Even if she begged me on her knees, I wouldn’t relent. “This is nonsense,” I said to my boss. “The White House must be more interested in the author than in the book—I mean, in Yan Haili, to find out if she was secretly acting as a Chinese agent.” “That’s giving her too much credit,” Kaiming said. “She’s not smart enough to conduct espionage.” He knew how much I hated my ex-wife—that our marriage had lasted only three years before she’d found someone else, and that I couldn’t wait to get even with her. He sometimes called Haili “the heartless woman” in front of me. I said, “So what do you want me to do? This is an arts and culture story—I never write about this kind of thing in my column.” “This time you will. This goes beyond books—I believe it’s only one piece of a larger scam.” I was pleased but didn’t show it. I said cautiously, “Won’t this be a conflict of interest?” “Conflict of interest? We’re dealing with a bunch of scumbags who never do anything by the rules. You can’t handle them by acting like a gentleman. I want you to throw all your fire into this case.” “If you want me to expose this scam, you’d better have some idea how it got started.” “I met Jiao Fanping, her publisher, in Beijing last month. Only he’s not a true publisher—he’s nothing but a profiteer. I want you to write something to expose their scheme before they embarrass lots of us Chinese here in America. We must nip this in the bud.” “I’m afraid it’s already blooming into an evil flower.” “We can still pluck it off.” “This will become personal.” I tried to smile but felt my face tight. “I only want you to do the job.” My boss smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” Pleased, Kaiming rose and headed back out to his office, the tail of his pale blue shirt swaying a little. His shoulders were so thick that he appeared to be slightly stooping. Outside the window, two toddlers were playing noisily in a canary kiddie pool on the neighbors’ lawn. It was early September, and still warm. Beyond the lawn were the boxwood hedges, and then a length of flimsy pier that dipped into the edge of Little Neck Bay. In the distance flocks of seabirds sailed through the sky like shattered clouds. A rust-colored tanker lay at anchor, silhouetted against the pale shoreline and the curving belt of the Cross Island Parkway. As I gazed out, I began to think about Kaiming’s reasons for assigning me Haili’s story, despite my personal involvement. Of the fourteen reporters in our company, GNA (Global News Agency), I was the one known for my exposés, shining a light onto the towering corruption of Chinese politics and media in my regular column. My acid tongue was legendary, my comments heart-stabbing, my views uncompromising, and my predictions sometimes even oracular. Naturally I was hated by officials and celebrities, and cursed by those I’d exposed. Yet when everyday people of the Chinese diaspora discovered my writing, it was, in their own words, “like discovering a new continent.” Most of GNA’s readership consisted of Chinese living abroad, but some of my columns made it past the partly erected Great Firewall into the mainland. Here in New York’s Chinese community, dignitaries steered clear of me, regarding me as an annoyance best avoided. My boss had probably put me on the case of Haili’s “landmark novel” for another, more pragmatic reason: unlike most of the other reporters for our Chinese-language website, I was fluent in English and wouldn’t swallow my a’s and the’s. That would facilitate my investigation of the Americans’ involvement in this whole affair. (He knew that the White House’s endorsement was a boast.) I reread the Yangtze Morning Post article. When I got to the end, I felt incensed. This was unmistakably the book Haili had been working on all those years, but it had never occurred to me that she would have the temerity to exploit the tragedy of 9/11. According to the article, the book follows a young couple, a princely American man and a bewitching Chinese woman, whose coming honeymoon to Bali is annulled by the groom’s disappearance in the collapsed World Trade Center. He’d been in the North Tower. They had just been married the weekend before. The bride, wrecked by her husband’s death, almost dies, herself, of grief. For months, wherever she goes, she thinks she can see glimpses of his strapping figure in crowds or at street corners. Sometimes when she picks up the phone, the voice she hears is his. His laughter echoes in her mind and makes her eyes brim with tears. The man had dreamed of becoming a watercolor painter with a studio in Paris, on the willow-lined Seine. How remorseful she is for not having persuaded him to follow his passions! For almost half a year after his death she can’t go to work, fearful even of crossing streets and riding elevators. But now, she’s finally found the courage to write this book, which is said to be “utterly autobiographical,” because she wants to share both her joy and her pain with others. I knew Haili’s current husband, Larry Clements. He was American, but that was about all he had in common with the tragic lover in Haili’s book. Just two weeks back I had run into him in front of Lincoln Center, beside the leaping fountains. Larry was an utterly unremarkable-looking man: in his early forties, wide-framed, with an incipient potbelly and a mop of salt-and-pepper hair. I no longer felt the hatred I’d once had for him. I’d come to realize that Haili had married him not because he was the better man, but because she’d been looking for someone who could give her a green card and an auspicious beginning in America. So Larry, a stock analyst on Wall Street with his own office, must have been her ideal catch, and she must have been the seducer, not the other way around. Larry always dressed in a suit and tie. He had expensive taste and was an opera aficionado. A typical petty bourgeois, in my opinion, probably a philistine. According to the Post, Haili had already started promoting her book in China—she’d made several public appearances in Beijing and Shanghai the month before. The article described her as a beautiful, enigmatic young lady from New York, who had “elegant manners,” “a lithe figure,” “a lovely velvety voice,” and “dreaming eyes full of memories.” She wore a jade heart necklace (her love charm), which dangled above her fair-skinned cleavage. She emanated grace and culture. “Her whole person, her body language, enunciates the profoundest theme of life: Love! No wonder it’s universally agreed that style is the person. In Yan Haili’s case, the writer’s personal beauty and her gorgeous prose dovetail—I venture to say they enhance and deepen each other.” It was reported that Haili had captivated her young audience the moment she began to speak about writing her book, a process that had been so painful and so personal that, talking about it in front of the crowd, she’d had to pause now and again to collect herself. The audience, especially the college students among them, fixed their admiring eyes on her the whole time. Without question, her words had struck a chord in their hearts. Many girls couldn’t stop brushing away their tears. I knew better than anyone else how pretty and charming Haili was. She was a beauty who could make people break off midconversation when she entered a room. But she was certainly not a gifted writer, despite her excellent taste as a reader—she loved magical realism, Agatha Christie, Marguerite Duras, and D. H. Lawrence. (“If I could write a book like Lady Chatterley’s Lover, I would die happy,” she often gushed. Of course, ditto for me.) When we were a young married couple in China, I helped her revise and edit her stories and prose poems, and she submitted them to magazines and contests. Even with my help, she’d seldom succeeded in placing her pieces, much less seeing them in print. Lacking in confidence but ebullient with creative ambition, she adopted a pair of pen names, Quill from Heaven and Azure Dragonfly, as most Chinese writers do, both for self-protection and to show their modesty. Since our divorce, seven years ago, I’d been following her publications, which mostly seemed to be small write-ups, the size of a block of tofu, in community newspapers. She also posted linked stories on her blog, which, I realized now, must have been chapters from her novel. They were embarrassingly amateurish. Her passages were marred with double and triple exclamation marks. She dropped pretentious expressions right and left, calling mung-bean noodles “dragon’s beard” and aniseeds “octagonal stars.” I used to try to curb this “poetic” impulse of hers, but it had only gotten worse after we parted ways. I couldn’t see how she could possibly have developed into a published novelist overnight. I often wondered what had happened to her youthful wanderlust. Was she still longing to see the world? I doubted it. She was so comfortably ensconced in New York—“the capital of the world,” she loved to brag. Back in college in Changchun City, she used to dream of serving as a diplomat, traveling the globe and hopping from country to country. “Every morning you would wake to find a new foreign sun,” she’d say. She’d even aspired to become a sort of female Odysseus—a woman who existed only in her interminable wanderings and who wouldn’t fear meeting her death in a distant land or even at the bottom of an uncharted sea. When she confided her secret thoughts to me in the aspen grove behind her ceramic-tiled classroom building, I was blown away, never having even thought of stepping foot out of our native Jilin province. Her wild spirit fascinated me and opened a vista in my mind’s eye. Yes, yes, I told her, human beings must go anywhere their hearts lead them—our experiences must live up to the passions we are capable of sustaining. So I urged her to pursue her vision, to, in her own words, “build a home in the sky and eventually glitter like a star on a cloudless night.” She worked hard on her English, a subject in which she came out number one of the seventy-eight students of the year 1994 in the music department of her normal university. She said to me, “English means freedom to me. It will give me a pair of strong wings.” I agreed, nodding like an idiot. What had happened to her dreams of liberation, which, to her, could only be expressed in the English language? Where were her wings? As far as I knew, she had stopped writing in English long ago, seeing more opportunities and a larger readership in China. She claimed that she was now already “free and happy.” How true the caveat is: contentment shackles your soul. Our two editorial assistants, both interns, were unfamiliar with the art and literary scene in China, so I preferred to do the research by myself. I began looking for more press coverage of the novel on China News Service and SINA News. I found that her publisher, Jiao Fanping, had granted an interview to The Readers’ Guide Weekly a few days before. In it, he claimed that Random House had just purchased the novel for an undisclosed large figure, and that negotiations with major European, Japanese, Latin American, and Taiwanese publishers were all under way. “There’s every indication that this extraordinary book will become an international best seller,” Jiao avowed. “Just last Friday I heard from Hollywood that they were interested in acquiring the movie rights to this novel. How about that! This is absolutely phenomenal and fantastic, a breakthrough in our country’s effort to export our cultural products.” I knew of Jiao Fanping, the only son of a high official in the State Council. Jiao had made his fortune on the Chinese stock market and then started building his own empire, which began with a small publishing house and a few cafés and dumpling joints near college campuses, all in Beijing. In recent years he’d been branching out into the music and movie industries. His statements about Haili’s book had to be bald-faced lies. I doubted she had completed the novel yet, let alone shopped it around to foreign publishers. Until the book’s actual appearance, she would still belong to the vast army of unpublished novelists. I went down the hallway to my boss’s office. “Kaiming,” I said, “the scheme surrounding my ex-wife’s novel might be bigger and uglier than we thought.” “That’s why I want you to look into it—nobody but you can uncover the whole thing.” “Believe me, no reputable publisher will consider the book seriously. It’s just a shallow romance.” “Well, you know in China there’s no distinction between a literary novel and a romance novel. All the genres are just lumped together. Most readers can’t tell the difference anyway.” “That’s true. The Japanese don’t make such a distinction either. But still, quality is quality—I don’t think any decent publisher here will give Haili’s book the time of day.” “You never know. It can be brought out as a romance novel here and then advertised as a literary novel back in China, where they’re planning to make most of their money anyway. I want you to expose those frauds.” “You know that I can’t help but be biased.” “That’s all right—you can use it to your advantage.” Kaiming grinned, baring his square teeth. I had known him long enough to see that he’d wanted to harness my personal feelings for this job all along. He often stressed that we report every major piece of news from a unique perspective. By his definition, “Genius is originality” (which I doubt, because the world is overpopulated with original asses). If GNA kept doing news in a peerless fashion, Kaiming believed, we would become an indispensable source for the Chinese-language media around the globe. He also stressed, “Truthfulness is our only way to survive in this news business and to make money in the long run.” He himself specialized in political commentary and most times could predict the developments of current events; his opinions were highly valued, even by some experienced China hands in the States. He was regarded as a walking encyclopedia of Beijing’s top political circles, where he had secret sources. He knew how to get things done. In the case of Love and Death in September, he seemed to see my feelings about Haili as the most powerful fuel for our investigation.

Bookclub Guide

US1. Describe Danlin, his ex-wife Yan Haili, and his boss Kaiming. How do the three of them change, or do they, over the course of the novel?  Do your feelings about each of them evolve as you learn more about them? 2. What do you think of the small news agency where Danlin works? Do they bite off more than they can chew by going after the Chinese government?3. Why do you think the Chinese government has chosen Yan Haili’s debut novel to endorse and promote?4. Why would the Chinese government go to these extremes to quiet Danlin and the agency? On a larger scale, what is really happening in the novel?5. Danlin says, “Haili and those behind her have been exploiting 9/11. They’re profiting from people’s pain and loss.” (p. 88) How has her novel distorted and used the events of 9/11? 6. How does censorship play into the novel? Who is censoring whom, and why?7. Describe Danlin’s relationship with Katie. Do you think they really love each other or are they both using each other? Why?8. Why does Danlin feel betrayed and threatened by Haili? Why is he both comforted and attracted to her friends and those that are sent his way to distract him?9. Why is the Chinese consulate so concerned with the news agency’s coverage of events in NYC, such as the Falan Gong demonstration? Why do they send people to attack the demonstrators?10. What happens after Danlin is nominated to be a Chinese public intellectual? 11.  How does Katie try to help Danlin with his literary education? Do you think she wants him to be more like an American journalist? Why?12. Is the novel critical of Chinese expats in America? How does this book portray Chinese expats loyalties to both the United States and China?13. What is the novel saying of corrupt Chinese officials: “There is also a sea of corrupt officials who have numerous ways of getting rich—kickbacks, huge money, commissions, free shares of stocks, no-interest loans.”? (p. 70) Is this any different from those of other countries? 14. How does the novel criticize the Chinese government’s treatment of dissidents? Why does the Chinese government continue to control Chinese expats criticizing China?15. Why and how does the American government get involved in Danlin and the agency’s affairs? Why does Trouten want Danlin to ease off for a while?16. Danlin writes in a letter to Vice Consul Tao, “As an intellectual, one must uphold justice, freedom and equality as universal values. Abstract as those concepts might be, despite their problematic origins and despite the West’s dubious history in measuring up to them, they are still essential in improving our social conditions and making us more human.” (p. 146). Discuss the tensions between the moral and political issues in the novel.17. Both Tao and Trouten want cooperation between the two countries and try different tactics with Danlin to acquiesce and not criticize China too aggressively. Why do they do this and do they succeed in any way? 18. The news agency appears in the beginning of the novel “as an unbiased source for Chinese readers around the world—a source that reported all the news that Xinhua wouldn’t.” (p. 44). What happens to the news agency by the end of the novel?19. What American notions of the Chinese government are confirmed or challenged in this novel? What do you think Ha Jin is saying about the current Chinese communist government and its effect on the individual and society and on the truth?20. What happens at the close of The Boat Rocker? Did you see the ending coming? Why or why not? What do you think of the title?21. In what ways, is this book similar to other Ha Jin novels you have read? How is it different? Is it more overly political?22. How does The Boat Rocker address the uneasy relationship between the United States and China?23. Discuss the role of journalism and the importance of free expression in the global internet age as shown in The Boat Rocker.

Editorial Reviews

“The China-born but United States-based author Xuefei Jin, who publishes under the nom de plume Ha Jin, is a writer of simple yet powerful gifts. . . . [The Boat Rocker’s] cast features people of varying backgrounds whose speech patterns Jin captures in pitch-perfect dialogue. . . . The novel includes nuanced debates on loyalty and identity. . . . Jin also reveals an added talent, previously hidden, for savage satire.”—Jeffrey Wasserstrom, The New York Times Book Review “A delicious satire. . . . There’s a darkly comic element to all this, delightful to see in Ha Jin’s work. . . . Here, he expands his tonal range and approaches a kind of Kafkaesque absurdity. . . . A former Chinese Army soldier who chose to stay in the United States after the Tiananmen Square massacre, Ha Jin has lived and worked under two very different sets of rules. He knows the Communist Party’s elaborate control of mass media just as well as he understands the free market’s complicated influence on what we read and watch. That bifocal vision brings uncanny depth to his eighth novel, The Boat Rocker, which should find its place alongside Janet Malcolm’s The Journalist and the Murderer as one of the most unsettling books about the moral dimensions of modern journalism. . . . Rocking the boat is not just a right; it’s a sacred duty—no matter where it leads.”—Ron Charles, The Washington Post “It’s 2005, and Danlin, who’s in his mid-30s, lives in New York City, where he writes for the small but ambitious Global News Agency. . . . Danlin’s column boasts a reputation for, in his words, “shining a light onto the towering corruption of Chinese politics and media.” So when his ex-wife Haili, whose fiction he knows to be unremarkable and generally “the size of a block of tofu,” is touted by the Chinese state press as a new literary star, he smells a rat. . . . In a slow-burning twist that Jin brings into play with consummate skill, Danlin grows aware that China now enjoys such reach that it can engineer the outcome it desires for Haili’s state-sponsored book—even abroad. . . . Convincing as well as timely. . . . [Has] a powerful moral core.”—Rayyan Al-Shawaf, The Christian Science Monitor  “The narrative framework is fertile ground for Jin’s brilliant and nuanced political and social observations. . . . Danlin’s feelings of despair and deracination propel the novel on an unexpected trajectory, where storytelling becomes secondary to fascinating and vital topics (mostly through conversations) of resettlement, the role of the intellectual, Chinese living abroad, and race in America. . . . These are cogent, incisive impressions, and it feels like a miracle—and a splendid irony—that an immigrant writer can fashion a novel with such quintessentially American themes from the front lines of the Chinese diaspora.”—David Takami, The Seattle Times “Jin’s criticism of modern-day Communist China is stunning, easily the best part of an already well-crafted novel. I was reminded of 1984 and the passages Winston and Julia read aloud from The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism.”—Nandini Balial, Los Angeles Review of Books