The Day the Sun Died Read online

  About the Book

  PRAISE FOR YAN LIANKE’S NOVELS

  ‘Hailed across the planet as a masterpiece.’ The Times

  ‘A hyper-real tour de force, a blistering condemnation of political corruption and excess.’ Financial Times

  One evening, deep in the Balou Mountains, young Li Niannian notices something strange: there are people everywhere, dreamwalking, carrying on their daily business as if the sun hadn’t set. And before too long, all hell breaks loose. The Day the Sun Died pits chaos and darkness against the sunny political optimism of the ‘Chinese dream’. In a strange waking nightmare, Li Niannian and his father struggle to save the town—and persuade the sun to rise again.

  ‘I can think of few better novelists than Yan, with his superlative gifts for storytelling and penetrating eye for truth.’ New York Times Book Review

  ‘Mordant satire from a brave fabulist.’ Daily Mail

  Translator’s Note

  History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  Near the beginning of James Joyce’s 1922 novel Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus famously compared history to a nightmare. It was also in 1922 that Lu Xun penned the preface to his first short-story collection, Call to Arms (published in 1923), in which he asks whether he should try to use his writing to wake up his fellow countrymen still trapped in the proverbial “iron house” of Chinese feudal values. In these almost simultaneous texts, two of the twentieth century’s leading modernist authors both equated history with sleep and dreams. Whereas Joyce’s Dedalus wants to awaken from the nightmare that is history, Lu Xun worries that his works might in fact succeed in rousing his blissfully oblivious readers, causing them to wake into a state of historical awareness for which they would then have no easy remedy.

  Nearly a century later, Yan Lianke appeals to a similar set of oneiric metaphors in his novel The Day the Sun Died. Centered on a fourteen-year-old boy named Li Niannian, whose parents run a shop that sells items for funeral rituals and whose uncle runs a crematorium, the story describes a night during which most of the residents of the boy’s village suddenly start sleepwalking—or, to translate the Chinese term for somnambulism more literally, “dreamwalking.” The community degenerates into chaos, as many villagers act out the urges that they had kept suppressed during their normal waking state.

  Like Ulysses, which famously unfolds over the course of a single day (June 16, 1904), the main narrative of The Day the Sun Died takes place over the course of a single night, beginning at 5:00 PM on the evening of the sixth day of the sixth lunar month, and concluding early the following morning. The novel is divided into a series of “books,” each of which opens with a header that notes a temporal interval using the traditional Chinese geng-dian system, and each book is then divided into sections that similarly open with a header that notes the corresponding temporal interval using the Western twenty-four-hour system. Although the year in which the novel is set is not specified, it is tempting to view the work’s thematization of dreams in the context of the popular political slogan, “the Chinese Dream,” which Chinese President Xi Jinping first proposed in late 2012, declaring that “everybody has their own ideal, pursuit, and dream. Today everybody is talking about the Chinese Dream. I believe the greatest dream of the Chinese nation in modern history is the great renewal of the Chinese nation.” In The Day the Sun Died, Yan Lianke focuses on what may be seen as the nightmarish underbelly of this emphasis on progress. In his novel, dreams are not equated with an optimistic faith in future development, but rather symbolize the way the individual and collective past continues to haunt the present.

  The Day the Sun Died also features a character named Yan Lianke, who is a well-known author of books whose titles are permutations of novels by the real Yan Lianke. For instance, Dream of Ding Village becomes Ding of Dream Village, The Sunlit Years becomes The Years of Sun, Lenin’s Kisses becomes Kissing Lenin, and The Four Books becomes The Dead Books (in Chinese, the characters for four and death are homonyms). The novel also includes quotes from several of these fictitious texts, all of which are variations of passages from the real Yan Lianke’s corresponding works. Although knowledge of Yan Lianke’s earlier works is not required to appreciate The Day the Sun Died, it may be noted that many of these works similarly focus on the dark side of modern China’s rapid development. For instance, Dream of Ding Village is named after a fictional AIDS village in Yan Lianke’s home province of Henan, The Sunlit Years features a “cancer village” in which all of the residents die of throat tumors before they turn forty, and Lenin’s Kisses is set in a remote village of disabled residents, who are exploited by a local official for financial gain. Through these fictitious communities of marginalized figures, Yan Lianke hopes to draw attention to actual communities and social phenomena that remain hidden in the shadows of contemporary China’s rapid growth.

  Even as Yan Lianke’s dark vision has brought him considerable international recognition, it has also increasingly embroiled him with China’s censorship regime. In 2016 the Chinese edition of The Day the Sun Died won Hong Kong’s prestigious Dream of the Red Chamber Prize despite the fact that the novel was never published in Mainland China. Similarly, in 2014, when Yan Lianke was awarded the Franz Kafka Prize, it was in recognition of his entire oeuvre but specific recognition was given to two books translated into Czech—his novella Serve the People! and his novel The Four Books, both banned in Mainland China. Like many of Yan Lianke’s works, all three of these books were published in Taiwan by Rye Field Publishing Company, which is increasingly serving as the primary Chinese-language outlet for his works.

  Coincidentally, Yan Lianke was awarded the Kafka Prize the same month he began writing The Day the Sun Died. In his acceptance speech for the prize, he tacitly anticipates some of the central motifs of that novel. He opens his speech by recalling his experience growing up during the period of China’s Great Famine of the early 1960s, which led him to develop “a very keen appreciation of darkness.” He explains that even though today’s China “has solved the basic problem of providing 1.3 billion people with food, clothing, and spending money, [and] therefore resembles a bright ray of light illuminating the global East,” nevertheless “beneath this ray of light there lies a dark shadow. It is as if the brighter the light, the darker the shadow becomes; and the darker the shadow becomes, the thicker the corresponding sheet of darkness.” He adds that he feels he is “one of those people who are fated to experience darkness,” and views his recent literary work as an attempt to represent and explore this darkness.

  Although in this speech Yan Lianke was ostensibly referring to the works he had published up to that point, his remarks about light and darkness anticipate this new novel, The Day the Sun Died, which he had only just begun to compose. As with his metaphorical description of contemporary China as a world shrouded in darkness, in the novel he describes a community from which the sun—and all hint of light—has disappeared altogether.

  Yan Lianke caps his speech with an account of a blind man from his home village who, every morning when the sun came up, would say to himself, “it turns out that sunlight is actually black—but that is good!” Yan Lianke adds:

  Even more remarkably, ever since he was young this blind man always had several flashlights, and whenever he went out at night he would always take one with him. The darker it got, the longer and brighter the beam from his flashlight would become. As a result, as he was walking through the village streets in the middle of the night, people would be able to see him coming and wouldn’t run into him. Furthermore, when people encountered him, he would use his flashlight to illuminate the road in front of them.

  Y
an Lianke offers this blind man as a model for his own literary projects, suggesting that he views his literature as a figurative flashlight to help others see a light that he himself is unable to perceive:

  From this blind man, I came up with a new form of writing that is premised on a conviction that the darker it is, the brighter it becomes; and the colder it is, the warmer it becomes. The entire significance of this writing lies in permitting people to avoid its existence. My writing, in other words, is like the blind man with the flashlight who shines his light into the darkness to help others glimpse their goal and destination.

  Yan Lianke not only hopes that his literature will offer readers a metaphorical “light,” but further hopes that this light will help readers “perceive the existence of darkness,” thereby allowing them to “more effectively ward off that same darkness and suffering.”

  In this parable of the blind man and the lamp, Yan Lianke borrows, and partially inverts, Lu Xun’s famous metaphor of the iron house. Just as Yan Lianke compares his writing to a blind man with a lamp who helps guide others with a light that he himself is unable to see, Lu Xun describes how he ultimately resolved to compose stories that conclude with an optimistic twist, conveying to his readers a hope that he did not share. In this way, it may be said that Yan Lianke hopes to illuminate the darkness that underpins the contemporary Chinese Dream, and in the process help readers wake up from what Yan, like Joyce before him, suggests is the nightmare of history.

  —Carlos Rojas

  Contents

  Cover Page

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Translator’s Note

  Preface: Let Me Ramble for a Bit

  BOOK ONE: Geng 1: Pheasants Enter People’s Minds

  BOOK TWO: Geng 2, Part One: Birds Fly All Around

  BOOK THREE: Geng 2, Part Two: Birds Build a Nest There

  BOOK FOUR: Geng 3: Birds Lay an Egg

  BOOK FIVE: Geng 4, Part One: Birds Lay Eggs There

  BOOK SIX: Geng 4, Part Two: An Entire Clutch of Chicks Hatch

  BOOK SEVEN: Geng 5, Part One: The Chicks and Birds Fly Away

  BOOK EIGHT: Geng 5, Part Two: Some Are Living and Some Are Dead

  BOOK NINE: Post-Geng: The Birds All Die in the Heart of the Night

  BOOK TEN: No-Geng: There Is Still One Bird Alive

  BOOK ELEVEN: Rise: The Final Bird Flies Away

  Postface: Nothing Else to Say

  Also by Yan Lianke

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Copyright page

  Preface: Let Me Ramble for a Bit

  Hello . . . Are you there? . . . Is anyone going to come listen to me ramble?

  Hello . . . spirits! . . . If you’re not busy, then come and listen . . . I’m kneeling on the highest point of our Funiu Mountains, so you should definitely be able to hear me. Surely you won’t be annoyed by the shouts of a child?

  Hello . . . I’ve come on behalf of a village . . . a small village . . . on behalf of a mountain range, and the entire world. I’m kneeling here facing the sky, and simply want to tell you one thing. I hope you’ll have the patience to listen to me, to listen to me ramble and shout. Don’t be annoyed, and don’t become anxious. This matter is as vast as the sky and the earth.

  In our village, many people died as a result of this matter. In our town, many people also died. In our Funiu Mountains and the world outside, and in that night’s dreamscape, as many people died as there were stalks of wheat being harvested. And the number of people who continued to live pathetically in the mountains was equivalent to the number of grains of wheat in the fields. Villages and infants, mountains and the world—what they share in common is that their internal organs are like paper bags of bloody water, and if you’re not careful, the paper may rupture and the liquid inside will spill out. Fate would become like a drop of water that falls in the wilderness, or like a leaf that falls in a bitterly cold autumn forest.

  Spirits . . . people’s spirits! This village, this town, these mountains, and this world won’t be able to endure another nightmare. Gods . . . bodhisattvas . . . arhats, and the Jade Emperor—I ask that you protect this village and this town. I ask that you protect these mountains and the world. It is on behalf of this village and town and people that I have come to kneel down on this mountaintop. It is to make sure that the living remain alive that I have come to kneel on the mountaintop. It is on behalf of the crops, soil, seeds, farm tools, streets, shopping districts, and the general hustle and bustle that I am kneeling here on this mountaintop. It is on behalf of the day and night that I am kneeling here on this mountaintop. It is on behalf of the chickens and the dogs that I am kneeling here on this mountaintop. It is with all honesty that I’m telling you the details of what happened on that day and night. If I make any mistakes, it’s not because I’m dishonest, but rather because I’m simply too excited. My mind constantly feels muddy and confused, which is why I always ramble on and on. I like to talk to myself, regardless of whether or not there are people around. I like to mumble one sentence after another, with each one bearing no relation to the preceding one. The villagers and townspeople call me an idiot . . . an idiot. Because I’m an idiot, I don’t have the patience to tease out the first strand of this jumbled mess. As a result, I have no choice but to recount everything in a halting, scattered way, thereby rendering me even more of an idiot. However, spirits . . . including bodhisattvas and arhats . . . you absolutely must not view me as a real idiot. Sometimes my mind is perfectly clear—as clear as a drop of water . . . as clear as the blue sky. For instance, it’s as if a skylight just opened in my mind, allowing me to see the sky and the earth, and to see that night’s developments. Each and every one of these developments is now clearly visible in my mind’s eye, and I can even find the needles and sesame seeds that fell into the darkness.

  The sky is so blue and the clouds are so near that, when I kneel here, I can hear my hair blowing in the wind, and can even hear the sound of the individual strands of hair bumping into one another. I can hear the clouds floating across the sky over my head, and can see the air passing in front of me, like yarn being pulled out of my eyes. The sun is bright and everything is still. The air and clouds smell like dew under the morning sun. I kneel—peacefully kneel here on this mountaintop. I am the only one here. In the entire world, there is only me—there is only me, together with the grass, rocks, and air. The world is so still. Everything under heaven is so still . . . Spirits, you should let me sit here and tell you about the events of that night. You have all hurried over to listen to me. I know you live in the sky over my head, and reside in the mountains behind me. I am also addressing these solitary mountains and trees, weeds and frogs, chaste trees and elm trees . . . Kneeling here facing the heavens, my heart like pure water, I will relate everything I have heard and experienced. I will relate that night’s events, as though burning an incense stick in front of you, and under this sky . . . to prove that everything I’m telling you is true. This is like using weeds blowing in the wind to prove the existence of the earth and to confirm the destiny that the earth grants to the weeds themselves.

  Now I will tell my story.

  Where should I begin?

  I’ll begin here.

  Let me begin by telling you about myself, my family, and our neighbor at the time. This neighbor was not any ordinary neighbor, to the point that you wouldn’t even believe we lived in the same village and the same town. But he was, after all, our neighbor. He was our neighbor.

  It wasn’t that our family had wanted to be his neighbor, but rather it was our ancestors and God who had arranged it. This neighbor’s name was Yan Lianke . . . This was that author, Yan Lianke, who could both write and paint. This author who had developed quite a name for himself. In our town, his reputation was even greater than that of the town mayor. Greater even than that of the county mayor. His reputation was so formidable, in fact, that comparing it with others would be like placing a watermelon on
a bed of sesame seeds, or putting a camel out to graze with a flock of sheep.

  As for me, my own reputation is as minuscule as a speck of dust lost in a pile of sesame seeds, or a flea nit hidden on the back of a camel, an ox, or a sheep . . . I am fourteen years old and my name is Li Niannian, though everyone calls me Sha Niannian, or literally “Stupid Niannian.” Uncle Lianke is the only one who ever calls me Little Niannian . . . Little Nephew. Little Nephew . . . Little Niannian. Not only do our families belong to the same village, we are even neighbors. Our village is called Gaotian, and because it has streets and a market, and a town government, bank, post office, and police station, it should technically be considered a town. The village, however, is called Gaotian Village, and the corresponding town is called Gaotian Town. The county to which Gaotian belongs is Zhaonan County, and I don’t have to tell you that the reason China is called China is that from time immemorial the Chinese people have viewed China as the center of the world, which is why they call the country China, or literally the Central Kingdom. Similarly, the Central Plains are called the Central Plains because the people there believe that they live in the center of China, which is to say, in the center of the Central Kingdom. These are not my words, but rather something Uncle Yan once wrote in one of his books. Our county is located in the center of the Central Plains, and our village is located in the center of the county. In other words, our village is located in the center of China, and the center of the world. I don’t know whether or not Uncle Yan was right about this, but no one ever attempted to correct him. He even said, My entire oeuvre was written to prove to the people of the world that that village and that piece of land are located at the center of the world. But now he doesn’t write anymore. In fact, he hasn’t written anything for years. His inspiration has completely dried up, and his soul is exhausted. He also claims that it is as a result of his writing that he has become annoyed with this world. He wants to go somewhere to seek some peace and quiet. After having endured that night’s events and being unable to write about them, he effectively died as an author—and as a living being, he didn’t know where to go. Therefore, as I kneel here, I beg you—spirits . . . buddhas and bodhisattvas, Guan Yu and Kong Ming, the God of Literature and Li Bo and Du Fu, Sima Qian and Zhuangzi and Laozi, and also someone or other and someone or other—I beg all of you to grant Uncle Yan some inspiration. Let inspiration rain down on him, and let him continue to live as an author. Let Uncle Yan—over a span of three days and two nights—complete his novel Night of the People.