An article by novelist and essayist Jin Yong unearthed in an online forum dedicated to discussions of his works, reveals his thoughts on how to evaluate wuxia fiction, the historical fantasy depicting the adventures of martial arts heroes. The piece was written in 1957 in the New Evening Post, and, at the time, he was serialising his novel, Legend of the Condor Heroes, for the Hong Kong Commercial Daily.
A couple of years ago, having stumbled upon this serendipitous find on Wuxia Wanderings, I was in awe of the keen insights of one of my idols at such an early stage in his novel-writing career.
To recap the article’s salient points, Jin Yong believed there were four essential yardsticks with which to measure wuxia fiction: (1) theme, (2) characterisation, (3) plot and structure, and (4) setting. He noted that traditional literary criticism called for analysis using the latter three. As for other crafting technicalities, he was content to assume a more forgiving attitude.
In the article, Jin Yong made it clear that theme exposition was a crucial measure in any review of wuxia. While wuxia is generally known to share common themes—such as righteousness, benevolence, resistance to tyrannical rule, aiding the oppressed and downtrodden, and redressing social wrongs—a wuxia novelist’s own worldview, values and philosophy will inevitably be reflected in their writing, but it is important that the novel’s main theme does not escape the reader. On this issue, Jin Yong was full of admiration for his peer, Chinese-born Australian novelist Liang Yusheng, for always hitting the mark.
It seems that the theme of any story that Jin Yong refers to is actually the key moral message that the novelist wants to convey, while the novelist’s own ethos and perspective as reflected in the writing is what Western writers would call the author’s voice. Theme and voice, in my view, can best answer a soul-searching question that novelists are often asked: what message did you want readers to take away from the story?
Story structure may be a criterion much prized in conventional Western novel standards, but, according to Jin Yong, it ought to be given less weight than other measures. He preferred to let loose threads run their course and come together spontaneously, citing the example of Water Margin, in which the stories of the 108 heroes are capriciously woven together without any predesigned pattern and yet result in an enthralling read. Having attempted this structural technique in his second novel, Sword Stained with Royal Blood, he felt that the result showed traces of too much artificial tinkering, which seemed unwarranted. While he admired such technique in Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw and Konstantin Fedin’s Cities and Years, he concluded that structural technique was not essential or fundamental to literary assessment.
That remark reminded me of my other idol Song poet Su Shi’s description of his own style of poetry writing, excerpted from a letter to his brother: My style is like a spring of inexhaustible water which bubbles and overflows where it lists, no matter where… it flows where it must flow and stops where it must stop. His remark has stuck in my mind since I first encountered it in 2010 while researching his life. It may well have set the tone for my free-style storytelling in my fiction writing. So when I read Jin Yong’s comment, it gave me a sense of déjà vu.
While admitting that Chinese wuxia novels are mostly known for their plot-driven qualities, he nonetheless thought that character portrayal and development plus theme exposition should rank supreme in their appraisal.
He believed that characterisation was one of the crucial yardsticks with which to measure the quality of a wuxia novel. Without memorable characters that exude kinetic energy, even the most intriguing plot falls flat. Citing Romance of the Three Kingdoms, he said that even with explosive battle scenes and gripping plot twists, this 14th-century literary classic would not have been as engaging without the three colourful characters of Zhuge Liang, Zhou Yu and Cao Cao, each painted with a distinct and dynamic personality. We all know how deep an impression these inimitable characters have made on our minds.
On this point, I confess that striving to perfect the craft of characterisation—be it creation of fictitious personae or a reimagination of historical figures—is definitely a direction in which I’m headed. I wish nothing more than for my readers to be able to connect with Tang Sai’er, the intrepid woman outlaw, and her two loyal foster brothers, Tang Binhong and Dong Yinho, in my wuxia/xianxia duology, The Heavenly Sword and The Earthly Blaze.
Regarding a novel’s setting, grandmaster Jin Yong thought that while wuxia leans towards romanticism rather than realism and allows for hyperbole, there was nevertheless the prerequisite to create a setting that was as close to reality as possible. In his view, while critics need not be too fastidious about technicalities—such as the depiction of martial arts techniques, weapons usage, honorifics, or relationships between different clans or sects—the social and cultural context, people’s living conditions and political backdrop should be portrayed vividly and authentically. For my duology set in an alternative Ming China, I conducted in-depth research into Ming history and culture, which I hope is evident in the writing.
Jin Yong’s words speak to us across seven decades, reminding us that “comparisons of the trivialities” would only detract from the four key standards by which wuxia fiction should be judged. Thanks to his insight, now I know how to critique my own wuxia/xianxia projects using those four tests.
