Chinese matrix of the unsung hero

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This is an essay that I commissioned back in 2018 and that I translated and then re-elaborated in part.

The differences between Chinese and Japanese literature are symptomatic of the heterogeneity of oriental culture. In fact, since ancient times, we have recognized Japanese literature with a delicacy and a characteristic touch that we do not find in Chinese literature. If we take a look at the past, we observe that one thing above all has come down to us from 7,000 years of Chinese historical-cultural traditions: the heroic figure. Silhouetted against a multitude of backgrounds, the Chinese hero is born from the combination of different, often historical figures, whose qualities and achievements have been gradually amplified by tradition. Japanese writing, on the other hand, tends towards the emotional sphere. Japanese writers dwell on subjective and personal details to investigate the protagonist's interiority. They focus on feelings that transcend a particular historically determined epoch, whereby the interest in the cultural context is eclipsed by the interest in the human, so much so that Japanese writers who wanted to devote themselves to writing more intellectual texts borrowed the Chinese language, considered more suitable. In any case, Japanese is a language without strong accents and which makes rhyming composition difficult, so it tends mostly towards prose; the sentences of Japanese writers are generally very long and suitable for a narrative by way of a stream of consciousness, a style that leads us precisely to genres such as that of the personal diary or travel diary, which have found enviable success in Japan.

Such a glaring difference is naturally reflected in the web novel genre. The typical Chinese protagonist, in fact, is an authoritarian, strong and fundamentally isolated figure whose predecessor is the xiake, outlaws who emerged during the wars of unification of the state of Qin. It is a sort of "knights errant", often of humble origins, willing to break the law to bring justice to the people. During the major political upheavals, in fact, they took it upon themselves to take matters into their own hands, punishing those who transgressed popular habits and customs; their violence became socially accepted over time because it was moved by a collective ethic and turned into a symbol of virility that earned them honor and glory. It is no coincidence that this ideal of heroism owes a lot to the political context: even after the fall of the Han Dynasty, in fact, the lack of a strong institution made the figure of the individual capable of taking the initiative and saving himself stand out. The political unrest has strengthened the admiration of the hero on the part of society as a whole, because his ability to rebel was synonymous with revolt against the oppressors. The invasions that followed the fall of the Han Dynasty helped to re-evaluate the man who, virile and fearless, was not afraid to kill to protect his own life and that of his loved ones. This admiration has often evolved into a deification of the male figure, which with his courage and mastery of martial arts often represented the only way to salvation. Obviously, it is obvious that the figure of the hero always stands out against a tragic context, because where there is no danger, the power of his role also fails. Often the hero is called upon to choose and the outcome of the choice is always consistent with his ideals, which he defends and which he adheres to at the cost of his life. The sufferings that the hero must endure, in the historical as well as in the literary sense, help to isolate him but are, at the same time, the voice of the great destiny that awaits him.

The Chinese hero is, in other words, the one who is not afraid of hurting anyone in order to put things back in their proper place. His most heinous actions do not weigh on his conscience, which indeed seemed emptied of that particular remorse that torments Japanese heroes.

Let us now compare the reaction of a Japanese and a Chinese hero respectively to the awareness of having committed a crime or, more generally, of having guilty of guilt.

The fragment clearly illustrates the value of remorse: a weight, a ghost hovering in the room, a burden he can hardly speak of. All sensations that Chu Feng, the protagonist of Martial God Asura, clearly, does not know.

In the scene preceding Chu Feng’s rape of Yan Ruyu, she had poisoned him, motivated in turn by the intention to rape him. Chu Feng, who manages to escape it, does not care about the risk he has just escaped and has as his only concern to pay it back with the same coin. The fact that he was one step away from experiencing the pain he caused himself, however, does not prevent him from relaxing with a satisfied smile on his face.

The example highlights why a Chinese hero is often called ruthless, while the Japanese one is not at all. The rawness of the first is in stark contrast to the insecurity of the second. Obviously there was no lack of Japanese authors who wanted to write about equally merciless OP heroes, but often the result does not collect the consent of readers. Ido Masayoshi, for example, author of Summoned Slaughterer (also known by the Japanese title Yobidasareta Satsuriku-sha), has often been criticized for forcing his hand in the descriptions of his protagonist's strength to make him completely lose credibility.

Finally, the Chinese hero's individualism is matched by an inverse tendency of the Japanese hero: an impulse towards intersubjectivity. This statement may seem contradictory, and in a certain sense it is. Let's examine Sora, the protagonist of the Japanese novel No Game No Life. Sora is an antisocial boy who deliberately lives segregated within the walls of his home because, as the title implies, his life revolves around video games. Although he suffers from hikikomori, or the need to remain in complete isolation, he is a person without whom he cannot be.

The relationship between Sora and his sister Shiro, in fact, is vital up to the morbid and has nothing to do with that of Qing Tan and Lin Dong (by Wu Dong Qian Kun), who feels embarrassed at the very idea of having to enter his sister's room while she sleeps.

There is something in the coldness of the Chinese protagonists that reminds us why the characters are many, but the heroes are few: impassivity is not for everyone, even if many want it. The main characteristic of a Japanese character is that his interiority describes the human being as such. The Chinese, on the contrary, becomes with his distinctive detachment and the series of successes that stud his adventures a sort of optative of the human heart, the projection of the person that each of us would like to be. The Japanese lingers, the Chinese advances. The Japanese are traveling, the Chinese on a mission. The Japanese cry, the Chinese allow themselves at most a bitter smile.