Jin Yong and the World of the New Wuxia

Jin Yong and the World of the New Wuxia

For thousands of years, the Chinese people have harbored an unbroken dream of wuxia. Whenever society fell into turmoil, whenever ordinary people were trapped in misery, powerless to save themselves, crying out to heaven and earth without answer, they often needed some form of spiritual refuge just to endure. China, unlike most countries in the world, never developed a broad-based monotheistic faith, and religious authority was always bound up with imperial power. And so hope could only be placed in the dream of the knight-errant: the hero who robs the rich, aids the poor, and rescues the people from suffering.

From Romance of Sui and Tang to The Seven Heroes and Five Gallants, the brilliance of traditional chapter-based wuxia fiction was displayed to the fullest. But like every other art form, once it reaches the height of prosperity, decline inevitably follows. When every possible variation of a form has already been exhausted, what remains is only clumsy imitation—and then clumsy imitation of clumsy imitation. Traditional chapter-based wuxia was no exception.

Yet unlike many art forms that simply disappeared at that point, traditional wuxia, just as it was nearing extinction, was suddenly revitalized by the rise of Hong Kong’s new wuxia school, represented by Jin Yong, Gu Long, and Liang Yusheng. For a time, wuxia fiction enjoyed extraordinary popularity; one might even say it experienced a renaissance. But it was perhaps less a true rebirth than a final blaze of brilliance before fading. After the successive deaths of Gu Long and Liang Yusheng, and after Jin Yong laid down his pen, no truly powerful successor emerged. (Writers such as Wen Rui’an can only be regarded as contemporaries of somewhat lesser influence, not heirs in any real sense.) The flourishing age of new wuxia was far shorter than that of traditional chapter-based fiction, and before long it too was reduced to plagiarism and imitation. For many years now, the works repeatedly adapted for film and television have still been those of Jin Yong and Gu Long, with only a small number from Liang Yusheng, Wen Rui’an, Xiao Yi, and others. The prosperity of new wuxia feels more and more like a brief flash—beautiful, but fleeting.

Among the three great masters of new wuxia, Liang Yusheng exists more as its founding pioneer. His works still bear strong traces of traditional chapter-based fiction, and in narrative, plotting, and even literary quality they often fall somewhat short. As a result, they have generally been less beloved than the works of the other two, and after a period of popularity, their influence faded rather quickly.

Jin Yong and Gu Long, by contrast, have for decades stood shoulder to shoulder, each leading the field in his own unmistakable way, and so they are constantly compared. Once, while thinking about the two of them, I was reminded—rather inappropriately—of Andy Lau and Stephen Chow. The comparison is imperfect, but there does seem to be a certain resemblance.

Andy Lau completed the hundredth film of his life quite early, yet what left the deepest impression on audiences were still those songs of his that were once sung everywhere. To be sure, some of his later films did produce a few somewhat memorable roles, but they still cannot compare with Stephen Chow, who in only a dozen or twenty films created character after character that was almost invariably iconic: Tang Bohu, Beggar So, Wei Xiaobao, Sing, the Joker, Chan Mong-kat, Sung Sai-kit... Most of these artistic creations by Stephen Chow remain as vivid as ever. But what about Andy Lau?

In much the same way, among Jin Yong’s mere fourteen works, Linghu Chong, Yang Guo, Qiao Feng, Guo Jing, Huang Rong, Zhang Wuji, Wei Xiaobao, and so many others—nearly every one of them can be called a classic. Gu Long, compared with Andy Lau, fares somewhat better: among his hundred-odd works, there are at least Chu Liuxiang, Lu Xiaofeng, Ximen Chuixue, Li Xunhuan, Xiao Yuer, Hua Wuque, Ye Kai, and others who can just about stand alongside them. Yet in terms of influence and popularity, they still fall considerably short. This is certainly related to Gu Long’s style of characterization and storytelling, but more importantly, it is because the wuxia world under Jin Yong’s pen is about more than the jianghu alone.

“The greatest heroes are those who serve the nation and the people.” In my view, Jin Yong’s greatest advantage lies in his profound mastery of literature and history. Because of this, writing fiction seemed to come to him with an ease and confidence that made even great weight feel light in the hand. On the one hand, this is reflected in the way he became increasingly adept—from The Book and the Sword to the Condor Trilogy and then to The Deer and the Cauldron—at blending fiction with real history, much like works such as Romance of Sui and Tang, turning wuxia into a kind of half-true, half-fictional historical romance.

On the other hand, precisely because his characters must move through actual history, what they embody is not merely the exhilarating freedom of the jianghu found in Gu Long’s fiction, but also the larger burdens of national righteousness, the fate of the state, and the most precious spirit of traditional wuxia. Qiao Feng and Guo Jing are the clearest examples of this. Their images go far beyond that of the ordinary wandering hero; they are national heroes—though Qiao Feng, of course, is a tragic hero in the Greek sense.

At the same time, Jin Yong’s literary depth is beyond the reach of other wuxia writers. The jianghu in his works resembles a series of tender fairy tales. There is little of the relentless bloodshed and brutality one might expect—or even when there is, it is usually rendered in a way that does not repel the reader. The deaths of major characters are also relatively rare, whether heroes or villains, which stands in stark contrast to the style of George R. R. Martin. And from time to time, his novels are suffused with lyricism, wit, laughter, anger, and invective. Such a jianghu may feel unrealistic, but all the more for that it becomes enchanting.

By comparison, the jianghu under Gu Long’s pen has a very different flavor. This is probably due in large part to the different life experiences and personal backgrounds of the two writers. Gu Long’s world always reveals a more authentic atmosphere of bloodshed, intrigue, and mutual deception. It makes one uneasy, yet unable to let go. And the genuine feeling and justice that surface within it are like a glimmer of light in the dark, illuminating both the characters and the reader. That is precisely the charm of Gu Long’s characters. If Jin Yong is like Hans Christian Andersen, writing fairy tales for adults, then Gu Long is more like Nietzsche, filling his pages with worldly aphorisms and philosophy.

Though the golden age of new wuxia is long past, writers are immortal because of their works. Gu Long has been gone from this world for more than thirty years, yet whenever we speak of Chu Liuxiang, it is as if he never left. And ever since he put down his pen, the name Jin Yong has in fact already departed from this world as well; it is only because he remains inseparable from characters like Linghu Chong that we keep remembering him again and again.

Now that Mr. Louis Cha has passed away, just like Xiong Yaohua (Gu Long, died 1985) and Chen Wentong (Liang Yusheng, died 2009), he is only formally separated from this world. He lives on forever in the new wuxia world created by his pen. Only when everyone who has read these books is no longer here will they truly lose their traces in this world. But I think that day may not come until a very, very, very long time from now.