Sinophagia: A Celebration of Chinese Horror, Xueting Christine Ni, translator and ed.
Trade Paperback/Ebook
ISBN: 9781837861170
Rebellion/Solaris, September 24, 2024, 448 pgs

As a reader, I enjoyed this book immensely. I think many readers out there will as well. I think that this book should be required reading for folks involved in the speculative short fiction industry: editors, reviewers, and so on. (More on that later.) I also think that there are books which, I would argue, I’m not really qualified to “judge” in the way that reviewers tend to “judge” books and either praise them and recommend them or put their supposed faults on display. This is such a book. I’m not Chinese, I’m not directly connected to Chinese culture, and my Mandarin language skills are at a very basic level. (More later on all of this as well.) First, let me tell you about the book itself, and I’ll talk about a handful of the pieces on offer, just to give an idea of what’s in store.

Sinophagia is another wonderful effort by translator and editor Xueting Christine Ni¹, who brought us Sinopticon: A Celebration of Chinese Science Fiction back in 2021. This entry in what we can only hope becomes a series of books is described on the Simon & Schuster site as “An anthology of unsettling tales from contemporary China, translated into English for the very first time.” My early digital copy begins with an introduction and content warnings for each story, then offers fourteen stories ranging greatly in length and theme. The earliest publication dates are from 2002 (“Immortal Beauty” by Chu Xidao), 2004 (“Huangcun” by Cai Jun), and 2006 (“The Ghost Wedding” by Yimei Tangguo); and the most recent were published in 2022 (“The Waking Dream” by Fan Zhou) and 2024 (“Night Climb” by Chi Hui). At the end of each piece, Ni has included thoughtful notes about both story and author. While this is definitely a horror anthology, as with many horror anthologies, what that term exactly means varies, from simply drawing a creepy atmosphere to scenes of explicit violence. Readers can potentially use content warnings to navigate to the things they prefer and avoid the things they don’t, if they so wish. I just dive in and see what happens!

“The Girl in the Rain” by Hong Niangzi (originally published in 2011) opens the book and feels in many ways like classic horror, establishing first the legends surrounding a university campus, and then getting into a blood-soaked narrative. Central is the three-person friendship between Jiang Ruohan, Luo Xi, and Shen Jie. Two of the three are in a romantic relationship, and things eventually take horrific turns—those turns being tied closely to the legends established at the outset. In my read, the author may be examining or, at least playing with the actual idea of legends. When the layers are pulled back and each character’s nature is exposed, she may also be asking the question: in a conflict, who is really innocent? Then again, as is sometimes the way with horror, it could just be bloody good fun! In the editorial notes, Ni discusses the context of when the author wrote the story, and based on this, it’s also possible that the piece is meant to reflect the stresses of university life, including the social elements. However you interpret the narrative, it’s an entertaining tale.

“Immortal Beauty” by Chu Xidao strikes me as a meditation on the flimsy and temporary nature of beauty, as well as the way so much importance is placed on said beauty. At times visually effective, often bloody, and with a horror-lovely climax, the narrative paints a picture of a woman wronged by someone who hungers for those he sees as more desirable. But there is also a layer here of the way we feel ugly when discarded, of the way we torment ourselves. If I’m not mistaken, there are shining moments of sharp questions cutting between the lines, interrogating gender roles and rules. The editorial notes offer brilliant insight and context into the work the story does of subverting tropes in traditional Chinese narratives.

“The Death of Nala” by Gu Shi (originally published in 2014) is initially striking in its immediate candor, its gentle brutality, with its quiet but shocking depiction of death. Somehow, as a reader, you know immediately that the mom’s kid caused the death, and this makes for a great start to a horror story wherein a mom isn’t sure if her son is a monster. A battle of wills between a homicidal child and a mother on the brink ensues, with things taking an unexpected turn in the end. I believe there is a lot here about gender, and the way women are often casually dismissed or even seen as fundamentally “over emotional” and more. The meaning of the ending is ripe for reflection and discussion along these themes—if you want to know more about my own theory, we’ll have to chat about it over drinks; but I’ll say here, as I often do, it’s all about the nuance. Ni adds another dimension of context with helpful notes about the story being written during the shift in the one-child policy in China, as well as cultural views about public displays of strong emotions, and more.

“Night Climb” by Chi Hui is better described as a vignette than flash, in my opinion, though genre conversations utilize “flash” as a description far more often than “vignette.” Nonetheless, this story is effective at evoking scene as well as delivering something unnerving while being mostly vibes with a strong sense of irony for seasoning; and it’s fairly mild for what we might describe as horror. In doing this, and in doing this well, it is actually a great starting point to think about what horror is and how fear happens in narrative. There is more suspense and fear and discomfort within these few words than many accomplish in far longer works. In the story, a guy is doing a mountain hike at night, hoping to catch the sunrise, and he encounters something strange. For me, what that strange thing is feels fresh and interesting, and in itself can spark so many conversations about the idea of what constitutes “the strange” itself, or the idea of “the normal.” Based on the editorial notes, my thoughts may constitute a related but different than intended response; or, another way to think of it, my interpretations may (or may not) be particularly “American.” There are other angles from which to engage the work, too, which I think is remarkable in itself for such a short piece; and which, for me, is the mark of great literature.

“The Waking Dream” is a science fiction horror story in which technology has been developed to allow people to perform as part of a workforce in a virtual workplace while their bodies are sleeping. Shen Yue is one such worker, but in her case, the shared virtual workplace is littered with monsters. As the story progresses, we learn more about the nature of what she is seeing. Simultaneously the story explores the ramifications of the science fictional conceit, as well as the sketchy reasons that such a technology might be created and utilized. Through this device, the story explores attitudes around labor and productivity, as well as the way people and companies get the public on board with things that maybe aren’t all that great for us. It’s an interesting piece with a strong sense of place, despite the fact that the place is virtual. Even as I find the material relatable within my own culturally familiar contexts, the editorial notes (again: helpfully) share the more specific Chinese cultural contexts, shedding light on what the story probably means to the author and her readers.

I think this is a great book, filled with interesting pieces. I also think it’s an important book. Here in the US what we see of Chinese literature (or, for that matter, literature from many places around the globe) is extremely limited compared to what’s actually out there. We don’t even have real visibility to the breadth and scope of Chinese science fiction. Xueting Christine Ni is doing a huge service, curating and translating, as well as providing notes so that folks who are unfamiliar may better understand each piece.

There are aspects of reviewing a book that I can’t speak to here, not in the same way that I might speak about many of the anthologies that are published for US markets. For example, many anthologies are essentially reflections of the anthologist’s tastes, and depending on the anthologist, I might wonder why they don’t publish certain authors and always publish the same authors over and over. I might agree with their tastes, or I might strongly disagree—either way, I’ll have my reasons, backed up by my experiences in reading. Or, I might say, these are all old-fashioned stories; or that they lean misogynist, etc. I might recognize tired re-hashes, or I might call out brilliant reworkings of familiar standards. But: I haven’t spent decades reading Chinese genre fiction, which has its own tropes, its own literary stars, its own modalities and forms and rhythms. Chinese grammar is different from ours, as are their idiomatic expressions. We will have overlapping but not identical concerns, and the way we express them will sometimes be similar, sometimes be vastly different.

What do Chinese readers see as “good” and what do they see as boring? Even in the US, our concept of what constitutes “misogyny” will vary greatly depending on who you talk to and about a zillion factors that go along with who they are; let alone . . . what does a writer in China consider “misogyny”? What does boldly standing against something look like in a culture where, according to Ni’s notes, displaying strong emotions in public is unseemly? Add to this that any piece of information we get about a place like China is necessarily through that individual’s filters: the things they believe about their own place and culture; just as, if I speak about the US to folks who don’t live here, they are only getting my version of things.

All of this is to say, there’s so much I am not comfortable judging here, as I know that there is just too much which I don’t know. I can only speak to my experience of the read. Exploring this book felt like—in the best of ways—going back to lit class or writing class or one of those English classes where you read and discuss and write papers. I loved those classes, and when they are done right, they improve the student’s ability to understand the stories, and allow for a more in-depth reading experience. This book is both entertaining and educational. If your reading diet isn’t already substantially global, and if you aren’t part of the readership² which has a stronger familiarity with Chinese culture and literature—especially if you read mostly white folks—set aside your assumptions and remember that you are stepping into a different culture. Read with an open mind, embrace curiosity; meet each piece, as much as possible, on its own terms. Experience these stories and then take in Ni’s kind explanations and extrapolations. This is about a love of reading, yes; but it’s also one tiny but important step in the long journey to better understand each other and the world we live in.

¹. Please check out her website here: bit.ly/470BdTv and my interview with her here: bit.ly/478GCbh. Publishers Weekly gave Sinopticon a starred review and it landed on The Washington Post’s Best Books of 2021 list, yet many genre outlets seem to have overlooked the book.

². It’s important to note that “American” and “readership” in the US also includes literally millions of people who will be very familiar with Chinese culture and storytelling; neither “American” nor “readership” are exclusively white.