CAUTIONARY TALES

BY CARLOS OTTERY

Eileen Chang tells immortal stories of desire and danger

in Lust， Caution

不朽的愛怨情仇：張愛玲《色戒》及其他

Such is the poise of Eileen Changs writing that it is easy to spend much of your time reading her， muttering to yourself， “She cant have only been 24 when she wrote this. She just cant.” But， of course， she was， and her place as one of the great （perhaps the great） Chinese female writers is surely secure， some 20 years after her death. Lust， Caution is an odd collection insofar as that while the eponymous story is a taut spy thriller， the four remaining take a completely different tack and are all realist studies in everyday Chinese society. The book is clearly an attempt to ride on the popularity of Ang Lees marginally controversial film adaptation， with a few other stories bolted on as an afterthought. Fortunately， Changs prose employs such economy and is so polished that this slight disconnect barely matters.

Writing at the tail-end of Chinas Republic Period （1912 – 1949）， Chang was out of step with many of her contemporaries. While they were off scribbling important missives about revolution， civil war， and the state of the nation， Changs pen was focused dead squarely on one thing： people and their relationships with each other. Though the collection is set， and largely written， in Shanghai in the mid-1940s when the city was under Japanese occupation， Changs writing largely ignores the blood， warfare， and geo-politics of the time， instead often referring to such goings on as “these difficult times”. Harsh critics could （and have） easily write off Chang as wilfully burying her head in the sand， ignoring the central questions of her times， but attempting to answer such questions are not her raison dêtre. She writes to a different register， instead， trying to illuminate her time and place by shining an intense light on the more mundane minutiae of peoples lives， be it the touch of an elbow on a womans breast， gossiping at the doctors surgery， or the matching of a linen jacket with the right pants. If this all sounds hum-drum that is because it is， but Chang always maintained the central importance of such themes， writing， “Though my characters are not heroes， they are the ones who bear the burden of our age…they sum up this age of ours better than any hero…we should perhaps move beyond the notion that literary works should have ‘main themes.” If her work has a core thesis， and it is something that she would have rejected， it is， perhaps， that， humanity， in all its hypocrisy， will keep marching on as it always does with people primarily concerned with how they appear to others， falling in love， and， of course， the cost of rice. The final line of “In the Waiting Room” says it succinctly， “And life kept going on， walking its own way.”

Other than “Lust， Caution” all of the stories have an almost relentless kitchen sink quality—plotless slices of life that record thoughts and feelings with a surgeons precision.“In the Waiting Room” is entirely devoted to a bunch of old woman gossiping while they wait to see a doctor; “Great Felicity” dissects a wedding preparation and the cruel jealousies that lurk within a family; “Steamed Osmanthus Flower： Ah Xiaos Unhappy Autumn” is an exploration of the unexciting life of a cleaner to a foreign playboy; and “Traces of Love” examines the complexities of being a second wife. Whether or not you find Changs themes sublime or banal， it is the brilliance of her writing that enables her to pull it off and she has an eye for small details and a prose style that immediately puts her amongst the very finest of writers. Her touch for simile and metaphor， for example， are outstanding， as when she describes an envious old woman， “Although she had a dowagers fondness for keeping young， pretty woman clustered around her–like a galaxy of stars reflecting glory on to the moon around which they circulated–she was not yet too old for flashes of jealousy.”

Even when describing something as simple as bad teeth， Changs writing resonates vibrantly， “But for some unknown reason the lower part of his face simply fell away. His bucked teeth were like a hand reaching downwards， pulling his mouth along with it.” Though， she is not a feminist writer by any means， it is fair to say that her preoccupations， at least how they are perceived， are feminine ones： marriage， domestic labour， family matters， love， sex， and adultery. And she often deals in metaphors that you feel could only have come from the mind of a woman： “She glanced at her watch again. She felt a kind of chilling premonition of failure， like a long snag in a silk stocking silently creeping up her body.”

However， it would be inaccurate to portray Chang as only dealing with female matters， and she is easily able to place and write confidently about the male malaise， usually making profound points with astounding economy， “With the woman of his past， it was rows and fights. With her， sometimes he had to say ‘Im sorry， sometimes ‘thank you. But that was all， thank you， Im sorry.” Surely， this description of male-female relations will resonate with men and women the world over. She can be crueller still， “Moreover， it was now clear to him that women were all more or less the same.”

As is fitting of one of the great chroniclers of 20th century Chinese life， Chang constantly gives a strong account of the quirks and obsessions of Chinese society， barely a few pages goes past before there is a debate about the （ever increasing） cost of things， or a discussion of food. Other familiar tropes are well covered too： the Chinese predilection for showing-off， “His melancholic remarks were laced with irony， and he was always making passing references to his close relationships with big officials.” Or the obsession with getting married that drives even the most headstrong of Chinese women to distraction， “Tangqian was a spirited girl. But in spite of her spiritedness， she was still unmarried， and she was beginning to lose her self-confidence.” The nations seemingly matter-of-fact attitudes towards adultery get aired a few times too， “Oh， Mrs Pang—dont I know it. I have thought for a long time now that he must have taken a concubine. Once a mans been away for six months， you cant count on him anymore. Thats what I have always said！”

Changs range is such that it she is hard to pin down， one moment she sounds like Ian Flemings James Bond， “As soon as hed reached safety， hed immediately telephoned to get the whole area sealed off. By ten oclock that evening they had all been shot. She must have hated him in the end. But real men have to be ruthless. She wouldnt have loved him if hed been the sentimental type.” The next she comes over as positively Jane Austen， “But since she didnt have anything pretty to wear she couldnt find a match. She was trapped in a vicious cycle， doomed to spend her blooming years in wistful longing： no young woman， no matter how clever， could break her way out of a dress like that.”

Changs writing is laden with a deep sense of ennui， and if she has any genuine love for her characters， or indeed life， she seems to keep it sharply hidden. Of one her characters， she writes， “Her pale exhausted face was a challenge; it seemed to say， ‘I am tired of this world. Thats why I am also tired of you—are you tired of me？” One cant help but thinking that these words are not but from one character in one story， but something more general about Changs feeling for the world and her place in it. Chang writes as you imagine a cat might， superior， scathing， bored even， but always with elegant beauty. Whether Chang will truly sing will for any particular reader is ultimately one of disposition： for her there is no good or bad， love is fleeting， people are hypocrites， self-obsessed， wrapped up in their own little worlds. For many this will be too relentlessly negative， but for others， well， this is just the way the world is and we should be thankful that we had someone like Chang to record the worlds minor miseries with such an exceptional polish.