From The New Yorker:
Q: “In Lulu, your story in this week’s issue, a young Chinese man watches his twin sister become increasingly involved in dissident activism—her actions seem to leave him at a loss. Was there a specific idea behind the decision to narrate this story from the brother’s perspective?”
A: “There’s a certain duality of life in China (and in most places), in which you have very different realities that coexist. China is a place where people who are experiencing the worst of the state’s actions can live intimately alongside residents and visitors who are able to be much more apolitical, and who never really have to think about those on the other side. It’s a dichotomy that underpins so much of life there, one that’s hard to wrap your mind around. I wanted to write about this strangeness from the perspective of someone who would never think about the darker parts of society until a loved one forced him to.”
. . . .
Q: “Something else that struck me is the critical role the Internet plays, from the reposting of censored videos to the narrator’s gaming life to his chats with his distant sister. The circulation of information and the role-playing fantasy seem to be almost in competition. Did you feel like you were working to bring these properties of the Internet, especially in China, more into focus in your story?”
A: “I think that’s right. Early on there’s a feeling of promise that’s represented in the father’s gift of identical laptops. But as the two siblings chart different courses through the Internet—one of entertainment and escape, the other of trying to better understand the world around her—in some ways their paths converge. They both know what it’s like to feel powerful online, and also, I suspect, that the experience is disposable.
At some point, Lulu’s father asks her if what she’s done is meaningful, and as I reread the story, the question doesn’t strike me as simply rhetorical. There’s a nihilism to the Internet that threatens to absorb anything it encounters, including the kinds of raw videos and photos of protests that Lulu circulates. Things have meaning but are swallowed up online, and not only in China.”
. . . .
Q: “You’re a journalist at the Wall Street Journal, and were formerly a China correspondent. Do you think that journalism has influenced your way of thinking about fiction, or of storytelling?”
A: “I think journalism and fiction are both ways of being differently attentive to what’s around you. They’ve always struck me as linked: there’s a desire to conjure up the world and its experiences, but it’s an impulse that gets worked out in different ways. Journalism is like writing in a bright, sunlit room—you’re acutely aware of your readers, of your editors, as you move things around on a page. Fiction is much more solitary, a kind of walking in the dark. To me, they work in rhythm with each other. Sometimes the mind wants both.”
Link to the rest at The New Yorker
Nihilism is the enemy of hope. Hope gives our lives purpose and our journies strength. Without hope, there is nothing.
I find it enlightening that, in Spanish, ‘to hope’ — esperar — also means ‘to wait’.
Indeed.
My favorite quote about hope is:
“Hope is sitting around doing nothing, waiting for someone else to solve the problem.”
I would add, “…or not.”