"This Era Needs Good Stories" - Porcelain
In this era, even the kindest souls can be driven to madness.
These are my reflections after reading the story “Encountering Wang Liulang.” The piece was written by Liang Xiaosheng—the very same author behind the hit TV series The World of Humanity a few years ago. Recently, it was included in the mid-length short story collection Porcelain as one of nine outstanding pieces.
We live in an age overflowing with stories, yet the collection’s editor, Zhang Yiwen, insists: “This era needs good stories.”
Encountering “Wang Liulang”
"I" am a retired professor of Chinese literature. About four summers ago, I encountered some trouble at a train station. Too old to navigate ride-hailing apps and caught in the sweltering heat, I felt utterly helpless—until a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old boy came to my aid. In our lighthearted exchange, we found each other amusing enough to add one another on our phones.
The boy’s online nickname was quite striking—“Wang Liulang.” The name comes from a character in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, where Wang Liulang is portrayed as a benevolent ghost.
Although we exchanged contacts, we never spoke again—until one summer afternoon, four years later. A friend of a friend, whose son had a passion for writing poetry, sought my advice. His mother brought him to my home. To my surprise, that boy turned out to be none other than the former “Wang Liulang,” whose real name is Wang Renzhi.
The boy’s mother, clearly a successful woman, left an impression on me. Strangely, however, Wang Liulang acted as if he had never met me before—and so, I pretended not to recognize him.
After reading his poems, I was both astonished and delighted to discover that despite his youth, his verses carried remarkable depth. Before leaving, his mother earnestly requested that I meet with her alone the following day, as she had something important to discuss.
The next day, she filled me in on Wang Renzhi’s situation.
Wang Renzhi suffers from a severe mental illness, the result of two incidents during his college years. First, he was falsely accused of stealing a mobile phone by a classmate. What pained him most was that one of his closest, albeit impoverished, friends—named Hu Hongzhi—whom he had always supported, ended up being complicit in the accusation. Second, his family introduced him to a well-matched girl, but after she later became a celebrity, she abandoned him.
I asked which incident had affected him more. She replied that, naturally, the breakup was far more devastating—after all, a phone was trivial to her family.
A few days later, Wang Liulang reached out to me via phone, revealing that he had remembered me all along. When he came to visit on his own, his overly familiar manner both amused and irritated me.
Why pretend not to know me?
He answered: “I just thought it would be fun.”
During our conversation, I inadvertently mentioned that his mother had previously met with me alone. Suddenly, his demeanor shifted; he became agitated and began to confess that the poems in his collection—which had caught my attention—were nothing more than patchwork imitations of classical works, not original creations of his own.
Embarrassed and angry, yet mindful of his condition and his status as a guest, I held back my full response. Still, my tone lost its warmth as I bluntly asked:
Wang Renzhi replied: “Obviously the first one. What stung was that I had always been kind to Hu Hongzhi—covering his expenses when he was in need. Even though he knew the phone wasn’t stolen by me, why did he join in to falsely accuse me?”
The more he spoke, the more agitated he became—even hurling insults at me. Finding an excuse, I asked him to leave, and our meeting ended on a sour note.
Three days later, Wang Renzhi sent me a message as if the earlier confrontation had been forgotten. He then shared many of his insights on poetry with me. I felt deeply ashamed—not only had I behaved so pettily, but it was also clear that his talent in poetry was extraordinary. A young man of such promise, tormented into mental illness by a former friend repaying his kindness with betrayal—Hu Hongzhi was truly despicable.
After that encounter, Liulang conducted himself with great decorum, politeness, and kindness; indeed, his condition appeared to improve markedly. Yet two days later, his father called to bid farewell, explaining that the family had decided to move to a villa in rural Yunnan for a while, hoping it might benefit Liulang’s recovery.
Half a month later, Liulang excitedly messaged me: “I’m getting married!” It turned out that in the countryside of Yunnan he had met a simple yet beautiful girl—one whose raw, natural beauty captured his heart at first sight. His parents were overjoyed and soon visited to propose; the girl’s parents, impressed by Liulang’s family background, agreed enthusiastically.
Liulang’s parents remarked that the couple were like Xi Ren and Bao Yu from Dream of the Red Chamber, convinced that marriage might finally cure Liulang’s affliction. Although I always felt that hastily marrying him off as a means to cure his illness was somewhat unethical, all those involved were happy with the decision—so I could only offer my blessings. But I was gravely mistaken.
Before long, Wang Renzhi’s entire family returned to Beijing, bringing along the new bride and a poetry collection Liulang had composed in the countryside, titled Shihui Ji. Liulang’s father was determined to publish the collection and hold a grand symposium for him, believing it would help his recovery. Liulang, however, felt his talent was not yet ready and strongly resisted.
Then, the couple came to me in tears, recounting their hardships and begging for my help in persuading him. After much thought, though I admitted that the poetry collection was not quite publication-worthy, I conceded that it might still be a positive step. I offered lavish praise for the collection—albeit reluctantly—and insisted that the symposium should be a modest celebration in line with Liulang’s wishes. The couple agreed, and everything proceeded smoothly; the symposium was held as planned.
However, when I arrived at the event, I discovered that the “symposium” had transformed into a grand publicity affair. Celebrities were in attendance, and Liulang’s parents basked in their success as they entertained guests. A throng of “professionals” mingled with champagne flutes in hand amid an atmosphere of overwhelming praise. Everyone proclaimed, “This is undoubtedly a groundbreaking collection—Liulang’s future is limitless.” I searched the crowd until I finally found Liulang, sitting alone in a corner.
Having had a few drinks, I went home and crashed. The next day, a friend messaged to inform me that the symposium had made headlines, ridiculing the event as a farce. Wang Liulang’s past stint in the mental hospital had been exposed, and the cause of his breakdown was bluntly reduced to a failed romance. Netizens mocked, ridiculed, and viciously attacked, so much so that even any sympathetic voices were drowned out by a tide of abuse.
A year later, when I visited an old friend at the mental hospital, I couldn’t help but ask about Wang Renzhi’s condition.
My friend replied: “Isn’t he still called Wang Liulang? He loves writing poetry. That kid is incredibly talented—everyone here respects him as a model patient.”
I said: “Then stop calling him Wang Liulang; just use his real name.”
He responded: “He prefers being called Wang Liulang—it suits him, even in the hospital.”
On my way home, another friend texted to say that Liulang’s little brother had just reached his 100th day, and his parents were gathering suggestions for a culturally meaningful name for their second child.
Conclusion
To preserve the original atmosphere, the concluding passage is nearly verbatim from the book. A careful reading reveals the depth of Liang Xiaosheng’s thoughts. After experiencing this story, each person may feel differently—and that, perhaps, is the very essence of a “good story.”
This era needs good stories. Reading one is like living an entirely different life, and the beauty of literature lies in its ability to transport us across time and space, allowing us to experience myriad lives. Each journey deepens our understanding of the world—but only if it truly is a good story.
The nine stories in Porcelain evoke a myriad of emotions; if you’re curious, I highly recommend you give them a read.
Finally, here is a quote from the book to conclude today’s reading:
— Porcelain
Porcelain
- Author: Liang Xiaosheng, Ge Liang, et al.
- Publication Year: 2024.06
- Category: Short Story Collection
— From @不略
