The Typesetter

By Shen Yuzhong 沈禹鐘 (1889–1971)[1]

Translated by Ping Zhu

MCLC Resource Center Publication (Copyright September 2024)

The first page of the Chinese original in Red Magazine.

This story is a satire of the concept of “literature of blood and tears” (血和泪的文学) proposed by Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎 in 1921. Instead of representing the blood and tears of the proletariat, Shen Yuzhong, a Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies author, wrote the story from the perspective of a worker who observes the literal “literature of blood and tears” produced by a writer. The Chinese original follows the translation.–Ping Zhu

The clanging of the bell in the printing factory wakes Wang Qin from his morning slumber. Rubbing his tired eyes, he knows it’s time to go to work at the factory again. He gets up grudgingly, puts on his clothes, grabs a basin, goes downstairs to fetch some water, and returns to his room to wash his face and neck. He lives in a small back room on the second floor, rented from a sub-landlord for five silver dollars a month. If you compare them to those of others in society, his living expenses are at the lowest level. However, Wang Qin’s earning capacity is quite weak; he only earns fifteen silver dollars a month at the factory. One-third of that goes to rent, the rest goes to food and clothing, leaving him perpetually worried about his hard life. Sometimes he thinks about changing his life, but that seems impossible. People’s lives are all assigned by capital, deeply oppressed by its forces. No matter what abilities you have, it’s difficult to struggle against capital.

The factory work starts every morning at seven, not long after the bell rings to wake the workers living nearby. Hearing the bell, everyone hurriedly bids farewell to their morning dreams and goes to obey its call. After washing up, Wang Qin also quickly goes out. He takes two copper coins from his pocket and buys some street food to eat along the way. This is his daily routine, not a one-off. When he arrives at the factory gate, he sees many of his coworkers streaming in. They’ve known each other for so long that they no longer bother with greetings or small talk. Once inside the factory, the workers take off their coats and start working amid the clatter of the machines.

Although Wang Qin is a worker in a printing factory, he has attended school for several years and is quite literate. For the past few years, he has been working on a literary magazine that is published twice a month. When he typesets a manuscript, he carefully reads every word. He understands all the manuscripts so well that it feels like he is studying while at work. This has improved his knowledge significantly. He finds more pleasure in his work than anything else. Whenever the editor sends him a manuscript, he feels immense joy, almost forgetting his own hard life. He meticulously typesets each word, sometimes even correcting errors missed by the copyeditor. As a result, his typesetting is rarely flawed, earning him gratitude from the proofreaders.

He believes those writers must be well-off—because the compensation for writing is so meager, and yet the effort of writing a story so immense, how could a poor person ever undertake such work? Whenever he thinks of this, he feels that those writers are as enviable as celestial beings. It makes him lament his own unfortunate and impoverished life, unable to devote himself to study, constantly toiling for a meager wage. He can’t even measure up to a tiny fraction of those writers. He thus feels extremely unfortunate and aggrieved.

Sometimes, when Wang Qin has a bit of free time at work, he visits the editor for a chat. He inquiries about the writers’ lives and even wants to know what they look like. He wishes that the editor would collect photos and biographies of the writers for him to peruse. However, the editor isn’t always so accommodating, often dismissing Wang Qin’s questions and finding his chatter annoying. As soon as Wang Qin perceives this, he quietly retreats, envying the editor who can frequently interact with the writers and learn about their appearances and personalities. In contrast, he is stuck in his own unfortunate situation, unqualified to befriend writers. This makes him hope that one day he will save enough money to open a bookstore, where he could frequently interact with them. By then, they will surely favor him.

Every day after work, Wang Qin sits silently at home, pondering what makes writers different from ordinary people. Their faces must be handsome, and they must write faster than his typesetting speed, because they can produce tens of thousands of words each month. There are over ten writers for the magazine Wang Qin works on, and he has created a mental image of each one out of his own imagination.

One day, Wang Qin wants to discuss the layout of a manuscript with the editor of the magazine. As soon as he steps into the editor’s office, he sees a guest sitting to the right of the editor’s desk. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, he stands outside without paying much attention to the guest’s appearance. As he stares at the stacks of manuscripts on the glass shelf, marveling at the effort they represent, he suddenly hears the guest say: “I’ve submitted several manuscripts, and the compensation should be around thirty or forty silver dollars. Can I get it now?” Upon hearing these words, Wang Qin immediately shifts his gaze to the guest, observing him closely. Since this guest was talking about manuscript fees, he must be one of the magazine’s contributors. However, the guest’s demeanor is vastly different from what he imagined. Maybe he isn’t a writer, and Wang Qin has misheard what the guest has said.

While Wang Qin is pondering, the guest continues: “The manuscript I brought today is about three thousand words. Can I get the compensation for it as well?” The editor nods immediately: “Of course, but it’s not settlement time yet, and handling it early is quite a hassle. Can you wait a few days?” The guest pauses and reluctantly agrees. Seeing this, the editor asks: “Do you have an urgent need? If you can’t wait, we can make an exception.” The guest seems greatly relieved by these words and says: “To be frank with you, you’re quite right. Those of us who make a living by writing can certainly understand. I really need this manuscript payment right away. I have many expenses to cover tomorrow.” After telling the truth, an embarrassed expression appears on his face, not much different from that of someone asking for a loan. The editor calls for a clerk, who quickly comes in, and the editor hands him a note, asking him to fetch fifty dollars from the accountant. The editor and the guest continue chatting while waiting.

Witnessing this, Wang Qin has a revelation. He had always thought writers were well-off, but now he sees this guest, likely a prominent writer, in financial distress. He realizes the other writers are probably in similar situations. After the guest receives his money and leaves, Wang Qin approaches the editor about his business. Then, casually pointing at the chair where the guest had been sitting, he asks: “Is that guest a contributor to our magazine?” The editor replies: “Yes, that was Mr. Song Tianliao, here to collect his compensation.” Seeing that the editor is in a good mood today, Wang Qin continues to talk: “So that’s Mr. Song Tianliao. His writing is excellent. But why was he pushing for compensation today? Is his situation not well?” The editor replies: “Of course, living off writing is tough, and it is not just for Mr. Song.”

When Wang Qin returns to the factory floor to work, he cannot help but think: “It’s shocking. Isn’t Mr. Song Tianliao one of the most renowned writers? Yet, he’s in financial trouble. Today I learned that writers aren’t wealthy, and their complaints of poverty in their works aren’t just for poor people like us—they are genuine expressions of their own experience. Thus, the life of a writer isn’t any better than that of a typesetter; their only advantage is an illusory reputation for talent.”

From then on, Wang Qin’s envy for writers diminishes significantly. He now understands that writers are merely workers who typeset words according to grammatical rules, earning their livelihood through arranging words just like him, in equally pitiable conditions. He begins to pity the writers instead, thinking to himself: “They exhaust their minds every day, and besides me, who else pities them?” This thought becomes a comfort to Wang Qin. Whether he is working or resting, he often holds onto this thought, almost considering it one of the most joyful things in his life. “Poor writers, do you know of this typesetter’s pity?”

One late night, Wang Qin returns from a friend’s wedding banquet, passing by a house with bright lights shining out through the windows. Having drunk a few glasses of wine and feeling a bit intoxicated, he approaches the window, peeks inside, and sees a man writing diligently at a desk. He chuckles to himself, thinking: “What a fool, working so late at night.” As he continues walking, he notices a black lead plate with white characters reading: “Song Tianliao’s Residence.” The name Song Tianliao feels very familiar to him. After searching his mind for a moment, he suddenly remembers that it is one of the magazine’s contributors. He mutters to himself: “How could I get so muddleheaded after drinking a bit of wine? Forgetting even the three characters of Song Tianliao’s name is truly laughable.” As he continues walking home, he recalls the image of Song Tianliao writing late at night and realizes that the life of writers is really harsh, as they cannot even get a full night’s sleep. He sighs and ponders: “Everything in life requires money. The quality of food, clothing, and shelter all depends on one’s wealth. Only sleep is free, and it is the same for the rich and the poor. But even this basic right is denied to writers. I used to think writers were the luckiest people; now I know they’re the most pitiful.”

Later, Song Tianliao’s works disappear from the magazine for a while, making Wang Qin worry that he might be ill. After several months, Song’s works reappear. As Wang Qin is typesetting, he takes a closer look and sees that the title consists of four words: “Notes on Coughing Blood.” The manuscript is a personal account of the writer’s life. It reads: “One night, while I was writing, I suddenly felt sick in my chest. I immediately coughed up half a spittoon of blood and could no longer support myself. I’ve been ill ever since and still haven’t fully recovered.” Reading this, Wang Qin’s hands start to tremble, and he sighs repeatedly: “Our work of typesetting only costs us some labor, but the words writers produce are stained with blood.”

Translated by Ping Zhu
University of California, San Diego