Return to the Besieged Fortress by Jimmy Qi, translated by Harvey Thomlinson, explores themes of identity, belonging, and the absurdities of cross-cultural life. Qi skillfully weaves humor and charm to paint a vivid picture of the challenges faced by a generation of pioneering overseas Chinese. Born in 1962 in Beijing, Jimmy Qi (Qi Yiming) has published more than 40 books and holds a Doctorate in Comparative Literature from Peking University.
Manhattan Book Review sat down with Jimmy Qi to discuss his experiences, his writing process, and what it means to navigate life between cultures.
About the Book and Its Themes
Return to the Besieged Fortress explores themes of identity, belonging, and the absurdities of cross-cultural life. What was the initial spark for this story?
The initial spark came from my own life experiences as one of a pioneering generation of overseas Chinese during the transformative period of opening up in China. After spending three years in Japan beginning in 1985 and nearly a decade in Canada studying and working, I returned to Beijing in 1998. This journey through diverse cultures has deeply influenced my perspective, and each story is rooted in the realities I encountered while living abroad. The richness of these experiences allows me to observe the world from multiple viewpoints, which is essential to my writing. I believe that living in different countries expands one’s understanding of life. Yes, there are emotional tolls—such as the disorientation you can feel upon returning to your original home—but I argue that those who embrace cross-cultural experiences come to understand the world more profoundly.
Above all, I hope to inspire readers to understand that engaging with people from diverse backgrounds can lead to a more fulfilling life. It’s all about connection and discovery—the notion that we are all, in some way, lovely in our differences. I encourage everyone to step outside their own fortress, to experience the beauty of cross-cultural interactions. It is through these encounters that we truly come to know ourselves and the world around us.
The title suggests a cyclical struggle—returning to a past conflict. How does this idea shape the novel’s structure and themes?
The concept of “returning” resonates deeply with me. Reflecting on my own experiences, when I returned to my hometown of Beijing after living abroad, it was undeniably a homecoming. It brought a sense of comfort and ease, yet I found myself viewing my surroundings through what I can only describe as “two pairs of glasses.” Having lived outside my hometown for an extended period, my perspective had inevitably shifted. Though nearly 30 years have passed since that return, the duality of my vision remains—it’s an intriguing blend of nostalgia and alienation.
This theme of duality extends to my understanding of “freedom.” I suspect that my perspective might differ significantly from that of others. Those who delve into my debut novel, “Freedom House” (which is yet to be translated into English), will find that my interpretation of freedom is shaped by the struggles I’ve faced. For individuals like myself, the concept of freedom encompasses more than just the spiritual; it includes tangible aspects such as “work freedom” and “financial freedom,” both abroad and in our homeland. This nuanced understanding colors my narrative and informs the characters’ journeys throughout the novel.
Humor plays a big role in your storytelling. Do you see humor as a survival mechanism for dealing with cultural displacement?
Absolutely. I believe that humor is a universal thread that connects diverse cultures, and it’s particularly prominent in my experiences between Chinese and North American contexts. Take the people from the northeastern provinces of China—Heilongjiang, Jilin, and Liaoning. There’s a certain wit innate to them; in fact, they often only speak when they’re joking. My father hails from Liaoning, and I’ve come to think of it as sharing a “natural humor gene.” Wherever I go, my colleagues seem to find joy in my presence, which I attribute to this shared sense of humor.
There’s something about the vastness of China that fosters an expansive mindset—much like the broad cultural landscape of North America. This connection made my transition to Canada remarkably smooth; I found myself resonating with the local humor right away. When I worked in Montreal, I quickly became known as one of the most humorous figures in the office.
I would argue that the defining difference between humans and other animals is our capacity for humor. If you ponder this notion, it holds a certain truth. Those who appreciate humor are perhaps the closest to what it means to be fully human. Moreover, when faced with challenges, adopting an open-minded, self-deprecating attitude is a crucial strategy for overcoming adversity. It is through laughter that we can navigate difficulties and perhaps even thrive despite them.
The novel touches on tensions between East and West. Were there particular moments in your own life that influenced these themes?
When I think about the tensions between East and West that permeate my work, and this novel in particular, I can point to specific moments in my life that influenced these themes. The conflicts depicted are drawn from my own experiences. I wrote them in real-time while working in an office sales role for the Asian market. I had a private room, and during the quieter moments at work, I found myself writing to stave off boredom. Over those years, I ended up penning four or five novels, with “President Qiu” being the most successful. I vividly remember the emotional release I felt after finishing the second story. I went to the bathroom alone and couldn’t help but cry; it was such a cathartic moment for me.
When it comes to East-West dynamics and the different ways we handle conflict, I’ve noticed that East Asians, including both Chinese and Japanese, generally don’t engage in loud disputes at work. Public arguments are far more typical in North American companies, but it seems Westerners tend to quarrel publicly and then move on quickly, almost forgetting what happened. Looking back, some of my colleagues from that time may have since passed away, and it’s poignant for me to think about it. While we definitely exchanged harsh words during our quarrels—words like ‘bullshit’—we remained good friends afterward. Those bonds endured, despite the spats.
Now that I’m back in Beijing, I’ve largely lost those quarreling skills I picked up in Montreal. There just isn’t anyone here to engage with, and over time, I’ve let go of that side of myself. It’s a bit of a pity because there’s a certain energy in confrontation that I’ve grown nostalgic for. It’s all part of navigating a world characterized by both conflict and connection.
In what ways does your book challenge or subvert stereotypes about both China and the West?
From 2004 to 2024, I was a teacher at Beijing Language and Culture University and the students I taught came from all over the world, so my feeling is what Confucius said, “natures are similar, but habits are different.” As the proverb suggests, I believe that human nature is unvarying, and so my books should not have much to do with stereotypes. If they do, it proves that they should not exist, because the characters in my stories are not different because of the culture they belong to. The “conflicts” in them all occur because of specific things.
In today’s world, where globalization and nationalism often collide, do you think cross-cultural literature like yours plays a unique role?
I myself am a “globalist” and oppose narrow nationalism. The people and stories in “Into the Fortress Besieged” are the best proof of that.
On Characters and Narrative Style
Your protagonist is caught between cultures, expectations, and personal aspirations. How did you craft his voice and internal conflicts?
When reflecting on the internal conflicts of my protagonist, I see the four stories as a microcosm of my experiences. In the first story, I take on the role of an observer, describing the quirks of my interesting colleagues. In the second, I tackle the universal fight for the recognition I believe I deserve. This struggle resonates no matter where you are—whether in Canada or China; the quest for what I call the correct “rationality” (or fairness) remains consistent.
I genuinely believe that the pursuit of “rationality” is a fundamental principle that transcends cultural and geographical boundaries. In every setting, we encounter irrationality and unfairness. When these injustices arise, we must take action. Over the years, I’ve committed myself to resisting irrationality—not just in my own life but for others as well. It’s become a guiding principle for me, one that I hope resonates with readers and sparks reflection on the inequities we all face.
The novel has been described as satirical yet deeply human. Were there particular authors or works that influenced this balance?
I suppose that two authors were particularly influential. Erma Bombeck’s humor resonated with me during a formative time in my life. Her book All I Know About Animal Behavior, I Learned in Loehmann’s Dressing Room showcased her wit and keen observation of everyday life, inspiring me to embrace lightheartedness while tackling serious themes. This warmth and relatability guided my writing style.
On the other hand, I admire Qian Zhongshu for his literary complexity in his twentieth century classic Fortress Besieged. Set in a 1940s Chinese university, it combines sharp satire with profound explorations of relationships and societal expectations. Zhongshu’s clever dialogue and insights into the absurdities of life encouraged me to integrate humor into deeper commentary. His ability to navigate both Chinese and Western literature has enriched my perspective. Ultimately, both writers have been mentors.
You’ve mentioned before that humor can sometimes be “lost in translation” between cultures. Do you think your book will be interpreted differently by Western and Chinese readers?
I don’t quite think so, because I believe that people’s understanding should be borderless. Some humor will be lost in the translation process, but it will basically be retained, especially Harvey’s excellent translation, which is almost exactly the same as my original article, so not much is lost.
Your book was translated by Harvey Thomlinson. How involved were you in the translation process?
Harvey himself is an excellent writer, and his understanding of Chinese is no worse than mine, so I basically don’t have to make any changes to his translation.
Were there any parts of the book that you felt had to be adapted or adjusted for an international audience?
Some Chinese names, as they often carry hidden meanings and associations that can be lost in translation to English.
How do you feel about the state of Chinese literature in translation today? Do you think it’s gaining more visibility?
I don’t focus much on how other authors’ works are accepted after being translated abroad, but their influence is likely increasing, as seen with Liu Cixin’s The Three-Body Problem.
If you could have your book translated into one more language next, which would it be and why?
French or Spanish. I have a personal connection to both languages. While living in Montreal, a predominantly French-speaking city in Canada, I learned to speak French. During my time working in the International Export Department of a Canadian company, many of my colleagues were from Latin America and spoke Spanish, which allowed me to gain a basic understanding of the language.
Return to the Besieged Fortress by Jimmy Qi, translated by Harvey Thomlinson, is available now. ISBN: 9781647759247. Purchase on Amazon.
This page was created by an City Book Review staff member.