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(This article is originally published at Readmoo)

Sometimes you just open a comic for a quick glance, but in an instant, you know you’re done for. It’s not just a matter of sharply crafted characters, or the depth of the plot – you’ve stepped into an entirely new world.

Being “done for”, naturally, is a good thing. You’re going to lose yourself in this comic. You’ll skip meals and lose sleep for it. You’ll keep coming back for more, devouring each twist in the plot, and savoring every detail of the world laid out before you, like you did when you first read Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, or when you were desperately waiting for the final installment of Nagano Mamoru’s The Five Star Stories. The main storylines of these works are unforgettable, of course, but it is the inconceivable act of creating the sense of an entire world that keeps us coming back for more, because our imagination is already off and running, envisioning all of the other stories this vast universe makes possible.

For this reader, Buke’s Hell Parade is one of these wildly ambitious, and successful works of the imagination. I would say that its meticulously-wrought world stands among the greatest comic creations of Taiwan, except for the fact that I believe Hell Parade is on par even with the greatest manga from Japan, a nation renowned for numerous feats of astonishing world-building.

In the distant future of Hell Parade, the technologies and energy sources employed today have all been replaced by magic. Legendary creatures like elves and orcs live alongside humans, and sorcerers are employed by the government as a mercenary police force to deal with monsters that infiltrate society through mysterious hell-gates. The story revolves around two young sorcerers, Eli and his partner Sophy, the daughter of a wealthy family. Eli, whose origins are far more mysterious, has a take-it-or-leave attitude towards their low-paid government contracts. When a hell-gate on the northern border acts up, he is sent to the front lines, and Eli’s past suddenly returns to haunt him, revealing a complex and sinister plot operating in the background.

The full five-volume series of Hell Parade is the product of three years of dedicated effort, yet none of its nearly thousand pages feels superfluous. In an era where the Taiwan comics world is clamoring for original IP, Hell Parade seethes with a multitude of distinct personalities, original in appearance as well as temperament. Whether sorcerers, vampires, werewolves, witches – or even passersby in the street – each leaves a distinct and memorable impression. Buke smoothly strings together scenes that draw out a wide range of moods and emotions, from the endearing, to the fantastically strange, to out-and-out tearjerkers – the effects owing in large part to Buke’s ability to tell stories through her distinctively appealing line work. However, “telling stories” doesn’t really do justice to Hell Parade. The plot achieves its richness and complexity through a multitude of storylines which unfurl and intertwine with the intricacy of a finely wrought sculpture. The ability to juggle so many subplots is, of course, dependent on the complexity and scale of the universe Buke has created. The warp and weft of its many races, regions, cultures, and landscapes interlace to create something akin to the Bayeux Tapestry in its expansive vision of civilization and nature, a complex world that catalyzes the myriad interactions that constitute Hell Parade.

Character, setting, and plot nestle into one another like Russian dolls, a structuring device that avoids reliance on familiar clichés, and empowers Buke’s originality to shine from Hell Parade with a uniquely dazzling appeal. The deeper purpose behind the battles of men and monsters, the political intrigues, and the ties that bind the major characters are only revealed layer by layer, until the protagonist himself passes through the depths of doubt, and realizes that while his “awful and ordinary” world isn’t worth saving, neither is it deserving of destruction. But where do we find our peace in the midst of despair and emptiness? Of course, this question is directed toward the imagined world of Hell Parade, but it equally applies to our current reality.

There are no clear, simplistic answers in Hell Parade. Instead, it simply opens a space for deeper introspection. In the final chapters, even the nature of “Hell” itself is only explained in terms that will be mulled by readers for long after the book is finished.

The five volumes of Hell Parade are complete. Buke’s work is done. But the vast expanse of the imagined universe she has created is so suggestive of further stories, that her fans are condemned to eternally hope for sequels and spinoffs from this masterful world-weaver.

(This article is originally published at Readmoo)

Anyone who knows their zines and alternative manga in Taiwan will know the name Ding Pao-Yen. Ding Pao-Yen’s rise over the last decade, powered by a distinctive artistic style and a little darkness in the details, has made him one of the most-watched figures in Taiwan comic book. He self-publishes, but also features in a number of recent local comic book anthologies. He doesn’t just do comic books – he continues to produce illustrations and experiment with various forms of visual expression. His 2023 art book From the Dream Dimension documents his accomplishments during those wanderings between comic book and art.

Console, 2073, published in late 2022 by Slowork Publishing, was something followers of his work recognized as new. It wasn’t just his first long-form piece – it was his first attempt at bringing his unique style to a mainstream audience after those years of self-publishing. His trademarks – harsh and explosive lines; anxiety and threats of violence lurking in the images – are still there, sometimes obviously, sometimes more subtly. But both narrative and composition have something more rarely seen from Ding Pao-Yen: a warmth, perhaps even a sweetness. Those two aspects could clash but in practice they balance each other, forming a fairy tale for modern times, a balm for every soul trapped between the real and the virtual.

Console, 2073 is a virtual romance. By the titular year, humanity has mastered the mechanics of dreaming, allowing the creation of a hybrid Dream Reality. This causes a sensation and is integrated into a best-selling games console. But by the time our protagonist, J, comes on the scene, Dream Reality has been banned for over a decade. But hardcore fans such as J, a professional bug-hunter for gaming studios, track down those games, get them up and running, and then plug themselves in. One day, J finds a Dream Reality game, Doomsday Library, at a second-hand market. In the process of debugging and playing the game, he falls for Saya, a cute in-game barista. With her, he finds a happiness and peace which escape him in the real world.

J becomes obsessed with the game; his feelings for Saya intensify. The boundary between Dream Reality and reality reality seems to fade. Each world bleeds into the other until he can’t be sure which is which. What is the point of the world? What role does Saya play? While finding the answers to those questions, J finds himself forced to make a choice: dream world or reality.

The roomier long-form format allows Ding Pao-Yen’s superb storytelling skills to come into play, creating a charming tale of virtual-real confusion. There is more, though, to the piece: images and symbolism drawn from the work of Japanese author Murakami Haruki are to be found: in the artwork, in the plot, even in the characters. Console, 2073 is almost a love letter to Murakami, something only a loyal reader or follower could produce.

This is not just a simple quoting of references. Murakami’s influence here is more profound. Ding Pao-Yen’s visual grammar is a response to that surreal style of Murakami’s, touching on something at the very core of the Japanese author’s work: the darkness that hides below normality’s surface, waiting to swallow us whole. Console, 2073 doesn’t just pay tribute to Murakami. It starts a conversation with him on what it means to be human.

This is mainstream sci-fi manga which manages to stay true to itself. It is also a work which reflects the author’s thought processes over a long period of time and a dialogue of equals with a beloved author. More importantly, when we find reality difficult and virtuality empty, we can open Console, 2073 and know that we are not alone. There are others, too, who wander confused.

(This article is originally published at Readmoo)

Botany is an approachable subject for a popular science book. No irritating technological or economic issues, an academic background in math or physics isn’t a prerequisite, and you don’t need reference materials on hand to illuminate the unfamiliar science. Plants are our food, our neighbors, and our friends – and the most intimate of strangers. Perhaps the fact that audiences can easily find things of immediate relevance to their lives has led to a sustained output of translations of botany-related nature writing and popular science from publishers in Taiwan, as well as the attention local experts have received in recent years for books like Isle of Healing and The Odyssey of Taiwan’s Montane Plants that combine nature writing and botany.

 

Arriving on this tide of interest in native plants is Plant Collectors’ Notebook, a graphic novel featuring plant collectors during the Japanese colonial period. Although the name might suggest this is a non-fiction guide, botanical information is actually only a supporting character in a plot motivated by the collectors’ troubled history, their social interactions, and their coming of age.

 

The book’s three protagonists each carry wounds of their own, and as they work with their colleagues collecting plants and producing specimens, they gain new experiences of both plants and life.

 

The main protagonist Hsu Liang-Shan is the only son of the proprietor of an herbal pharmacy. Distraught over the death of his younger sister to a heart ailment, he no longer believes in the efficacy of plants as medicine. But when he starts work at the Taipei Herbarium, not only does he recognize the value of his storehouse of herbal knowledge and realize that plants are useful in far more ways than he ever imagined, he starts coming to terms with the loss of his sister as well.

 

Liang-Shan’s supervisor, the botanical research assistant Matsuo Haku, is swift and decisive at work. As the story progresses, the reader discovers the link between his self-sacrifice on the job and the sense of inferiority and worthlessness stemming from his frail constitution. What he doesn’t realize is that his enthusiasm for plants is a quiet inspiration to those around him.

 

Joining the Herbarium team shortly after Liang-Shan is Wu-Tsao, an orphan raised in a village of mountain bandits. Illiterate but dexterous, she hopes that botanical knowledge will help her face the nightmare of being abandoned as a child. And whether it’s Liang-Shan helping her adapt to a new way of life, or Haku teaching her to read, she’s constantly making new discoveries.

 

Concerning scientific nomenclature, Liang-Shan notes, “Whether or not a plant has been given a scientific name, its essential nature doesn’t change. It still grows naturally through the passage of the seasons, and still flowers at the appropriate time!” However, when a plant encounters a collector and is identified and named by a botanist, its fate may still be altered. When a collector searches for plants, they may also be searching for a place of their own within the sphere of botanical knowledge.

 

With a collector’s day-to-day life revolving around plants, the graphic novel can’t avoid explanatory dialogue, but author Ejan strategically confines single-purpose descriptive content to two-page spreads that simplify complex topics into plain text. Taken together with the plot and art, the reader can gain a bit of knowledge without feeling like reading is a chore.

 

Further reducing the burden on the reader, as well as ensuring consistency with historical and scientific facts, the author sought the assistance of botanists and historians in the outline phase. By the final draft, every branch and leaf of every plant in every panel was reviewed by experts – and possibly revised in response to feedback. In the chapter introducing Wu-Tsao, the bandits don’t just rob travelers; they grow poppies and refine opium in a hidden encampment. A simple decision of what plants the bandits would use for their criminal activity had to take into account what plausible during the Japanese colonial period. This represents significant effort on the author’s part, as well as time spent on verification by editors and botanical and historical advisors.

 

Ejan says, “The name of a collector doesn’t go down in history like a botanist, but their work is the foundation for all further research.” Her collaboration with botanists and historians is itself a veiled tribute to that unacknowledged work. Perhaps that is something Plant Collectors’ Notebook has in common with readers: its protagonists silently support the work of botanical research – and plants silently support human life – in the same way that ordinary people like you and me contribute to the day-to-day operation of the world.

(This article is originally published at Readmoo)

Yeh Hsing-chiao, the main character in The Banana Sprout, is attending school in a city far from home, but when the relatives he was staying with must leave town for work, Yeh is forced to move into the student dormitory halfway through the semester. Yeh’s first official meeting with his roommate, the infamous oddball Untaro, makes for one of the most jaw-dropping scenes in the entire book: As Yeh passes by the dormitory he delights at the cool relief of a gentle, misting rain, but only seconds later, alerted by the dorm matron’s litany of curses, he looks up just in time to see a curly-haired youth zipping back up his pants before candidly calling down: “My bad!” It is only then that Yeh comes to the belated realization that the gentle rain he’d delighted in was no rain at all….

Yet, once they become roommates, Yeh quickly realizes that Untaro is not just some profligate libertine – his Japanese roommate’s room is filled with all kinds of books, both in Japanese and foreign languages. Indeed, he is such a voracious reader that even one of his teachers must confess to being less well-read. Untaro often skips class, but he spends most of his time immersed in independent study and has even mastered German, a language that remains elusive to Yeh. 

Yeh’s diligence and strict obedience stand in stark relief to Untaro’s freewheeling personality. At first, Yeh’s oddball roommate is little more than a constant source of annoyance to him, but through their daily interactions and insights from a teacher, he finally realizes that Untaro’s impulsive behavior is a manifestation of the same uncertainty about the future that Yeh himself feels. After a heartfelt discussion, the two come to a conclusion: given that they both feel uncertain about the future, perhaps they can undertake some common cause to begin looking for the answers they seek. They decide to deploy their respective literary strengths in the making of a new, relatively open-minded literature journal that will offer a challenge to the strict conventionalism of the school journal Soaring Wind.   

If the time period in which The Banana Sprout transpires was not clearly stated, one could be forgiven for mistaking it for a modern, Japanese high school bildungsroman. Many hallmarks of the Japanese coming-of-age tales are present: two young, likable friends with polar-opposite personalities combine forces in pursuit of some ambitious objective – their enthusiasm and drive can be inspiring, their antics both galling and hilarious, and at times the realizations they come to as they grow can cast the reader into a melancholic gloom. Yet, once we learn when and where this novel takes places, it is hard not to marvel at the author, Zuo Hsuan’s talents; this charming and poignant story is the product of the author’s meticulous distillation of a vast amount of historical research. If not for Zuo Hsuan’s elegant reconjuring, even the average Taiwanese reader would find it difficult to imagine what life must have been like in Taihoku High School during the 1930s.  

Taihoku High School was the predecessor to what is now National Taiwan Normal University. During Japanese rule, the school was a seven-year, all-boys, elite academy consisting of a four-year middle school and a three-year college preparatory program. The four-year middle school (called the “Basic Program”) accepted graduates of elementary schools, while the college preparatory program (called the “Advanced Program”) consisted of students that had graduated from the Basic Program and were automatically matriculated, as well as middle school students from other schools who tested into the program. Because graduates of the Taihoku High School could directly enroll in the Japanese Imperial Universities (the predecessors of Tokyo University, Kyoto University, and National Taiwan University) without taking entrance exams, competition among prospective students was fierce – of the 160 students admitted to the Advanced Program every year, less than thirty were Taiwanese, with the rest consisting of Japanese students. Regardless of their nationality, any student seen wearing the Taihoku High School uniform would likely have been regarded in the much the same way as the bookstore proprietress in the graphic novel saw them – as future doctors and influential politicians in the making.

Interestingly, this academic “cream of the crop” was far from a bunch of nerdy bookworms – much like the banana leaves that wreathed their school crest, they were full of liveliness and exuberance. The lax campus regulations created the ultimate environment for students to engage in self-guided exploration. Not only were they allowed to pursue whatever academic interests and extracurricular activities they pleased, arming themselves with all the basic expertise any budding intellectual may need, they were also allowed the freedom to experience life unbound by restrictions. As such, some students affected a disheveled and slovenly appearance like Untaro, while others could be seen reveling in late night sessions of song and dance, beating on drums, locked arm-in-arm.… This bold and unrestrained campus culture likely blurred the ethnic lines between Japanese and Taiwanese. In an otherwise strictly regimented colonial society, this tiny campus became a rare oasis of freedom and liberalism. 

The question is, will modern readers be able to relate to these youths of ninety years ago? In fact, this question did not even cross my mind while reading – I was carried off by the meticulous detail and clean precision of Zuo Hsuan’s prose, and became immersed in the eccentricities and surprising twists of Yeh and Untaro’s world. From a modern vantage, their mindset and behavior vary only slightly from that of today’s highschoolers or college students. The uncertainty they feel towards themselves, their peers and their new environment is entirely relatable to modern audiences. Perhaps, as the story develops further, we will see conflicts of race, gender, and agency which are more specific to that period, but prior to that I assume readers will have just one wish: to see more of these youngsters who, like the banana sprouts of their insignia, embody limitless potential.

For the past few months, Taiwan’s domestic news cycle has been dominated by the upcoming January 2024 presidential election: a billionaire businessowner entered the race and (after failing to gain traction) dropped out; two of the opposition parties joined forces and (after confirming their incompatibility) broke up. But the campaign was far from the only story. This year has been marked by the delayed arrival of a #MeToo movement that is yet to fully settle, and the sudden and widespread adoption of AI-based writing tools has stimulated national debate and conversation on issues of plagiarism, authorship, the future of professional environments, and the need to reassess educational approaches.

Thinking more globally, we in Taiwan have watched with horror the emergence of two major wars in two years. Of course, international onlookers inevitably ask: “Will Taiwan be next?” And, while it would be an over-simplification to say that those of us on these islands do not feel a measure of unease, the threat of invasion has existed for decades, and Taiwanese lives are for the most part not as affected as those outside might think.

Cross-strait relations and associated tensions have, however, been felt in other ways, particularly in the increasing numbers of Hong Kong migrants settling in Taiwan, with yearly arrivals doubling over the past twenty-four months to over ten thousand people per year, amongst whom are new and welcome additions to our industry, most notably the 2046 imprint and the Causeway Bay Books bookstore.

 

Tang Siu Wa (middle), at the Taipei International Book Exhibition, 2023, launching the 2046 imprint.
Image source: https://p-articles.com/heteroglossia/3597.html

 

For many working in publishing, one of the most affecting pieces of news this year was Fucha’s arrest. Fucha, who moved to Taiwan over a decade ago, is a highly respected and influential figure, known for publishing critical deconstructions of the cultural and social ideals surrounding contemporary China; he was detained after returning to Shanghai for a family visit this past spring and has not yet returned.

In February this year, the Taipei International Book Exhibition (TIBE) resumed its regular annual schedule; the number of attendees exceeded 500,000 people, a doubling from the previous year and a figure which represents 87% of 2019’s pre-pandemic high. Over the past few years, there has been a steady rise in the popularity of author events at the fair, and 2023 saw TIBE hosting over 800 events, attended by over 470 publishing houses from 33 countries. In this way, Taipei might well be considered a hybrid fair, catering to both professionals and the general public alike, and, with the sheer number of events, it’s starting to resemble a literary festival.

 

View of the floor at the Taipei International Book Exhibition, 2023.
Image source: https://www.rti.org.tw/news/view/id/2158128

 

Transforming the fair such that it caters to all needs should indeed be praised, but some argue that the organisers have not yet clearly defined its purpose; this lack of clarity, they claim, undermines the many excellent events. (Noise interference — due to closely spaced, concurrent talks — and ticket prices that do not reflect the increased number of high-quality events are two commonly cited complaints.)

More broadly, the industry continues to tackle the worrying trend of year-on-year devaluation. In 2022, total revenue was estimated at around USD 575-600 million; this, combined with inflation, which has affected the price of paper, logistics, labour, and other areas of production, means margins are smaller than ever. Taiwan, like many countries in East Asia, does not operate a hardback-first-paperback-later print cycle (through which publishers might recuperate initial production costs). Historically, sales volumes were enough to make margins work with paperbacks alone, but that business model has struggled to adapt to modern consumer habits, where volumes have decreased and preferences are more widely spread.

Looking at the Taiwan Cultural Content Industry Research Report, which was commissioned by the Taiwan Creative Content Agency (TAICCA) and compiled with data from 2021, over 82% of publishers (including general, professional, and textbook publishers, but excluding those publishing comics and magazines) are based in the Greater Taipei metropolitan area. Over 75% of publishing houses are small and medium-sized enterprises, and just over 5% are large-scale publishing groups (with capitalisations in excess of USD 3.2 million). The rising cost of running a business in our nation’s capital, shrinking domestic sales, and a lack of investment by which to plan and execute digital transformations are just some of the key issues to address.

In numbers taken from the same report, 96% of the industry’s revenue comes from domestic sales, including those of books, audiobooks, multimedia licensing, and ebooks. (Note that overseas ebook sales cannot easily be separated from those within Taiwan.) Foreign rights sales make up less than 4% of total revenue and are heavily reliant on Sinosphere markets, such as China, Hong Kong, and Macau, which together comprise nearly 80% of all rights sales. (Of the remaining portion, South Korea accounts for around 5%.)

Whilst both the comic and magazine sectors likewise rely heavily on Taiwan’s domestic market, which supplies over 90% of total revenue, there are nevertheless some interesting deviations from the industry at large.

97% of all comics published in Taiwan are acquired through foreign rights (mostly from Japan), and only 3% are titles produced by local creators. The few local offerings, however, punch above their weight in terms of international rights sales, 55% of which are to Japan, 21% to France, 9% to China, and 4.5% to South Korea. This distribution pattern, so unlike that of the Sino-centric foreign rights sales for books, might well be attributed to the medium’s illustrated nature, which could allow for broader international appeal. (And, crucially, Japan and France are two of the world’s major markets for comics.) Moreover, there has been a boom in Western interest in East Asian pop- and sub-cultures, driven primarily by Manga and K-pop, and Taiwanese content might therefore be looked upon with renewed interest.   

Alongside the TAICCA report, it is useful to review the annual National Central Library Reading Report to gain further insight into Taiwanese reading habits. The latest edition, which uses statistics from 2022, shows that readers have returned to the library, with visitor numbers up 47% compared with 2021. Over 93 million books were on loan in 2022, with the most popular categories being literature, applied science, natural science, and social science, and the biggest borrowers being the 35-44 age group. An average of 4.5 books per capita were borrowed from libraries across the country; the top title was self-help bestseller Atomic Habits, by James Clear, followed by multiple self-help books from domestic authors. This matches the bestseller trends as per Eslite’s and Books.com’s annual end-of-year analyses.

 

Entrance to Taiwan’s National Central Library. 
Image source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Central_Library

 

Another area of growth was ebooks on loan, which increased by 257% compared with 2020. And, during the pandemic, we finally saw a significant upward shift in the sale of ebooks (as well as the attendant increase in the number of titles published), whilst the average retail prices of ebooks have risen by over 33% in the past two years.

Although it is true that business for publishers in Taiwan might be challenging, given the available statistics, I question the oft-repeated statement that people “don’t read anymore.” It is clear that the public does enjoy reading — their engagement just isn’t being effectively translated into revenue. So, what can be done to overcome these challenges?

Public lending rights is a policy — already implemented in many countries — that compensates publishers and authors for potential losses of sales to public library lending. The first Taiwanese trial, however, wasn’t judged a success, due in part to the pilot’s limited scale and various bureaucratic complications. Nevertheless, public hearings were held to improve the process, and discussions are underway to renew the trial.

As e-commerce retail platforms continue to promote books with ever-increasing discounts, many publishers have begun calling for the implementation of a fixed-price policy; there are also, however, oppositional voices — mostly free-market advocates — who stand by the principle of economic self-regulation, and it must be said that, against rising discounts, average retail prices have increased.

These policy ideas and others in development have been shaped by repeated exchanges with experienced professionals, whose insights are already helping publishers cultivate large and diverse readerships and teaching them (whether they be independent or commercial) to create marketing strategies catering to divergent readerships and fast-changing consumer habits. So, while we navigate this long and sometimes painful transition, it is worth remembering that progress has been made and fresh developments are gaining momentum.

2023 has been an eventful year for international promotion. For many, it was the first real post-pandemic year, especially when it came to overseas author engagements. On top of its regular annual attendance at global book fairs, such as Angouleme, Bologna, Seoul, Frankfurt, Shanghai, and Guadalajara, Taiwan was selected as guest country of honour for Switzerland’s Festival de bande dessinée Lausanne (BDFIL), where six graphic novelists, among them Sean Chung (小莊), author of 80’s Diary in Taiwan, and Zhou JianXin (周見信), author of The Boy from Clearwater, and three film directors were invited to participate in roundtable discussions and other events. The two above-mentioned authors have each sold foreign rights in numerous territories, including France, Italy, and Germany, and being selected as the guest of honour nation surely speaks to the rising profile of Taiwan’s cultural output.

 

Inside pages of The Boy from Clearwater displayed at BDFIL.
Image source: Centre Culturel de Taïwan à Paris

 

Award-winning novelists Li Kotomi (李琴峰) and Kevin Chen (陳思宏) were both writers in residence at Iowa’s prestigious International Writing Program; while there, Kevin Chen attended the Toronto International Festival of Authors with children’s author and illustrator Bei Lynn (林小杯). Yang Shuang-Zi (楊双子), who writes queer stories set in the Japanese colonial period, visited Japan in late spring to promote the translated edition of Taiwan Travelogue, which was reprinted just seven weeks after its initial release. Pioneering feminist writer Li Ang (李昂) travelled this autumn to France for the launch of her novel Le Banquet aphrodisiaqu.

 

Interview with Yang Shuan-Zi, published in Japan’s leading newspaper, the Yomiuri Shimbun.
Image source: https://www.openbook.org.tw/article/p-67743

 

Historically, for Taiwan-based agents, selling rights into the English-language world has been challenging. When looking over the 2024-2025 list, however, one gets the distinct sense there is increasing attention being focused on Taiwan literature. We can expect to see English translations of Still Life in White, Lai Hsiang-Yin’s (賴香吟) award-winning novel set during the authoritarian White Terror period; the final volume of the critically praised graphic novel, The Boy from Clearwater; The Eyes of the Sky and Mata nu Wawa, two backlist classics from acclaimed Indigenous Tao writer Syaman Ranpongan (夏曼.藍波安); two of Yang Shuang-Zi’s novels; and poetry from both Ling Yu (零雨) and Cikada Prize winner Chen Yuhong (陳育虹).

One highlight from outside the Anglosphere is the crime novel Before We Were Monsters, by Katniss Hsiao (蕭瑋萱), which has sold rights in six countries and secured a film adaptation. Port of Lies, by Freddy Fu-Jui Tang (唐福睿) — already adapted into a Netflix-drama series here in Taiwan — addresses complex social issues, such as the death penalty, racial identity, and the exploitation of migrant workers; it has sold rights in three languages. Successful sales into the Spanish language world have primarily involved illustrated titles, and we look forward to the publications of Where Would I Be Tomorrow?, by author and illustrator Jimmy Liao (幾米); Practicing Goodbye, Bei Lynn's moving graphic novella about a missing beloved dog; the Bologna BRAW Amazing Bookshelf selected picture book Still Young Still New, by Higo Wu (海狗房東) and Chen Pei-Hsiu (陳沛珛); and The Fox and the Tree, a picture book by Chen Yan-Ling (陳彥伶).

Finally, if we return to ways that we might transform our industry, it is evident that investment in domestic talent is a driver of enduring change; it must, therefore, be financially viable for gifted young people to embark upon a writing career. And, in a small place like Taiwan, where access to the global market is key to the ongoing development of our industry, English sample translations are invaluable resources when promoting Taiwanese content abroad.

So, it was with great pleasure that many of us reacted to the recent decision, taken by the Ministry of Culture, to double the number of annually produced English translation samples (titles to be selected by panel judges led by the team at Books from Taiwan). More samples means more publicity and success in foreign sales; this generates important positive feedback, which in turn drives sales in our domestic market, sparking further worldwide interest.

As our authors are gaining popularity, both at home and internationally, and as the Eslite and Books.com bestseller charts list more local authors than ever, well-endowed literary prizes provide recognition and reward for established and emerging authors alike. Major prizes, such as the Golden Tripod, OpenBook, the Taipei International Book Exhibition Prize, and the Taiwan Literature Awards, draw great attention and increase sales of both winning and shortlisted books. And the Lin Rung San Prize (林榮三文學獎), the Indigenous Peoples’ Literature Award (原住民文學獎), and the Taiwan Literature Award for Migrants (移民工文學獎) give top prizes to unpublished authors that range from USD 3,000-19,000. It is this second category that is especially important to underprivileged and emerging writers, who might use the prize money to kick-start their dreams or capitalize on the increased publicity to find publishers and secure arts grants with which to complete their projects.

 

The 2023 Taiwan Literature Award for Migrants award ceremony.
Image source: https://www.mirrormedia.mg/story/20230312soc014

 

And even if some publications target a niche audience and have little commercial potential, it seems obvious to me that it is exactly this type of literature that, over the past two decades, has inspired many authors of a “mainstream” tilt to include more challenging topics in their own writing, which has in turn diversified the public’s reading habits and appetites. Gender expression, LGBTQIA+ identities, folk tales, Indigenous civilizations, environmental issues, social justice, and many other pieces of our world are present on pages in ways like never before; there is always more to be done, but the creation of a vibrant environment for writers and readers is an inspirational work in progress.

Still, transition is not easy, and it might not be healthy to dream big without first grasping the practical realities of our industry. That is why understanding the macroeconomic facts, using data such as those collected by TAICCA and the National Central Library, is so important, just as is collaboration — both internal and international — by which we can improve our offerings for a changing and widening readership.

Earlier this month, some of my colleagues attended the Guadalajara Book Fair in Mexico, where, aside from exhibiting books, concerted efforts were made to reach local media outlets, universities, and chain bookstores in the service of developing stronger collaborative ties. This October, at the Frankfurt fair, Books from Taiwan celebrated its tenth anniversary with an event that was attended by over 100 professionals from around the world. Cultural transformations and investments take time, but these initiatives are just two examples of the type of cooperation that could encourage our industry to move together into a new future.

 

The Taiwan Pavilion at the 2023 Guadalajara Book Fair.
Image source: https://reading.udn.com/read/story/7046/7604408

 

Next February, we look forward to the 2024 Taipei International Book Exhibition, at which we will host the Netherlands as our guest nation of honour. And TAICCA will be relaunching its international fellowship program at the same time, inviting 30 professionals from around the world to join us in Taipei to gain insight on our publishing industry, meet authors, publishers, and readers, and (of course) enjoy some of our city’s many beautiful sights.

And with that, I’ll end this article; I wish you all a happy holiday season, and I hope to see you in Taipei soon. 

GPT is set up by The Ministry of Culture to encourage the publication of Taiwanese works in translation overseas, to raise the international visibility of Taiwanese cultural content, and to help Taiwan's publishing industry expand into non-Chinese international markets.

Applicant Eligibility: Foreign publishing houses (legal entity) legally registered or incorporated in accordance with the laws and regulations of their respective countries.

Conditions:

1. The so-called Taiwanese works must meet the following requirements:

A. Use traditional characters
B. Written by a natural person holding an R.O.C. identity card
C. Has been assigned an ISBN in Taiwan
i.e., the author is a native of Taiwan, and the first 6 digits of the book's ISBN are 978-957-XXX-XXX-X, 978-986-XXX-XXX-X, or 978-626-XXX-XXX-X.

2. Applications must include documents certifying that the copyright holder of the Taiwanese works consents to its translation and foreign publication (no restriction on its format).

3. A translation sample of the Taiwanese work is required (no restriction on its format and length).

4. The translated work must be published within two years, after the first day of the relevant application period.

Grant Items:

1. The maximum grant available for each project is NT$600,000, which covers:

A. Licensing fees (going to the copyright holder of the Taiwanese works);
B. Translation fees;
C. Marketing and promotion fees (applicants for this funding must propose a specific marketing promotion plan and complete the implementation before submitting the grant project results; those whose plans include talks or book launching events attended by authors in person will be given priority for grants);
D. Book production-oriented fees;
E. Tax (20% of the total award amount);
F. Remittance-related handling fees.

2. Priority consideration is given to books that have received the Golden Tripod Award, the Golden Comic Award, the Taiwan Literature Award, books on Taiwan’s culture and history, or series of books.

3. The grant will be given all at once after the grant recipients submit the following written documents to the Ministry before the submission deadline in accordance with article III, paragraph 5 of this application guidelines:

A. Paper receipt with signature or stamp (format given along with the Ministry's formal announcement);
B. A detailed list of expenditures, sales volume (or expected sales volume) of translated books, and marketing promotion plan results;
C. 10 print copies of the final work published abroad (if the work is published in an e-book format, grant recipients shall instead provide purchase authorizations for 10 persons).

Application Period: Twice every year. The MOC reserves the right to change the application periods, and will announce said changes separately.

Announcement of successful applications: Winners will be announced within three months of the end of the application period.

Application Method: Please visit the Ministry’s official website (https://grants.moc.gov.tw/Web_ENG/), and use the online application system.

For full details of the GPT, please visit https://grants.moc.gov.tw/Web_ENG/PointDetail.jsp?__viewstate=pvWqz/p/nta24J579unZRwn9PKt77jmtn7aTE1VXtTw+KPMfSuwgOHJZcscjkMix7n5bknQ4C1jvfwxUC1ZSeBfK7nUo4Ss4 

Or contact: [email protected]

Read previous part: https://booksfromtaiwan.tw/latest_info.php?id=234

 

Beyond books that helped to identify the damage done, we have also seen a slew of titles focusing on the gradual process of recovery. Malaysian family therapy proponent Feng Yi-liang’s (馮以量) Allow Yourself to Choose Love (允許自己選擇愛) and With Whose Trauma are You Burdened? (你背負了誰的傷), for instance, guide readers through a process of reconciliation with life’s hardships and traumas. Counseling psychologist Chou Mu-Tzu’s (周慕姿) Trying Too Hard: Why We Can Never Do Enough (過度努力) exposes how seeking perfection is a behavior that derives from past trauma and argues that the path to self-acceptance begins by identifying the source of one’s trauma.

 

Trying Too Hard: Why We Can Never Do Enough 

 

Despite the diversity of subject matter represented by recently published works in the self-help book market, the many branches and schools of thought, and the divergence of focus on various kinds of relationships or age groups, the exploration of mental health cannot be divided by country or language because mental health issues are  ultimately a human subject that exists in all cultures. 

In these past few years, Aquarius Publishing has seen that in addition to Mainland China , Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, and Indonesian outfits have also showed heightened interest in securing publishing rights for self-help books. Thanks to Books from Taiwan, who promoted our books and served as our publishing liaison in negotiations, the publishing rights for the Aquarius titles mentioned above have all been sold abroad. Certain trends in global markets can be derived from the titles Aquarius has sold abroad: relationships, emotions, family and self-affirmation seem to be common areas of interests across international borders.

As someone with over 20 years of experience in publishing, I’ve noticed that dynamics in preferences for certain book topics seem to follow a cyclical flow not unlike fads in fashion, where preferences for skinny jeans seem to alternate with baggy jeans in a recurrent pattern. However, these so-called trends are never a sure bet. For instance, a trend may develop when a certain kind of book sells well, which then leads many other people in that field to release their own books. However, this can also lead to a fairly inconsistent standard of quality. Oftentimes, if one only realizes the market is saturated after blindly following a certain trend to the point that sales fall off, the realization will have come too late.

A successful publisher doesn’t pick out the prettiest flower from their own garden, but rather branches out into far-flung fields to find exotic flowers not yet available back home. At the same time, they must also identify the dry patches in their own garden and fill in the empty spots where needed.

For instance, we are all concentrated on the lives we live, but we also have to learn how to accept death—this is the focus of Su Shun-Hui (蘇絢慧), an author that writes about recovering from grief and whose book And Then, I Was Finally Able to Say Goodbye (於是，我可以好好說再見) seeks to guide readers through the pain of losing a loved one. In a similar vein, Shang Pei-yu’s (商沛宇) A Cancer Clinical Psychologist’s Healing Bag of Tricks (癌症心理師的療心錦囊) is a monograph written in solicitude and care for cancer patients and their families.

In the verdant garden of Taiwan’s book market, a book that will someday become a bestseller is just one of many seeds with a bright future, while those topics that have not yet taken root in the market have unlimited potential for development.

“Emotional Blackmail is going to a second printing.” “Emotional Blackmail is now on its third printing!” “We can’t keep this book on the shelves, we’ll have to do a 5,000-copy run!” …

This was the book-buying frenzy that ensued just one month into the publication of psychologist Chou Mu-Tzu’s (周慕姿) first book, Emotional Blackmail (Aquarius Publishing) (情緒勒索). In an era when selling 5,000 copies qualifies as “best-selling”, Chou’s first volume not only sold over 10,000 copies in the first month, but it has also gone on to sell more than a total of 250,000 copies to date. Additionally, the rights for the book were also sold in Mainland China, Korea, Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore, Malaysia, and Indonesia.

The book, which teaches people how to recognize emotional manipulation and set social boundaries, was published right before Taiwan’s traditional new year’s festival, a holiday that sees family members all reuniting under one roof to ring in the new year. Clearly, this unprecedent subject matter, combined with the author’s forceful and clear-cut elucidation, deeply resonated with the afflictions of a readership that had just been subject to the precipitous increase in stressful social relations that accompanies the extended holiday.

 

Emotional Blackmail

 

The book became a kind of cultural phenomenon and its effects continued to ripple out to readers young and old—spotting an elementary school-aged boy leafing through the book at a bookstore, a colleague couldn’t help but wonder how many times the boy had been emotionally blackmailed by adults with the line “I’m doing this for your own good”?

This bestselling tsunami inspired the publishing world to take the deep and expansive waters of the self-help book market more seriously and successive titles on a wide variety of related subjects helped improve the accessibility of the material. As more and more of these titles became available to readers, they began to realize they were not the only ones that felt the way they did, and gained new insight into previously unfathomable emotional worlds. This all helped to curtail some of the previous reluctance towards seeking out self-help books. Spurred on by these synergistic developments in the publishing world and readers’ predilections, self-help became a trending sector of the publishing market.

Indeed, the world we live in can be quite a depressing place and commensurate feelings of emptiness and anxiety no doubt leave people thirsting ever more for antidotes and escapes! Prior to the publication of Emotional Blackmail (情緒勒索), the non-fiction market was dominated by books on business and finance, parenting and health—by contrast, other than professional reference books, and titles released by publishers that specialized in the subject, books on self-help marketed to the general public were few and far between. Thus, for a veteran publisher like Aquarius, the sudden, dramatic increase in popularity of self-help books was observed even more readily at that time.

Starting with titles on the idea of “learning to love yourself” and expanding outwards, books by counselling/clinical psychologists became a mainstay of the Taiwanese book market. Soon, psychiatrists also entered the fray and a lively discourse unfolded between various schools of thought, each with their own strengths and specializations. This expansion and intensification of the conversation surrounding psychology in the book market led to an increasing specificity in the subcategories of subjects explored.

 

Smiling Depression

 

Subjects covered included setting social boundaries and understanding emotions (Particularly negative emotions, addressed in Don’t Let Negative Emotions Hold You Captive (別讓負面情緒綁架你) by the counseling psychologist Hu Chan-hao (胡展皓) and Smiling Depression (微笑憂鬱) by clinical psychologist Hung Pei-yun (洪培芸)), parenting, love, marriage and trauma from workplace relationships (See Cold Violence: The Pervasive Abuse in the Workplace (職場冷暴力) by psychiatrist Lin Yu-hsuan (林煜軒)), anxiety (Chronic Anxiety (慢性焦慮) by counseling psychologist Chuang Po-an (莊博安)), and even dealing with peers with personality disorders (See The Scumbag: A Personality Disorder (渣男：病態人格) by psychiatrist Wang Feng-kang (王俸鋼)) etc.

 

Cold Violence: The Pervasive Abuse in the Workplace

 

Read on: https://booksfromtaiwan.tw/latest_info.php?id=234

Designed by Yang Cho-cheng of Hemu Architects, the Yuanshan Grand Hotel is a classic example of postwar architecture in Taiwan that is often cited for its symbolism and historical significance in the annals of architectural discourse. Scholars including Fan Ming-ju and Joseph R. Allen have analyzed the hotel using political, cinematic, and other frameworks. Given that most academic texts focus on the yellow glazed tiles of the hotel’s roof, the title The Red Mansion feels like a rediscovery that compels the reader to consider the overwhelming presence of red in the building, rather than simply gaze at the rooftop, where one’s attention may naturally be drawn when beholding antique palaces. This title uncovers the stories that take place within the walls of the hotel, and that exist beneath the contours of the building’s silhouette that remains so dominant in architectural history. Through a cast of colorful characters, the reader gets to know the fascinating history that this edifice contains.

Why was the yellow roof such a striking feature during the era of authoritarian rule? To answer this question, we must return to Taiwan before World War II, when it was still a Japanese colony. By 1929, the 34th year of Japanese governance, Ide Kaoru had already long served as chief architect of the Taiwan Government-General’s Building and Repairs Section. In this capacity, he’d made many observations and formed insights into the architecture of the island. Ide believed that every metropolis had representative colors and palettes, such as the hazy hues of London, the vivid light of Paris, the earth tones of Rome, and so on. It was the task of the architectural designer to harmonize with the environment, rather than try to bend it to his will. In addition, the urban palette was created by not only static buildings, but the replaceable signage of shops and the dynamic movements of carriages and motor vehicles. Buses traveling back and forth on the streets were among the important elements that influenced one’s overall impression of a city, as well.

Taihoku, as Taipei was then known, needed a long-term plan in order to create its own urban palette. Situated at a relatively low latitude compared to the Japanese mainland, Taihoku was well-suited for brick buildings in colors that would be enlivened by the bright sun. These facades would convey a sense of modernity and create a unique style for the city; they would also be easy to clean and maintain in such a humid climate. The brick buildings that were planned and designed under Ide Kaoru’s guidance included the pale green Taihoku Civic Hall (today’s Zhongshan Hall) and the High Court of the Taiwan Government-General (today’s Judicial Building); the tawny-colored Taiwan Education Hall (today’s National 228 Memorial Hall) and Taihoku Imperial University campus (today’s National Taiwan University); and the red ochre of the Taihoku High School campus (today’s National Taiwan Normal University). These structures have a cohesive style when viewed together, while each building also boasts its own colorful details.

After World War II, Taipei’s landscape was shaped by architects who were well-versed in European and American modernism. They seemed to be on the verge of developing a unique urban palette for Taipei, but ultimately still fell short of Ide Kaoru’s ideal, which called for a blending of colors that could express calm and restraint while retaining a sense of vigor. Taipei’s postwar style instead deployed white tiles on building exteriors in order to convey a sense of spaciousness. The rapid economic development of this period produced mass quantities of buildings with uniform interiors and a limited range of exterior colors. The architects of the Republic of China were quite obsessed with white facades that emphasized volume, a modernist principle embodied most visibly by the New York Five in the 1980s. This group of star architects, also known as the Whites, was idolized and imitated around the world. We all know how the rest of the story went. In the rainy climes of Taipei, the white brick exteriors were not cleaned as regularly as the mighty building management committees had envisioned. They quickly became stained by exhaust and grime in the era of the automobile and no longer highlighted the spatial or structural features of the buildings as originally intended. The tiles were successively removed and restored, but no longer did they convey the modernist ideal of the city of white. In this city of pale hues filled with people of all social strata, how could the Republic of China’s blue bloods show off their elite status during an era of authoritarian rule? Landmarks with yellow glazed roof tiles thus became the symbol of a ruling class pining for their lost homeland.

According to Professor Yang Hongxun of the architecture department of Tsinghua University in Beijing, Confucian temples and the habitations of the highest classes of the imperial family were the only structures allowed to use yellow glazed tiles during the Ming and Qing dynasties. Even the households of other nobles, including princes and lords, were limited to green or black tiles. The Kuomintang government took credit for overthrowing the Manchu Qing empire and leading the Xinhai Revolution. After relocating to Taiwan, the KMT used public resources to successively construct places like the National Revolutionary Martyrs’ Shrine, the National Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall, and the National Theater and Concert Hall. In a twist of historical irony, these buildings all proudly make use of yellow glazed tiles, that most potent symbol of the imperial power toppled by the Xinhai Revolution. In the so-called Republic of China, the ruling party was essentially creating symbols to demonstrate they were the successors to the imperial palace. That the KMT inherited this mentality from dynastic times is absurd and paradoxical, a fact that has largely been overlooked beyond the communities of architectural researchers.

If you looked out over the cityscape of postwar Taipei, you’d see glimmers of golden roofs in the midst of endless rows of white buildings, a brazen imposition of the shadow of the ancient Chinese capitals of Luoyang, Chang’an, Nanjing, and Beiping upon the Taipei Basin. The tallest of these buildings with yellow rooftops was none other than the Yuanshan Grand Hotel, the protagonist of the book in question.

Ultimately, neither white nor yellow became a representative color of Taipei or the urban style of Taiwanese architecture. All that remains is the massive red mansion that still towers on Yuanshan, a location chosen for its excellent feng shui to house a shrine during the Japanese colonial era. The Yuanshan Grand Hotel has borne witness to tumultuous events like the establishment of the Democratic People’s Party, a great fire on its roof, the hiring of “lion-hearted” general manager Stanley Yen, and the controversy over the national flag during a Chinese delegation’s visit in 2008. The elite pretensions that the authoritarian government-in-exile vehemently maintained have faded away over time. A palace that once wielded immense power has ultimately reverted to the competition of the free market. Thanks to the stories recorded by T.H. Lee, we are able to glimpse Taiwanese history in the hotel. As for Taipei’s future and the question of how to create a national style, we’ll leave this in the hands of generations to come.