Taiwan’s environmental protection movement emerged beginning in the 1970s and 1980s, catalyzed by a surge of investigative reporting that exposed the public health problems caused by industrial pollution. Some critics, through a socially critical lens, scrutinized more than three decades of policies that had privileged economic growth and industrial development, while others, from a humanistic perspective, called for the protection of the natural environment and respect for the right of all species to coexist. This reverence for nature and the promotion of environmental values were articulated primarily through prose and poetry, with writers such as Han Han 韓韓, Ma Yigong 馬以工, Xin Dai 心岱, Hong Suli 洪素麗, Liu Kexiang 劉克襄, Chen Guanxue 陳冠學, and Meng Dongli 孟東籬 emerging as key figures in this movement. Although fiction has long occupied a pioneering role in Taiwanese literary history, ecological fiction developed relatively late. Moreover, contemporary Taiwanese eco-fiction tends to adopt a critical and politically charged stance rather than foregrounding the aesthetic celebration of nature more commonly associated with poetry. Traditionally, the expression of ideas through still life has been a staple of poetry and prose, whereas fiction, as a genre, privileges the dynamic unfolding of human actions and social processes. Within the history of Chinese fiction, such environmental spaces as mountains, rivers, and seas have often served as backdrops or signals of characters’ moods and of plot developments; sustained pastoral narrative masterpieces remain rare. This generic tendency reflects a longstanding literary norm in which fiction remains preoccupied with social and national concerns, regardless of the aesthetic forms it assumes.

This preoccupation with social and national concerns helps explain why the ecological fiction under discussion is so often imbued with political critique. For Taiwanese eco-fiction, the island’s internal and external political landscapes remain an inextricable part of the narrative fabric. During the martial-law period (1949–1987), activities on land, at sea, or within forests were strictly controlled by the government, and the planning, development, and use of the environment were deeply entwined with political imperatives. After the lifting of martial law, the relaxation of political totalitarianism allowed greater freedom of discussion and debate. However, new trends of globalization and the rise of China also prompted Taiwanese society to rethink issues of identity and belonging. This complex intersection of postcolonial history and ecological crisis has catalyzed what may be termed a distinct “environmental imagination.” Broadly defined as the way literature shapes our moral and spatial orientation toward the Earth, and in the sense articulated by ecocritics like Lawrence Buell, this imagination does not merely reflect the physical world but actively re-envisions the ethical and spatial bonds between the island’s inhabitants and their precarious terrain.

To international readers, the persistent focus on local land history and political critique in Taiwanese eco-literature might seem like a detour from global environmental goals. Yet, this integration is essential: When one’s homeland is geopolitically contested, the environment is never a neutral space. In this context, thinking globally may provide the map, but acting locally transcends mere conservation—it is the very engine of sovereign survival. Furthermore, as ecological awareness matures, the scope of these narratives has transcended traditional mimesis. By projecting current crises into the past and future, contemporary Taiwanese fiction increasingly aligns with the tenets of speculative realism, while simultaneously drawing on the rich traditions of myth and the supernatural. These diverse narrative modes—whether through sci-fi imaginings or ghost stories—allow writers to move beyond human-centric perspectives, exploring the autonomous agency of mountains, oceans, supernatural beings, and cyborg technologies within a vast, interconnected multiverse. My essay will briefly explore these multiple worlds through the temporal lenses of the present, future, and past. The three distinct worlds of contemporary Taiwanese eco-fiction weave together a rich tapestry that captures the intricate layers of Taiwan’s culture, history, and its complex place in the world.

I. The Present: Social Criticism or Topography

Criticizing the current state of society or revisiting the wisdom of traditional civilization in utilizing natural resources constitutes the earliest and most mainstream genre in Taiwanese eco-fiction. While there are many representative works, a significant proportion of the more distinctive and successful ones are set in Hualien, the East Coast, and the ocean. Liao Hung-chi 廖鴻基 is a renowned marine essayist who has written extensively about Taiwan’s marine life, particularly whales and dolphins, and their ecology. Liao has also been engaged in long-term ecological surveys and guided tours along Taiwan’s eastern coast. Less recognized is his work as a novelist. His short story collection, A Small Town by the Mountain and the Sea 山海小城 (2000), criticizes the collusion between local government and business in development projects. These unnecessarily planned developments force river diversions, disrupt the harmonious interactions between humans, animals, and the natural environment, and gradually destroy Hualien’s beautiful ecology. Liao presents Hualien primarily in a negative light, using a critical tone and socially revealing narratives to stimulate discussion about the very nature of place. On the one hand, the writer cherishes natural mountain and water resources, but on the other, he laments the negative impact of environmental degradation on human ecology, expressing conflicting feelings about how to balance development with preservation. Tragically, the catastrophic flash flood in Hualien’s Guangfu Township on September 23, 2025, served as a grim validation of the ecological anxieties woven into Liao Hung-chi’s narratives. The collapse of the landslide dam on Matai’an Creek—which unleashed a massive debris flow of approximately 15 million cubic meters and resulted in 20 fatalities—underscored the prophetic nature of Liao’s fiction from over two decades ago. This disaster effectively transformed his literary warnings into a stark empirical reality, highlighting the profound foresight of his environmental advocacy.

Indigenous writers are a powerful force within this genre, as they not only attribute environmental problems to economic or general political factors but also highlight issues of land and ethnicity. Since the rise of Indigenous literature, while its primary focus has been protesting Han Chinese oppression and discrimination, its critique of the irreversible damage caused by the Han Chinese’s exploitation of natural resources resonates with the concerns of ecological literature. Set on Orchid Island, Cold Sea, Deep Feeling 冷海情深 (1997) and Black Wings 黑色的翅膀 (1999) by Syaman Rapongan 夏曼藍波安 explore the plight of Orchid Island and Tao culture being devalued by Taiwanese and Han colonialism. The protagonist in these novels, a lover of the ocean and a steadfast adherent to Tao traditional beliefs, faces disapproval from his family, who urge him to seek a teaching position or settle in a big city. His return to his own culture makes him a problematic figure in the eyes of the modern state. In Old Ama Divers 老海人 (2009), Syaman portrays a traditional seafaring culture that relies on no modern fishing tackle or technology. The novel’s in-depth descriptions of Orchid Island’s land and seascapes imbue the island with a profound, self-sufficient beauty. The sea, nurturing the motherland of Orchid Island, is treated like the amniotic fluid of Tao culture. This ocean possesses a three-dimensional depth, with its direction, color, temperature, and velocity changing rapidly according to the season. The warriors on the ark must determine their voyage based on the type of fish, the reefs, and the position of the stars, showcasing the enduring vitality of both the environment and Tao culture.

While Syaman of the Tao tribe depicts the indigenous people’s reverence for the ocean, the Bunun writer Husluman Vava’s 霍斯陸曼伐伐 Soul of the Jade Mountain 玉山魂 (2006) depicts the mountain hunters’ mastery of the wilderness and their symbiotic relationship with its species. Throughout the twenty chapters, Husluman Vava incorporates portions of his native language into the predominantly Chinese text, extensively describing the Bunun people’s daily routines, legends, myths, ballads, rituals, and taboos. While the novel centers on the coming-of-age story of a young man, unlike the typical event-based approach to growth, Soul of the Jade Mountain lacks specific plot events. Instead, each chapter focuses on the lives of the tribe or its modes of cultural upbringing, interspersed with delicate and poetic depictions of nature. These include the undulating movement of rocks in mountains and valleys, the transformation of trees and flowers through the changing seasons, the chirping of insects during starry night hunts, and the swaying of millet ears in the gentle breeze. The tragic undertone of early Aboriginal literature is fading, replaced by the Bunun ancestors’ long-standing, in-depth understanding and close interaction with the natural environment.

II. The Future: Science Fiction, (Anti)Utopia, and Cyborgs

The relationship between humanity and nature involves a subtle clash between the positions of active development and inaction or harmonious coexistence. Many official publications consistently emphasize how a proactive government reclaimed land and built Taiwan. In contrast, writers who took an opposing stance during the oppressive White Terror either depicted the devastated and desolate landscape of their hometowns or described the turbidity of the human world through the rhetoric of retreating to the mountains. Following the Three Mile Island incident in 1979 and the Chernobyl nuclear disaster in 1986, anti-nuclear awareness arose in Taiwan and evolved into a sustained environmental movement. Sung Tse-lai’s 宋澤萊 first novel focusing on environmental protection, Ruins of Taiwan 廢墟台灣(1985), presciently criticizes Taiwan’s nuclear energy policy. Set in 2015, the story follows two foreign scholars who venture into Taiwan, now a ghost town, to investigate the truth. One of the scholars, a political scientist, had visited Taiwan for research in 2001 but left due to physical strain from severe air pollution. In 2010, a mysterious catastrophe had struck the island, wiping out tens of millions of residents and turning it into a forbidden zone. The foreign scholars uncover clues from an intellectual’s memoirs: Taiwan’s economically-driven development model had resulted in various environmental pollution issues. Ten nuclear power plants, in operation by 1990, had begun leaking radiation by the mid-1990s. Faced with rapidly spiraling pollution, the ruling authorities in 2001 had blocked information, ultimately resorting to martial law and force to suppress dissidents, all of which ultimately had led to a catastrophic explosion in northern Taiwan and a mass extinction of life.

The explosions and radiation leaks at the Fukushima nuclear power plant in 2011 shook Taiwanese society, galvanizing the anti-nuclear movement to an unprecedented level. Despite surging opposition, the authorities persisted in commissioning the fourth nuclear power plant in 2015. Egoyan Zheng’s 伊格言 GroundZero 零地點, published in 2013, is a clear literary initiative within this movement. Set in 2017, about a year and a half after the fourth nuclear power plant officially began commercial operation, the novel immediately voices a devastating nuclear disaster. By then, northern cities and counties like Taipei and New Taipei had become quarantined and radiation-affected areas. Unlike Ruins of Taiwan, which lists various public health disasters, GroundZero focuses specifically on the ecological crisis and dangers of nuclear energy, using a sci-fi “dream display” to attempt to restore memories from before and after the disaster.

Kao Yi-feng’s 高翊峰 2069, published in 2019, is also a science fiction novel about a nuclear catastrophe, set on the island nation of Utopia. The timeline is divided into several eras: In 2029, a devastating earthquake caused a nuclear power plant core meltdown, splitting off the northwest into a peninsula exposed to massive radiation. This peninsula, named the Mandide Special Zone, was placed under the trusteeship of four nations for fifty years. At that time, the primary distinction among human races was based on the proportion of machine components in their anatomy, including half-human/half-machine bodies, humanoid robots, and hybrids composed of a human body with a cyborg brain. Native inhabitants who had survived were allowed to return to Utopia, but those who relied on medical equipment were placed in centralized housing and prohibited from having children. Decades later, the residents had become so dependent on synthetic organs that no one was truly a “natural” person. The narrative takes place ten years before the zone is due to be returned. Like any promise of permanence, the fifty-year guarantee of stability had quietly deteriorated as foreign powers conducted technological and management experiments on the abandoned people to extend the trusteeship period. Obviously, this story serves as a political allegory, expressing concerns about technological damage to the environment while using the “trusteeship” of nuclear-affected islands as a metaphor for Taiwan’s international geopolitical struggles.

As the concept of a “nuclear-free homeland” gradually became the consensus in Taiwanese society, the nuclear crisis was replaced in novels by discussions about the impact of climate change. In addition to Wu Ming Yi’s 吳明益 The Man with the Compound Eyes 複眼人 (2011), which I will discuss later, Hong Zi-ying’s 洪茲盈 Walker in the Ruins 墟行者 (2018) anticipates the aftermath of global warming through an allegory of apocalyptic catastrophe. At the novel’s opening, the island has been submerged by abnormal climate change, and the only remaining ark is a submarine adrift in the waters east of Island T. Operated by artificial intelligence, it maintains the basic needs of rows of capsules for human readjustment. Social, entertainment, and health activities are conducted through a virtual reality generated by a brain chip. Amidst the uncertainty of a new era, the protagonist, Sophia, draws on her mother’s diary and numerous photographs to recount the stories of three generations. This vivid reconstruction allows readers to witness the material and environmental changes leading to the apocalypse. The other main plot is set in a pre-modern world following a narrator named Bug. These two seemingly unrelated plotlines are revealed to be connected, showing that this time and space is the future world of the submarine, long after the extinction of humanity. Bug and his colleagues are merely fertilized eggs, cloned and genetically modified from embryos left behind. The “world” he inhabits is one of the experimental sites used by the submarine’s systems to test possible future human environments. After a period of time, all simulated life forms’ adaptation data is stored in memory to serve as the foundation for future reproduction calculations.

Moving beyond the traditional focus on social criticism of human power structures and institutional policy, contemporary science fiction functions as a testing ground for speculative realism—a philosophical stance which posits that reality exists independently of human thought and perception. Within this framework, the environment is reimagined not as a mere stage for human conflict but as a sovereign entity in its own right. Whether manifesting through the inscrutable logic of a sentient AI ark or the radical ecology of a radioactive “dead zone,” the environment operates as an autonomous force—one that exists fundamentally outside the periphery of human control and comprehension.

III. The Mystic: Ghosts, Gods, and Spirits

Finally, a distinctive and fascinating aspect of Taiwanese eco-fiction is the use of ghosts, gods, and spirits. Humanity has always prided itself on exploiting nature, yet it often feels powerless to protect it. Since human power is insufficient to protect nature, writers have begun to invoke supernatural beings as alternative environmentalists. Stories about ghosts or spirits in the form of animals have always been a favorite subject in the history of Chinese fiction, and as we enter the 21st century, these supernatural stories in Taiwanese literature have begun to take on a new role in ecological education. Wang Jiaxiang 王家祥 was one of the earliest pioneers in this regard. His narrative style evolved from documentary ecological reportage in Civilized Wilderness 文明荒野 (1990) to folkloristic interviews, constructing a map of Taiwan’s marginal cultures. For example, Demon Boy 魔神仔 (2002) creates a fictional account of the legendary prehistoric Austronesians to recreate the landscape of ancient Taiwan. Night Talk at Jinfulou 金福樓夜話 (2003) is a collection of short stories about ghosts featuring a concise and fluent narrative. Unlike typical ghost stories that focus on suspense, Wang’s narrative focuses on describing the natural environment or uncovering the mysteries of ancient relics. He skillfully integrates ecological conservation and place through the lens of ghosts, who act as captivating guides narrating the experiences of the land. In “Island of Sleeping Dreams 眠夢之島” and “One Less Person on Xiping Island 西嶼坪少一人,” he uses the ghosts of those who had fallen into the sea to depict the beauty of the locations while highlighting the plight of remote islands. In “The Refuge 避難小屋,” Wang attributes the changing expressions of a woman in a portrait inside a mountain rest stop to hikers’ littering. After this reversal of the imaginative pattern, the young female ghost is no longer a source of wonder for the bored scholar but an environmental officer in the mountains, watching coldly from a remote place to monitor the empty bottles in the hands of mountaineers.

Kan Yao-ming’s 甘耀明 Water Ghost School and the Otter Who Lost His Mother 水鬼學校和失去媽媽的水獺 (2005) uses a fairytale-like fantasy approach to package serious ecological issues. The book comprises four short and medium-length stories exploring bizarre universes where animals, plants, or demons transform into humans. For example, in “The Orchid King’s Banquet 蘭王宴,” orchid pickers use a fluff-scattering technique to transform dandelion seeds into animal forms to protect precious orchids. In “Water Ghost School and the Otter Who Lost His Mother,” the soul of a child who drowned in the river possesses the body of a baby sea otter, which can be raised by classmates to return to its true form. In “Night of the Monster God 魍神之夜,” a demon tricks a child into a trance to save the lives of wild animals caught in traps, taking advantage of the child’s empathy. Whether it is the damage caused by humans to nature or nature to humans, it is ultimately repaired through mutual support between humans and all things. The spirit of this book is perhaps best captured in its most realistic chapter, “Urine Bucket Aunt Is Getting Married 尿桶伯母要出嫁.” The title refers to a family’s annual ritual of “marrying the urine bucket to the Earth God.” Every New Year’s Eve, the family cleans their century-old chamber pot, and a grandfather and grandchild carry the bucket across mountain paths to the Earth God temple, scooping feces and urine as “wedding candy” for less fertilized fields. Behind this seemingly absurd custom lies a respect and care for the use of utensils, the land, and the gods, reminding readers that the environment possesses spirituality.

The invocation of ghosts and deities expands the environmental imagination to include the unseen stakeholders of the land. By imbuing the landscape with spiritual agency, these writers suggest that a true sense of place requires a reconciliation not just with biological nature but with the historical and supernatural memories embedded in the soil. This approach marks a significant departure from the socio-critical eco-fiction discussed in the first section, which primarily addresses environmental justice through the lens of material exploitation, as well as the speculative sci-fi of the second section, which often explores ecological crisis through technological extrapolation or futuristic tropes. In contrast, the third section highlights a breakthrough in eco-narrative: the use of ghosts and the “anima” of inanimate objects to foster a new ecological consciousness. By personifying the “spirit” of the non-human—be it an ancestral specter or the residual memory of a physical artifact—these authors challenge the rigid hierarchy of anthropocentrism. This narrative strategy serves as a profound anti-evolutionary manifesto, rejecting the teleological view of progress that treats the past as a discarded relic. Instead, it posits that all entities—sentient or otherwise—are inextricably linked within a vast, haunted web of existence. Ultimately, this stylistic shift does more than innovate the traditional ghost story; it re-envisions the environment as a site of radical inclusivity where history, matter, and spirit converge, asserting a worldview where the “spiritual” is an essential component of ecological agency.

Those familiar with Taiwanese eco-literature will inevitably look to Wu Ming Yi as the definitive figure of this evolution. His prominence stems from his mastery in seamlessly weaving together all three temporal modes—present, future, and past—into a complex, unified narrative fabric, making him nearly impossible to confine within a single category. In The Man with the Compound Eyes, Wu critiques contemporary environmental crises while projecting them onto a global, speculative system where myths and memory intersect. This synthesis reaches a peak in The Land of Little Rain 苦雨之地 (2019), which transcends national borders to explore an ecological space where advanced science and primal bodily language collide, illustrating how multiple systems of life are profoundly interconnected. In his latest work, The Sea Breeze Club 海風酒店 (2023), Wu returns to the social realism of the 1990s Hualien anti-cement protests, echoing Liao Hung-chi’s activism; yet, by interlacing these historical grievances with indigenous myths of giants, he elevates a localized “past” into a timeless ecological allegory.

Because Wu’s work functions as a microcosm of these three modes, he has naturally become the most widely studied Taiwanese eco-writer in international academia. The sheer density of his narratives—merging scientific rigor, social critique, and mythic imagination—provides rich soil for diverse theoretical inquiries, from post-colonialism to post-humanism. Consequently, the vast body of existing scholarship on Wu not only affirms his role as a “synthesizer” of the field but also justifies his position as the ultimate case study in this analysis. By oscillating between realistic protest, scientific speculation, and mythic reconstruction, Wu’s oeuvre serves as the ultimate convergence of Taiwanese eco-literature, demonstrating that the future of the genre lies in this very kind of multi-layered integration.

IV. Conclusion: The Diversification of Ecological Literature Genres

Since its inception in the 1980s, Taiwan’s environmental awareness has continuously expanded its reach, providing the public with a broader understanding of the interplay between humanity and the environment while generating improvements in thought, technology, and policy. These changes have impacted the content and forms of literary expression. As a literary pioneer in the environmental movement, eco-fiction, like most action-oriented Taiwanese fiction, employs realism to simulate society and offer satirical critique. However, the inherent interdisciplinary nature of eco-fiction, drawing elements from magical realism in serious literature and science fiction in popular literature, simultaneously challenges the boundaries of so-called “realism.” This blend of political engagement, fantasy, science fiction, and science has already distinguished itself from the norms of Taiwanese realistic fiction in both content and form. Whether critiquing current society, reflecting on current crises through speculative futures, or invoking the wisdom of the ancients and the supernatural powers of gods and spirits, writers are increasingly recognizing the interdependence of ecology and civilization. Ecological awareness has thus not only transformed Taiwanese society’s attitude towards the natural environment but has also recalibrated the boundaries of literary genres and aesthetic forms.