Taiwan literature and what is called Mahua literature, or Nanyang literature, or literature in Chinese from Southeast Asia, are entangled in many ways. I am not referring here to the classification of both Taiwan literature and Mahua literature as Sinophone literature, an approach that has drawn criticism from some of the writers involved. In the following, I will address three forms of entanglement that, taken together, challenge us to rethink the boundaries and parameters of contemporary Taiwan literature.

First, several prominent writers from Southeast Asia, and especially Malaysia, have left their native land and settled in Taiwan. Li Yung-ping (李永平), Chang Kuei-hsing (張貴興), and Ng Kim Chew (黃錦樹) are among this group. All three have lived in Taiwan for decades, acquired citizenship of the Republic of China, and taught/teach (in Ng’s case) at Taiwan’s leading universities. They are deeply involved with Taiwan’s literary and academic communities, as well as the cultural apparatus that supports the literary community—publishing houses, literary journals, literary prizes, and competitions. Nonetheless, they are commonly called Mahua writers, on behalf of both their native place and their preferred literary subject matters. But these categorizations, too, are fluid. Think of Li Yung-p’ing’s early stories, such as those in his first collection, Retribution: The Jiling Chronicles (吉陵春秋, 1986), which are set in Taiwan and feature Taiwanese protagonists. Or his long novel, Gyrfalcon (海東青, 1992), a tour de force somnambulance across Taipei. By what standards can such works be classified as not Taiwan literature?

A particularly interesting case is Ng Kim Chew’s collection Slow Boat of the Republic (民國的慢船, 2019). The titular minguo (republic), shorthand for the Republic of China (Zhonghua Minguo 中華民國), both does and does not refer to Taiwan; the majority of the collection’s stories problematize the entanglements between Taiwan and Sinophone Malaysia. The almost-title story, called “Slow boat to the Republic of China (慢船到民國), exemplifies this. The story pretends to present the transcript of seven interviews, conducted by two female college students who attempt to document the journey by “slow boat” from Malaysia to Taiwan, from the 1950s through the 1970s. All the subjects they trace down have traveled to Taiwan in this way and have consequently settled down there—but interestingly, all evade the girls’ questions about the process, refusing to talk about the journey itself. There is the reactionary old professor who admits that he specialized in ancient Chinese philology because it’s easy and you can claim authority without ever having to really write something. Or the woman who married a Taiwanese man, only to be dumped when he then left her for a younger woman. Or the man who complains that his Taiwanese wife wouldn’t let him eat durian, and that while she eats curry, it has to be bland. The last encounter, with a beggar, is particularly amusing. Apparently embarrassed at being tracked down by the girls, the beggar gets increasingly agitated and ends up throwing his stinking boots at them and shouting vulgarities—in Mandarin, Hokkien, Cantonese, Japanese, English, and Malay. The story thus scrutinizes the experience of a number of diasporic Mahua subjects (if there is indeed something like that—the diasporic diaspora), putting on display a cross section of contemporary Taiwan’s society, from successful entrepreneurs to beggars, from reactionary Rightists to frustrated former Leftists. What they have in common is that they came from Malaysia but settled in Taiwan. In a practical joke of his own kind, Ng Kim Chew published this one collection that mostly directly addresses Taiwan with Youren chubanshe, a small Kuala Lumpur-based publishing house—only his second time working with a non-Taiwan publisher.

Secondly, there are—aside from the Mahua writers who have settled in Taiwan—a considerable number of writers from Sinophone Southeast Asia who continue to live in their home countries but are deeply involved in Taiwan’s literary system. The works of Li Zishu (黎紫書), for instance, are set in the landscapes, seascapes, and dreamscapes of Malaysia. But Li publishes in Taiwan, with Taiwan’s most important publishers, she has won several major literary prizes in Taiwan, and, as she writes in the preface of her second, and longest, novel, Worldly Land (流俗地, 2020), financial support from Taiwan remains vital for her work. In the preface, she recalls complaining to a Taiwanese cultural official that Mahua writers cannot make a living from their work and that writing long-form fiction—novels—is close to impossible for them. The official listened politely. Several months later, Li received an email message informing her that Taiwan’s government had set up a new fund specifically to support long-form fiction by Sinophone writers from Southeast Asia and inviting her to apply. Li Zishu received the inaugural award, which allowed her to write the novel Worldly Land. Hence, writers such as Li Zishu are another group whose literary practice is intimately intertwined with Taiwan’s literary system. Not least, most of their books are sold and read in Taiwan. They form part of Taiwan’s literary ecosystem, challenging the definitions of what could and should count as Taiwan literature.

A third form of writing that so far has received scant attention, in Taiwan and abroad, arises from the steady influx of working-class immigrants from Southeast Asia to Taiwan over the past two decades. Many of these immigrants have chosen to stay and build new lives in Taiwan. In contrast to the first two groups, which are of ethnically Chinese backgrounds and often speak Mandarin, these newer immigrants are mostly not ethnically Chinese. The emerging sociological literature has sometimes called these people xinzhumin (新住民), or “new residents,” a signal that Taiwan’s demographic composition is changing rapidly, from a highly homogenous society to the kind of multicultural immigrant society more common for advanced industrial nations. Over the past years, activist groups have collected writings from these new immigrants, some composed in Mandarin, others in various Southeast Asian languages. These collections were released in small print runs by nonprofit presses and remain at the very margins of Taiwan’s literary scene; they have received very little scholarly attention either. But they may be indicators of new trends in Taiwan literature that may become increasingly important as Taiwan literature continues to evolve and diversify.

In sum, what the entanglements outlined in this brief essay suggest is that the borders of what qualifies as Taiwan literature in the twenty-first century have grown increasingly elastic, if not diffuse. It is hence necessary to think beyond established categories and conceptual binaries such as Chinese mainlanders (外省人) and Taiwanese islanders (本省人), or nativism and identity. The multifold entanglements of Taiwan literature and Southeast Asia suggest literary pluralism, overlapping, dual, and multiple literary identities, as well as productive modes of border-crossing. Taiwan’s ongoing entanglements and ties with Southeast Asia, I propose, are complicating and enriching Taiwan literature as a whole and offer new pathways for thinking about and exploring Taiwan literature.

Editor’s Note: This report was originally presented at a forum organized by Nicolai Volland for the Modern Language Association convention held in New Orleans, January 9–12, 2025. Speakers included Chialan Sharon Wang, E.K. Tan, Wendy Wan-ting Wang, Wen-chi Li, Chia-rong Wu, Kate Costello, and Nicolai Volland. Sung-sheng Yvonne Chang served as discussant. After the convention, the presenters agreed to share their texts with Taiwan Lit. Some participants, however, were unable to submit their contributions due to various circumstances.