Xu Jilin on Youth and Grand Narratives

Xu Jilin, “Those Born in the 1990s and 2000s No Longer Believe in Great Narratives”[1]

Introduction and Translation by David Ownby

Introduction

Xu Jilin (b. 1957) is Professor of History at East China Normal University and a well-known public intellectual who writes and talks about Chinese intellectuals, Chinese young people, American politics, and much else. Many of his interventions have been translated on this site.

The text translated here is an interview with Xu from January of this year (2025). The interview, carried out by Pan Hongliang, Executive Director of Qun Yushan Research Institute, Wang Huanzhao, Researcher at Tencent Research Institute, Zhu Kailin, Editor-in-Chief of Streetlight Society, is framed as an academic discussion of Xu’s recently published book, Front and Rear Waves[2] ( 前浪后浪/Qianlang houlang 2024). Xu’s volume examines the roles and experiences of different generations of Chinese citizens over the course of the 20th century, but the interview quickly veers away from the main topic and goes much deeper, becoming in fact quite bleak.

It is bleak first because Xu notes sadly that he is speaking at what he sees as the end of an era - the public space that opened in China over the course of reform and opening is now disappearing. This space had allowed Xu and his fellow intellectuals to have their say on some of China’s important issues in the 30-year period preceding Xi Jinping’s rise to power, even if the space existed entirely at the mercy of the Party-State. At present, Xu jokes that he is “unemployed” because his job had been to analyze contemporary Chinese intellectual discourse, and now that Xi Jinping has succeeded in imposing greater ideological discipline there is none.

Xu does not really talk about why the space is closing and even as he mourns the closing of the public space he celebrates the rich private space that has opened up over the past few years, even blessing it was a quotation from one of Mao’s poems: "Chill waves sweep through steep skies/Yet earth's gentle breath grows warm." No one is quiet, he suggests, they are just not loud in public. This “gentle breeze” is China’s new private space, and by quoting Mao, Xu surely wants us to believe that it will ultimately triumph over the “chill waves,” although when the triumph will come and in what form is anyone’s guess.

A second reason Xu’s mood is bleak is that intellectuals like him have been pushed aside by influencers, online media personalities who possess the talent and charisma of stand-up comics and podcast hosts in China and elsewhere. Like Joe Rogan, they are smart and plugged-in and sound relevant, but their goal is to increase their following because volume is the name of the game and with numbers come advertisers and money and fame. Xu admits to dipping his toe in these waters, making short, punchy videos and posting them on popular platforms like Bilibili, but he soon realized that the messages conveyed by this machine have little or no intellectual content in the sense that Xu understands “intellectual,” so he decided that this is not for him. He and those like him will continue to write and talk because that is what they do and because there is a secondary market for them, but he speaks as if a window has closed on an era, in effect acknowledging his growing irrelevance.

Finally, Xu’s tone is bleak because his subject is China’s younger generations, particularly those born in the Internet era, the main audience for the influencers who have replaced Xu and other intellectuals in China’s marketplace of public opinion. He describes these young people as being indifferent to the grand narratives that inspired his and other generations. Some young people are apathetic and withdrawn – “lying flat,” as the Chinese expression goes – but others are engaged in more concrete, localized campaigns that touch them individually, such as environmental issues (he also mentions #MeToo, and feminism is indeed a widely held concern by many Chinese women, but organized expressions of feminism are very difficult in China now).

He further describers them as lonely and alone, unwilling to form friendships at work, afraid of love and even deep friendships for where they might lead them. They seek good moods and “situationships,” they enjoy the good life contemporary China offers (especially contemporary big cities in China), and they worry about jobs and the price of real estate. Xu does his best to understand this generation’s zeitgeist and in no way criticizes or derides the young people he encounters, but regrets not being able to communicate with them, because he would like to engage in conversation and, among other things, share his wisdom.

Finally, my sense is that Xu is perhaps frustrated and feeling a bit bleak because of his sense that he has come to be a square peg in a round hole. He returns again and again to the image of the information/media cocoons where we all live, and suggests that he finds himself perhaps between cocoons and thus without an audience. This has always been true, to an extent; Xu has long described himself as “neither fish nor fowl,” both a Rawlsian Liberal keenly interested in social justice and a cultural conservative open to some version of Confucianism 2.0. But his discomfort now seems more existential, as Rawlsian Liberals and cultural conservatives have disappeared from China’s cultural scene, leaving Xu with no one to talk to, at least in public. A certain sadness thus accompanies his embrace of the pleasures of private life.

The interview with Xu was taken down shortly after it was posted, confirming the bleakness of his message. The interview strikes me as poorly edited and somewhat repetitive, perhaps suggesting either that they rushed to print or that everyone knew that the censors were lurking, and figured that further polishing wasn’t worth the bother.

I should note that Xu’s piece has already been translated and is available on Thomas des Garets Geddes’s excellente Sinification Substack (see here and here). I have no quibble with Sinification’s translation; I just wanted to spend some time with Jilin’s text.

On the subject of translation, I did a first draft of this text using Deep-Seek, which is in general excellent. However, the program could not resist adding its own flourishes and conclusions to Xu’s text, like an eager grad student who just cannot help piling on, and this after I asked it repeatedly to stop. I don’t know what his means for the future of translation. For the moment, even Deep-Seek cannot get jokes or arguments, but who knows what awaits in another year or two? In any event, the language barrier that separates China from the non-Chinese speaking world is getting lower every day.

On a personal note, I agree with Xu Jilin that an era is drawing to a close, and the closing of that era cannot but affect the Reading the China Dream project. Most of the intellectuals translated for the project are approaching retirement age, and the pressure to knuckle under means that retirement and relative silence (or exile) may be the better part of valor. At the same time, video is overtaking print as the most important medium of communication, in China as elsewhere in the world, and I am not up to the challenges of translating Bilibili. There will of course always be Chinese intellectuals who dare to speak up in print, but my impression is that much of what is worth reading in the world of Mainland Chinese writing is now produced in the diaspora.

Over the past few months I largely stopped translating so that I could finish up my book manuscript based on Reading the China Dream, and I submitted the manuscript in July. Publishing can be a risky business, so I’ll say no more about the details of publication at this juncture. Returning to Reading the China Dream after finishing up my manuscript, I admit to a certain “project fatigue.” Like the marathoner who takes the winter off only to find that their muscles resist the road when spring rolls around, I feel a near physical resistance when my fingers approach the keyboard.

I have not stopped translating entirely. I am working with Xiang Biao and his team to translate the follow-up to Self as Method, a volume called Hello Stranger which should come out some time in 2026 (and which echoes some of Xu Jilin’s concerns about China’s young people). I am hopeful that this will lead me to more diaspora literature.

So Reading the China Dream will soldier on, if at a more sluggish pace. At the same time, I am looking for a retirement home for the site. As things stand, were I to perish tomorrow, the site would disappear as soon as no one paid the bills my platform sends every few months. I don’t think it’s just my ego talking when I say that site has done some good in the world and should continue to be available in something like its present form (in other words, 10 volumes of printed translation gathering dust on some library shelf would not be very useful). I am in discussion with a number of institutions but am open to suggestions from readers as to where to park the site.

Thanks for reading.

Translation

Those born in the 1990s and 2000s live very “concretely” and focus solely on tangible individual rights.

Question: In your new book Front and Rear Waves[3] ( 前浪后浪/Qianlang houlang 2024), you use a generational perspective to look at modern [pre-revolutionary] Chinese intellectuals, and you also employ key historical junctures to demarcate generational shifts among them….In various talks, you have also discussed those born in the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s, distinguishing them in different ways. Today we would like to dig a little deeper…and understand your views on new critical junctures and landmark events [having to do with these contemporary generations].

Xu Jilin: As part of the research in which I was engaged at the end of the 1990s, I put together a framework dividing 20th-century Chinese intellectuals into six generations: three pre-1949 generations (the late Qing, the May Fourth, and the post-May Fourth generations) and three post-1949 generations (the "17-Year generation" [1949-1966], Cultural Revolution generation, and reform and opening generation). In Front and Rear Waves, I primarily focused on the pre-1949 generations. However, during my research, I found these generational divisions somewhat oversimplified, so I developed more refined classifications in the new book, which I won’t elaborate on here.

Today I’d like to focus on the contemporary era and share an interesting shift in perspective. In the work I published in the 1990s, I considered those born in the 1970s and 1980s - those shaped by reform and opening - as “new types of people,” distinct from the Cultural Revolution generation (roughly my own cohort, those born in the 1940s, 1950s, or even the early 1960s) who were steeped in revolutionary ideology. So at the outset, I saw those born in the 1970s and 1980s as new, but two decades later I have come to realize that they actually represent transitional generations. The true break from revolutionary culture are those born in the 1990s and the 2000s, who are different in [almost] physiological terms.

Those born in the 1950s and 1960s still carry traces of revolutionary culture, and certain idealistic values serve to prop up their lives. Those born in the 1990s and 2000s no longer need such things; they are more secular and prioritize personal happiness and living in the here and now. Those born in the 1970s and 1980s straddle the two, in that we can still see traces of idealism (although less and less) and while they paved the way toward secular lifestyles, they do not yet fully embrace them. So I broadly categorize active contemporary Chinese generations into these three groups: the revolutionary, the transitional, and the live for today.

We can also see this in terms of “front waves” and “rear waves.” Those born in the 1990s and 2000s are fundamentally distinct—both biologically and psychologically—from the revolutionary cohorts born in the 1950s and 1960s. This is my current understanding of these generational divides.

Question: I have a methodological question regarding these three generations. If we view them as being three stages, does this already suggest that there will be "front and rear waves"?

Xu Jilin: From this perspective of "front and rear waves," an intriguing phenomenon is that these three generations in China span roughly 20 years each. Biologically, a generation—say, the time it takes for a child to become a parent—typically takes 20 to 30 years. But China’s transformations have been so rapid that even 5 to 10 years can create a psychological and cultural generational divide, so that even people we see as “rear waves” may instead see themselves as “front waves.”

For example, Shao Heng, a former co-editor I worked with on an audio platform, graduated from Harvard with a bachelor’s degree in political science. She was born in 1991, but her team was made up of people born after 1995, so she saw herself as a “front wave” in the context of this younger team, even if someone born in 1991 should be part of a “rear wave” generation. She keenly felt differences in work style between herself and her younger team, and I later observed the same sort of differences.

The group born between 1985 and 1995 is often labeled "Millennials," while those born between 1995 to 2009 are called "Gen Z." The contrast between these two groups is stark. A popular joke claims that those born after 1995 aimed to "reform the workplace," but now they’re struggling even to enter it. This highlights how fast China - and indeed, the post-globalization world - is evolving. In recent years, a difference of 5 to 10 years has come to feel like a full generational shift in terms of mindset and culture. Thus any talk of "front and rear waves" is relative. Even those born in the 2000s might come to see themselves as elders compared to those born in the 2010s.

Question: The idea of stages cannot really capture these nuances, can it?

Xu Jilin: You have to be careful when you judge a particular individual, and you can’t simply pin a label on them. The relativity of front and rear waves depends on which generation serves as the reference point. The three generations I previously mentioned were observed over a longer historical period and the distinctions between them are clear. However, within these two decades, subtle differences within each generation have emerged, creating a spectrum.
It is of course true that you cannot truly understand a person based solely on age or generational labels. Generational analysis is just one lens among many—it is limited, not exclusive, and cannot explain everything. We must methodologically clarify that factors like personal values, educational background, regional culture, and even random life events profoundly shape individuals. We must be clear on this in terms of methodology.

Question: You mentioned a cultural-psychological divide earlier. Are there specific key moments or events in recent years that validate this?

Xu Jilin: Those born in the 1950s and 1960s experienced the 1980s - an era steeped in idealism - and members of these generations threw themselves into their work with idealistic fervor. Many still harbor nostalgia for this, and romanticize the 1980s as a golden age. Take Gao Xiaosong’s (b. 1969) song about "poetry and distant horizons" for example - a mindset rooted in that era, making him a quintessential idealist. People back then were willing to dedicate themselves to abstract symbols of value. They prioritized collective ideals over personal interests, safeguarding not individual rights but the values of the nation.

In contrast, younger generations today no longer rally around abstract ideals. In the various social movements in which they are engaged, their focus is sharply on specific individual rights. Their goals are limited, tangible, and tied to personal life and interests.

Let me use another metaphor to illustrate the divide. Those born in the 1950s and 1960s are people living in the "polis" (city-state), while those born in the 1990s and 2000s inhabit a "post-polis" world. Last October I went on a study tour to Greece, and viewing China through the lens of Greek philosophy left a profound impression on me. From Socrates to Plato and Aristotle, Greek thinkers tied the meaning of human life to the polis. Aristotle famously declared humans to be city creatures, existing for the sake of the polis and abstract ideals. But by the late Greek period, as the polis declined, philosophies like Epicureanism and cynicism emerged. Epicureanism dismissed the polis as meaningless, asserting that humans live for personal happiness. This marked a radical shift—a decoupling from the polis. Cynicism went further, advocating detachment from societal structures, akin to today’s "lying flat"[4] mentality.

We see similar transformations in today’s China. Those born in the 1950s and 1960s still have the mindset of city creatures. They follow state news broadcasts, discuss geopolitics in chat groups - Russia-Ukraine tensions, the Israel-Palestine conflict, U.S. elections - as if these define their existential purpose and they cannot leave the polis behind. The younger generation, however, is utterly different. They care little for such matters, focusing instead on what directly impacts their lives and immediate selves. They have fully decoupled from the polis, embracing an Epicurean ethos of self-fulfillment, prioritizing personal happiness and well-being.

Question: Whether we look at the transition from the pre-polis era to the post-polis age in ancient Greece or in reform and opening China, whether its comparing East and West or past and present, these shifts exhibit a common trajectory from metaphysical idealism to more concrete individualism. Do you consider this historical "rhyme scheme" to be a kind of universal pattern, or is there a deeper underlying cause at play?

Xu Jilin: I believe there is an inherent historical logic behind this. When an era is in its heyday - such as an empire or city-state in ascendance - people perceive their fate as closely linked to that of the collective. This sense of shared destiny is profound: individuals derive personal benefits from the collective’s prosperity, recognize that its rise or fall directly impacts their lives, and maintain confidence in its future. Think of the characters in the TV drama “Blossoms Shanghai,” (繁花/Fanhua) set in the early 1990s, whose eyes sparkled with expectations and hope - and their expectations were linked to the polis.

Today, that light has dimmed. As the polis declines, people lose sight of a shared future. Today, people are much like intellectuals during the Wei-Jin period (220–420 CE), who embraced Daoism as a way of preserving themselves in troubled times, and elites mimic Wei-Jin scholars in their philosophical escapism. They have cast aside their relations with the polis and care little about its cohesion, nor do they have any expectations for its future. It’s like when the ship is sinking, you jump into the sea and find your own life raft. This is a huge change.

Question; This leads to a discussion about the tension between abstraction and concreteness. For instance, even in today’s era of individualism and heightened identity politics, some still navigate between abstract ideals and concrete realities. Looking at the generations born in the 1990s and the 2000s - whom you describe as representatives of a transition to secularism - how do you perceive this tension between abstraction and concreteness within them? Do these cohorts themselves fragment into distinct subgroups?

Xu Jilin: As far as I can tell, those born in the 1990s and 2000s have completely abandoned grand narratives, and with it all notions of "poetry and distant horizons." For them, abstract ideals and sweeping national destinies are no longer important. This is unlike the older generations, especially those born in the 1950s and 1960s, who have always relied on grand narratives to sustain their beliefs, even if those narratives are illusory or utopian.

Take, for example, a prominent Chinese liberal intellectual during the 1990s stock market frenzy. He thought everyone should play the market, but instead of simply pushing it as a way to make money, he rallied friends by framing it as "raising funds for the revolution." That generation consistently sought lofty justifications for their actions, often tying them to grand concepts like the nation or society, rather than acknowledging personal desires. These rationales, while ostensibly noble, were fundamentally hypocritical - a defining trait of that era.

Today’s youth are entirely different. They are thoroughgoing Epicureans, prioritizing tangible benefits and emotional value in their choices, whether opting for “involution"[5] (卷) or for "lying flat" (躺). The recent popularity of the term "mood value" (情绪价值/qingxu jiazhi) is revealing. Moods differ from feelings: the latter are sustained and profound - whether directed toward the nation or a loved one - while the former are situational, fleeting, and rapidly changing. In my view, younger generations are shedding deep emotional attachments. They no longer engage with grand narratives involving the polis or the nation, instead focusing on micropolitics - movements like #MeToo, migrant worker rights, or environmental activism. They dismiss abstract, unattainable causes and avoid deep emotional bonds, as reflected in the saying, "The wise do not enter the river of love" (智者不入爱河/zhizhe buru aihe)[6].

You can see that they are more and more trapped in a lifestyle centered on their own mood. I recently learned a new word while watching the movie “Her Story” (好东西/Hao dongxi) – “situationship.” The best part about this movie is what it shows about changes in intimate relationships. Love is a deep feeling and is binding but young people don’t believe in love and instead are looking for “situationships” that they can take up in the breaks between classes.

In Chinese we might use the term dazi/搭子 (partner) for situationship. Young people look for all kids of partners, partners to chat with, to go to bed with. All of these have instrumental value and are not emotionally binding at any deep level. All they are looking for is mood value, and if it’s not forthcoming they’ll move on to the next partner. They do their utmost to avoid emotional engagements that are binding or exclusive. They prefer this kind of surface, concrete lifestyle, which looks shallow but avoids pain. As Isaiah Berlin put it, they inhabit life’s surface, seeking to be concrete, adaptable, and untethered from the depths.

Question: Do these increasingly concrete and superficial pursuits represent what you described as a deeper form of secularism?

Xu Jilin: Yes. But it also leads to a kind of profound boredom, as I noted above. Profound boredom occurs because even though you are living on the surface, the absence of deep binding relationships makes everything ephemeral - emotions rise up and then fade like passing clouds. Mood gratification is like sexual gratification in that it dissipates after reaching a climax, plunging one into nihilism. In this way, sexual experience can be seen as profound because it confronts these fleeting moments and underlying emptiness.

Without deep commitments, people feel bored once they’ve achieved momentary satisfaction, to the point that a night of happiness is just another transient mood high. Of course, you can then chase the next fleeting moment, and today’s youth assemble their lives from such fragments. Each micro-goal seeks its own limited pleasure, but these goals lack the connective tissue of what we once called a "life’s grand ideal." Meaning ought to be a continuous chain, yet now it’s a series of fragments. These fragments come as quickly as they go, making their lives appear fractured, as they constantly chase such fragmented mood highs. Thus, they are easily satisfied yet just as easily bored.

Question: Is this a new form of nihilism?

Xu Jilin: One could say that, and though I hesitate to claim this phenomenon is unique to our era, it has undeniably become more pronounced in our time, because we now have an overwhelming array of functions and methods to attain satisfaction. The advent of virtual technologies - especially the metaverse, VR, various digital realms, the rise of 2D culture [anime, manga, video games, etc.] and even emotional support animals—all contribute to a superficial layer of emotional gratification. These channels offer immediate, low-stakes fulfillment, further entrenching the cycle of transient satisfaction and existential void.

Question ： Are the advancements in virtual technology and entertainment a result of nihilism, or are they the cause of it?

Xu Jilin: I think it is more of a cause. It’s hard to say technology is a straightforward causal relationship, but it indeed provides new ways to build and live your life. Under such new technological conditions, fragmented living is more likely to dissolve the deep chains of meaning that people always sought in the past. These chains of meaning once existed, but now they can be dissolved, leaving a superficial world. To me it looks completely fragmented and I see no continuous chain. I have some young friends who search for partners every day, because otherwise they feel bored. Though their lives look really full and busy, in reality they are mired in a profound nihilism.

Question: What happens after you surrender to nihilism?

Xu Jilin: My friends feel like things are boring and meaningless. For example, today they have a good time drinking with friends, only to wake up the next morning filled with regret, thinking last night was boring. But then they hustle to put something together for the next night. This mood high is very ephemeral and acts like a spiritual narcotic - it numbs you for a moment, only to plunge you into deeper emptiness afterward. These friends of mine have a hard time building a deep inner self.

Question: Then do we still need to establish ultimate values?

Xu Jilin: I wouldn’t necessarily go that far. Older generations might frame it this way, but younger generations likely disagree. They’d ask: "Why bind ourselves so tightly to a person or an ideal?"

Question: You mentioned that young people are no longer pursuing ideals but are living fragmented lives. Is it truly possible for them achieve what is considered an ideal life now? Are classical values still relevant to them? Given the widespread criticism of advances in technology and media, has the transformation of this media environment become irreversible?

Xu Jilin: Older generations often view their own lifestyles as a universal standard, but I don’t think this way. Today, new technologies have constructed a new utopia, one that previous generations cannot imagine, one built on virtual realms like 2D culture, the metaverse, and everything else I just talked about. Older generations did not have this virtual world, and their utopia was rooted in ideologies or religions. But young people are now deeply embedded in virtual worlds, which have become an indispensable part of their lives. They find fulfillment in pursuits like cosplay, script murder games, escape rooms, and other immersive activities. In these moments, they inhabit alternate realities—realities that will only grow to seem all the more real over time.

The virtual world is, in fact, a part of their real lives. It serves as a temporary refuge from life’s pressures, a safe haven that earlier generations did not have. I don’t mean to criticize anyone here—it’s simply the direction technology has taken. As artificial intelligence advances further, it will amplify this shift. For example, there are already AI companions who can chat with you and meet your emotional needs. While virtual experiences may not yet fully replace genuine human connection, future breakthroughs in embodied AI could simulate not just emotional but even physical intimacy in which physical satisfaction can be completely simulated in terms of function. This looks as if it might to be able to replace real people, thus forming a world composed of artificial intelligence.

What we once dismissed as science fiction is gradually entering the very lives we lead. The future is becoming something we can’t imagine. This might lead to the emergence of new worldviews and philosophies of life. While human consciousness isn’t inherently bound by constraints, it inevitably adapts to technological transformations and shifts in social interaction.

Looking ahead, I find it really hard to make predictions—especially as AI evolves. In his new book Homo Deus, Yuval Noah Harari stresses that changes in how humans connect will redefine what it means to be human. Especially the emergence of new humans and new species - carbon-based creatures - these are beyond my imagination. Our capacity to envision the future is very limited.

Question: It seems to me that, on one hand, our imagination is quite limited, and on the other hand, current philosophical ethics and traditional value systems struggle to interpret the changes that are occurring. Therefore, when discussing these issues, we still face significant uncertainties. All we can do it to explore possibilities, phenomena, and our reflections, yet there appears to be a lack of an ultimate standard to define our observations of these transformations.

Xu Jilin: That’s right, which is why I believe we should not rush to critique the younger generation. Our first task is to get a handle on this new world. Young people are the ones most adept at adapting to its transformations, and understanding this reality is paramount. Older generations will inevitably be eclipsed; the future will be shaped by the young. I am neither optimistic nor pessimistic—I have never measured the "moral decline" of young people through the lens of the older generation’s values.

In my view, what need to do now is to construct a framework of understanding. Yet I do see one value: across the ages, whether in Axial Age civilizations or elsewhere, humanity has demonstrated enduring wisdom. The challenge lies in how this wisdom will persist and claim its place in the future world - a world where "humanity" still refers to carbon-based lifeforms. The fundamental ethical standards that define what it means to be human must endure; they will not be swallowed up by technological advances.

A unique feature of the post-polis age: The public sphere declines while the private sphere thrives

Question: In your book on intellectuals, you mention the distinctions between urban intellectuals and small-town or provincial intellectuals. When analyzing current trends or differences among younger generations, should the contrasts in mentality and behavior between youth in major cities like Beijing and Shanghai versus those in third- or fourth-tier cities (or even smaller towns) serve as a framework for our analysis?

Xu Jilin: I believe that with the rise of new media the world has become increasingly stratified. People living in same era now inhabit different worlds—not just physical or material worlds, but worlds shaped by ideas and perceptions. In the past, information and ideologies were disseminated hierarchically: mainstream media set the agenda, filtering down to secondary outlets, so as long as you controlled mainstream media you controlled everything. Today, however - especially with the advent of self-media and social platforms - there is no center. Trends and public enthusiasms and excitements emerge unpredictably, avoiding traditional media’s grasp. As a result, the information people access and the worlds they engage with vary drastically.

This divergence stems partly from material conditions in first-tier cities, new first-tier cities, third- or fourth-tier towns, and rural areas. We can see how the influential social platforms have carved this world up: Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book) dominates first- and rising first-tier cities, although WeChat Channels (Video Accounts) are also found here; Douyin (TikTok) thrives in second- and third-tier cities; while Kuaishou is the platform of choice for youth in small towns and villages. Each platform represents a separate universe.

Thus, the urban-rural divide isn’t merely physical. The informational and ideological worlds they inhabit grow further apart, breeding mutual incomprehension. We no longer share a common reality; everyone has their own world. New media hasn’t bridged the gaps—it has deepened them. Conversations between these fragmented worlds increasingly are cases of people talking past one another. (鸡同鸭讲/ji tong ya jiang, lit. “chickens talking with ducks”).

Question: So the fragmentation of social connections actually impacts how enterprises position themselves in the market.

Xu Jilin: That’s right. Businesses cannot adopt a one-size-fits-all approach in market positioning. Today’s social landscape is stratified both horizontally and vertically, with significant barriers between these vertical dimensions. Individuals are constrained by this dual system of stratification and live in tiny grids.

These are information cocoons. My view, however, extends beyond mere information cocoons to include ideological cocoons and positional cocoons. These cocoons not only foster divergent stances and beliefs but also reinforce one another’s insularity. This phenomenon isn’t merely a byproduct of technology—it’s rooted in human nature. We are like frogs at the bottom of a well, confined to our narrow realities, yet convinced we grasp the entire world. But what’s funny is that everyone believes they see it all. The parable of the blind men and the elephant grows ever more relevant. Everyone is blind but believes what their hands have told them about the elephant. But the elephant itself becomes ever more illusory and only God knows where it is. As people remain trapped within these horizontal and vertical confines, they can only grasp part of the world, and the whole becomes increasingly fragmented and no longer cohesive.

Question: For ordinary individuals or the general public, how can they learn to filter information or find ways to break free from the constraints of these cocoons?

Xu Jilin: To put it simply, they should strive to transcend the limitations of these horizontal and vertical systems. First, they must cultivate curiosity, and second, develop the habit of understanding and breaking down barriers by exposing themselves to opposing viewpoints, then weighing and comparing them. Only then might they approach something closer to truth. The God I talked about a minute ago does not actually exist. The reason God can see the entire elephant is that he listens to all the blind men’s perspectives and synthesizes them into an independent judgment. So we should all try to seek out any information that approaches truth. This means listening to different viewpoints, absorbing conflicting perspectives, and forming our own conclusions. Most people today live inside of the cocoons we already talked about, and all they want to hear are things a that agree with them. This is profoundly tragic.

I always remember Luo Xiang[7]’s very interesting observation, which is that most people only want to hear…what they want to hear. The moment something contradicts their inner beliefs, they turn hostile - fans can turn on you in this way. His insight is piercing, because adults rarely change. They don’t really need to know anything new and instead want voices that repeat their unspoken thoughts or say what they cannot or dare not say. Yet those with real potential yearn to hear challenging perspectives—it’s the only way to grow.

But I’ve discovered that most people aren’t like this. Their psyche lacks the strength or the ability to judge. Faced with conflicting information, they don’t know how to reach an independent conclusion. In fact, most people don’t have the capacity to make their own independent conclusions, so they just follow one voice, which calms them down emotionally because they feel they are right. Those who do think independently—what we call “spiritual loners”—are rare. My mentor Wang Yuanhua’s[8] generation admired such intellectual warriors, like Romain Rolland’s Jean-Christophe, characters embodying spiritual solitude.

Romain Rolland himself was just such a spiritual loner. During World War I, when nations were consumed by patriotism, he alone cried, "Rise above the fray!" He refused to endorse France’s stance and was vilified as a traitor. Today, how many can endure such spiritual isolation to voice dissent? Everyone is eager to seek validation and belonging, to feel that "I am not alone on my journey," and to assure themselves that they are right they seek confirmation of their own viewpoints wherever they can find it. They are incapable of reflection, nor do they gain new insights through self-examination. This would require both spiritual and rational ability. One must possess the ability to judge and the resilience to endure solitude, because your voice is unique - condemned as a "traitor" by one side and dismissed as a "dissident" by the other. Imagine the power of such loneliness. How many can truly reach this state? Today, everybody has been put in a box, whether they know it themselves or not.

Question: Speaking of spiritual loners, do you believe intellectuals still exist in today's environment?

Xu Jilin: As I see it, there are still many intellectuals today, but the key point lies in how we define "intellectual." If we talk about them in the context of the spiritual loners I just mentioned – people who insist on independent thinking and refuse to fall into line – then people like this are increasingly rare. Historically, intellectuals have often been entangled in various ideologies, becoming what Gramsci called "organic intellectuals" aligned with specific camps, forced to choose sides in conflicts. Today, they face similar dilemmas: amid a sea of voices, they feel compelled to take a stand.

But in my view, true intellectuals are precisely those who don’t choose. They hold firm to their convictions, and if they have to choose, they do so in the manner of Han Kang, the South Korean writer and recent Nobel laureate in literature. The stance she chose is humanism at its most basic level: feeling the pain of ordinary people, respecting the dignity of people’s lives. These are her choices, but it is impossible for her to make simplistic or reductive judgements as to whether to support Russia or Ukraine in the present war, and she instead clings to higher universal human values concerning the interest of mankind or the value of individual life.

Question ： Do you believe there are still public intellectuals today? Regardless of ideological and political issues, given the various problems we've discussed, it seems that being truly "public" has become increasingly difficult given the concrete conditions we are facing.

Xu Jilin: There is no longer a true public sphere in China today. Over the past two decades, from the 1980s until the early 21st century, for a period of roughly 30 years, China did have a public sphere. In Habermas’s terms, the essence of a public sphere lies in the open discussion of significant sociopolitical issues. For instance, the 1990s witnessed a four-year debate between Liberals and the New Left, during which nearly all major issues in China were openly debated. However, the public sphere is now dissolving, along with the external conditions that upheld it. Voices once part of public discourse have retreated into private domains, which I call the "private sphere." Today, the public sphere is in decline, while the private sphere thrives. Examples include hobby clubs, book clubs, independent bookstores, academic bars, and group chats.

The private sphere is characterized by a degree of closure, unlike the openness of the public sphere. While private domains are increasingly lively, they are definitely not replacements for the public sphere and rarely produce "public texts." I joke that I am now "unemployed" as someone who tracks China’s intellectual trends. Previously, the public sphere provided ample texts for analysis, but today, I cannot cite a friend’s message from a private group chat as research material—this belongs to the private realm, bound by confidentiality.

This decline refers to the erosion of what Habermas called the public sphere, something that began to emerge in the 1980s with the policy of reform and opening, starting with the “ideological emancipation movement” and "culture fever" (often dubbed the "second enlightenment,” the first having been during the May Fourth era), fostering vibrant discussions on major sociopolitical issues. This lively public sphere persisted until around 2010, initially playing out in newspapers and magazines, later shifting online to forums like BBS. Public intellectuals were central to the creation of the public opinion in this sphere.

During this period, public life—particularly civic engagement tied to the polis—flourished, while intellectuals’ private lives remained underdeveloped. Entrepreneurs, busy capitalizing on market opportunities and optimistic about the future, largely stayed out of public debates, creating a divide between intellectuals and business elites. After 2010, however, the public sphere began to collapse due various changes and internal and external factors, including shifts in the media environment and fragmentation among intellectuals, so that the public sphere now no longer exists. Major public debates, so vibrant from the 1980s to 2010, have disappeared.

What has emerged instead is the rise of the private sphere. To understand this, consider Mao Zedong’s poetic line: "Chill waves sweep through steep skies/Yet earth's gentle breath grows warm."[9] Within institutional systems like universities, many feel they have been “involuted” by the system’s various constraints, and cannot be or develop themselves. Yet outside these structures, civil society—barely present in the 1980s and 1990s—has gradually taken root over three decades.

Especially in recent years, entrepreneurs, faced with uncertainty, with reduced enthusiasm for investment, and unsure about the future. have found themselves with more leisure and resources. Many now engage more closely with scholars, seeking insights to navigate future trends. This collaboration between business and intellectual circles, particularly in cities like Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and newer first-tier cities, marks a novel development.

At the same time, the private sphere has expanded rapidly. Private boards, hobby clubs, book clubs, and independent bookstores have multiplied and become very lively, making up what I call "molecular communities." The sociologist Xiang Biao often talks about communities which manifest as these fragmented, self-organized groups in China’s cities. In the past we used to say that modernity atomizes and isolates individuals, but this is only one part of it, and most Chinese still seek belonging in some sort of group. Beyond traditional kinship and regional ties, voluntary associations based on shared interests or knowledge have emerged in first-tier cities in the past few years.

These groups are unlike traditional communities bound by blood or geography—groups that are natural, “given,” and hard to exit. These resource-based groups allow free entry and exit yet maintain strong internal cohesion. I call them "molecular communities." Alone, individuals struggle against Mao’s "cold currents," but by forming private spheres, they huddle for warmth and mutual encouragement, finding solidarity. Across China, these molecular communities are ubiquitous, yet isolated from one another—tight-knit internally but disconnected externally, some even resembling intimate fellowships.

This trend, absent in the past 30 years, has become pronounced in the last decade. Foreign observers often fixate on the "chill waves" but overlook the "gentle breath" beneath—a dynamic unique to China’s current social landscape.

The vibrancy of the private sphere parallels what I term the post-polis era of late Greek antiquity. In the polis-centered classical era, everything revolved around the polis - everyone was a citizen who was part of the public sphere. In the post-polis era, however, independent selves coalesced into molecular communities within private spheres, detached from the polis - a defining feature of this historical phase.

This was a huge change that I observed before and after the pandemic. In my view, future hope lies not in the public realm but in these private domains. As a friend said, "Have grand ideals, but do little things." For now, those "little things" find fertile ground in the private sphere.

Intellectuals, marginalized by the logic of internet traffic

Question : In this context, I am curious about your research. You have been studying contemporary young people for the past few years. How do you go about it?

Xu Jilin: When it comes to young people, textual materials still exist for research. Another rapidly developing area is not the political public sphere but the cultural public sphere. Look at how lively it is now, with one thing spilling out over into another. This sphere has risen, but it differs from the past, in that the core role of intellectuals has been replaced by online influencers, and the public domain once led by intellectuals no longer exists. The public intellectual field I previously mentioned, those groups that discussed public issues, included prominent intellectuals from Liberal, New Left, or New Confucianist schools. But today, do you see any of them exercising any influence?

Not anymore. What is most active now is the realm of internet celebrities. These influencers primarily discuss depoliticized topics, including culture, entertainment, and lifestyle. Their logic differs from that of intellectuals; they adhere to "influencer logic." So, what defines influencer logic and capitalist logic? Influencers are inevitably governed by traffic volume. I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon: annual forums used to invite intellectuals, but now they invite influencers. Why is this? Because even if I think an influencer’s level is lower than that of an intellectual, their traffic value will still boost the forum’s reach.

Another characteristic of the influencer sphere is its semi-closed nature. If you’re an influencer hosting an event, would you invite an intellectual with no followers or a bigger influencer who could drive web traffic? There’s no doubt you would choose the latter. Why? Because they enable resource integration—fan exchanges, collaborations, and traffic redirection to achieve cumulative growth. If you invite an intellectual or non-influencer, they take your traffic without giving anything in return. Today’s forums all invite influencers, and within this sphere, there’s an objective standard in terms of traffic, forming a semi-closed ecosystem. Who you choose hinges on traffic, not expertise. Influencers, through this cumulative effect, mirror algorithmic logic. If your video hits 10,000 views, the system boosts it further; at 50,000, it escalates to a larger traffic pool. The system rewards success but ignores the struggle. Behind this lies the logic of commerce.

Ultimately, the influencer sphere is driven by commercial logic. This contrasts sharply with the past intellectual logic, where merit and reasoning mattered. While intellectuals still exist today, they’ve been removed from the public sphere and marginalized not by individuals or ideologies but by the traffic-centric commercial system.

Question: Do you worry about how much volume you generate? After all, you consistently create videos and engage in public discourse.

Xu Jilin: Of course I do. Over the past two years, I’ve been talking about "dimension reduction"—meaning reconciling with this era and partially accepting the traffic-centric logic to amplify one’s voice. I’ve experimented with this myself, transitioning from mid-length to short-form videos. We’re now in a video-first era, no longer a text-dominated one. Through this process, I’ve come to understand three key rules: First, what matters isn’t your ideas but how you present them—whether it’s provocative, clever, or has viral potential. The substance of your arguments is secondary. Second, depth is a liability, and simplicity and relatability reign supreme. These aren’t traditional strengths of intellectuals, and self-media creators now outperform us here. Third, success hinges on luck - hitting the algorithmic jackpot on a major platform can trigger unstoppable traffic momentum. Once you go viral, it’s like wearing Hans Christian Andersen’s "red dancing shoes;" you can’t stop even if you want to. I’m speaking not abstractly but from lived experience after engaging with this system and seeing its logic.

I now pay close attention to what Bourdieu called "fields." Each social sphere - be it the influencer world or academic circles - has its own rules. The influencer sphere operates as a semi-closed ecosystem with internal traffic trading and self-reinforcing cycles. Some friends have successfully made the transition to become influencers, accelerating their growth through this system. What we see is the rapid growth, but they also had the talent to become influencers.

Question: People who work on these platforms—whether it Weibo or Xiaohongshu—refer to this as having "influencer DNA." Those who lack this innate quality find it exceedingly difficult to break into the influencer sphere.

Xu Jilin: There's a concept they call "online compatibility quotient." If your quotient is too low, you simply can’t thrive as an internet influencer.

Question: Is this the same as “online sensibility?”

Xu Jilin: Exactly. There's this online sensibility, which is your own feeling, and then there’s online compatibility, which is your ability. I only learned this through trying things over the past couple of years.

Question: A minute ago you mentioned having reconciled with social media over the past two years. Would you describe your current attitude toward social media as relatively neutral, or would you put it another way?

Xu Jilin: Reconciling means acknowledging the logic of the system. For instance, some friends of mine refuse to engage with social media - they don’t make videos, or while they might participate if asked, they won’t take the lead and actively pursue it. Others continue to see this refusal as a form of “resistance,” defending their intellectual territory.

My approach has been to experiment. I wasn’t driven by s desire for material gain or to succeed – all of that is unpredictable. But by throwing myself into for a while, I’ve gained clarity about the how the system works, which means that I learned a lot. As an observer of cultural and intellectual life, the most valuable insights come from an insider’s perspective. Observing from within differs radically from external criticism. Many critique social media through a traditional intellectual lens, but to my mind such critiques are off target. By entering the arena, I’m not seeking to criticize but to analyze objectively. I don’t aim to be a critic—I strive to be an accurate observer. That’s the role I choose.

Question: Many people today are suspicious of new technologies. For instance, the Oxford Word of the Year, “brain rot,” highlights concerns about technology's long-term effects on human cognition. Do you share these apprehensions?

Xu Jilin: Yes, I’m quite concerned. These algorithms remind me of the era of the "one-dimensional man" described by Herbert Marcuse. At the time, Marcuse noted how mainstream media, through ideological propaganda, gradually steered people toward unidirectional thinking. And today's algorithms have achieved technical perfection, as I mentioned earlier—they feed you precisely the information you need, understand your desires intimately, and continuously reinforce themselves. Technologically, this level of precision was unrealizable in Marcuse’s time, but now we have it.

My concerns go beyond technology. People today are almost universally trapped in these "cocoons." Rousseau once said that "Man is born free, but is everywhere in chains." I adapt this to say that contemporary individuals are everywhere in their own cocoons, each to their own degree. This relates to human nature and its inherent weaknesses. People naturally gravitate toward hearing what they want to hear—a flaw in human nature that is often difficult to overcome. Very few possess the self-awareness to understand the value of considering diverse perspectives, as doing so requires responsibility and the willpower to resist comfort. Everyone prefers to hear agreeable words and familiar ideas; this is intrinsic to humanity. Thus, with the advent of new technologies and algorithms, people are more easily enveloped by the information they seek.

The same things are happening in China, South Korea, the United States, and elsewhere—this is a global issue, and not unique to China. A significant part of it stems from these algorithms and the information they funnel to users. Therefore, I believe "brain rot" is just the beginning. In the future, societies may become even more fragmented. This division arises not only from wealth inequality but also more importantly from the inability to understand the worlds in which others live. The world is not merely material, it is even more an informational and ideological realm. Each person trusts only their own reality, inhabiting worlds that may be entirely distinct from others'. Even if one lives in a "Truman Show"-like bubble, everyone perceives their own world as real and others’ as illusory.

Young people are deconstructing the real world through abstract discourse and actions.

Question: This circles back to our earlier discussion on concrete vs. abstract, grand narratives and concrete individualism. What's trending online as "abstract" is actually a new digital vernacular, akin to absurdist humor (无厘头). It’s a rebellion against life’s mundanity, straddling the line between over-the-top humor and performance art. Do you understand how young people are “playing with abstraction?”

Xu Jilin: "Playing with abstraction" is something different. When I talked about abstract and concrete earlier, I was talking about the dichotomy between utopian ideals rooted in abstract philosophies and the tangible realities tied to lived experiences and personal destinies. However, today's "playing with abstraction" carries a distinct meaning. On platforms like Xiaohongshu, "abstract" has been celebrated as a positive term of the year, though some media still frame it pejoratively. This word now holds entirely new connotations: think stand-up comedy memes, anime subcultures, or internet absurdism - spaces where abstraction becomes a playful, even subversive, alternative to reality. Unlike the older generation’s utopian abstractions, young people’s "abstractions" have no utopian concerns.

Question：Is it because their lives are too concrete—so concrete that it becomes profoundly boring—that they need some "abstractions?”

Xu Jilin: In a world so concrete that people can no longer bear it, they create their own abstract realm. This abstraction isn’t built on grand narratives but on deconstructive play. They dismantle the pressures of hyper-competition ("involution") and reconstruct absurdity as refuge - a world that’s entertaining yet detached from reality. Unlike the utopian abstractions of older generations, which carried ideological weight, this new abstraction is purely deconstructive.

It reminds me of Wang Shuo 王朔(b. 1958) in the early 1990s, a pioneer of deconstructionist satire. His works, like the sitcom “I Love My Family 我爱我家,” mocked grand narratives through irreverent humor. Today’s youth take this even further, blending critique with entertainment and deconstruction. This critique is not that formal; it’s more like they are creating another world, a parallel universe, another way of playing. Think about 2D spaces that recreate an abstract world, but a world where they feel happy.

Question: Could this also be a nihilistic approach?

Xu Jilin: Nihilism has indeed become a catch-all label today. Undoubtedly, there’s a nihilistic undercurrent here—because deconstruction is related to nihilism, the idea that there is nothing at all. Stripping away everything we call values and exposing their illusory nature is, at its core, nihilism.

Question: This would include university students riding their bikes to Kaifeng in the last little while, which is fact was a huge nihilistic gesture, with no purpose at all.

Xu Jilin: It’s true that the Kaifeng bike thing had no substantive meaning. There was no clear objective; neither Kaifeng nor its dumpling soup was the point. The students simply enjoyed the communal experience of participating in a collective action. This process signifies that, after four years of knuckling under to academic routines, minor, harmless acts of rebellion are a natural part of youth.

Second, and more importantly, it embodies a collective nature. Today, small-scale private or rebellious acts are common, but large-scale collective actions involving tens of thousands can generate a fleeting sense of meaning. When immersed in such a crowd, individuals feel subsumed into a collective’s "greater self" - an intensely thrilling and exciting experience. There were a few female students who initially were dead set against it but were dragged along by their boyfriends. Once caught in the momentum, they became electrified, akin to the euphoria of a concert. Isn’t this what young people are craving at live events? That momentary catharsis, where personal issues dissolve into communal excitement. Humans are social creatures; the goal itself matters less than the response of the group, the feeling of the group.

Question: After all your work on the spiritual world of the post-1990s generations—their problems and particularities—do you have an overarching or conceptual understanding that might sum up this "rear wave?”

Xu Jilin: I believe that those born in the 1990s and 2000s are truly new kinds of human beings. They will embrace the coming AI era seamlessly, while older generations struggle to keep pace. The chasm between generations is profound - even someone as open-minded as me has a hard time reaching them emotionally, even if rationally I know what they are doing. The gap is hard to breach both in technical terms and in terms of psychological capacity. Yet, these younger groups are uniquely equipped to align with the cultural currents of their time.

Looking back at the May Fourth Movement generation, their elders often dismissed the use of the spoken Chinese vernacular, preferring the classical style they valued. The young people wanted to use everyday language in media and fiction, which critics didn’t always approve of—Hu Shi’s 胡适 (1891-1962) vernacular poetry, for example, was criticized. But ultimately, the shift to vernacular language was unstoppable, and history shows it was the right move. Sure, the vernacular had its flaws, but the May Fourth generation still carried forward some traditions, so not everything was lost. It wasn’t a complete rejection of tradition or classical language—many writers produced good poetry in the vernacular, and some of the best classical poetry was preserved. We can’t do that kind of writing anymore, but they could. This tradition was passed down, especially the poetry of the Republican period, which blended vernacular and classical styles. It’s a bit like when Xu Zhimo 徐志摩(1897-1931) wrote Western-style romantic poetry. Every era reinterprets its inheritance, and people born in the 1990s and 2000s are no different.

The future belongs to these generations, and I understand them from this open-minded perspective. As a historian, I take the long view, strive to transcend my generation’s values, and look at the emergence of the new generation as part of a bigger picture.

There are of course some things that I have a hard time with, but I spend more time thinking about how to facilitate a dialogue between the two generations. At the end of last year I participated in Ma Guoquan’s[10] 马国川(b. 1971) livestream, in which five scholars were each given 30 minutes to talk. In addition to talking about the decline of the public sphere and the rise of the private sphere, I also offered my analysis of youth culture. Unsurprisingly, some of the audience didn’t buy it, and accused me of “pandering” to young people. Pandering to young people is I guess like pandering to popular culture. Some people have a hard time with my rapprochement with young people, but I find it interesting.

To be honest, there’s another layer to this: the younger generation can’t fully thrive without the wisdom of those who came before. Think about it—older generations carry forward insights that have been shaped over millennia. My aim isn’t to force outdated ideas on anyone, but to reinterpret those 3,000 years of collective human experience in ways that resonate with today’s youth. Maybe that means discussing it over coffee, or letting them engage with it through entirely new mediums. The key is balance: we shouldn’t cling rigidly to tradition, assuming we’re always right. But dismissing ancient wisdom entirely—choosing only what’s shiny and new—is like throwing away a compass in uncharted territory. Let’s keep this dialogue alive.

The young generation is still hesitant about this but there has emerged a fascinating trend lately on Xiaohongshu: users in their 70s and 80s share their life stories, and young people appreciate the possibility to exchange with them. I call this “returning to the ancestors.” Young people like hearing stories from their grandparents, because what they hate most is parental authority, which tries to silence them.

China has a tradition of grandparents’ pampering grandchildren, so young people have a positive view of them. My impression is that young people enjoy reading what the 80- and 90-year-olds read on Xiaohongshu, feeling like they are “spiritually left-behind children,” growing up under the care of their grandparents. Young people find it inspiring that these 70- and 80-year-olds are still so clear-headed. So you see that the generations are not as antagonistic as we thought; there are things they can enjoy together.

Is there potential for mutual redemption between the generations?

Question: Do you think young people can get better and better? You just mentioned that you think young people are better able to adapt to the future.

Xu Jilin: To tell the truth, our generation was greedy, and took more than its fair share. For those born after 1995, what they are inheriting are not the dividends [of rapid growth] but its consequences. We passed down all sorts of burdens to them. Seeing what was coming, we rushed to buy property, which in merely ten years wound up pushing up prices to where they should have been after decades. In addition, we are now facing a severe overcapacity problem. The dividends that should have been accumulated over decades were prematurely overdrawn by our generation – wealth that rightfully belonged to the young people. This explains why they now harbor such anxieties. In this sense, I believe our generation owes them a debt. We've essentially consumed the harvest meant for our children's generation. To put it bluntly, when facing those born after 1995, we bear an original sin – the sin of ecological and economic overdraft, for having exhausted resources that should have still been around for them.

They have no choice about various aspects of their fate, which means that we should empathize and try to understand. How can we help? There’s not much we can do in terms of their concrete life situation; this is up to state and society.

Of course there are lots of mentors offering psychological guidance to the young people, which is very welcome, whether it’s chicken soup for the soul, emergency interventions, Chinese medicine or Western medicine. According to what a platform editor told me, the online formula for this is that the mentors first empathize with the young people, and talk about their own problems with involution, anxiety, and burnout, which attracts the young people, after which they offer advice from a philosophical or psychological direction, telling them how to relieve their anxiety.

Yet young people are forging their own coping mechanisms; their escapism and situationships are all ways of seeking mood value, means of coping. I fully understand why they are doing this and feel that we should not take them to task for not being as “deep” as we are. I think both generations should try to put themselves in the other’s place. The old generation cannot talk about how stupid the young generations are, and young people should not talk about how people of the red generations devoted their lives - even their destinies - to some false objective. When I lecture to students about the revolutionaries of the late Qing period, or about several generations of revolutionaries, I tell them that it looks unimaginable from today’s perspective, but I ask them what choice they would have made had it been them.

During the December 9 Movement [a student movement in 1935, demanding that the Chinese government take action against Japanese aggression], many sons of rich folks pledged themselves to the revolution with no thought of their personal futures. Today’s young people may find this impossible to understand, but had they been in that situation they might well have joined those hot-blooded youth, because there was just no choice at the time. To tell the truth, young people today have to make a choice too, even if all of their choices have to do with assuring their individual futures. Looking for something new is likewise a pursuit. In other words, whatever we do to try to exist has its reasons. I may not always approve of what goes into the category of “reasonable,” but I first have to understand, otherwise there is no possibility of redemption between the two generations.

Question: Today, we discussed many differences between older and younger generations, front and rear waves, analyzing factors like the decline of the public sphere, the change wrought by the logic of technology, and regional disparities. Do you feel that there are other factors that shape the character of the younger generations—such as individualism and nihilism?

Xu Jilin: I said a few minutes ago that this isn’t just a Chinese issue—we see the same thing in Japan, the U.S., and elsewhere, reflecting a global trend. Viewed through the lens of historical cycles, as seen in the example of Greek city-states, such phenomena recur periodically. Today marks the onset of a new cycle, one of renewed social turbulence. During such chaotic eras, these patterns almost inevitably resurface, it’s just that the new cycle has already begun and it is unlikely to be short. While we cannot claim that impassioned revolutionary fervor is gone forever, its return seems improbable in the foreseeable near future.

Question: Byung-Chul Han [a prolific scholar, originally from South Korea, who now works in Germany]discusses the 'death of eros' in his work. Recently, a report on sexual activity in China revealed that the quality and frequency of sex among young people are lower compared to previous generations. Does this indicate our entry into a “low-eros society?” We've discussed love from emotional and psychological perspectives, but how is it that even this primal instinct has been suppressed?

Xu Jilin: Of course, from a physiological perspective, love is one way to satisfy the libido. Today, the avenues of such satisfaction have diversified beyond heterosexual intimacy. Same-sex relationships, particularly among women, have gained prominence—as depicted in movies like “The Good Stuff,” which highlights how same-gender bonds often offer deeper emotional warmth and understanding compared to male-female dynamics. Additionally, many now channel libido through raising pets, anime fandom, or AI companionship, rather than relying solely on romantic partnerships.
This means that at present, libido has not diminished—it’s simply been redistributed. There are fewer heteronormative relationships. Of course, there are even more people who feel that the emptier they are the more they crave love, but the tragedy is that some people expect other people to love them completely while they leave themselves an out. This reflects pervasive insecurity, especially among youth, who live on the surface and don’t seek depth. In the same way they practice financial hoarding, they now "save" emotions, unwilling to invest deeply.

Question: It might be said that we aren’t truly a low-eros society. It’s just that the surplus of libido has been dispersed across more channels, while certain desires have been restrained due to various factors.

Xu Jilin: Those who choose to drop out are of course expressing their desires as well, they’ve just chosen a different lifestyle in which to do it. Many people no longer pursue what is socially validated in terms of how they invest their time or organize their consumption, but they find emotional satisfaction and joy in a different dimension.

The younger generation is no longer interested in using luxury brands to assert its identity. They prefer niche labels and trendy items, which shift rapidly—in Shanghai, trends last for only three to five months. These items aren’t expensive but spread via platforms like Xiaohongshu. So the rules of the game have changed: people no longer prove themselves through big brands or price tags but through individuality. They curate personal brands and uniqueness, crafting a "post-consumerism 2.0." While the first version emphasized environmental concerns, 2.0 prioritizes instant gratification and emotional value over material or status. What matters is uniqueness and "coolness" – it is love at first sight, and the price is irrelevant.

Question: So you would say that consumerism is no longer our enemy and post-consumerism 2.0 has instead become a way out for us today?

Xu Jilin: Of course, they all encourage consumption.

Question: You study intellectuals and also have a particular interest in pop culture and young people. Is there any overlap in your observation of these two groups?

Xu Jilin: There’s no real overlap. Intellectuals are a recent phenomenon. They may have always existed, but intellectuals have only been at the center of things in the modern era, after the 19th century. This is when intellectuals had a certain discourse power. In the 21st century, although intellectuals are still important, discursive power has begun to be taken over by opinion leaders such as online Big Vs [i.e., bloggers verified by state authorities]. They are not intellectuals but are expressing public opinions on society in a way that mimics intellectuals. In the past, the microblogging Vs would say things better, more skillfully, and in a more eye-catching way than intellectuals due to the 140-character limit. However, today's influencers are sort of anti-intellectual in that their discourse is dominated by the logic of traffic. Knowledge no longer matters. Of course, knowledge means reasoning, but things have changed now, and reasoning no longer comes first – you have to abstract and playful, like a stand-up comic.

I don't want to moralize too much about today’s new trends

Question: In traditional terms, might we be in an age of decline?

Xu Jilin: I don't want to moralize too much about today’s new trends. I think it's better to try to look beyond that kind of moral judgment.

Question: Isn’t that the same as saying that everyone is a kind of “rear wave” with their own way of expressing that. Whether it was intellectuals from back then or today’s “surfers?”

Xu Jilin: The concept of “rear wave” has its limits. I only use it to describe those born in the 1990s, 2000s, those born since 1995, etc., as just discussed. All of these are “rear waves” in the true sense of the word. Earlier generations were transitional, and don’t stand for much. Those born in the 1950s and the 1960s are the exemplary front waves. The two generations are very different.

Question: Do you think the 2020 “Rear Wave” video had an impact on your ability to put things in this perspective?

Xu Jilin: It was a catalyst. After all the discussion about it, I came to feel that the idea of waves was useful. But the “rear wave” in the video was not those born after 1995 but instead those born in the 1980s, the ones who struck it rich. Because in 2020 [when the video was made], everyone was still confident about the future, despite the pandemic. Those born in the 1980s did cash in and have remained confident. However, those born in the 1990s scoffed at all this, because they were already having a hard time finding a job, they couldn’t cash in, so buying a house or going abroad was difficult.

Question: Your view of the video has been the most moderate and positive, compared to the views of other scholars . Many scholars argued that the video had too much influence and wound up obscuring social reality and exacerbating the stratification of the social structure.

Xu Jilin: Today’s discussion hasn’t addressed shifts in the socio-political landscape. That omission isn’t a dismissal of their significance—they’re very real, and I’m aware critics will rightly ask why we’re not dissecting them. Some want scholars to voice what feels unsayable, to challenge boundaries. But my aim has always been to offer analysis grounded in objectivity, to provide constructive insights rather than polemics. Many today conflate learning with confirmation. They seek only what aligns with their existing views, dismissing outright anything that complicates their worldview—then accuse us of evasion when we explore nuance. It’s easier, after all, to remain in echo chambers where familiarity breeds comfort. But growth demands confronting uncomfortable ideas, revisiting assumptions, and embracing humility. If we commit to that—to learning as a lifelong practice, not a performance—progress becomes possible. Not guaranteed, but possible.

Let’s be candid: Much of what we hear from older generations today mirrors rhetoric from 20 or 30 years ago—unchanged, even as the world evolves. By recycling arguments from decades past, they garner louder applause, not despite their stagnation, but because of it: They cater to those who, like them, have settled into intellectual inertia, people who crave validation for their own unresolved contradictions. Yet my own stance remains an unwavering commitment to speaking difficult truths as I see them now—not frozen in 1995. Does this draw criticism? Inevitably. I’ve been accused of ‘pandering’ to younger generations for addressing their questions rather than echoing reheated dogma. Frankly, I don’t begrudge that critique. I even understand it where it comes from.

“Pandering” is actually a way of speaking. I am not a person who likes to pander to others. I always seek independent thinking and look at things from my own perspective. Therefore, I don't think I can become an influencer, because influencers have to follow this kind of logic. I understand this logic, but I don’t want to adopt it. I am still a traditional intellectual who values independent thinking and wants to share the results of my independent thought. I don't pander to you, but I will tell you what I think, and this is the spirit of the intellectual. But this is completely different from the logic of the influencer era.

I tried to be an influencer but found that it does not suit me. First of all, I lack the temperament, and in addition, it’s just not in line with what I want to do. I’m always looking for perspectives that are different from those of everyone else, and I look to challenge people and says things that others don’t, but this means that I’m out of step with the times.
To paraphrase a phrase that is very popular among young people today: be yourself and live your life.

Notes

[1]“专访许纪霖：90后和00后，已经完全不相信宏大叙事了,” originally published on January 22, 2025 on the 36KR website and almost immediately taken down. Now available here on the Wayback machine Internet archive.

[2] Houlang 后浪 is a figurative way of referring to the “new generation” in China; it comes from the expression “As in the Yangzi River, where the rear waves drive on those before, so each new generation surpasses the last长江后浪推前浪,一代更比一代强.” The term became a hot topic of discussion a few years ago after a video by the same name was aired on Bilibili, a youth-oriented Chinese video-sharing platform, on Youth Day (May 4) of 2020. Xu Jilin been a leading figure in discussions of the theme. On this site, see for example https://www.readingthechinadream.com/xu-jilin-houlang-and-houlang-culture.html and https://www.readingthechinadream.com/xu-jilin-redimensioning-the-enlightenment.html.

[3] Houlang 后浪 is a figurative way of referring to the “new generation” in China; it comes from the expression “As in the Yangzi River, where the rear waves drive on those before, so each new generation surpasses the last长江后浪推前浪,一代更比一代强.” The term became a hot topic of discussion a few years ago after a video by the same name was aired on Bilibili, a youth-oriented Chinese video-sharing platform, on Youth Day (May 4) of 2020. Xu Jilin been a leading figure in discussions of the theme. On this site, see for example https://www.readingthechinadream.com/xu-jilin-houlang-and-houlang-culture.html and https://www.readingthechinadream.com/xu-jilin-redimensioning-the-enlightenment.html.

[4]In Chinese, tangping/躺平 usually refers to young people who have decided to resist the pressures of China’s work by slacking off, or lying flat.

[5]Zhuan 卷, or more commonly neizhuan/内卷is the opposite of lying flat: one submits to the expectations of the Chinese work world by working beyond the point of reaping the harvest, hence “involution.” The term originated with Clifford Gertz and his discussion of agricultural involution in Indonesia, and has been repurposed for Chinese capitalism largely by the anthropologist Xiang Biao.

[6] The title of a popular song.

[7]Luo Xiang 罗翔 (b. 1977) is a Professor of Law at Beijing University, and is well-known for his online lectures on legal issues which have attracted huge audiences in China, particularly among young people (here is one example from Bilibili, a popular video platform, where Luo has some 13 million followers). His appeal derives in part from his folksy sense of humor and his story-telling abilities, but there is a broad interest in Chinese society concerning what the law is and how it should function.

[8]Wang Yuanhua 王元化 (1920-2008) is little known in the West, even if he is a hero to many Chinese liberals. This is because Wang, like his better known counterpart Li Shenzhi 李慎之, was deeply steeped in traditional Chinese culture, joined and loyally served the Communist Party for decades, and in later life developed an independent, critical, “liberal” voice grounded in humanism. Wang joined the Communist Party in 1938 and worked in the realms of propaganda, thought, art and culture. After the revolution, he served in the Shanghai Writers Association and did editorial work for different newspapers and magazines. He was caught up in a major purge in 1955 against Hu Feng 胡风, who had dared to argue that Mao Zedong’s theories of art and literature were too narrow and repressive. Wang was incarcerated and interrogated for some time, and was not finally rehabilitated until 1981, which meant that he had 16 years to reflect on his thought and experiences. Once rehabilitated, he published a series of books—often composed of notes, commentaries, and brief essays—that were immensely influential among Chinese intellectuals because of Wang’s willingness to use his personal experience to question received wisdom.

[9]Translator’s note: The translation is taken from https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/mao/selected-works/poems/poems33.htm. Concerning the context of the poem, Baidu notes that the poem “was written in December 1962, when the international and domestic situation was extremely severe…Due to the mistakes of the "Great Leap Forward"…the new China was in the most serious economic difficulties since its founding, and the country and the people suffered heavy losses. Internationally, the Soviet leaders headed by Khrushchev provoked the Sino-Soviet debate, published articles in succession to attack the Communist Party of China, and turned the principled debate between the two parties into a national dispute, exerting tremendous pressure on China politically, economically and militarily…For a time, dark clouds rolled and cold waves rolled, and the Communist Party of China and the Chinese people faced severe tests. Faced with this grim situation, the poet was overwhelmed with emotion, so on his birthday he wielded his pen to express his aspirations and feelings through objects and scenery, and wrote this poem.”

[10]Translator’s note: Ma is a journalist and an author, best known as a liberal (perhaps neo-liberal) commentator for Caijing/Finance 财经, one of China’s most important publications on business and finance.