"Wow! Times have really changed!" This is the reaction of an overseas student, long abroad, browsing through the bookstores on Chungking South Road.

The most striking thing when you enter the bookstore is the books on politicians. Those seen in the past as sacred idols or disgraceful bandits are openly discussed. The writing of Lu Hsun, Pa Chin, and others, covertly read by students in the forties, are now proudly displayed. Even current mainland authors are arrayed in rows of impressive "Taiwan editions."

Or have a look at "Opposition Literature" or "Inside Story Literature" discussing the February 28 incident, the White Terror, the Lei Chen case; it seems nothing is forbidden. Though it also seems the attraction of these is far less than those teaching people how to manage their money.

Over the last two years, you could say the publishing world has become "100 schools contending." As for those authors jailed for "improper speech," the lifting of martial law has had even more significant meaning.

Under martial law, labels like "Taiwan independence" or "propagandizing for the communists" frightened people. Except for clear "Literature of the War of Resistance" or "Anti-Communist Literature," anything that touched on critical realism unavoidably created a "psychological yardstick" in both authors and publishers to avoid "complications."

Literary doyen Yeh Shih-t'ao recalls, "Before, when writing serious art, one would have to hold back one's pen to avoid provocative topics." Yeh, who calls himself apolitical, had been summoned by the police several times because of an early short story about a thief living a tragic life in prison. After years in prison himself, he developed a cautious attitude, and only wrote criticism, not fiction. But in the past two years he has written a series of powerful novels, including some on the February 28 incident. "Only now do I have a feeling of confidence and trust to write what I have thought to write but never dared to."

Among older writers, Yeh's experience is not strange. In the 70's "Native Literature" also caused a disturbance. At that time the literary world was dominated by Western literature in translation and patriotic anti-communist novels. Several authors like Chen Ying-chen, Wang T'o, Wang Chen-ho, and others attempted to sketch out the daily lives of the ordinary people of Taiwan. Huang Ch'un-ming, a central pillar in the movement, recalls his motives: "I didn't have any great goal, and I didn't mean to write any great work. I just grew up in this place and saw many things and people that moved me."

From another angle, native literature not only made local Taiwan consciousness manifest, it also described the difficult lives of the lower classes. Because of this, it was considered to "extol Taiwan independence" and "follow the 'red' literature of the 30's." This caused the authors to come under pressure. With the two sides forming into two camps, the atmosphere in literary circles at the time became quite tense.

That era seems far away. Yeh says enviously, "The young generation is very lucky, because they don't know fear, and don't have to obey any authority." Lu Chen-hui, a literary critic and associate professor of Chinese at Tsing Hua University, says, "After the lifting of martial law, the world of literature is wide open. For serious creative writers with ideals, they can exercise their talents to the full."

Regrettably, compared to the large number of profound literary works to come out of the mainland after the Cultural Revolution, the performance in Taiwan unavoidably leaves one disappointed. Tsai Yuan-huang, professor of foreign languages and literature at National Taiwan University, shares this view: "After the lifting of martial law, although the volume of published material greatly increased, neither in quantity nor quality does serious literature of high artistic value meet the past." Moving patriotic novels, the nostalgic works of Chang Ai-ling, and even native literature have no successors.

Hsiang Yang offers the following explanation: "Literature is basically a product of bitterness under pressure. The moving works of those stages are testimony of the times." But after martial law, pressure is relaxed, and authors cannot help but have a feeling that there is no focus for anger. Lu Chen-hui believes the native literature movement was one of a rising middle class demanding political liberalization and economic prosperity. With these goals achieved, the motive for its critical realism also disappeared.

Another reason is that after martial law, social movements have risen in waves. Authors no longer need to use their pens but can march out of their front doors and throw themselves into movements to realize their political ideals, points out Hsiang Yang. Chen Ying-chen devotes his time to managing Ren Chian magazine, using photographs and columns to speak out on behalf of "disadvantaged groups." As for the young generation, writer Lin Shuang-pu, known for a strong Taiwan consciousness, is now busy organizing lectures across the island in a more direct struggle.

Hsiang Yang believes the authors could come out of these experiences with more profound, broader works. Wang Mo-lin is more reserved. He believes that they could simply get a case of the "post-martial law collective hysteria" and nothing else. Wang says that "political fever," like "money fever," "mainland fever," and "communications fever," are all symptoms of the end of martial law. Everyone has something he or she wants to say. Everyone wants to take to the streets, to run in elections, to form a party, to start a publication. There are few left who listen to what others have to say.

Money fever has also percolated into literature. In terms of readers, Chen Ying-chen argued five or six years ago that in a mass consumption society, enjoyment and accumulation become the things people most care about. Because of this, most literature explores personal experience. Therefore, serious artistic creation becomes the concern of only a small number of intellectuals. When even college students--the main readership of serious literature--are playing the stock market, the commercialization and vulgarization of literature are inevitable.

Lu Chen-hui points out the number one literature in large-scale popularity--"Boudoir Literature"--is a prime example of this commercialization. Boudoir literature relies on female writers with an audience mainly of young girls. The contents mostly explore issues of the two sexes, and especially the marriage problems of modern urban men and women. Authors in this vein are undoubtedly the best selling writers in Taiwan.

"Cohabitation, affairs, divorce, sex, these all have considerable shock power, and there are many works in Western literature that touch on the deepest recesses of human nature," says Lu Chen-hui, "It's a pity boudoir literature either over-exaggerates the ugly side of these problems or romanticizes them; either way it's a kind of escape, and neither really faces the core of the issues."

Although talent is part of the problem, it is undeniable that many authors use their works for fame and fortune, and sales volume is far more important than quality.

"After the lifting of martial law, the lifting of restrictions on new newspapers was a turning point," notes Lin Wen-yi, author and current arts editor for the Independence Post group. The explosion of new publications and the expansion of the old have created an insatiable demand for writing. (Chinese newspapers carry serialized literature daily.) A mentality of settling for whatever's available has set in.

"With the lifting of newspaper restrictions, there has been a deluge of information, affecting the reading habits of the entire society," says Lin. But papers lean toward whatever is in the public eye and swarm over it, and it just isn't done not to squeeze out the maximum "use value." "Readers' habits have gone from letting tasty writing flow over the palate to indulging in huge gulps of information without chewing on it at all," argues Hsiang Yang.

The publisher Yin Ti affirms that the end of martial law is "absolutely a good thing," but wonders whether serious cultural thought, languishing without encouragement for forty years, has the strength to make the most of it. Lu Cheng-hui says that the end of martial law has opened up many topics for writing, but "I'm only afraid that writers will be mired in illusory pride at their accomplishments and will lack the heart and sentiment to write on them."

Will post-martial law literature be sub merged in various fashionable trends, or will it be transformed to have a sharper, more sweeping face? It's something everybody should think about.

[Picture Caption]

The number of readers has increased greatly--has the quality of the literature and of the readers themselves kept pace?

The books which attract a readership of young girls are still those disc ussing relations between the two sexes.

From "boudoir literature" to the "lipstick novel set," putting flatterin g photos of the authoresses on the covers has been one way to attract readers.

"Taiwan conciousness" has taken the domestic publishing world by storm, and has become a major topic of discussion in literary circles.

The books which attract a readership of young girls are still those disc ussing relations between the two sexes.

From "boudoir literature" to the "lipstick novel set," putting flatterin g photos of the authoresses on the covers has been one way to attract readers.

"Taiwan conciousness" has taken the domestic publishing world by storm, and has become a major topic of discussion in literary circles.