Fang Si Chi’s First Love Paradise is a seminal novel that helped kick off the #MeToo movement in Taiwan and has sold millions of copies worldwide. But only two months after the novel’s publication, the author Li Yi-Han passed away due to suicide. Shortly after, her suspected abuser was also acquitted of charges. Despite the novel’s critical acclaim and huge commercial success, this did not protect Yi-Han from harassment, nor bring accountability towards her abuser. 

That same environment which enables abusers and isolates victims serves as the backdrop for Fang Si Chi’s First Love Paradise. Thirteen-year old Fang Si-Chi grows up in a privileged environment, where she and her best friend are gifted students and voracious readers of classics. When a neighbor in their apartment complex offers to tutor the two girls for free, he sexually assaults and grooms the young Si-Chi, whose only option is to convince herself that the hell she suddenly finds herself in is in fact her “first love paradise.” By examining how Si-Chi’s community repeatedly fails her, the novel sheds light into the systems of harm that allow groomers and perpetrators of domestic violence to act without consequence. 

I spoke to Jenna Tang about Taiwan’s reputation as a progressive country, the significance of bringing this novel to an English-speaking audience for the first time, her translation choices, and how we choose who gets to interpret which stories.  

Hairol Ma: What drew you to this book? 

Jenna Tang: I returned to this quote constantly during my translation process: “Every single thing in this world belonged to a hometown that Si-Chi would never know again.” There is a quietness in the author’s language and a sense of place she built about Taiwan that brought me closer to myself while I was translating this novel, especially to a part of me that I thought had been lost forever. Taiwan as a “home” has done more harm to me than care. While I translated the book, I constantly thought about what “homecoming” would mean to me if I were to give this book a voice in English.

HM: Your sentiment about Taiwan doing more harm than care as “home” is certainly echoed in this book. Tell me about how Taiwan reacted when this book was published. Years later, what has been this book’s impact in Taiwan? 

JT: It’s all extremely ironic. Taiwanese media are notorious for their unethical behavior and lack of sensitivity. Back then, many reporters were trying to uncover the author’s personal life to judge how “autobiographical” this novel was—which completely defeats the point of reading fiction. Why do writers have to explain or justify how much of themselves is placed in their stories for audiences who interrogate them in such brutal ways?

From 2017 to 2024, a lot has happened and changed in Taiwan, and what’s even more ironic is that Taiwanese society started touting Fang Si-Chi during 2023’s wave of #MeToo across multiple industries. Of course I trust that there are readers who do cherish and care about this book, but at the same time, I wonder if some people brought out this book to show that now they “care” about the topics the author had raised so many years ago.

HM: Lin Yi-Han tragically passed away only two months after this book was published, and this is the first time this is being brought to an English audience. What has translating this book meant to you personally? 

JT: It has been a long journey bringing this book to English readers. Translating Lin Yi-Han’s language comes from my desire for Mandarin readers to focus more on the literary merits of this book instead of what the local media wanted us to see. Another part of it comes from my wish to emotionally reconnect myself with childhood friends who have disappeared a long time ago. This book has been by my side in very meaningful ways since I first moved to the U.S. It gave me just the right amount of courage and rage to move forward. By bringing Fang Si-Chi into English, I hope with my love for languages, the novel and the author will be able to claim their space in this world.

HM: Are there any easter eggs that we can watch out for in this translation? 

JT: Of course. Here are a few considerations I made: 

I have intentionally steered away from the standard Mandarin pinyin systems (Wade-Giles or Hanyu) for characters’ names. Instead, I’ve focused on how the names are physically pronounced. I tried to mimic the sounds as much as possible, so it’s hard for English-speakers to pronounce the names in ways that might sound too different from the original.

I specifically distinguished “Yi-Wei” and “Iwen. Both of their first Mandarin characters could both be spelled as “Yi”—but Yi-Wei is a perpetrator of domestic and sexual violence, while Iwen, his wife, is someone who is full of care and love—I put “I” for her, which can still sound like “Yi”, hoping to give more of her back to herself. 

For Teacher Lee, I spelled it specifically as “Lee” and not “Li” (you may notice I spelled the poet’s name as Li Bai)if ever there’s a word that starts with “r” right after “Lee”, then “leer” will appear all over the story, showing how rampant his harm is hidden in this “paradise” that he created.

In Mandarin, 樂園 can be interpreted as “amusement park” or “wonderland”, although it all depends on the context. Since the chapter names are connected to Milton’s Paradise Lost, the word “Paradise” brings out that sense of irony—how do we define paradise, physically and emotionally? 

HM: The multi-dimensional interpretations of paradise and innocence are constantly interrogated throughout this novel. We watch as Si-Chi is repeatedly failed by the women close to her, even as she reaches out for help. “Innocence” is a virtue defined by men and perpetrated by women — the acquittal of both Harvey Weinstein and Johnny Depp, the vitriol directed at Amber Heard only a couple years ago comes to mind. What are your thoughts on how women in particular demand the “perfect survivor” and how do you see this perpetuated in both Taiwan and the West?   

JT: Survivors are imposed with particular labels and images: they must be given sympathy and they need a certain type of help. These beliefs come from a place of assumptions, rather than actually providing the understanding and support that’s truly needed. “Innocence” becomes an irrevocable state of being, something that can be broken, and if it’s damaged, it has been ruined, and there’s no way back. Nobody is perfect, so how is it possible for anyone to become a “perfect survivor”?

HM: In this regard, literature and storytelling is uniquely equipped to not have to demand credibility. What sort of legacy and connection do you hope readers will form with this book? 

JT: The world we live in is full of stereotypes, stigmatization, and all kinds of societal expectations. Sometimes we don’t even realize when we’re being influenced by these acts of gaslighting and blame. Fang Si Chi is an act of protest against this: the structure, the convoluted consciousness, voices, and emotional landscape breaks the world we are familiar with and builds a new world of its own. I see this novel as an attempt to accompany survivors—to show that we are never alone. 

HM: You’re heavily involved in the BIPOC translating community, and committed to reversing the monopoly that white men have had on translating sinophone literature. What is the relationship between literature and activism to you? 

JT: I was born and raised in Taiwan. I love languages, and translation plays an extremely important role for me as an individual. Literature and language builds me, and builds where I come from. In America, I came to learn how underrepresented Taiwanese literature is in the English-speaking world. Through language, we can do so much beyond the act of writing or translation. Taiwanese literature—like literature from every culture—deserves attention and respect, and such dynamics come from establishing inclusive communities instead of toxic competition and racial hierarchy. 

In Taiwan, white-worshipping culture runs rampant: on a day-to-day basis, you can see restaurant owners making exceptions for white or international customers while locals have to wait in a long line; you can see in Taipei Main Station that folks guide European tourists around when they’re lost and ignore migrant workers who seek help. Growing up in Taiwan, I was told and am told to this day that Taiwan is a physically “safe” place, and that people are kind—but is that true, when kindness is afforded primarily to whiteness, and those with proximity to it? 

Another bigger question concerning the treatment of translators: Why can’t non-native English speakers translate into English? What about the knowledge a translator could have between these cultures and their understanding of linguistic influence between different languages? Why do we have to put our heads down and always let others “correct” or “guide” us, as if they were our savior? Why are we still working to define what being “native speaker” means if we are to move out of literary colonialism? Why can’t people be more conscious about it, and what kind of changes can I bring as a translator?

HM: Can you elaborate on that concept of  literary colonialism and how that lens impacted your translation process? 

JT: Cultures outside of the European or North American sphere oftentimes are otherized or foreignized. There is this big question of “Who gets to translate what?” and the question of what counts as cultural appropriation. By monopolizing or demanding that literature from different cultures should be interpreted or translated or told in a certain “standard” way that fits better to the European or North American convention or understanding, other traditions remain on the margins, their cultures exploited and colonized. 

There are many institutions in Taiwan that set up a protocol that if one identifies as a “non-native” English speaker, they won’t be able to officially take part in translation projects into English, especially for books. Many hire white expats as their “consultants” and think by doing so will ensure nothing goes wrong. But what about Taiwanese, or other non-English-native speakers who are proficient in English? Why are non-native English speakers paid less in educational settings? These things happen not only in Taiwan, but across Asia and beyond—similar things happened in South Korea, Japan, Thailand, and more. Ultimately, choosing to translate a book is not just about cultural enthusiasm—it’s about how much we care about the authors and the books, and how we connect ourselves with them. I want to believe that people who care about Taiwanese literature goes beyond race—but it’s hard to think about it when some encounters and situations proved otherwise, and the fact that introducing Taiwanese literature tends to be monopolized by certain institutions that feed into certain toxic cycles. 

On the other hand, in America, I often heard people from the literary landscape express: “I’m confused by the structure.” “This doesn’t make sense to me.” when it comes to specific dynamics that are closely tied to my culture, or cultures from other parts of the world. There’s always a need to “explain” or “clarify.” 

I was asked often in my MFA program questions like, “Could you tell us more about how Taiwanese do A and B?” Initially, it sounds like some genuine curiosity, but time and time again, I get tired of explaining where I come from, or “how we do things in Taiwan.” My work, as well as other Taiwanese authors’ works are not part of some imagined zoo (and I don’t like zoos)—we don’t need labels, explanations, or certain restrictions to show people who we are. Just read the story, read the work, and be open to differences.

When I worked on this project, there were many times I was told to explain the concept of cram school, or was asked inappropriate questions about whether “teacher-student love” might be something specific to Taiwan. Hearing the latter gave me a feeling that Taiwanese culture, in some ways, is looked down upon. The subtext behind this question always felt like the suggestion that perhaps sexual grooming was normalized in Taiwan. 

I’ve also felt the pressure of Taiwanese #MeToo has to be, in some ways, “big enough” to matter. I had to do so much for a less represented country to really matter in the international literary world.