At first glance, Wixted’s Reverse Orientalism feels dated; his counter-arguments to Said’s critique of Orientalism by now sounds like uninteresting truisms (e.g. that Asian countries have themselves resorted to orientalist rhetoric, or that they deliberately helped build their own Orientalist images when convenient, or that they constructed Occidentalist images of the U.S. &c.). But reading further I came upon what I find to be fascinating personal (and sour) testimony on what was like to be 20c orientalist. Wixted can paint with a broad brush, so I’m kind of reluctant about quoting him at length; but I have to confess these experiences feel too familiar.
A fundamental view, with certain variations and corollaries, seems to be: “Only we can understand us.” Namely, only Chinese can truly understand Chinese, Chinese culture, and the Chinese people. Only Japanese can truly understand Japanese, etc. In other words, only Chinese can speak with any real knowledge about China, or some extension of the formulation: Only in a very limited sense can any non-Chinese hope to or presume to say anything worthwhile or significant about China. And, if a non-Chinese does speak with knowledge, it still does not have the same authority. Authority includes being Chinese.
[…] Since Westerners can have little if anything valuable to say about our culture, we Chinese can ignore whatever they might have to say about it. […] Chinese ignorance of and ignoring of Western-language scholarship on China are unfortunate enough, but Chinese ignorance of and ignoring of Japanese scholarship on China are even more striking. Japan, with its long traditions of scholarship on China, has produced in this century alone a galaxy of outstanding China scholars⁶. There is virtually no area in Chinese studies in which one can afford to overlook relevant Japanese scholarship. […] It is all so circular and reinforcing.
[…] By way of contrast, let us now turn to the Japanese case. The set of assumptions many Japanese have toward Western scholars of and scholarship on Japan takes on its own special configuration. A fundamental element to this is what I call the have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too syndrome, which I think has broad implications for Japanese dealings with the outside world. The basic formulation of this is simple. We Japanese can read, understand, and appreciate Shakespeare or Goethe or Tu FU, but no non-Japanese, no outsider, can truly understand or appreciate Bashō or Genji or basically anything about Japan. Why? Because we’re special. The have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too image comes from having it both ways: being universalist, all-encompassing Japanese, and being particularist and, above all, insular Japanese. […] All too many Japanese are flattered by outsiders’ interest in their culture, humored by and admiring of outsiders’ struggles to achieve a measure of control of their language, and yet increasingly uncomfortable or even exclusionist when faced with real achievement, though ultimately many are willing to give credit where it is due.
[…] These attitudes also affect the views Japan have of their cultural indebtedness to China. Of course, it is true that in most cases Japanese transformed Chinese cultural influences in truly creative ways. But all too many Japanese scholars get caught up in asserting their uniqueness and in defensively trying to determine when cultural influences were Japanized. When viewed from the Chinese side, however, Sino-Japanese cultural relations fare even worse. Widespread Chinese ignorance of Japanese cultural history reinforces a different set of widely held views: that Japanese culture does not exist: that it is an inferior, degraded version of Chinese culture: or that, to the extent that it does exist, it was taken wholesale from China. And, only recently has either side recognized that, more often than not, the cultural transmission was mediated by Korea.
[…] What I find disconcerting is any situation where the sole focus, or most of the focus, is on the cultural identity of the speaker and not on what is being said. In my experience, many Chinese simply cannot get beyond identifying some literary interpretation, for example, as being that of a Westerner or a Japanese, and thereby largely or completely avoid coming to grips with the merits or demerits of what is being said. And in Japanese, the clear labeling of a view as being that of a Western outsider is inscribed in the very katakana orthography used, which identifies the source as being alien. [cf. gaijinspeak in manga or videogames—L.B.]
[…] As noted earlier, the expectation on the part of many Chinese is that work on China by non-Chinese is no good. If, however, it is clear that the work is good, then the reaction, which on occasion I have witnessed, can be this: I, as a Chinese, am ashamed, am humiliated, that this work was not done by a Chinese. I have heard Chinese say this (and mean it) about the Takigawa Kametarô 滝川亀太郎 edition of the Shih-chi [shǐjì] 史记 and certain other Japanese scholarship, about Kalgren’s work on Chinese phonology, and even about a volume of my own work. [Recent example]. This self-inflicted psychological pain tells us something, I believe, about an aspect of Chinese reverse Orientalism: many Chinese, in a possessive, exclusionist, self-contained way, consider the study of China their bailiwick and theirs alone; and the inwardcenteredness of this Chinese cultural world prevents such Chinese from taking active pleasure either in the scholarship itself, in the fact that others are doing work that can redound to the benefit of Chinese and non-Chinese Sinologists alike, or in the fact that such work might increase appreciation of the richness of Chinese culture among non-Chinese. Those of us who happen not to have been born Chinese, however, are in a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation.
I find Wixted’s notion of “triangulation” particularly interesting:
[…] ethnic Chinese contributors to the volume generally not only sounded ignorant of other parts of Asia; they also made the all-too-common mistake of many Asians—that of making their limited corner of it, as they understood it, typical of the whole, huge, varied mass. Western writers in the volume were no better; they, too, mistakenly generalized about Asians from experience with the one area of Asia they knew something about, China. All of this touches on the enormous problem involved when one tries to make cultural dichotomies. For meaningful contrasts between large cultural groups to be made, my own view is that there is a need for “triangulation.” It is not enough to contrast, say, just Japan and the United states. Many of the contrasts that seem unique or special to one or the other society lose their uniqueness with the awareness that a third culture has a still different cultural configuration, and that all three overlap in certain ways. They are all unique. Each is special in its individual mosaic (which at the same time normally includes internally contradictory elements); only rarely is a specific constitutive element that contributes to a general cultural configuration unique. To make any definitive contrasts between the Western and non-Western worlds, one would have to be both anthropologist and cultural historian for the entire world. To make the distinction between Asians or “Orientals” on the one hand, and Westerners on the other, one would have to have a knowledge of the vastly different, major cultural traditions of Asia, plus considerable learning of the great Western tradition; to my knowledge no one has even approached having such a background. Even contrasts within East Asia are extremely hard to make, China, Japan, and Korea being just too much to handle.
[…using triangulation,] the discovery should take place that one’s own Culture A shares differing similarities with cultures B and C, while having still different sets of contrasts with these two other cultures. Not only are the complex richnesses of both cultures B and C highlighted, that of one’s own culture A is thrown into varying relief.