Why do we need literature in our era?

The most romantic interpretation of the significance of literature I have come across recently is probably Professor Tang Yonghua’s speech at this year’s East China Normal University graduation ceremony.

Faced with the argument that liberal arts are useless and the current employment difficulties in the humanities, he said, "Look at the recent costume dramas—although they are constantly cutting costs, each one is starting to create snow scenes."

The snow looks very fake, very exaggerated, and completely unnecessary.

But why do people who are determined to draw their swords also like snow?

Because people always have moments when they can’t think straight, moments when they zone out—"Desiring to chase the light cavalry, snow fills the bow and sword."
Or this line: "Give me three seconds of silence in a poem, and I can write a sky full of dark clouds within it."

This world indeed needs people who can solve problems, but it also needs those who can’t figure things out.
Those who are willing to stop and watch an unnecessary snowstorm.

We are asked to produce every minute, to ask every action: What is it useful for?
Not reading novels doesn’t affect eating.
So, what is the use of literature after all?

Mo Yan once told a story at Peking University HSBC Business School’s graduation ceremony.
He visited the Chinese Archaeological Museum and saw ancient pottery from thousands of years ago, engraved with cord patterns and fish-shaped symbols.

He said, if our ancestors hadn’t carved these symbols on the pottery, it wouldn’t have affected its utility; it could still hold water, still hold wine.
But why did they carve them?

Because humans need not only to live but to live interestingly—that is the reason for the existence of literature.

It doesn’t solve survival problems; it addresses existential questions.
If we’re not in a hurry, language should be the most romantic discipline.

I once took an online literature course called “Yang Ning’s Complete Literary Theory Course.”
Back then, comments often floated across the screen, like, “Teacher, what’s the point of studying Chinese?”

I think Teacher Yang Ning’s response is textbook-level; he said:
"The characteristic of the Chinese department is that I can be useless, and that is our value. Life is built upon these useless things."

How can useless things be the foundation of life?
Because they don’t teach you how to solve problems faster; they teach you how to get along with yourself when problems can’t be solved.

When Shi Tiesheng was twenty-one, he became paralyzed in both legs, then later developed kidney disease and underwent dialysis three times a week.
By secular standards, his life was considered hopeless.

But he wrote “Me and the Ditan Park” and “Vacuous Notes,” using words to find reasons to keep living—for himself and for countless readers.

When Shi Tiesheng was writing “Vacuous Notes,” he had been sitting in a wheelchair for many years.

About fate and life, he wrote:
"If you look into the future from the perspective of childhood, you will say your prospects are uncertain; you will say you have limitless potential. But if you look at your life’s trajectory from the end point, you see only one road—you can only see a predestined path. Not knowing what fate is is precisely knowing what fate is."

About himself, he wrote:
"I am part of my impressions, and my entire impressions are me."

Humans are not just physical beings; they are beings of meaning.
The things remembered, felt, and written down constitute a person’s true life.

That is what literature does.
It doesn’t help you solve problems; it helps you understand them. It doesn’t tell you how to live; it accompanies you as you think about why to live.

And now, AI has arrived.
Mo Yan said he tried using AI to write a fu poem, and it was more magnificent than his own, with six-character and eight-character couplets, rhyming and parallelism, everything included.

But he said, “Without thoughts, it lacks the theme of ‘worry first, then happiness,’ like in ‘Yueyang Tower.’”

Technology can imitate form but cannot imitate soul.
AI cannot generate that “three seconds of silence,” because silence isn’t the absence of sound—it’s choosing to stop amid noise.
That is a human capability.

In his speech, Tang Yonghua said, “The world is big enough to accommodate some people who can’t figure things out, right? These people who can’t figure things out chose the Chinese department. What else in this world is unthinkable?”

If a society only has open-minded people, only pursuers of profit and usefulness, what would it become?
Probably a world where no one wants to watch snow.

The snow looks very fake, very exaggerated, and completely unnecessary. But people need to watch snow, just as they need literature.
Not because it’s useful, but because it makes us human.