ILLUSTRATION FOR TIME BY JUAN RAMEO

I think it was rocker Cui Jian who mouthed the phrase Chinese culture to me while talking about his music during a party at some German guy's place in Beijing. Another Chinese friend of mine, his breath reeking of booze, leaned over and asked me, "What's Chinese culture?" Being well stewed myself at the time, I didn't say anything. But if you're going to make me answer, all I can tell you is, "I don't know."

You'll hear foreigners say that Chinese culture is Confucian culture. What is Confucian culture? In the official media it's the Doctrine of the Mean: elders and juniors each in their places; being tolerant and restrained and yielding; doing unto others and all that. All of which just tells you how to avoid getting the short end of the stick in the world's most crowded of crowds: keep your head low and you'll survive. Then there's the philosophy for retirees: Taoism, unity of heaven and man, becoming one with nature. Sounds great, and every Chinese person can rattle off a couple of paragraphs of the stuff. But if you'll excuse me, I have to say that the one line of Confucius you just can't beat is: "I've never seen the man who loves virtue as well as sex." In the end, this philosophy is about telling people to act one way or another. Give someone a chance, and his first instinct is to go straight for the sex. Or the money. That includes me.

I was born under Maoist rule, and the first time I heard the word culture was in "Cultural Revolution." Our only cultural sage, the writer Lu Xun, who had been dead for 10 years by then, taught us "Don't forgive anyone" and "A perfect fly is still just a fly." If only we had listened.

Just look at what passed for culture at the time, and see how little it's changed today. Back then, children sang, "Mommy and daddy can't compare with Chairman Mao, the greatness of heaven and earth can't compare with the great kindness of the Party." The slogan board on the door of the police headquarters read in big red characters, "Resolutely support the righteous anti-imperialist, anticolonial struggles of all the peoples of the world." The slogan on the door of the crematorium read, "Increase production, decrease population." It's been more than 20 years since those days. Now the slogans are new, but they're still a series of orders. "Open a bottle of Hennessy and let the good times roll." "Your choice, Sprite." In the stores and restaurants, you see, "The People's Police advise you to keep an eye on your wallet and other personal articles." In the public toilet the sign reads, "Please urinate in the trough, please flush after defecating." Jiang Zemin says, "Represent advanced culture."

A friend of mine says Chinese people are the smartest. I ask my friend, "But what culture do they possess?" Beyond firecrackers and paper—things the Chinese invented—look around at what we wear, the things we use. Flushing toilets, televisions, cars and toothbrushes. Which did the Chinese invent? All we can talk about is the Great Wall. What greatness comes from China? Architect I.M. Pei. Author Gao Xingjian. Musician Yo-Yo Ma. Movie director Ang Lee. Actor Jackie Chan. None lives in China.

I love my country. I really do. Maybe, like so many people, I love it too much. A guy who once wrote propaganda for the Party, Qu Xiao, returned from a labor reform camp and said, "A son never thinks his mother ugly, and a dog doesn't mind if its owners are poor." He's still loyal! When I heard that, I felt like I had just gulped down a fly. I don't feel loyal to anything.

If by culture you mean a spiritual font or a shared sense of values, then I have to say that this is something I can't see in China—past or present. Here in Beijing I've got to shove others out of the way just to make it across the street. I stare suspiciously at any stranger who gets too close to my briefcase. I don't lend money to friends. I never buy history books written by Chinese because I don't believe them. (I have comforted myself with the thought that mistrust is itself a form of belief.) Looking into the future I often slip into a sense of dread, yet I don't know where to turn for support. I'm like a savage in a benighted age, alone and helpless in a land with no culture.

Wang Shuo is a best-selling novelist whose books, including Please Don't Call Me Human and Playing for Thrills, explore the darker side of Chinese society. This essay was translated by John Crespi