The history of online discourse is essentially the history of linguistic compression. I’m a member of possibly the last generation of Chinese fluent in the language of forums and blogs. After the emergence of microblogging platform Weibo in the late 2000s, any thought or emotion had to be expressed in 140 characters or less. Although Weibo, like X, would launch payment options for longer posts — throwing a bone to those of us still stuck in the internet’s Dark Ages — the trend toward shorter content seems irreversible, to the point that 400-word blogs now feel like serious writing.

But in some corners of the Chinese internet, even Weibo’s length limits feel overly generous, with users able to shut down debates by referencing just a handful of characters — known either as the “Six Arts of the Online Gentleman” or the “Eight Character Mantra,” depending on whom you ask.

Take dian, for example. The character, which literally means “typical,” is used to imply that the other party’s remarks are cliché and representative only of a specific type of person and their values — and therefore unworthy of a full response.

Another of these characters, xiao, which means “filial piety,” carries similar connotations. Used to label a person as serving a particular power or organization, it’s used to undermine their argument by speculating as to their motives — winning the fight by highlighting their lack of autonomy or independent thought.

Ji, meanwhile, interprets the behavior of an opponent as “anxious,” whether because they’re writing too much or simply trying too hard to win. Another popular internet buzzword, pofang, “break through the front lines,” but now used more like “triggered,” describes a similar state — though it lacks the punchiness of its single-character counterpart.

In addition to dian, xiao, and ji, there are also le and ying, which are likewise used on their own to express ridicule. The two words effectively summarize common mindsets among those who participate in social media arguments: “laughable” and “you win,” respectively. (Confusingly, ying can also be used to mean a collective “we win,” depending on the context.)

Taken together, proficiency in these characters can help anyone establish an unassailable position on social media. If someone expresses a viewpoint that you disagree with, you dismiss it as tired (dian) or motivated by other considerations (xiao). If they respond with logic, then they’re simply trying too hard (ji), and if they persist, simply tell them they win (ying) and laugh the whole thing off (le).

Faced with the ubiquity of this tactic, it’s easy for those of us who grew up with the lengthy back-and-forth arguments of the forum era to feel lost. But are masters of the “Six Arts” really as triumphant as they think? I can’t help but think of Ah Q — the arrogant know-nothing protagonist conjured by the great 20th-century author Lu Xun in “The True Story of Ah Q.” Despite suffering humiliation after humiliation, he always found a way to spin his losses into self-declared spiritual victories.

Indeed, the confident stance projected by these characters often masks weakness — a desire to bully, rather than persuade. It’s all about rendering the other party ridiculous and a target for mockery, an approach that is hardly unique to the internet these days.

Ultimately, tactics like the Six Arts or the Eight Character Mantra are a blow to the original vision of equality, openness, and cooperation of the internet as a “public sphere” like that envisioned by social theorists such as Jurgen Habermas. In person, a monosyllabic response is usually understood as extremely impolite — and that’s before you consider the mocking tone of le or ying. It’s all quite post-truth, a kind of memeification of argument for the internet age: render your opponent ridiculous for caring enough to engage, then gang up on them.

Perhaps that’s why, among all the terms I’ve listed, ji may be the most devastating, as it directly denies the legitimacy of explanation. Polite speech was once respected as the embodiment of civility. Now, at least in some people’s minds, civility is merely another symbol of cultural elitism — a relic of the Web 1.0 and 2.0 eras that should be erased.

In Liu Cixin’s novel, “The Three-Body Problem,” the tiny dual-vector foil is a powerful weapon capable of reducing three-dimensional space to two dimensions, ultimately destroying everything within. It’s an apt metaphor for the state of online discourse, which increasingly feels like a zero-sum game with no winners, only losers.

Translator: Matt Turner.

(Header image: Visuals from FY/Flying Spark/VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)