CHINA is modern, we are often told and in turn tell amazed first-time visitors.

Many of my countrymen, rightfully proud of our nation's achievements in modernization, will point to the great number of skyscrapers, high-speed trains and state-of-the-art technological parks.

Indeed, in terms of hard power, China has everything to earn itself a place among the world's most modern nations. But on the soft side of the definition of modern, or specifically, concerning the issue of brainpower, China still has many anachronisms.

It is burdened by self-imposed shackles that stifle its potential and mar its vaunted modernity. One such shackle is the so-called qualification test required of any professionals hopeful of stepping to the next rung up the ladder.

Renowned writer Tie Liu is a victim of the tests, having flunked them for 12 years and as a result failing to secure the coveted title of "second-level writer" conferred by the Shandong Writers' Association of which he is a member.

Tie Liu, the pen name of Huang Zerong, has been applying for the position of second-level writer, for which he is eligible only if he passes the tests in English and computer skills, his nemesis. Starting January 1, Tie set aside his writing project and rededicated himself to the grueling preparation for this year's tests.

We don't know if his tenacity will pay off this time and help him finally emerge a winner from his epic struggle against the dreaded tests, or whether he will suffer defeat yet again and maybe quit trying out of despair. But many people simply do not appreciate the writer's seemingly quixotic efforts.

Better pay and perks

The title Tie strives for will bring him better pay and perks; for many, the respected writer is sacrificing his literary flair for mere material benefits, a pursuit detrimental to the greatness of his undertaking.

That may be too harsh a charge, for Tie cannot be blamed for doing as his peers do. The hard fact is, those less skilled and prolific than Tie outrank and out-earn him after passing the qualification tests, a source, perhaps, of shame and all the more reason for him to work harder.

As the China Youth Daily reported on January 17, for a writer blessed with the right title and affiliations, he or she may do well to stop writing, and still make good money by making the rounds of interviews and speeches every year across the nation. Except for the particularly upright and industrious, few could resist the temptation of such sinecures and care that their literary career lies fallow.

A common point made by the test's critics is that a standardized exam on English and computer skills is an utterly irrelevant criterion for literary excellence.

One person would disagree. Wolfgang Kubin, a German sinologist, said years ago that Chinese writers' poor command of foreign languages limits their horizons and undermines the quality of their works. It would be nice if our writers were proficient in foreign languages but Kubin clearly goes too far.

We can point to Mo Yan, the first Chinese citizen to win the Nobel Prize in literature, who cannot perhaps say anything in English beyond daily greetings. The case of Mo Yan and other internationally translated and recognized Chinese writers suggests that the inclusion of English in qualification tests is a ludicrous and outmoded oddity that ought to be done away with.

The same can be said of computer skills, the other major component of the tests. When I was writing this article, I learned from colleagues that if we journalists wish to work our way up in the media business, we must also take the qualification test, which includes computer applications. Luckily, we at the English-language newspaper are exempt from the English test - which other aspiring Chinese journalists must take.

A survey by China Youth Daily in 2009 found that 76.5 percent of respondents said the qualification system does not reflect the capabilities of those it evaluates; another 74.2 percent pointed out that the test leads to rent-seeking, fraud and corruption.

Unearned comforts

What grounds justify a test that discriminates against those whose honest service is not rewarded accordingly, just because they lack the proper paperwork - whereas their slothful, inept yet certified coworkers are guaranteed unearned comforts?

Education pundit Xiong Bingqi said the right thing to do is not reform the system, but abolish it altogether.

This would be a meaningful step in overhauling China's talent management and review system.

The case is especially relevant for literary and artistic circles and societies like the writers' association. In spite of Mo Yan's crowning honor, there are few indications that the association's image will improve, especially not in the eyes of diehard detractors like Han Han, the outspoken blogger and author.

Han refuses to join the Chinese Writers' Association, the entity that he once joked he would dissolve as the first order of business if he were elected its chairman. Besides, as a high school dropout, there is a chance that he will not fare much better than Tie Liu in the qualification test should he care to take it.

Maybe we don't agree with everything he said about the writers' association, but that his vehemence is shared by other seasoned artists is persuasive that there is something wrong with quasi-official art societies and their management.

'Infertile hens'

Late master painter Wu Guanzhong (1919-2010) said in 2010, in the final days of his life, that many state-sanctioned art associations and academies were populated by numerous bureaucrats and "infertile hens" - meaning mediocre artists. Hence, he called for these organizations to be shuttered. Behind the plague of ne'er-do-well artists is a flawed system, under which Chinese contemporary art is even less developed than Africa's, he thundered.

At a time when Chinese contemporary art works are fetching record prices in auctions, Wu's blast has stripped off the veneer. Mind you, there is the same absurd qualification test for painters, in computer skills and ancient Chinese. That means in addition to toiling for years in obscurity, young artists also have to cram for two subjects unrelated to their occupation.

As the flawed system persists, and perhaps becomes more entrenched under the influence of vested interests, isn't it a tall order to expect it to nurture the next generation of masters like Wu? And if Wu - and Mo Yan, for that matter - were ordered to learn English, how much of their precious talent could have gone to waste?

Sweeping reforms of literary and art institutions are a long way off, but some of their silly anachronisms simply have overstayed their welcome, to say nothing of their usefulness.

The same is true of irrelevant qualification tests in other fields, requirements that inhibit talent and hold China back as an innovative and truly modernized nation of people, not just concrete and steel.