Habermas loves Zhang Xue

Recently, Zhang Xue has become very popular. People love his straightforwardness, persistence, and fighting spirit. Some say that his entrepreneurial story is the best blueprint for the “Chinese Dream.” Among the most talked-about scenes is that he never holds back during media interviews. No matter what questions are asked, he always first responds with, “Are you speaking the truth or lying?” Then, whether the other person awkwardly laughs or clearly suggests “let’s keep face,” he will grin and tell what sounds like an unpleasant “truth.”

This state often makes people feel “inspired” because it’s a choice made with the confidence only a pure fighter can have. You can interpret “truth-telling” as sarcasm, as showing off, or as provocation. In any case, struggle and effort determine the final “winner,” embodying an era spirit that people yearn for.

But in my view, the meaning of “speaking the truth” is not just a spiritual venting. Since joining the investment industry, I am often asked: “The investor on stage, are they speaking the truth or lying?”

Interestingly, the questioners usually preset an answer with a simple logic: before revolutionary technological iterations, wealth is a zero-sum game—under this premise, investors have no reason to share their methodology. And there’s a saying, “Being misunderstood is the fate of the speaker.” Of course, investors can increase influence through expression, but venture capital is ultimately a business seeking returns. The business aims to minimize “unexpected” situations, and the “targets” of venture capital are already quite “vague”—under this premise, the cost-effectiveness of public expression is hard to calculate clearly.

See, the same proposition is “positive” when it comes to Zhang Xue, but becomes “negative” among venture capitalists. Why is that? This is a question I’ve been pondering recently. After thinking it over, I believe the answer might require an thought experiment. The story starts from a past event over ten years ago, involving the late philosopher Jürgen Habermas.

Around April 2010, Habermas briefly became a trending figure on social media. The cause was that earlier that year, someone registered a Twitter account in his name, discussing how his “public sphere” theory should be applied in the internet age. Besides the uninformed masses rushing in, it’s said that some university professors also believed it and even tried to send private messages. Twitter’s official response was slow for a long time, until Habermas himself, through friends in the media circle, issued a denial, and the account was briefly shut down.

According to friends, Habermas made a strong public response, saying, “It irritated me,” and I was truly angry.

(An interview screenshot of Habermas from the millennial era)

The whole process seemed harmless, but it was precisely this “denial” that pushed Habermas out of his scholarly retreat. Because a real situation at the time was that “impostor accounts” were common. Many celebrities, including Apple founder Steve Jobs, then-U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, and former Zimbabwean President Robert Mugabe, had experienced similar pranks. People instinctively thought that such a globally renowned professor should remain calm in the face of this. Moreover, the “impostors” didn’t do anything malicious: media reports said the impersonator was a young person studying political science at an American university, motivated purely by admiration for Habermas, hoping more people could understand his theories. With a huge idol halo, the “impostor account” didn’t even fabricate content; all posts before being shut down came from Habermas’s 2006 paper “Political Communication in Media Society: Does Democracy Still Have a Cognitive Dimension?”

This was an illogical “misstep.” As a result, esoteric theoretical research became a kind of popular science amid intense curiosity. Netizens quickly pieced together a “fact”:

Although some questioned the authenticity of the “impostor account,” most netizens were excited about “Habermas starting to use social media,” seeing it as a groundbreaking progress in philosophy. The “fake Habermas” also responded fittingly by tweeting about “the internet providing the foundation for public dialogue,” “the internet compensating for the asymmetry of discourse power in traditional media,” and “the internet giving people opportunities to discuss and weakening authority”—and Habermas himself was probably angered by this “two-way pursuit.”

Habermas has always emphasized the importance of the “public sphere,” believing that discussion within it and the resulting public opinion are “the result of collective, open reflection on the social order, an abstraction of the natural laws of social order,” capable of accurately conveying social needs. To realize this “public sphere” and reach “inter-subjective consensus,” propositions must have authenticity, legitimate actions and normative contexts must be correct, and the expression of subjective experience must be sincere. Only then can “speakers and listeners” start from their own life worlds, relate to the objective, social, and subjective worlds, and achieve mutual understanding.

Based on this premise, Habermas actually prefers to emphasize the negative side of the “internet.” For example, he believes that the reason the “public sphere” concept has repeatedly played a role in modern history is that, in traditional media times, public attention could focus on truly important issues with far-reaching impacts. In contrast, the internet generates a kind of “centrifugal force”—every day, thousands of “new discussion arenas” emerge, and such (closed and fragmented) communication spaces lack a “bond” that can bring everyone together, making it difficult to form a “collective force” that helps us see what is truly important.

Habermas’s public image also subtly changed afterward: before, he was praised as a “fossil of post-war thought,” the “most enlightened thinker of our time”; afterward, he gradually became associated with being pedantic and conservative. Especially as social networks became a natural part of more people’s lives, even the most academically respected “public sphere” theory was increasingly “disproved.” Critics argued that: this old scholar had an elitist oracle complex about citizen quality, yet failed to fully understand the real impact of media changes.

So, after Habermas’s death on March 14 this year, many obituaries focused on a very superficial level of “personal social” aspects, pointing out that his core value was in exploring “how to reason when the other party is unreasonable.” It couldn’t compare to the grandeur when Charlie Munger passed away last year.

Now, the thought experiment begins: suppose Habermas were still alive, how would he evaluate Zhang Xue, who became a phenomenon in March 2026?

( Zhang Xue in the documentary shot by Hunan TV in 2006 )

The answer might be obvious, because recent discussions about “Zhang Xue” and “Zhang Xue motorcycles” have long surpassed the sport itself—Habermas, in his book “The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere,” once sharply pointed out: “The world shaped by mass media is merely an illusion of the public sphere… The public sphere itself has become privatized in the consciousness of the public, whether it’s the incidental fate of ordinary people or the planned promotion of stars gaining publicness, the culture produced in the public sphere may wear a private guise”—the rapid rise of Zhang Xue motorcycles fully demonstrates how the internet amplifies this dilemma, which is worth criticizing.

But the question is, what exactly does Habermas oppose when discussing the “centrifugal force” of the internet? Returning to the impostor account incident and Habermas’s response, I think the answer might be these two words: “presence.”

The impersonator had no malicious intent; he was even helping to spread Habermas’s ideas. But the problem is: whose ideas are being spread? When Habermas himself is absent, others can speak for him, choose what content to spread, and shape an “internet-embracing” image for him. Even if the impersonator didn’t fabricate content, the choice of what to present, how to present it, and when to speak all constitute a form of representation of him. Habermas’s anger stemmed from his “absence” causing a “not-him” to appear in the public space.

The core of Habermas’s public sphere theory is that everyone must be “present.” Public discussion isn’t about a few representing the many, but about as many people as possible speaking for themselves. The three requirements—authenticity, correctness, and sincerity—presuppose that the speaker is present, responsible for their own words with their own identity. If someone is absent, then all discussions about him are constructed, not participatory.

Applying this to Zhang Xue motorcycles, it might look like this: in March 2026, Zhang Xue motorcycles wins the world super motorcycle championship and quickly becomes a viral sensation. Along with the hype, public interest shifts to discussions about R&D investments, technological routes of China’s motorcycle industry, and the path to break through in domestic manufacturing. The “value, charm, and dilemma” of the industry are systematically analyzed in a very short time.

Many interpret this process as “traffic” significance. But the reason this event turns from sports news into a public event isn’t because of the championship itself, but because of Zhang Xue’s sustained “presence” over the years. He is willing to explain his worldview publicly, without mystery, continuously speaking. When the victory is announced, the public finds there’s much to discuss behind this person: the boy who said “pursue your dreams” in front of the camera twenty years ago, the independent R&D route, the controversy over “banning novices from buying large-displacement motorcycles,” and legal support for rider rights. These aren’t things that can be generated out of thin air after a victory; they require someone to long-term, consistently put himself in the public eye, giving the public a chance to understand his ideas, choices, and values. He has always been “present,” so when the topic ignites, there’s content for public discussion.

And if Zhang Xue isn’t present? If he’s just a founder hiding behind a PR team, if his statements are all vetted official declarations, and the public has no way to understand him—then the victory remains at the level of “Chinese motorcycles won,” and gets swept away by the next wave of traffic. The industry can’t be analyzed, dilemmas can’t be discussed, and technological routes can’t be debated. Because the “presence” is missing, the public can’t dialogue with him, ask questions, or challenge his choices.

In the impostor account incident, Habermas was angry and refused to accept a “representative” of him. In Zhang Xue’s case, Zhang Xue chose to “be present” himself. Both point to the same principle: the formation of the public sphere depends on each person’s personal presence. It’s not about others speaking for you, nor about delegating the right to express to others, but about you stepping forward yourself, using your identity, and taking responsibility for your words.

The internet indeed provides everyone with tools to speak, but tools alone don’t make people “present.” A person can choose to be present or absent. They can choose to keep outputting or remain silent. They can choose sincere expression or PR talk. The quality of the public sphere depends on how many choose the former.

So, if there were a parallel universe, Habermas would surely like Zhang Xue, because he proves the value of “presence.” When a person continuously and sincerely appears in the public eye, their existence can become an anchor, focusing public attention and fostering truly in-depth discussion. And this kind of discussion, in turn, promotes the industry’s progress. The value, charm, and dilemmas of the motorcycle industry are systematically clarified, not because a media planned a special report, but because Zhang Xue’s “presence” provided content for these discussions.

Fifteen years after the impostor account incident, Habermas’s concern about “centrifugal force” still exists. But Zhang Xue’s case offers a response: when enough people choose to “be present,” to actively participate in public expression, and to face the public with sincerity, the scattered islands can connect. It’s not an automatic technological process, but a collective achievement of everyone choosing to be present.

This proposition applies equally to China’s venture capital industry. When we try to validate the “venture capital” industry—an industry that has been tested in vastly different business cultures—within our market, aiming to build a complete upstream-downstream path, a solid theoretical foundation, and the potential for scaled compound returns, and to undertake irreplaceable social roles, are we truly prepared to be “present”?

From April 22 to 24, 2026, in Haidian, Beijing, the 20th China Investment Annual Conference & Summit, hosted by China Venture Capital Association and China Venture, will officially kick off with these questions. We hope to analyze the underlying logic of K-shaped divergence, ask the truly important questions—what complexities have we overlooked in this K-shaped recovery? Where do disagreements originate? And what are the solutions?

Coinciding with the 20th anniversary of the China Venture Capital Association, the core agenda includes the “Ten Days of Reflection” major dialogues, “Summit Dialogues” for idea collisions, industry-specific sessions on M&A, exits, LP/GP relationships, early-stage investments, overseas investments, the “NOVA FORUM” for new-generation investors, and several hot industry sessions in “Industry China.” The in-depth interview series “Super Investors” will also launch simultaneously. During the summit, the “China Venture Capital List 2025” will be released, along with a special “20 Years of Chinese Venture Capital Influential Figures” list, honoring industry leaders over the past two decades.

The 20th is a milestone, but also a new beginning. We look forward to discussing together the way to break through in the K-shaped era.