I recently watched several videos of Cheng Li-wun’s speeches and press conferences in Mainland China, especially her talks during her recent visit to Nanjing and Beijing. As a legal professional, I have a career-driven sensitivity toward the logical structure behind her way of speaking. This style of expression is vastly different from the soft, sweet “Taiwanese accent” we usually recognize.
It is hardcore, orderly, and even carries a rhythm akin to a courtroom closing argument. Every sentence lands like the strike of a gavel.
“Four-Character Stones” Crashing at the End of Sentences
In formal settings, the Taiwanese elite show an extreme preference for ending their sentences with four-character idioms (Chengyu) or phrases. More curiously, they adopt a method of word-by-word emphasis and sharp articulation for those final four characters.
For instance, on April 8, 2026, after paying respects at the Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum in Nanjing, Cheng Li-wun spoke about the current plight of commemorating Dr. Sun Yat-sen in Taiwan. She said through tears:
“In the Mainland, commemorating Dr. Sun Yat-sen is tian-jing-di-yi (right and proper), guang-ming-zheng-da (open and aboveboard); but in today’s Taiwan, commemorating Dr. Sun Yat-sen requires xiang-fang-she-fa (trying every means), xiao-xin-yi-yi (extreme caution), and duo-duo-cang-cang (hiding away).”
This articulation is like a rivet, driven firmly into the logical endpoint, creating a sense of undeniable conviction. Notably, Cheng Li-wun spoke very fast and with high emotion on-site, yet she suddenly slowed down only at the idioms, pushing out each word individually as if using her voice to place a definitive period on the sentence.
This immediately reminded me of the “hit song” Mei Chuxi (No Ambition) that went viral last year. It features Wang Shih-chien’s famous line: “It should have been cong-cong-rong-rong (calm and unhurried), you-ren-you-yu (handling it with ease), but now it is cong-cong-mang-mang (hurried and frantic), lian-gun-dai-pa (rolling and crawling).”
Even in the midst of a roaring interpellation, he never lets go of the heavy stress on those final four words. This segment was later remixed into a song that exploded on Douyin, and “handling it with ease” (you-ren-you-yu) even became a top internet buzzword of the year.
The charm of using idioms at the end of a sentence lies in this “classical-vernacular rupture.” One moment, it’s a street-shouting style emotional venting; the next, it suddenly switches to a formal classical rhythm, as if someone haggling at a wet market suddenly began reciting regulated poetry. In that moment of bewilderment, the audience is “checked” by his show of “culture.”
Even more interesting is that Taiwanese programs not only use traditional idioms frequently but have also spawned a subculture of “self-made idioms.”
They like to compress people’s names or events into a four-character format and pronounce them with word-by-word emphasis, doubling the satirical effect. For example, “Zhen-jin-bai-yin” (a pun on “real gold and silver,” mocking someone going back on their word, implying “what was said yesterday was in vain”), “Shi-fang-che-ling” (mocking nonsensical remarks), and “Guo-chang-jia-ku” (mocking faked crying). These self-made terms inherit the structure and rhythm of four-character phrases while being endowed with precise, immediate lethality—a contemporary mutation of the “idiom ending with emphasis” model.
Expressive Differences in the Sinosphere
Turning to everyday language in Mainland China, compared to Taiwan, the Mainland style is extremely pragmatic. This might be traced back to the New Culture Movement, which fundamentally deconstructed the “literary-vernacular unity” of aristocratic narrative, advocating for language as a tool for communication rather than a decoration for the literati.
After the founding of the People’s Republic of China, to adapt to the needs of large-scale social mobilization, language moved further toward being clear, direct, and powerful. Idioms began to play the role of “embellishment” rather than “structure.”
Nowadays, if someone occasionally drops a few idioms in daily conversation, they are inevitably praised by those around them for being “cultured.”
In regions outside the Mainland and Taiwan, idioms also play unique roles to varying degrees.
For instance, a few years ago, Li Ka-shing published the phrase “The melon of Huangtai cannot endure further picking” in newspapers. Most people were confused at first, but it was his way of cryptically expressing a certain view, using the solemnity of a classical allusion to carry a complex contemporary stance.
In South Korea, there is also a habit of using idioms. For example, some organizations publish a “Four-Character Idiom for the New Year” to summarize social aspirations or warnings. For instance, “Mian-li-si-yi” (thinking of righteousness in the face of profit) in 2023 to call for business ethics; “Tiao-liang-ba-hu” (acting willfully) in 2024 to mock Yoon Suk Yeol’s behavior; and “Bian-dong-bu-ju” (ever-changing) in 2025 to find certainty in a volatile era. These idioms are usually selected by professors and scholars and widely reported by the media. Their solemnity is no less than a small national policy declaration, serving as a social weather vane.
What are the Benefits of this “Word-by-Word Heavy Stress”?
Dissecting this practice of ending speeches with four-character idioms or phrases, I feel there are several benefits.
First, it easily creates an “Acoustic Focus.” When an exchange is intense, if the speaker needs physical means to forcibly wake the audience, this word-by-word emphasis is very effective. After all, Taiwanese Mandarin is typically fast, soft, and filled with modal particles like “la,” “wo,” “ei,” and “hou.” If an idiom suddenly slows down and gains weight, it undeniably creates a strong contrast. This “sense of contrast” triggers the audience’s attention and produces a psychological hint that “this is the final verdict.” From an acoustic perspective, the idiom becomes the information focus of the entire sentence, with triple enhancement of duration, pitch, and intensity—equivalent to drawing an exclamation point on the conclusion at the phonetic level.
Second, it is an extension of legal and debate culture. Many elite figures in Taiwan come from a legal background and have undergone rigorous trial training. In court, a closing statement must “land with a thud,” and the final point of every argument needs to be resonant. The four-character structure is one of the highest information-density structures in Chinese, possessing a natural sense of symmetry and closure. Word-by-word emphasis creates an undeniable sense of professional authority. When this courtroom technique is transplanted into TV programs and public speeches, it becomes the “idiom heavy stress” mode we hear. Wang Shih-chien’s “rolling and crawling” and Cheng Li-wun’s “right and proper” are essentially the same rhetorical logic applied to different scenarios.
Third, it preserves a “Sense of Ritual” in traditional culture. In Taiwan’s education system and daily writing, idioms remain a core part of language education. The quantity and precision of idioms one masters are often seen as a yardstick for cultural literacy. Therefore, using idioms at the end of a sentence with word-by-word emphasis in public is not just conveying information; it is completing a declaration of identity, signaling that one is well-educated and capable of carrying on cultural heritage. This tactic of establishing a moral high ground through classical narrative is particularly evocative in a society that values “cultivation.”
Traditional Decency and Traces of Performance
In all fairness, this Taiwanese practice is indeed beneficial for the preservation of Chinese culture. It allows the “resonant sound” of four-character idioms to remain active in a living social context rather than dying in dusty archives. In contrast, while we use “pragmatic” vernacular for efficient communication, we occasionally miss this persistence for linguistic form.
On the other hand, when every idiom is given such heavy stress, it can sometimes seem like the traces of performance are too heavy, and form might overshadow content. Especially with some “emphasis for the sake of emphasis” formulaic expressions, one inevitably feels a sense of affectation after hearing them often.
However, in an era of clamor, this effort to drive rivets into the linguistic foam is ultimately more decent than empty buzzwords. Cheng Li-wun uses it to pin down emotion, Wang Shih-chien uses it to pin down mockery, and we, within these heavy stresses, read a cultural resonance that transcends time and space.