Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Nanqiang beidiaoji

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Southern Tones, Northern Melodies (南腔北调集)

Lu Xun

Section 1

[Table of Contents and Preface - Southern Tones, Northern Melodies - see section 2 for the preface text]

Section 2

A year or two ago, there was a woman writer in Shanghai who constantly used other people as material for her so-called sketches. I was not spared either. Allegedly, I was extremely fond of giving speeches but stuttered when speaking, and as for my diction, it was southern tones, northern melodies. Indeed, I cannot speak the soft Suzhou dialect, nor produce the resounding tones of Beijing -- neither in tune nor in fashion, truly southern tones, northern melodies. Moreover, this deficiency has tended to spread into my writing as well.

Looking up and down, suddenly another year-end has arrived. I absent-mindedly pull out the manuscripts of the past two years, arrange them, and see that there are enough for a book. So I name it Southern Tones, Northern Melodies.

I think of Mr. Liang Shiqiu, whose lackey wrote that I resembled America's Mencken (H.L. Mencken), because I put out a book every year. If publishing one book a year makes one resemble Mencken, then eating in fine restaurants while being a professor can truly equal America's Babbitt.

As for larger matters: strange events assail us constantly, and we forget them just as fast. Publishing one book a year makes scholars shake their heads, yet there is only this one -- though shallow, it still preserves a few anecdotes.

The publications were Crossroads, Literary Monthly, Polaris, Les Contemporains, Voice of the Waves, Lunyu, Shenbao Monthly, Literature, and others.

On the night of December 31, 1933, recorded in my Shanghai study.

Section 3

【The Year 1932】

The year 1932 — a year in which the shadows of the Manchurian crisis still stretched long across China and the Kuomintang censorship threatened to suffocate every free thought. In this climate, Lu Xun reached for the sharpest weapon remaining to him: his pen.

Section 4

【"That Is of No Concern"】

New Year — and once again that phrase: "That is of no concern." Whenever the rulers find themselves in difficulty, whenever the people suffer, the pronouncement rings down from on high: "That is of no concern." Manchuria is lost? Of no concern. The students are protesting? Of no concern. The people are starving? Even less of concern. What is very much of concern, however, are their own sinecures, their own posts, their own power. For these things, the formula never applies. Thus the phrase reveals itself for what it is: not equanimity, but indifference to the fate of others — an indifference that only those who sit in warmth can afford.

Section 5

The first edition of the Shenbao (January 7th) informed us: It is heard that Chen (Foreign Minister Yin Youren) and Yoshizawa share a deep friendship. Diplomatic observers believe the Manchurian question may find a more favorable resolution through Chen's personal connections.

China's diplomatic circles are accustomed to the fact that everything depends on personal connections. Yet on the same day, the Shenbao also informed us: Jinzhou fell on the third, Lianshan and Suizhong followed; Japanese marines arrived at Shanhaiguan and hoisted the Japanese flag at the station.

And on the same day, Chen Youren's statement: Two days ago I ordered Zhang Xueliang to hold Jinzhou firmly. Even if, unfortunately, we should suffer defeat -- that is not a consideration.

Thus friendship and personal connections seem as ineffective as the League of Nations. Perhaps patriotic zealots will again petition. One should think about how things stand regarding personal connections with the Minister of the Interior -- otherwise someone will probably again accidentally fall into the water and drown.

(January 8th.)

Section 6

Preface to Lin Keduo's Travel Notes from the Soviet Union

It must have been about ten years ago when I went to a foreign hospital due to illness. In the waiting room I saw a caricature of the Russian October Revolution in a German weekly (Die Woche), depicting judges, teachers, even doctors and nurses with furrowed brows and pistols in hand. This was the first satirical cartoon about the October Revolution I ever saw.

Later I read travel accounts by various Westerners -- some said how good it was, others how bad. Eventually I reached my own conclusion: this revolution probably benefited the poor, so it must be bad for the rich.

We Chinese have a small fault: we do not like hearing about other countries' merits, especially the Soviet Union. The moment you mention it, you are accused of propaganda or of receiving rubles. The word propaganda has been thoroughly debased in China.

But this year I encountered two books I could read without suspicion: Mr. Hu Yuzhi's Moscow Impressions and this Travel Notes from the Soviet Union. The author writes as if chatting with friends -- no beautiful words, no clever techniques, just straightforward narration. What he saw and heard in the Soviet Union was quite ordinary: everything accorded with human nature, and life had simply become humane.

The author arrived in the Soviet Union ten years after the October Revolution, so he could only tell us of their endurance, diligence, courage and sacrifice. But the reader must not forget the bitter struggle required to achieve these results.

April 20, 1932, Lu Xun, recorded in his Shanghai-Zhabei residence.

Section 7

We Will No Longer Be Deceived

Imperialism is bound to attack the Soviet Union. The better the Soviet Union does, the more urgently they want to attack, for the closer they themselves approach extinction.

We have been deceived by imperialism and its lackeys for far too long. After the October Revolution, they always said the Soviet Union was growing poorer, was savage, was destroying culture. But what are the facts? Has the export of wheat and petroleum not astonished the world? Are the libraries and museums of Leningrad and Moscow not all intact?

Yet the rumormongers are utterly shameless and clever: the moment facts prove their words are lies, they disappear and are replaced by a new batch.

Imperialism and its lackeys still tell us how bad the Soviet Union is -- as if they wished it would turn into paradise overnight. They are disappointed. These are the tears of the evil spirit.

Imperialism and us -- in what respect do our interests not run precisely counter? Our abscesses are their treasures; then their enemies must naturally be our friends. We oppose the attack on the Soviet Union.

This is also our own way out!

(May 6th.)

Section 8

On the Third Kind of Person

For the past three years, debates about literature have been silent. Under the protection of the command sword, bearing the left-wing banner, people found literary freedom in Marxism and justification for killing Communists in Leninism -- hardly anyone could speak up. Yet literature for literature's sake was still free, since it bore no suspicion of receiving rubles. But the third kind of person -- those who cling to literature -- had a painful premonition: the left-wing literary world would call them running dogs of the bourgeoisie.

Mr. Su Wen represented this third kind of person in the magazine Les Contemporains. He believed left-wing critics constantly accused writers of being running dogs of the bourgeoisie. Since the so-called left-wing writers were left but did not write, and the third kind wanted to write but dared not, nothing remained on the literary stage.

I believe this premonition exists. But I consider Mr. Su Wen's view incorrect.

Naturally, since the left-wing literary world came into being, theorists have made mistakes. But this world continues to exist, developing, overcoming its weaknesses, and marching forward. Mr. Su Wen asked: Three years of overcoming and still not done? The answer: Yes, it will continue, perhaps for thirty years. But one overcomes and marches at the same time.

In truth, the reason for laying down the pen is not the harshness of left-wing criticism. The real reason is that one cannot be this third kind of person. To live in a class society and want to transcend class, to live in a time of struggle and want to leave the struggle -- this is a phantom of one's own mind that does not exist in the real world. It is like trying to pull oneself up by one's own hair.

In summary: Mr. Su Wen says the third kind should rather create honestly than deceive. This is entirely correct. One must have the courage of self-confidence to have the courage to work! But the third kind has allegedly laid down the pen because of the premonition of left-wing criticism. What is to be done?

(October 10th.)

Section 9

In Defense of Picture Stories

I once had a small experience. One day at a banquet I casually said: Using films to teach students would surely be better than teachers' lectures. Before I could finish, my words were buried in a burst of laughter.

In the magazine Les Contemporains, I read an article by Mr. Su Wen that dismissed picture stories with a stroke of the pen. But for young art students, this may be an important question.

We are accustomed to seeing no picture stories in art history books, and in exhibitions only Roman Sunset or Evening Cool at West Lake. So we consider them low-class. But if you enter the Papal Palace in Italy, you will see that nearly all the great murals are picture stories from the Old Testament, the Life of Jesus, and the Lives of the Saints. Art historians cut out a section, print it in a book, and title it The Creation of Adam or The Last Supper -- and suddenly it no longer seems low-class.

The same applies in the East: the murals of India's Ajanta Caves, the images of Confucius' life -- these are all picture stories and propaganda.

The most notable example is France's Gustave Dore, the famous illustrator of the Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost, and Don Quixote. Who would say Dore was not an artist?

First must be mentioned Germany's Kaethe Kollwitz, with her series Peasants' War, War, and Proletariat. Then Belgium's Frans Masereel with The Idea, My Book of Hours, Story Without Words, and others. All this proves: picture stories can not only become art, they already sit inside the palace of art.

I do not urge young art students to scorn large oil paintings, but I hope they will equally value picture stories and book illustrations. The masses want to see them, the masses are grateful!

(October 25th.)

Section 10

Insults and Intimidation Are Never Combat -- A Letter to the Editor of Literary Monthly

Dear Brother Qi Ying,

The day before yesterday I received the fourth issue of Literary Monthly. What I find lacking is not that it is less varied than other magazines, but that it is still not more substantial than before. However, introducing several new writers this time is excellent.

Yet a poem by Mr. Yun Sheng has greatly disappointed me. This poem was clearly written after reading a satirical poem by Bedny in the previous issue. Bedny's poem, though admittedly malicious, at its strongest is still merely mocking reproach. But this poem? It contains insults, intimidation, and pointless attacks.

Particularly appalling is the abuse at the end. In some works, completely unnecessary profanity is inserted into dialogue, as if a work is only proletarian if it contains enough cursing. In fact, good workers and peasants rarely swear like this. Authors should not paint them with the behavior of Shanghai ruffians.

Then come threats like slicing watermelons. I believe the proletarian revolution is for self-liberation and the abolition of classes, not for killing. A poet cannot use his pen to judge life and death.

Naturally, the Chinese literary stage has always been full of slander, rumor, intimidation, and abuse. But we should leave this inheritance to the lapdog literati. A fighting author should focus on argumentation. Abuse must stop where it becomes satire and must be good literature -- so that the enemy is thereby wounded or killed, without the author acting basely.

I very much hope that such works will no longer appear in Literary Monthly.

Lu Xun. December 10th.

Section 11

Preface to the Self-Selected Collection

I have written very few books, and they hardly warranted a selection. But what has come out consists entirely of reactions to the circumstances of the time -- texts that would not have been written without their particular situations. From the early years of the Republic, I wrote nothing for a long time and merely watched. It was not silence from deep insight, but silence from deep disappointment. Later I felt the years passing and found that while the literature of the old world moved me, it did not change my own situation.

The magazine New Youth finally brought me to write. My first work was A Madman's Diary, and from then on I did not stop. When people ask what drove me, it was probably a mixture of anger, pity, and the wish to encourage the young.

1932, in my Shanghai residence.

Section 12

【Preface to "Letters Between Two Places"】

This book was compiled in the following manner.

On August 5, 1932, I received a letter signed by Jiye, Jingnong, and Congwu, informing me that Shuyuan had succumbed to illness at five-thirty in the morning on August 1 at the Tongren Hospital in Beiping. Our friends wished to collect his surviving writings and publish a memorial volume; they asked whether I still had any of his letters in my keeping. This truly made my heart clench. For, firstly, I had been hoping he would recover, even though I knew it was probably not to be; and secondly, though I knew he was unlikely to improve, I had at times simply not thought about it — and perhaps had already destroyed all his letters, those letters he had written character by character, propped up on his pillow.

My habit with ordinary correspondence was to destroy letters immediately after replying, but if they contained arguments or stories, I would often keep them. Only in the past three years had I carried out two large burnings.

Five years earlier, during the Kuomintang's party purge, I was in Canton and constantly heard how the arrest of A would lead to the discovery of B's letter in A's possession, whereupon B was arrested, and from B's home C's letter was found, so C too was taken — all vanishing without trace. I had known of the old practice of the "melon-vine search," in which suspects were pursued in chains, but had always assumed it belonged to the past — until the facts taught me better and I clearly understood that being a person of the present is just as difficult as being one of antiquity. Yet I remained careless and negligent until 1930, when I signed the declaration of the Freedom League and the Zhejiang provincial party bureau petitioned the central committee for the arrest of the "degenerate man of letters Lu Xun and associates." Before fleeing my home, a sudden impulse seized me and I burned all my friends' letters. Not to destroy traces of "plotting subversion," but because it would be senseless to endanger others through mere correspondence — especially since everyone in China knows how terrible it is to have any brush with the authorities. After escaping that danger and moving house, letters accumulated again, and I grew careless once more. Then in January 1931, Roushi was arrested, and in his pocket they found things bearing my name — so I heard they were looking for me too. Naturally I had no choice but to flee again, but this time the impulse came even more clearly: of course I burned every last letter first.

Because this had happened twice, I worried when the letter from Beiping arrived — feared there was probably nothing left. But I ransacked every trunk and chest anyway, and indeed found not a trace. Not a single friend's letter remained; our own letters, however, turned up. Not because I regarded my own things as especially precious, but because at the time there had been little time, and one's own letters at worst would only implicate oneself — so I had left them. Afterward these letters lay in the crossfire of artillery for twenty or thirty days and suffered not a bit of damage. That some are missing is probably because I was careless at the time and lost them early on, not because of official calamity or the ravages of war.

If a person goes through life without encountering misfortune, no one gives him a second glance; but if he has been to prison or to the battlefield, then even if he is utterly ordinary, people always regard him as somehow special. So it was with these letters. Before, we had let them lie carelessly at the bottom of a trunk, but now, at the thought that they had nearly survived a lawsuit and shelling, they suddenly seemed somehow special, somehow endearing. On a mosquito-plagued summer night when one could not write in peace, we arranged them roughly by date, divided them by location into three volumes, and gave the whole the title "Letters Between Two Places."

This is to say: this book, for ourselves, holds a certain interest for the time being, but for others it does not. It contains neither passionate avowals of love and death nor fine phrases about flowers and moonlight; as for the style, neither of us ever studied "Gems of Epistolary Art" or "How to Write Letters" — we simply wrote as the pen moved, grossly violating literary convention, most of it deserving admission to a "hospital for ailing prose." The subjects are nothing beyond school upheavals, personal circumstances, whether the food is good or bad, whether the weather is overcast or fair — and the worst part is that we were living under an endless curtain where light and dark could not be distinguished. Speaking of our own affairs was harmless enough, but whenever we ventured to speculate on the great events of the world, we inevitably muddled things, so that all the jubilant passages, seen from the present, have mostly turned into the babbling of dreams. If one insists on paying this book the compliment of having a distinguishing feature, then I think it is probably its ordinariness. Such ordinary things other people probably do not possess, and even if they did, they would hardly preserve them — but we did, and this alone must be acknowledged as a sort of distinction.

Yet, strangely enough, a publisher was found willing to print this book. Print it? By all means — one can take that with equanimity. But since it must now face the reader, I must add two clarifications to prevent misunderstanding. First: I am currently a member of the League of Left-Wing Writers. Judging by recent book advertisements, it seems that once a writer turns left, his earlier works also soar upward, and even his infant cries qualify as revolutionary literature — but our book is not like that; it contains no revolutionary spirit. Second: one often hears it said that letters are the most unguarded, most candid kind of writing. But that is not true of me either — no matter to whom I write, at first I am always perfunctory and hypocritical; even in this book, at the more delicate passages, I later often wrote deliberately vaguely, because we lived in a country where "the local authorities," the post office, the school principal... could inspect letters at will. But naturally, there are also not a few plain words.

One more point: I have changed a few names in the letters, for reasons both good and bad, which differ. Nothing more — sometimes for fear that others might be inconvenienced by appearing in our letters, sometimes simply for my own sake, to avoid another round of tiresome business like "awaiting trial."

Looking back on the past six or seven years, there were indeed no few storms swirling around us. In the unceasing struggle, there were those who helped, those who threw stones, those who mocked and slandered — but we clenched our teeth and struggled through six or seven years of life. In that time, the covert slanderers gradually sank into even darker places of their own, and two of our well-meaning friends are already no longer among the living: Shuyuan and Roushi. We dedicate this book to our own remembrance, in gratitude to our well-meaning friends, and bequeath it to our child, that the child may someday know the true circumstances of what we experienced — which were, in reality, roughly as described herein.

December 16, 1932. Lu Xun.

Section 13

祝中俄文字之交

【祝中俄文字之交】

 十五年前，被西欧的所谓文明国人看作半开化的俄国，那文学，在世界文坛上，是胜利的；十五年以来，被帝国主义者看作恶魔的苏联，那文学，在世界文坛上，是胜利的。这里的所谓“胜利”，是说：以它的内容和技术的杰出，而得到广大的读者，并且给与了读者许多有益的东西。

 它在中国，也没有出于这例子之外。

 我们曾在梁启超所办的《时务报》上，看见了《福尔摩斯包探案》的变幻，又在《新小说》上，看见了焦士威奴（Jules Verne）所做的号称科学小说的《海底旅行》之类的新奇。后来林琴南大译英国哈葛德（H. Rider Haggard）的小说了，我们又看见了伦敦小姐之缠绵和菲洲野蛮之古怪。至于俄国文学，却一点不知道，──但有几位也许自己心里明白，而没有告诉我们的“先觉”先生，自然是例外。不过在别一方面，是已经有了感应的。那时较为革命的青年，谁不知道俄国青年是革命的，暗杀的好手？尤其忘不掉的是苏菲亚，虽然大半也因为她是一位漂亮的姑娘。现在的国货的作品中，还常有“苏菲”一类的名字，那渊源就在此。

 那时──十九世纪末──的俄国文学，尤其是陀思妥夫斯基和托尔斯泰的作品，

[Original text: 2410 characters, work: nanqiang_beidiaoji, section 13]

Section 14

【The Year 1933】

The year 1933 — while in Germany the National Socialists seized power and Europe stared into the abyss, China sank ever deeper into its own crisis. Japanese aggression gnawed through Manchuria, the Kuomintang intensified its repression, and Lu Xun, ostracized yet unconquerable, continued to write — more incisive, more bitter, more clear-sighted than ever.

Section 15

【On Hearing about Dreams】

Dreaming is free; talking about dreams is not. Dreaming — one dreams true dreams; talking about dreams — one can hardly avoid lying.

On the very first day of the new year, I already received a copy of Eastern Miscellany, the special New Year's issue. Toward the end was a section on "New Year's Dreams," which asked about "the China of your dreams" and "your personal life"; over a hundred and forty people had responded. The editor's painstaking intentions were clear to me: since free speech was impossible, he must have thought it better to let people tell their dreams, and rather than hear the supposed truth, to hear the truthfulness of dream-talk. I leafed through it with pleasure and realized the editor had suffered a magnificent defeat.

Before I had even received this special issue, I ran into one of the contributors, who had seen the printed version before me. He told me his answer had been altered and censored by the capitalists — his actual dream had not been like that at all. This shows: although the capitalists cannot yet prohibit people from dreaming, once a dream is spoken aloud, they will interfere if it is within their power, and will by no means grant you freedom. This alone was a great defeat for the editor.

But let us set aside the case of falsified dreams and look only at the dreamscapes as written. As the editor noted, the respondents were almost entirely intellectuals. First of all, everyone felt that life was insecure; secondly, many dreamed of a better future society — "From each according to his ability!" "A world of Great Harmony!" — with a considerable whiff of "transgression" (these last three phrases are my own addition; the editor did not say them).

But then he fell into a kind of "naivety": he had picked up some theory from somewhere and divided the hundred-odd dreams into two great categories, declaring that those dreams of a better society were dreams that "served the Way" — "heresy" — while the orthodox dream should "express the will." He forcibly turned "the will" into something hollow and empty. Yet when Confucius said, "Why not each speak of your aspirations?" and in the end approved of Zengdian, it was precisely because Zengdian's "aspiration" accorded with the "Way" of Confucius.

In truth, the dreams the editor considered as "serving the Way" were rather few in number. The texts were written in a waking state, and the questions resembled a "psychological test," which meant the respondents could not help but produce dreams suited to their present occupation, station, and status (those already censored excepted); even if they appeared to "serve the Way," there was no intention of "propaganda" for a better future society. True, some dreamed of "everyone having food to eat," some of a "classless society," some of a "world of Great Harmony" — but few dreamed of the class struggle before the building of such a society, of the White Terror, of bombings, massacres, pepper-water forced into nostrils, electric torture... If one does not dream of these things, the better society will not come; however brightly one writes, in the end it remains a dream, an empty dream, and to speak it aloud merely leads everyone into this empty dreamscape.

Yet there are people who wish to realize this "dream" — they do not talk, they act, dreaming of the future while devoting themselves to the present that leads to that future. Because this fact exists, many intellectuals cannot help but utter dreams that sound like "serving the Way," but which in truth do not "serve the Way" — rather, they are "carried by the Way"; to put it concisely, one should say they are "Way-carried."

Why are they "Way-carried"? The answer is: for the present and future problem of eating, nothing more.

We are still bound by old ways of thinking — the moment one mentions eating, one feels close to vulgarity. But I have not the slightest intention of looking down on the respondents. The editor of Eastern Miscellany, in his "afterthoughts," cited Freud's view that the "orthodox" dream "reveals the secret wishes of the heart without social function." But Freud saw repression as the root of dreams — and why is a person repressed? This is connected to social institutions, customs, and the like. Dreaming alone is harmless; but as soon as one speaks of it, questions it, analyzes it, things become awkward. The editor did not think of this — and ran straight into the capitalists' red pencil. But applying the "repression theory" to the interpretation of dreams is, I think, something no one should any longer take offense at.

However, Freud presumably had a few coins in his pocket and a full belly, which is why he did not feel the difficulty of eating and attended only to the sexual drive. Many people found themselves in the same circumstances and therefore burst into enthusiastic applause. To be sure, he also taught us that daughters tend to love their fathers more and sons their mothers — precisely because of the opposite sex. But a newborn infant, boy or girl, soon purses its lips and turns its head this way and that. Does it want to kiss the opposite sex? No — everyone knows: it wants to eat!

The root of the hunger drive lies, in truth, even deeper than that of the sexual drive. In a time when people openly speak of "lovers" and "love letters" without finding it embarrassing, we too need not be shy about speaking of eating. Because these are waking dreams, they inevitably contain something untrue; because the topic is after all "dream wishes," and because, as the editor says, "our material needs far exceed our spiritual pursuits," we seize the moment when the surveillance of the Censors (also borrowing Freud's term) seems to have been lifted, and reveal a portion. It is, in fact, also a case of "posting slogans and shouting slogans in dreams," only not in an active way — and some of it may even contradict the "slogans" on the surface.

The times change so, the rice bowl is so precarious — thinking of the present and the future, some people can only dream in this fashion. As fellow members of the petty bourgeoisie (though some have designated me a "feudal remnant" or "native bourgeois," I provisionally classify myself as belonging to this class), we can understand each other tacitly — but there is no need to keep it secret.

As for those who dream of being hermits, fishermen, or woodcutters, dreams completely at odds with their true selves — they too merely sense in advance the fragility of the rice bowl, and wish to expand the domain of eating, from the court to the garden, from the trading port to the mountains and marshes. Their ambitions extend far beyond those mentioned above, but I will not dwell on that here.

(January 1.)

Section 16

【On "Rushing to Danger" and "Fleeing from Danger"】

— A letter to the editor of "Taosheng"

Dear Editor,

I regularly read Taosheng and often exclaim "Bravo!" But this time, when I saw Mr. Zhou Muzhai's article "On Cursing Others and Cursing Oneself," in which he reproaches the university students in Beiping for not having, "if they could not rush to danger, at the very least refrained from fleeing from it," and laments the extinction of the militant spirit of the May Fourth era — I felt as though a fishbone were stuck in my throat and could not help but say a few words. For my view is the exact opposite of Mr. Zhou's: if one cannot rush to danger, one should flee from it — I belong to the "party of flight."

Mr. Zhou "suspects" at the end of his article that "this may be the fulfillment of renaming Beijing as Beiping." I think he is half right. The Beijing of those days still wore the mask of the "Republic," and students could make noise without serious consequences; the ruler at the time was Duan Qirui, for whom eighteen Shanghai organizations had just the day before held a "Grand Welcome" — he was indeed a military man, but he had not yet read Mussolini's biography. But then — look — it came: on one occasion they simply opened fire on the petitioning students, and the soldiers liked best to aim at female students — which is quite explicable by psychoanalysis — especially those with bobbed hair, which in turn is explicable by the theory of moral rectitude. In short, some "earnest students" died. Yet one could still hold memorial services; one could still march past the government and shout "Down with Duan Qirui!" Why? Because the mask of the "Republic" still hung in place. But then — look — it came again: Professor Chen Yuan, now a grand professor of the Party-State, mourned the dead students in the Modern Review, saying they had regrettably given their lives for a few rubles; when Yusi raised a few objections, Tang Youren, now an important figure of the Party-State, published a letter in the Jingbao saying these words and deeds were carried out on orders from Moscow. This already had the flavor of Beiping.

Later the Northern Expedition succeeded, Beijing became part of the Party-State, and the students entered the era of the research room — the May Fourth style was over. Why? Because it could easily be "exploited by the reactionaries." To correct this bad habit, our government, military, scholars, literary grandees, police, and detectives truly spared no effort. Through edicts, through sword and gun, through newspapers and books, through drilling, through arrest, through interrogation — until last year, when the petitioners who died all "slipped and fell into the water of their own accord," without even a memorial service being held — only then did the effects of the new education become apparent.

If the Japanese do not attack Shanhaiguan any further, I think the land would be at peace — "first pacify the interior, then resist the exterior." But unfortunately the external threat comes a bit too quickly, a bit too frequently — because the Japanese simply refuse to be considerate of Chinese dignitaries — and this has also given rise to Mr. Zhou's reproaches.

According to Mr. Zhou's view, the best thing would be to "rush to danger." But this is difficult. If there had been prior organization and training, and after hard fighting on the front lines the commanders called for reinforcements due to manpower shortage, then naturally one should go. But according to last year's facts, one could not even ride the train for free, and what one had studied was the law of obligations, Turkish literary history, the least common multiple, and the like. To fight Japan — one would certainly lose. The university students had already fought with Chinese soldiers and police, but they "slipped and fell into the water of their own accord." If even the Chinese soldiers and police offer no resistance, can the students? We have indeed seen many stirring poems — about plugging enemy cannons with corpses, about gluing Japanese swords with hot blood — but, sir, that is "poetry"! Reality is otherwise: one dies more insignificantly than an ant, plugs no cannon and glues no sword. Confucius said: "To send an untrained people into war is to abandon them." I do not worship Confucius in all things, but I think these words are right. I too am one who opposes students' "rushing to danger."

Then what about "not fleeing"? I am equally and firmly opposed. Certainly, at present "the enemy has not arrived," but if he does — will the students stand with bare hands, curse the enemy, and die? Or will they hide in their rooms hoping to be spared? The former, I think, would be more impressive, and might produce a book of martyrs for posterity. Yet it would still not help the larger cause; whether one or a hundred thousand, at most one could file another report with the "League of Nations." Last year, the heroism of certain heroes of the 19th Route Army in fighting the enemy was described with great relish, causing people to forget the major fact that the entire front had retreated a hundred li — but China had in truth lost. And the students do not even have weapons. Now Chinese newspapers are printing extensive reports of the tyranny of "Manchukuo" — the prohibition of private arms. But let a citizen of the great Republic of China try keeping a weapon for self-defense, and his entire family would be ruined — sir, this can "easily be exploited by the reactionaries."

Give an education after the manner of lions and tigers, and they can use claws and teeth; give an education after the manner of cattle and sheep, and in extremity they can at least use their poor pair of horns. But what manner of education have we given? Not even a little horn is permitted — and when the great calamity comes, there is nothing to do but flee like a rabbit. Naturally, even flight is not necessarily safe — no one can name a safe place, for hunting dogs have multiplied everywhere. The Book of Songs says: "The nimble hare darts and darts — but the dog catches it still." And so, of the thirty-six stratagems, the legs remain the best.

In short, my view is this: we must not overestimate the university students, nor must we blame them too severely. China cannot rely solely on its students; but after fleeing, students should think about how henceforth to avoid mere flight — step out of poetry and onto solid ground.

But I do not know your view, sir. Could you publish this in Taosheng as one perspective for consideration? I await your decision and send you

my best wishes.

Luo Wu, with a bow.

The night of January 28.

Postscript: I have just heard that about ten days ago, more than fifty students in Beiping were arrested for holding a meeting. This shows there are still those who have not fled — but the charge is "using resistance against Japan as a pretext for subversive intentions." This too demonstrates: even when "the enemy has not arrived," there is much to be said for "flight."

Addendum of January 29.

Section 17

【Students and the Jade Buddha】

On January 28, an extra edition of the Shenbao carried a telegram from Beiping dated the 27th: "The Palace Museum antiquities are to be shipped immediately; the Beiping-Liaoning and Beiping-Hankou railways have received orders to prepare wagons. The white jade Buddha from the Round Fortress is also to be transported south."

On the 29th, another extra edition carried a telegram from the Central News Agency dated the 28th, relaying a directive from the Ministry of Education to the universities in Beiping, which read approximately: "According to newspaper reports, during the critical situation at Shanhaiguan Pass, students at Beiping universities have in numerous cases fled examinations or begun their vacations early; upon investigation, these reports have proven accurate. University students are the backbone of the nation — how can they be permitted to alarm themselves without cause and undermine school regulations! That the university authorities have made no report borders on connivance and is equally reprehensible. The schools in question are hereby directed to submit detailed reports on examination flight and premature vacations without delay, and to report the date of the commencement of lectures next semester."

On the 30th, the "degenerate man of letters" Mr. Zhou Dongxuan read this and, sighing, composed a poem:

Deserted stands the empty city, in haste they ship the antiques away. The bosses up above talk big, while the rank and file must be "the backbone." How dare you call the alarm unfounded? The fleeing ones deserve but pity — Alas that we are no jade Buddhas: not worth a single cent.

Section 18

【In Memory of Forgetting】

I

I had long wanted to write a few words to commemorate several young writers. Not for any special reason — only because for two years now, bitterness and indignation have assailed my heart from time to time, and have not ceased to this day. I want, as it were, to give myself a shake and cast off the grief, to lighten my own burden a little — to speak plainly, I want to be able to forget them at last.

Two years ago at this time, on the night of February 7 or the morning of February 8, 1931, five of our young writers were killed simultaneously. At the time, no Shanghai newspaper dared report the matter — or perhaps did not wish to, or considered it beneath its dignity; only in Wenyi Xinwen was there a vaguely worded article. In the eleventh issue (May 25), there was a piece by Mr. Lin Mang entitled "Impressions of Bai Mang," which said:

"He wrote quite a number of poems and also translated several poems by the Hungarian poet Petöfi. Lu Xun, the editor of Benliu at the time, received his submission and wrote asking to meet him, but he was the sort of person who did not wish to see famous people. In the end it was Lu Xun himself who came to find him, and who vigorously encouraged him to pursue literary work, but in the end he could not sit in his garret and write, and went off on his road again. Before long, he was arrested once more..."

The account of our dealings given here is not quite accurate. Bai Mang was by no means so haughty — he had in fact visited my home; but neither had he come because I demanded to see him. I too was not so haughty as to write rashly to a complete stranger who had sent in a contribution, summoning him to visit. The reason for our meeting was quite ordinary: what he had submitted was a "Biography of Petöfi" translated from German, and I wrote to request the original text. The original was printed as a preface to the poetry collection, and since it would have been inconvenient to mail, he brought it himself. He appeared to be a young man in his twenties, with regular features and a dark complexion. I have forgotten our conversation at the time; I only remember that he said his surname was Xu, that he was from Xiangshan; I asked him why the lady who received his mail had such an odd name (how odd, I have also forgotten), and he said she simply liked to give herself strange names — romantic, you know — and that he himself was not getting along so well with her anymore. That is all that remains.

That evening, I compared the translation roughly with the original and found that besides several mistranslations, there was one deliberate distortion. He seemed not to like the phrase "national poet" and had changed every instance to "people's poet." The next day I received another letter from him, saying he very much regretted having met me — he had talked too much, I too little, and I had been cold, as though he had felt some kind of pressure. I wrote a reply explaining that saying little upon a first meeting was quite natural, and told him he should not alter the original according to his own preferences. Since his book had remained with me, I sent him two volumes from my collection and asked whether he could translate a few more poems for readers' reference. He did indeed translate several and brought them himself, and we talked somewhat more than the

Section 19

first time. This biography and the poems were subsequently published in the second volume, fifth issue of Benliu — which was also the last issue.

Our third meeting — I remember it was on a hot day — someone knocked at the door. When I opened it, there stood Bai Mang, but wearing a thick padded robe, his face streaming with sweat — we both could not help laughing. Only then did he tell me he was a revolutionary, just released from detention; all his clothes and books had been confiscated, including the two volumes I had given him. The robe he was wearing had been borrowed from a friend — he had no lined jacket but had to wear long garments, and so he simply sweated. I suppose this was the arrest that Mr. Lin Mang referred to as his being "arrested once more."

I was very glad of his release and hurriedly paid him his fee so he could buy a lined jacket; but at the same time I grieved deeply for my two books: fallen into the hands of the police — it was like casting pearls into darkness! The two books were quite ordinary — one volume of prose and one of poetry. According to the German translator, he had assembled them, and even in Hungary itself there was no edition so complete; but since they were printed in Reclam's Universal-Bibliothek, they could be obtained anywhere in Germany and cost less than one mark. For me, however, they were a treasure, because thirty years before, precisely when I was passionately devoted to Petöfi, I had specially ordered them from Germany through the Maruzen bookshop — at the time I was still afraid the clerk would refuse to bother with such a cheap order and spoke with great trepidation. Later I mostly kept them on my person, but as circumstances changed, the enthusiasm faded, and I no longer thought of translating. This time I resolved to give them to this young man who loved Petöfi's poetry as passionately as I had then — I wanted to find a good home for them. Therefore I solemnly entrusted them to Roushi to deliver in person. Who would have thought they would fall into the hands of "three-stripe" police and the like — was that not a bitter injustice!

II

That I as a rule avoided meeting contributors was not entirely due to modesty; a good measure of convenience played a part. From long experience I knew that young people, especially literary young people, are in nine cases out of ten extremely sensitive and extremely proud — one moment of carelessness and you are easily misunderstood; so I often deliberately avoided them. I was afraid even to meet them; still less did I dare entrust anyone with errands. But at that time I had in Shanghai one person — the only one — with whom I not only dared to chat freely but whom I even dared to ask to handle small personal matters, and that was Roushi, who delivered the books to Bai Mang.

When and where I first met Roushi, I no longer know. He seems to have mentioned that he had attended my lectures in Peking — which would place it eight or nine years before. Nor do I remember how we began to see each other in Shanghai; in any case, he was then living in Jingyun Lane, only four or five doors from my lodging, and somehow we began to visit each other. Probably at the very first meeting he told me his surname was Zhao and his given name Pingfu. But he once also spoke of the arrogance of the local gentry in his hometown: a certain gentleman had found his name agreeable and wanted to use it for his own son, ordering him to stop using it. So I suspect his original name was "Pingfu" — "peaceful and blessed" — which would have been exactly to the gentry's taste, whereas the character "fu" meaning "restore" would hardly have excited such enthusiasm. His home was Ninghai in the Taizhou district — you could tell at a glance from his Taizhou-style stubbornness; and he was also somewhat pedantic, so that sometimes he made me think of Fang Xiaoru — I felt there was something of the same look about him.

He hid in his lodging and occupied himself with literature — creating and translating. After many days of association we grew closer, and so we arranged with several like-minded young people to establish the Zhaohua Society. Its aim was to introduce the literature of Eastern and Northern Europe and to import foreign woodcuts, for we all believed that one should nurture a robust, plain-spoken literature and art. Then we printed the Zhaohua Fortnightly, the Collection of Modern World Short Stories, the Morning Flowers in the Garden of Art — all following this line; only one volume among them, a selection of drawings by Tsuguharu, had been printed to expose the "artists" of the Shanghai market, specifically to puncture the paper tiger Ye Lingfeng.

But Roushi himself had no money; he borrowed over two hundred yuan for printing costs. Apart from buying paper, he did most of the manuscript work and errands himself — running to the printer, preparing illustrations, proofreading, and the like. Yet things often went wrong, and when he spoke of them, he furrowed his brow. Looking at his earlier works, they are quite pessimistic in tone; but in reality he was not so at all — he believed people were good. When I sometimes spoke of how people deceive each other, betray their friends, suck blood, his forehead would gleam moistly, and he would open his nearsighted eyes wide in surprise and disbelief, protesting: "Can it really be so? — Surely it hasn't come to that?..."

But the Zhaohua Society soon went under. I do not wish to explain the reasons; suffice it to say that Roushi's idealistic head struck a great nail. His effort had been in vain — and on top of that he had to borrow another hundred yuan to pay the paper bill. After that, his skepticism toward my thesis of "the perilousness of the human heart" diminished, and sometimes he sighed: "Can it really be so?..." But he still believed people were good.

Thereupon, on one hand he tried to send the remaining Zhaohua Society books to the Mingri and Guanghua bookstores, hoping to recover a few coins, and on the other hand he threw himself frantically into translating to pay off his debts — these were the Danish Short Story Collection sold to the Commercial Press and Gorky's long novel The Artamonov Business. But I suspect these manuscripts were burned in the fighting last year.

His pedantry gradually began to change; in the end he even dared to walk on the street with female compatriots or friends — but the distance was always at least three or four feet. This method was not good: sometimes when I met him on the street, if there was a young and pretty woman three or four feet in front of or beside him, I would suspect she was his friend. But when he walked with me, he came close — practically holding me up, for fear I would be hit by a car or streetcar. I in turn worried about his nearsightedness and his inability to look after others at the same time — we were both flustered and anxious the entire way, so unless it was absolutely necessary, I did not like to go out with him. It was painful to watch him struggle, and so I struggled too.

Whether by old morality or new — as long as something was to his own detriment but to others' benefit, he would select it and shoulder it himself.

At last he changed decisively. Once he told me plainly that henceforth he must transform the content and form of his works. I said: That will be difficult, I fear — suppose a man who is used to the knife is now asked to wield a cudgel, how can he manage? He answered concisely: One simply has to learn!

He was not speaking empty words — he truly began learning anew. Around that time he once brought a friend to visit me — that was Miss Feng Keng. After several days of conversation, I remained quite distant from her. I suspected she was somewhat romantic, too eager for results; I also suspected that Roushi's recent desire to write large-scale novels originated from her influence. But then I suspected myself — perhaps Roushi's earlier decisive "One simply has to learn!" had struck the sore spot of what was really my own laziness, and so I had unconsciously transferred my irritation to her. — In truth, I was no better than the nervous, proud literary youths whom I feared to meet.

Her constitution was frail, and she was not beautiful either.

III

It was only after the founding of the League of Left-Wing Writers that I learned the Bai Mang I knew was the poet Yin Fu who published in Tuohuangzhe. At a large meeting I wanted to bring him a German book — a Chinese travelogue by an American journalist — with no deeper meaning, simply thinking he could practice his German with it. But he did not come. So I had to entrust it to Roushi again.

But before long, they were both arrested together, and my book was once again confiscated, falling into the hands of "three-stripe" people and the like.

Section 20

The first read as follows:

"I and thirty-five fellow prisoners (seven women) arrived at Longhua yesterday. And last night we were put in fetters — setting a new precedent, as political prisoners have never before been shackled. This case has implicated too many people; I am afraid I will not be able to get out of prison for some time. Please handle the bookstore affairs on my behalf. Things are actually fine now; I am learning German with Brother Yin Fu. Please convey this to Mr. Zhou; I hope Mr. Zhou will not worry — we have not been tortured. The police and the Public Security Bureau have asked several times for Mr. Zhou's address, but how would I know? Please do not worry about us. Best wishes!

Zhao Shaoxiong, January 24."

The above was the front.

"Tin rice bowls needed, two or three.

If a meeting is not possible, please forward

the items to Zhao Shaoxiong."

The above was the back.

His spirit had not changed: he wanted to learn German, to redouble his efforts; and he was still thinking of me, just as when we walked together on the street. But some statements in his letter were erroneous — political prisoners being shackled did not begin with them; he had always estimated the authorities too highly, believing that civilization had reached such a point that severity first began with their case. In reality, this was not so. Indeed, the second letter was already very different, written in exceedingly wretched terms; it also said that Miss Feng's face was all swollen — regrettably I did not copy that letter. At the same time, the rumors grew even more numerous: some said he could be ransomed, others that he had been transferred to Nanjing — no reliable news at all. Inquiries about my own situation by letter and telegram also multiplied, and even my mother in Peking fell ill from worry. I had to write letter after letter correcting the rumors — this went on for about twenty days.

The weather grew colder and colder. I did not know whether Roushi had bedding there. We did. Had the tin bowls been received?... But suddenly I received a reliable piece of news: Roushi and twenty-three others had been shot on the night of February 7 or the morning of February 8, at the Longhua garrison headquarters. He had ten bullets in his body.

So that was how it was!...

In the deep of the night, I stood in the courtyard of the inn; all around was a heap of broken odds and ends. Everyone was asleep, even my wife and child. Heavily I felt that I had lost very good friends, that China had lost very good young people. I sank into stillness amid bitterness and rage; yet old habit raised its head from the stillness and composed itself into these lines:

"Accustomed to spending spring through long nights, Wife and babe in hand, the temples already streaked. In dreams, dimly, a mother's tears; On the city wall, banners of warlords shift and change. I cannot bear to see comrades become fresh ghosts, In fury I seek a small poem among the forest of swords. The chant is done, head bowed — nowhere to write, Moonlight like water illuminates my dark robe."

But the last two lines later proved inaccurate — I did, in the end, write the poem out for a Japanese lyric poet.

But in China, at that time, there was truly nowhere to write — everything was sealed tighter than a tin can. I remember that Roushi had returned to his hometown at the end of the year and stayed for quite a while; after returning to Shanghai, he was severely rebuked by friends. Full of bitterness, he said to me: his mother had gone blind in both eyes and begged him to stay a few more days — how could he have simply left? I knew the yearning heart of the blind mother, the tender heart of Roushi. When the journal Beidou was founded, I wanted to write an article about Roushi, but could not manage it. I simply chose a woodcut by Käthe Kollwitz entitled "Sacrifice" — a mother sorrowfully offering up her son — as a commemoration of Roushi that only I alone knew in my heart.

Of the four young literary figures killed at the same time, I had never met Li Weisen; Hu Yepin I had seen only once in Shanghai and exchanged a few words with. The one I knew best was Bai Mang, that is, Yin Fu — he had written to me, sent me manuscripts; but now when I searched, I found nothing. Presumably everything had been burned on the night of the 17th — at the time I had not yet known that Bai Mang was also among the arrested. Yet the Petöfi poetry collection was still there. I leafed through it and found nothing — only beside a poem entitled "Wahlspruch" (Motto) were four lines of translation in ink:

"Life is truly precious, Love's price higher still; Yet for the sake of freedom, Both may be forsaken!"

And on the second leaf were written the three characters "Xu Peigen" — I suspect this was his real name.

V

The year before last, at this time, I was hiding in an inn while they were being led to the execution ground. Last year at this time, I was fleeing amid gunfire into the International Settlement, while they had long since been buried somewhere underground, in no one knew what place. This year, today, I am finally sitting in my old lodging; everyone is asleep, even my wife and child. Once again I feel heavily that I have lost very good friends, that China has lost very good young people. Once again I sink into stillness amid bitterness and rage — yet old habit again raises its head from the stillness and has written down the words above.

To write further — in China today there is still nowhere to write. When I was young, I read Xiang Ziqi's "Meditative Ode on the Past" and found it very strange that it comprised only a few sparse lines — scarcely begun, it was already over. But now I understand.

It is not the young who write commemorations for the old, but rather, in these thirty years I have been made to witness the blood of many young people accumulating layer upon layer, burying me until I could not breathe. I can only use this pen to write a few sentences, as if digging a small hole in the earth through which I gasp for a remaining breath — what kind of world is this? The night is long, and the road is also long. It is better that I forget, better that I say nothing. But I know: even if it is not I, someday someone will remember them, and speak of them again...

(February 7-8.)

Section 21

【Whose Contradiction?】

Shaw (George Bernard Shaw) is not touring the world — he is inspecting the faces of the world's journalists and sitting for the world's journalists' oral examination — and he has failed.

He does not wish to be welcomed or to see journalists, yet they insist on welcoming him, visiting him, and after visiting him, they all make more or less witty remarks.

He hides here and there, yet they seek him here and there; having found him, they write at length — and then insist he is the one who excels at self-advertisement.

He has no desire to talk, yet they insist on talking to him; he does not say much, yet they insist on drawing him out; when he says too much, the newspapers dare not print it all faithfully — and then blame him for talking too much.

He speaks the truth, yet they insist he is joking, laugh at him, and blame him for not laughing himself.

He speaks plainly, yet they insist he is being satirical, laugh at him, and blame him for thinking himself clever.

He is not a satirist at all, yet they insist he is a satirist, then look down on satirists — and attempt to satirize him with their own feeble satire.

He is not an encyclopedia, yet they treat him like an encyclopedia, asking about everything under the sun; hearing his answers, they grumble indignantly, as though they had always known better.

He has really only come for a visit, yet they force him to deliver wisdom; after a few remarks, the listeners are displeased and say he has come to "spread Red propaganda."

Some look down on him because he is not a Marxist writer — but if he were a Marxist writer, those who look down on him would not bother looking at all.

Some look down on him because he does not go work as a laborer — but if he were a laborer, he would not have come to Shanghai, and those who look down on him would never see him.

Others look down on him because he is not a practical revolutionary — but if he were, he would be locked up in prison alongside the Noulens, and those who look down on him would prefer not to mention him.

He has money — and yet he talks about socialism; he does not work as a laborer — and yet he travels; he insists on coming to Shanghai; he insists on talking about revolution; he insists on discussing the Soviet Union; he insists on making people uncomfortable...

Therefore he is detestable.

Being tall is detestable, being old is detestable, having white hair is detestable, disliking receptions is detestable, avoiding interviews is detestable — even being on good terms with his wife is detestable.

Yet he has departed, this Shaw whom everyone unanimously pronounces "contradictory."

And yet, I think, one should endure it a while longer and for the time being accept him as the literary figure of the present world. One cannot bring down a literary figure by nagging and skulking. And if only so that everyone may continue to nag, it is better to have him around.

For when the "contradictory" Shaw declines, or when Shaw's contradictions are resolved, that will also be the time when the contradictions of society are resolved — and that is no trifling matter.

(Night of February 19.)

Section 22

【Notes on Seeing Shaw and "the People Who See Shaw"】

I like Shaw. Not because I read his works or biography and came to admire him — I had merely encountered a few pointed aphorisms somewhere and heard from someone that he had a habit of tearing the masks off gentlemen, and that was enough to make me like him. There is another reason too: in China there are also plenty of people who imitate Western gentlemen — and they generally do not like Shaw. Someone whom the people I myself detest also detest — him I sometimes consider a good person for that very reason.

Now Shaw was coming to China, but I had no particular intention of going out to seek a look at him.

On the afternoon of the 16th, Mr. Uchiyama Kanzo showed me a telegram from Kaizo-sha, asking whether I might like to go see Shaw. I decided at once: if I am expressly asked to go see him, then I will see him.

On the morning of the 17th, Shaw should have already come ashore in Shanghai, but no one knew where he was hiding; half the day passed, and it seemed as if one would never get to see him after all. In the afternoon came a letter from Mr. Cai: Shaw was at that very moment having lunch at Madame Sun's house, and I should hurry over.

So I ran to Madame Sun's house. As soon as I stepped into a small room next to the parlor, there sat Shaw at the head of a round table, eating with five other people. Having seen his photograph somewhere before and heard he was a world-famous personage, I was struck as if by lightning with the thought: there is the literary master — though in fact there was no distinguishing mark whatsoever. But the snow-white hair, the healthy complexion, the amiable face — as a model for a portrait painting, I thought, he would be quite excellent.

Lunch seemed half finished. The dishes were vegetarian and rather simple. The White Russian press had speculated about innumerable servants — but there was only a single cook carrying dishes.

Shaw did not eat much, but perhaps at the start he had already eaten heartily — who knows. Midway through, he began using chopsticks — rather clumsily; he could not manage to pick anything up. But what was admirable was that he gradually improved and finally clamped a piece of something firmly between his chopsticks; he looked around proudly at everyone's faces — but no one had noticed this triumph.

During the meal, Shaw did not strike me as a satirist at all. The conversation too was quite ordinary. For instance, he said: friends are best because one can maintain them over time; parents and siblings one has not chosen for oneself, so one must leave them — and so on.

After lunch, three photographs were taken. Standing side by side, I became acutely aware of my own smallness, and though I thought secretly: if I were thirty years younger, I would need to do stretching exercises...

Around two o'clock, there was the PEN Club reception. We drove over together by motor car; it turned out to be held in a large Western building called the "World Academy." Upstairs, some fifty people had already gathered — art-for-art's-sake writers, nationalist literary figures, society stars, stage royalty, and so forth. They formed a circle around him and bombarded him with all manner of questions, as though leafing through the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Shaw also delivered a brief speech: Ladies and gentlemen, you are all writers too, so you know this game. As for actors — since they are practitioners, they understand even better than people like me who merely write. What else is there to say? In short, today is like visiting the zoo — now you have seen me, and that should suffice. And so on.

Everyone laughed — presumably taking this too for satire.

There were also some exchanges between Dr. Mei Lanfang and other notables, but I omit them here.

Then came the ceremony of presenting gifts to Shaw. The handsomely reputed Mr. Shao Xunmei carried them up: small clay miniature models of theatrical face-masks in a box. There was another gift — said to be theatrical costumes — but since it was wrapped in paper, one could not see. Shaw accepted both gladly. According to a report later published by Mr. Zhang Ruogu, Shaw asked a few questions and Zhang delivered a barb, which unfortunately Shaw did not hear. But I had not heard it either.

Someone asked him about the reasons for his vegetarianism. At this point several people arrived to take photographs, and I thought my cigarette smoke was out of place, so I went to the other room.

There was still the appointment with the press; around three o'clock we returned to Madame Sun's house. Forty or fifty people were already waiting, but only half were admitted. First came Mr. Kimura Takeshi and four or five literary men; then six Chinese journalists, one British, one White Russian, plus three or four photographers.

On the lawn in the back garden, with Shaw at the center, the journalists formed a semicircle — replacing the world tour with an exhibition of journalists' faces. Shaw was again bombarded with every variety of question, as though someone were leafing through the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Shaw seemed not to want to say much. But the journalists would not relent in silence, and so he finally began to speak; as he spoke more and more, the note-taking on the journalists' side grew thinner and thinner.

I think Shaw is not really a satirist — because he will speak at such length.

The trial ended at about half past four. Shaw seemed already quite tired; I went back with Mr. Kimura to the Uchiyama Bookstore.

The newspapers the next day far surpassed Shaw's own words in color. At the same time, in the same place, hearing the same words, the reports all differed. It seemed that even translations from English could change shape according to the listener's ear. For example, regarding the Chinese government: the Shaw of the English-language press said the Chinese should choose people they admire as their rulers; the Shaw of the Japanese-language press said China had several governments; the Shaw of the Chinese-language press said that any good government will inevitably forfeit the people's affection.

Judging from this alone, Shaw is not a satirist but a mirror.

But in the newspapers, the verdict on Shaw was generally unfavorable. Each person had gone to hear the satire that pleased him and served his interests, and at the same time had received the satire he disliked and found damaging. So each person used satire to satirically declare: Shaw is merely a satirist.

In this contest of satire, I think Shaw is the greater.

I asked Shaw nothing; Shaw asked me nothing. But Mr. Kimura wanted me to write an impression of Shaw. Other people's impression pieces I read regularly — they write as though at first glance they had penetrated to the person's true heart, and I truly admire their keen observation. As for myself, I have not even cracked open a physiognomy manual; so if I happen to meet a famous person and am asked to hold forth about my impression, I am quite at a loss.

But since Mr. Kimura had come all the way from Tokyo to Shanghai to ask me to write, I had no choice but to deliver this — as a kind of duty piece.

(Night of February 23, 1933.)

(Translated by Xu Xia from the April special issue of Kaizo on March 25, and revised by the author.)

Section 23

【Preface to "Bernard Shaw in Shanghai"】

The so-called "human being" of today must always wrap the outside of the body in something — silk, felt, gauze, anything will do. Even the poorest beggar needs at least a pair of torn trousers; even those called savages mostly have a row of grass leaves in front of and behind the belly. If one strips them off oneself in public, or if others tear them off, it is called: no longer cutting a human figure.

Although it is not a good figure, there are still people who want to look — some stand and stare, some tag along, and the ladies and gentlemen all cover their eyes with their hands yet steal a few glances through the gaps between their fingers — in short, one wants to see the nakedness of others while carefully guarding one's own tidy clothes.

People's speech is also mostly wrapped in silk and grass leaves. If these are torn away, people are eager to listen yet also afraid. Because they are eager, they crowd around; because they are afraid, they give the thing a special name to diminish its power for themselves: "satire" — and call the person who says such things a "satirist."

When Bernard Shaw arrived in Shanghai, the excitement was even greater than for Tagore — not to mention Pilnyak (Boris Pilniak) or Morand (Paul Morand). The reason, I believe, lies precisely in this.

There is another layer: "despotism makes people into cold mockers" — but that is an English matter. People who since ancient times could only "speak with their eyes" dare not do this. Yet the times have changed, and people want to hear a foreign satirist be "humorous" for once, so everyone can have a good laugh.

There is yet another point, which I will not raise here.

But first one must guard one's own clothes. And so the hopes diverge. The lame man hopes Shaw will advocate crutches; the scab-head hopes he will endorse hat-wearing; the powdered lady wants him to satirize women with sallow faces; the nationalist writer wants to rely on him to crush Japan's army. But what was the result? One need only note how many are grumbling to know it was not entirely satisfactory.

Shaw's greatness manifests itself precisely here. English-language papers, Japanese-language papers, White Russian papers — though they invented some rumors, they all ended up attacking him, which shows he was by no means to be exploited by imperialism. As for certain Chinese papers, little need be said — they are fundamentally lackeys of the Western masters. This lackeying has gone on for a long time; only in the matter of "non-resistance" or "strategic reasons" do they march ahead of their masters' armies.

Shaw was in Shanghai for less than a full day, and yet there are so many stories — had it been another writer, things would hardly have turned out this way. This is no small matter, and therefore this book is an important document. In the first three sections, the various faces — writers, politicians, warlords, rascals, sycophants — are all reflected as in a flat mirror. The claim that Shaw is a distorting mirror I cannot confirm.

The aftershocks reached Beiping and even gave a lesson to a journalist of Great Britain: he was displeased that the Chinese had welcomed Shaw. On the 20th, Reuters reported that Beiping newspapers carried many articles about Shaw, which "proves the traditional Chinese insensibility to pain." Dr. Hu Shi surpassed all in detachment: not to entertain Shaw, he declared, was the most noble form of welcome.

"Hitting means not hitting; not hitting means hitting!"

This is truly a great mirror — a mirror that makes people feel as though it were a great mirror. Whether one looks or refuses to look, the hidden shapes show themselves in their poses everywhere. In Shanghai, the art of pen and tongue is not yet as refined as that of the foreign correspondents and Chinese scholars in Beiping, but there are already plenty of variations. The traditional repertoire of face-masks is limited; even if there are some not yet catalogued or published later, they are likely contained within this repertoire.

February 28, 1933, by lamplight. Lu Xun.

Section 24

【Inferring the Non-Moderation of the Chinese from the Feet of Chinese Women】

From the bound foot of the Chinese woman, one can irrefutably deduce that the Chinese are by no means a people of the golden mean. For centuries, the woman's foot was compressed to a size that defies every reasonable standard of moderation — until it measured only three inches. Where is the much-vaunted moderation in that? The lotus foot proves the opposite: it is the expression of a culture of extremes that cloaks itself in the appearance of moderation. What is true of the foot is true of Chinese society as a whole: behind the facade of harmony, the extreme always lurks.

Section 25

And from This Further Deducing that Confucius Had Stomach Trouble

Section 26

【How I Came to Write Fiction】

How did I come to write fiction? The origins I have already sketched in the preface to "Call to Arms." What should be added here is that when I first took an interest in literature, conditions were very different from today: in China, fiction did not count as literature, and anyone who wrote fiction could by no means be called a man of letters; therefore no one thought of making a name for himself by this path. I too had no intention of elevating fiction into the "garden of literature" — I merely wanted to harness its power to improve society.

Yet I did not want to create original work; my focus was on introducing, on translating, and especially on short fiction, particularly works by authors from oppressed nations. For at that time anti-Manchu revolutionary theory was everywhere, and some young people regarded writers of protest and resistance as kindred spirits. Consequently, I never read a single "handbook of fiction writing"; short stories, however, I read in large numbers — partly because I myself enjoyed them, mainly because I was searching for material to introduce. I also read literary histories and criticism, because I wanted to know the authors' character and thought, in order to decide whether they should be introduced to China. This had nothing whatsoever to do with scholarship.

Since I sought works of outcry and resistance, I inevitably gravitated toward Eastern Europe, and so I read especially much by Russian, Polish, and Balkan authors. I also eagerly sought Indian and Egyptian works, but could find none. The authors I most loved to read at the time were the Russian Gogol and the Pole Sienkiewicz. Among the Japanese, Natsume Soseki and Mori Ogai.

After returning to China, I ran schools and had no more time to read fiction — for five or six years. Why I started again is already written in the preface to "Call to Arms."

But I did not begin writing because I thought myself talented. Only because I was living in a Beijing hostel at the time: to write essays, there were no reference books; to translate, there were no source texts; so I simply made a few story-like things as stopgaps — that was "Diary of a Madman." What I relied on was probably the hundred-odd foreign works I had read and a bit of medical knowledge. I had no other preparation.

But the editors of Xinqingnian kept urging me again and again; after several promptings, I would write something. Here I must remember Mr. Chen Duxiu — he was the one who pressed me hardest to write fiction.

Naturally, when I wrote, I had certain principles. For instance, as to "why" I wrote fiction, I still held to the "enlightenment" idea I had maintained for over ten years: literature must be "for life" and must help improve that life. I deeply despised the old label of fiction as "leisure reading" and regarded "art for art's sake" as merely a new-fashioned alias for "amusement." Therefore my subjects were mostly drawn from the unfortunate people of a diseased society, with the intention of exposing suffering and drawing attention to the need for cure. Accordingly, I avoided verbose prose: as soon as I felt the idea had been conveyed to the reader, I gladly dispensed with all embellishment and appendage. On the traditional Chinese stage there are no sets; on New Year prints sold to children, only the main figures appear (though modern prints often have backgrounds). I firmly believed this method suited my purpose, so I did not describe landscapes and moonlit nights, and never let dialogue run to great length.

After finishing, I always read through twice; wherever it sounded awkward to my own ear, I added or cut a few words until it read smoothly. If no suitable colloquial expression existed, I preferred to borrow a classical phrase, hoping someone would understand. Self-coined expressions that only I understood, or that not even I understood, I seldom used. Among all my many critics, only one noticed this — but he called me a "Stylist."

The incidents I depicted were mostly based on something I had seen or heard, but I never used the entire fact — I took only one aspect, reshaped it or developed it, until it expressed my meaning almost completely. The same with character models: I never used a single person exclusively. Often the mouth belonged to Zhejiang, the face to Beijing, the clothes to Shanxi — a pieced-together character. When people claim that such-and-such a story was an attack on so-and-so, that is utter nonsense.

However, this method of writing has one difficulty: it is hard to put down the pen. If one writes in a single stretch, the character gradually comes alive and fulfills his role. But if something distracts you and you resume after a long interval, the character may have changed, and the scene may no longer match what was originally planned. For example, when I wrote "Mount Buzhou," the original intention was to depict the arousal and creativity of sexuality through to its decline; but midway through I read in the newspaper an attack by a moralist on love poetry, was indignant, and so a small character suddenly appeared in the story, running between Nüwa's legs — not only unnecessary but destructive of the grand structure. Yet such spots are noticed by no one but the author; our great critic Cheng Fangwu even declared this story the best.

I believe if one used exclusively a single real person as the framework, this problem could be avoided — but I myself have never tried it.

I forget who said it, but in any case: to capture a person's distinctive features with the greatest economy, one should paint the eyes. I consider this supremely right. If one painted the entire head of hair in minute detail, it would be pointless, however lifelike. I have always tried to learn this method — regrettably without great success.

What could be omitted, I never forced in; what could not be written, I never forced. But this was because I then had other income and did not live by my pen — it cannot serve as a general rule.

One more thing: when writing, I disregarded all criticism. For at that time China's creative world was immature, but its critical world was even more so — either elevating to the heavens or pressing into the earth. Had I taken such things to heart, I would have fancied myself extraordinary or felt that only suicide could appease the world. Criticism must call bad things bad and good things good — only then does it benefit the writer.

However, I regularly read foreign literary criticism, since the critics there bore me neither kindness nor malice; and although the works reviewed were others', there was much that could serve as a mirror. But naturally, I also always noted the critic's school of thought.

The foregoing concerns matters of ten years ago. Since then I have written nothing, nor made any progress. When the editor asks me to write something of this sort — how can I? I have set down what came to mind; that is all.

(The evening of March 5, by lamplight.)

Section 27

【On Women】

In times of national crisis, women seem to suffer especially. Certain upright gentlemen reproach women for their love of luxury and their refusal to patronize domestic goods. Dancing, sensuality, and everything connected with the female — all become crimes. As though all men had taken vows of asceticism and all women entered convents, and national salvation would follow.

In truth, these are not the crimes of women but their misfortune. The social system has squeezed them into slaves of every variety, and still loads all manner of guilt upon them. At the end of the Western Han Dynasty, women's "falling-horse coiffure" and "weeping-eyebrow teardrop makeup" were called omens of dynastic collapse. Yet what destroyed the Han was certainly not women! But whenever someone comes along sighing about women's dress, we know the ruling class is not doing too well.

Luxury and debauchery are symptoms of social decay, not its cause. The system of private property has always treated women as private property and as commodities. Every state, every religion has countless bizarre regulations that declare women to be inauspicious creatures, that intimidate them and force them into slavery — while simultaneously making them playthings of the upper classes. Exactly like today's upright gentlemen: they scold women for extravagance, put on stern faces to uphold morality — and secretly delight in the culture of "sensual thighs."

An ancient Arabian poet said: "The paradises on earth are in the books of the sages, on the backs of horses, and on the bosoms of women." This at least is an honest confession.

Certainly, in prostitution of every variety, women are always involved. But buying and selling have two sides. Without the buying johns, where would the selling prostitutes come from? The question therefore lies in the social roots of prostitution. So long as these roots persist — that is, so long as the active buyers persist — the so-called debauchery and extravagance of women will not disappear for a single day. When man is the private owner, woman herself is merely one of man's possessions. Perhaps for this reason her sense of preserving family wealth is somewhat weaker, and she often becomes the "family wrecker." All the more so today, when opportunities for buying are so numerous and the woman in the household instinctively senses the precariousness of her position. Already in the early years of the Republic I heard that Shanghai fashion spread from the courtesans to the concubines, from the concubines to the wives and young ladies. These "respectable women" compete, mostly unconsciously, with the prostitutes — and therefore must adorn themselves at all costs, to the utmost degree that can hold a man. The cost of this adornment is high and rises daily — not only materially but spiritually.

An American millionaire said: "We don't fear the Communists (the original says nothing about 'bandits' — I translate in compliance with official terminology); our own wives and daughters will bankrupt us before the workers get around to expropriation." In China, perhaps the fear is that the workers might come "in time" — and so the men and women of the upper classes squander and enjoy and revel in haste, without caring about domestic or foreign goods, about morality or immorality. But in word, naturally, one must uphold morality and preach thrift.

(April 11.)

Section 28

【True and False Don Quixote】

The decline of Western chivalry produced a simpleton like Don Quixote. He was, in truth, an utterly honest bookworm. To see him fighting windmills with drawn sword in the dark of night is indeed a touchingly foolish spectacle, at once laughable and pitiable.

But this is the true Quixote. China's underworld and rogue breed, however, know how to exploit honest fools of the Quixote type while themselves striking the pose of Don Quixote. In "The Scholars," several young gentlemen admire knights-errant and sword fighters, only to be swindled out of several hundred taels of silver by such false Quixotes, receiving in return a bloody pig's head — the pig being the knight's "blood feud."

The true Quixote plays the fool out of his own stupidity; the false Quixote deliberately plays the fool before others in order to exploit their stupidity.

But the common people of China are perhaps no longer so foolish as to fail to see through such tricks.

China's present-day false Quixotes know perfectly well that broadswords cannot save the nation — yet they insist on brandishing them, shouting daily of "hundreds and thousands of enemies killed," and there are those who "specially manufacture ninety-nine steel blades to present to the front-line soldiers." But since they want to butcher pigs, they begrudge donations for airplanes — and so the propaganda about "inadequate weapons" serves on one hand to explain the constant retreating or "luring the enemy deep," and on the other to squeeze out funds for pig-butchering. Unfortunately, the Empress Dowager Cixi and Yuan Shikai came before them — the late Qing naval restoration donations built the Summer Palace, and the "anti-Japanese" patriotic savings of 1915 swelled the war chest against the revolutionaries of that day — otherwise one might say a new invention had been made.

They know perfectly well that the "domestic goods campaign" cannot build up any national industry — the international God of Wealth has China by the throat, it can barely breathe; no "domestic goods" can leap out of these money-gods' grasp. Yet the "Year of Domestic Goods" has been proclaimed, "Domestic Goods Markets" established — all pomp and ceremony, as though national salvation depended entirely on disguised compradors earning a few more coins. And this money is still squeezed from pigs, dogs, cattle, and horses. Do we not hear the cries "Increase productivity!" "Cooperation between labor and capital to jointly face the national crisis!"? The common people may not count as human beings, but even as pigs, dogs, cattle, and horses they must still bear "patriotic responsibility"! In the end, the pork is served up for the false Quixote to eat, but the pig's head is chopped off and hung up — as a warning to "disturbers of the home front."

They know perfectly well that "traditional Chinese culture" cannot curse imperialism to death — no matter how many thousands of times one recites "inhuman and unjust" or chants the Golden Light Sutra, it will not trigger an earthquake in Japan and sink it beneath the sea. Yet they deliberately shout for the restoration of "national spirit," as though they had found some ancestral secret recipe. The intention is clear: the common people should bow their heads and cultivate their hearts and diligently study morality textbooks. This "traditional culture" is unmistakable: the loyalty of Yue Fei, who on imperial orders offered no resistance; the filial piety of obeying Grandfather League of Nations; the benevolence that chops off the pig's head and eats the pork but stays away from the kitchen; the good faith that honors the contract of slavery; the peace that "lures the enemy deep." And besides "traditional culture," there is the promotion of "salvation through scholarship," citing the Western philosopher Fichte — with the same ulterior motives.

The antics of these false Quixotes make one want to laugh and cry at once. If you take the feigned stupidity for real stupidity and truly find it laughable and pitiable, then you yourself are foolish beyond rescue.

(April 11.)

Section 29

【Inscription for the "Complete Works of Shouchang"】

When I first saw Mr. Shouchang, it was at a gathering to which Mr. Duxiu had invited us to discuss how to proceed with Xinqingnian — and that is how we became acquainted. I do not know whether he was already a Communist at that time. In any case, the impression he made on me was very good: honest, modest, not given to many words. Among the Xinqingnian associates, there were indeed some who enjoyed open and covert intrigue and cultivating their own influence — but he, right through to the end, was never like that.

His appearance was rather hard to describe: something of the scholar, something of the plain man, something of the common. So he looked at once like a literary man, like an official, and somewhat like a merchant. Such merchants I had never seen in the south; but in Beijing they existed — owners of antiquarian bookshops or fine stationery shops. On March 18, 1926, when Duan Qirui's men fired on the unarmed petitioning students, he too was in the crowd. A soldier seized him and asked what kind of person he was. He answered: "A businessman." The soldier said: "Then what are you doing here? Clear off!" — gave him a shove, and he managed to escape with his life.

Had he said "teacher," he could have died.

But the following year, he was finally murdered by Zhang Zuolin's men.

In Duan Qirui's massacre, forty-two people died, among them several of my students — that I truly felt as painful. In Zhang Zuolin's massacre, the dead numbered perhaps ten or more — I have no precise records at hand — but among my acquaintances there was only one: Mr. Shouchang. When I learned of it in Xiamen, his oval face, the narrow eyes and mustache, the blue cloth robe, the black jacket kept appearing before my eyes, with the gallows dimly visible behind them. Pain there was too, but fainter than before. This is my longstanding bias: the death of contemporaries has never grieved me as much as the death of the young.

Now I hear that a public funeral has been held in Beiping — seven years after his murder. This is entirely fitting. I do not know the charges the generals fabricated against him at the time — presumably nothing other than "endangering the Republic." But in these brief seven years, the facts have proven it as though cast in iron: the one who gave away the four provinces was not Li Dazhao, but the generals who murdered him!

So the grace of a public burial was well deserved. Yet in the newspapers I now read that the Beiping authorities have prohibited roadside sacrifices and arrested mourners. I do not know why, but this time the charge is presumably "disturbing public order." If so, then the ironic counter-proof comes even more swiftly: Look — who is disturbing the public order in Beiping, the Japanese army or the people!

But the blood of revolutionary pioneers is truly nothing rare anymore. Speaking only of myself: seven years ago, for the sake of a few people, I uttered no small amount of passionate empty words; later, hearing so much of electric torture, shooting, beheading, assassination, my nerves gradually grew numb — I was neither startled nor had anything to say. I think even the crowds who, according to the papers, go "in droves" to view the severed heads displayed in public are probably no more excited than at a lantern festival. Too much blood has been shed.

But besides his blood, Mr. Shouchang also left writings behind. Unfortunately, I can say very little about these writings. Since our professions were different, during the Xinqingnian era I regarded him as a comrade on the same battle line but did not pay particular attention to his articles — as a cavalryman need not concern himself with bridge-building, nor an artilleryman with horsemanship. At the time I did not consider this wrong. What I can say now is only: first, his theories, viewed from today, are certainly not flawless; second, they will nonetheless endure, for they are the legacy of a pioneer, a monument in the history of revolution. Are not the thick collected volumes of all those dead and living charlatans already toppling, with even booksellers selling them "regardless of cost" at twenty or thirty percent?

Measure the future by the iron facts of past and present, and all is clear as day!

The night of May 29, 1933. Lu Xun, respectfully written.

This piece was requested by Mr. T., because the collection was to be published by Press G., with which he is connected. I could not refuse the obligation of friendship and wrote this small amount; before long it appeared in Taosheng. Later, however, I heard that the rightful holder of the manuscripts had commissioned Press C. to print it; to this day it has not appeared, and perhaps will not for the time being. Though I regret the rashness of my inscription, I still wish to preserve it in my own collection and to record this matter.

Addendum, the night of December 31.

Section 30

【On Jin Shengtan】

When speaking of the Qing Dynasty's literary inquisitions, some people bring up Jin Shengtan — which is actually quite inappropriate. His "wailing in the temple," compared by recent parallel, is no different from invoking the Three People's Principles for self-defense in the Crescent Moon magazine a few years ago; but he not only failed to get a professorship but lost his head — because the officials and gentry had long since marked him as a bad character. Judging the matter on its merits, it was an injustice.

His reputation since the mid-Qing period is also partly undeserved. That he elevated novels and dramas to the level of the Zuozhuan and Du Fu's poetry was merely picking up the leavings of Yuan Hongdao and his circle. And after his commentary, the sincerity of the originals was often transformed into comedy, and structure and style were forcibly dragged back to the methods of Eight-Legged Essays. This legacy has driven a whole school of readers into the bog of forever seeking hidden foreshadowings and picking at inconsistencies in works like Dream of the Red Chamber.

The case of the purported ancient manuscript he used to tamper with the text of the Western Chamber I will pass over here. But his cutting off the latter portion of Water Margin and dreaming that a "Xi Shuye" would come to slaughter all the Song Jiangs — that alone is foolish enough. One may say it was out of hatred for bandits; but he stood too close to the officialdom and gentry and could not understand that the common people's hatred of bandits was only half the story: not the "banditry" but the "roaming."

The common people certainly fear roaming bandits, but they equally fear "roaming officials." I remember that after the 1911 Revolution in my hometown, the county magistrate was constantly being replaced. At each change, the peasants anxiously told one another: "What shall we do? Another empty-bellied duck has arrived!" They may not know the ancient maxim "the pit of greed can never be filled," but they well understand the saying "success makes a king, failure makes a bandit." A bandit is a roaming king; a king is a seated bandit — or more simply, a "seated bandit." The Chinese commoners have always called themselves "ant-people"; for the sake of analogy let us promote them to cattle. When the iron cavalry sweeps through, consuming their hair, drinking their blood, trampling their bones — naturally, if they can avoid it, they will. But if they are allowed to chew wild grass, gasp out their miserable existence, and squeeze out their milk to feed these "seated bandits" until the latter gradually cease their wolfish gorging — then they consider it a blessing from heaven. What they distinguish is only "roaming" from "seated" — not "bandit" from "king." Read the unofficial histories of the late Ming, and you will see that the unrest among Beijing's populace when Li Zicheng entered was far less severe than when he departed.

Song Jiang occupies a mountain fortress, and though he robs, he robs the rich and aids the poor — yet Jin Shengtan would have him meekly offer his hands for binding before the claws of Tong Guan, Gao Qiu, and their like. The common people cannot understand this. And so, though Water Margin became a bob-tailed dragonfly, in the countryside people still want to see the play "Wu Song Captures Fang La Single-Handed."

However, new experience has apparently accumulated since then. I hear that in Sichuan there is a folk rhyme, roughly meaning: "When the bandit comes, he combs; when the soldier comes, he combs finer; when the official comes, he shaves." Automobiles and airplanes cost far more than sedan chairs and horse carts; concessions and foreign banks are novelties since the opening of the ports. Not only hair and skin are scraped away — even if one scrapes away muscle and sinew, the appetite can never be satisfied. No wonder the common people now consider "seated bandits" more fearsome than "roaming" ones.

Since the facts have taught them this, the only road left naturally leads them to think of their own strength.

(May 31.)

Section 31

【Further on the "Third Kind of Person"】

Mr. Dai Wangshu has sent us a letter from far-off France, reporting how the French A.E.A.R. (Association of Revolutionary Artists and Writers) gained André Gide as a member and on March 21 convened a mass meeting to vigorously protest German fascism. He also introduced Gide's speech, published in the June issue of Xiandai. Such acts of principled solidarity by French writers are nothing unusual: further back, Zola's defense of Dreyfus, Anatole France's oration at Zola's reinterment; more recently, Romain Rolland's opposition to war. But this time I feel a particularly sincere joy, for the problem is one of the present, and I myself detest fascism. However, while reporting these facts, Mr. Dai simultaneously points out the "stupidity" of Chinese left-wing writers and their warlord-like brutality — and I wish to say a few words about that. But I hope there will be no misunderstanding: I am not trying to justify myself, nor do I hope to obtain from China's "Third Kind" the same kind of solidarity with the oppressed in Germany as Gide showed — not at all. China's banning of books, closing of publishers, and killing of authors came even before the White Terror in Germany, and protests from the world's revolutionary writers have already been received. What I wish to say now concerns only certain points in that letter.

After describing Gide's joining the resistance movement, Mr. Dai writes:

"In the French literary world, we may say that Gide is the 'Third Kind of Person'... Since 1891... to this day, he has always been a person faithful to his art. However, an author faithful to his own art is not necessarily a 'lackey of the bourgeoisie.' The French revolutionary writers do not have this stupid view (or rather this 'shrewd strategy'); therefore, amid enthusiastic welcome, Gide spoke among the masses."

This means: "an author faithful to his own art" is a "Third Kind of Person," and the Chinese revolutionary writers are "stupid" enough to call all such people "lackeys of the bourgeoisie" — which Gide has now shown to be "not necessarily" true.

Two questions need answering here.

First: Have Chinese left-wing theorists truly designated "authors faithful to their own art" as uniformly "lackeys of the bourgeoisie"? As far as I know, they have not. Left-wing theorists, however "stupid," are not so stupid as to fail to understand that "art for art's sake," at its inception, was a revolution against social convention; but when, after the emergence of a new militant art, one still waves this old banner to obstruct its development openly or covertly, it becomes reactionary and worse than mere "lackeying for the bourgeoisie." As for "authors faithful to their own art," they were by no means all treated alike. For every writer of every class has a "self," and this "self" is always a member of his own class. One who is faithful to his own art is also faithful to his own class — in the bourgeoisie just as in the proletariat. This is an exceedingly obvious, elementary fact that even left-wing theorists cannot miss. Yet Mr. Dai has switched "faithful art" for "art for art's sake" and made the left-wing theorists look infinitely "stupid."

Second: Is Gide truly what China calls a "Third Kind of Person"? I have not read Gide's books and am not competent to judge his works. But I believe: creative work and speech are different in form, yet the thought they contain cannot possibly differ. I quote two passages from the speech Mr. Dai introduced:

"Someone will say to me: 'In the Soviet Union it is the same.' That is possible; but the purpose is entirely different, and in order to build a new society, in order to give a voice to those who have always been oppressed and have never had a voice, a certain necessary overcorrection is unavoidable.

Why and how do I come to approve here what I oppose there? Because in Germany's policy of terror I see the most deplorable and detestable replay of the past, while in the Soviet Union's social creation I see the infinite promise of a future."

This is perfectly clear: though the means are the same, he distinguishes between approval and opposition according to purpose. The "Serapion Brothers" in the Soviet Union after the October Revolution, a group that gave priority to art, were also called "fellow travelers" — but they were far less active than this. The Chinese writings on the "Third Kind of Person" have already been published this year in a collected volume. Let us check: among the statements of the self-proclaimed "Third Kind," is there anything even remotely resembling these views of Gide? If not, then I dare say with certainty: "Gide cannot be called a 'Third Kind of Person.'"

Yet just as I say Gide does not resemble China's "Third Kind," so Mr. Dai feels the Chinese left-wing writers are far less wise than the French. After attending the meeting and expressing solidarity with the German left-wing artists, he cannot at the end suppress a sigh:

"I do not know whether our country has made any statement regarding German fascism. Like our warlords, our literary men are brave in civil war. While the French revolutionary writers and Gide walk hand in hand, our left-wing authors are presumably still treating the so-called 'Third Kind of Person' as their sole enemy!"

No reply is needed here, for the facts are plain: we too have made some statements, but since conditions differ from those in France, the situation is also different. In the journals, no article has appeared for some time that "treats the so-called 'Third Kind of Person' as the sole enemy" — no more civil war, no more warlord manner. Mr. Dai's prediction has fallen flat.

But does this make the Chinese left-wing writers as wise as the French in Mr. Dai's imagination? I think not — and it should not be so. If the voice has not yet been entirely silenced, there is very much a need to reopen and expand the debate on the "Third Kind of Person." Mr. Dai has perceived the ulterior motives of the French revolutionary writers and feels that, in this critical hour, an alliance with the "Third Kind" may be "shrewd strategy." But "strategy" alone is useless — only genuine insight produces shrewd action. One need only read Gide's speech to know that he is by no means above politics and cannot carelessly be labeled a "Third Kind of Person" and welcomed without need for ulterior motives. However, the "Third Kind of Person" in China is quite complex.

The so-called "Third Kind of Person" originally means simply: people who stand outside two opposing or warring parties. In practice, however, such people cannot exist. The human body can be fat or thin; in theory there should be a third type that is neither — but in reality there is not: any comparison reveals that one leans either toward fat or toward thin. The same is true of the literary "Third Kind": even if it appears impartial, in truth it always has a tendency, which in ordinary times is consciously or unconsciously concealed but which at a critical juncture emerges clearly. Gide, for example, showed himself to lean left; in others, the direction can be clearly discerned from just a few sentences. In this mixed group, some can advance with the revolution and sympathize; others can seize the opportunity to slander, soften, and distort the revolution. Left-wing theory has the task of analyzing them.

If this amounts to a "warlord" civil war, then left-wing theory must pursue this civil war all the more resolutely, draw the lines clearly, and remove the poisoned arrows shot from behind!

(June 4.)

Section 32

【"Bees" and "Honey"】

Dear Mr. Chen Si,

After reading the critical article on "The Bees" in Taosheng, two thoughts have occurred to me which I wish to set down and submit to the judgment of an expert. But I will not enter into further debate, since Taosheng is not the place for such proceedings.

That villagers burn beehives may have other reasons and is not necessarily a manifestation of class struggle — this, I think, is possible. But whether bees can harm insect-pollinated flowers or attack wind-pollinated plants — this too, I think, is possible.

That insects aid the pollination of insect-pollinated flowers — not only harmless but beneficial — is stated even in the most elementary biology textbooks and is certainly correct. But this is under normal conditions. If bees are numerous and flowers few, the situation is different: to collect pollen or assuage their hunger, ten or more bees may swarm into a single flower; in the struggle they damage the petals, in their hunger they eat the flower's heart — in Japan, one hears, orchards have already suffered such damage. Their visits to wind-pollinated plants also stem from hunger. Then honey production becomes secondary — they are eating pollen.

Therefore I think: so long as the supply of flowers meets the bees' needs, all is peaceful; otherwise, they will "rebel." Like ants, which tend and protect aphids — but if you shut them up together without other food, the ants will eat the aphids; like humans, who eat rice or wheat — but when famine strikes, they eat grass roots and bark.

China has kept bees since ancient times — why has there been no such trouble? The answer is simple: because there were few. Recently, beekeeping has been touted as a great moneymaker, and more and more people are entering the business. But since Chinese honey prices are far lower than in Europe or America, selling bees is more profitable than selling honey. Moreover, with newspaper promotion, more and more people seek profit through beekeeping, so buyers of bee colonies outnumber buyers of honey. As a result, beekeepers aim not at honey production but at proliferation. Yet agriculture does not keep pace, creating a disproportion of many bees and few flowers — with the consequences described above.

In short: if China does not expand the uses for bee honey and simultaneously develop orchards and farms, but merely sells bee colonies for short-term profit, the beekeeping industry will soon reach a dead end. I very much hope this letter will be published, so that those concerned may take note.

With best regards.

Luo Wu. June 11.

Section 33

【Experience】

Some of the experiences handed down by the ancients are truly invaluable, for they were purchased at the cost of great sacrifice and have left posterity tremendous benefit.

Browsing through the Bencao Gangmu by chance, I was struck by this thought. The book is quite ordinary, yet it contains rich treasures. Naturally, fanciful entries are not absent; but the efficacy of most medicines could only have been understood to this degree through centuries of experience, and especially astonishing are the entries on poisons. We are fond of praising the legendary Emperor Shennong, who supposedly tasted all medicines single-handedly and once encountered seventy-two poisons in a single day — yet always found antidotes and never died. Such legends can no longer command belief; most people now know that all cultural achievements were gradually created by unnamed predecessors — architecture, cooking, fishing, hunting, farming, all alike, and medicine no less. Considered thus, the matter becomes immense: when the ancients fell ill, they presumably tried a bit of this and a bit of that; those who ate poison died; those who took something harmless saw no effect; and some happened to find the right remedy and recovered — thus learning that this was the cure for that ailment. So knowledge accumulated, rudimentary records were made, and these later grew into vast works like the Bencao Gangmu. Moreover, this book records not only Chinese experience but also that of the Arabs and Indians — which gives some idea of the magnitude of prior sacrifice.

But there are also experiences that, after many human sacrifices, have left a bad influence on posterity — for example, the saying "Each sweep the snow before his own door and don't mind the frost on his neighbor's roof." Helping the injured or imperiled has always made one easy prey for false accusation, and there is a sorry experiential rhyme: "The yamen gate stands open wide in the shape of 'eight'; with right but without money, do not enter." So people keep away as long as the matter does not concern them. I think that originally people in society were by no means so indifferent to one another; but because wolves ruled the roads and many actually suffered for trying to help, people naturally all took this path thereafter. Thus in China, especially in the cities, if someone collapses on the street from illness or is injured in an accident — some stand around and stare, some even take pleasure, but very few extend a hand to help. This is the price paid in sacrifices.

In short: the results of experience, whether good or bad, always require great sacrifice; even in small matters one pays an astonishing price. For example, recently some newspaper readers have stopped paying attention to all manner of declarations, telegrams, speeches, and statements — however ornate and grandiloquent. Indeed, some not only ignore them but take them merely as material for mockery. Is this as momentous as the invention of writing and clothing? Certainly not — yet even this small result was purchased with a vast tract of land and many human lives and fortunes. Lives — other people's lives, naturally; if it were one's own, one would gain no experience. Therefore I resolutely refuse to be goaded by others' mockery of my fear of death into committing suicide or rushing to my doom, and I must write this down here — precisely for that reason. And this too is the result of a small experience.

(June 12.)

Section 34

【Proverbs】

At a rough glance, proverbs seem to be the crystallized opinion of an era and a nation. In reality, however, they are merely the opinion of a portion of the people. Let us take "Each sweep the snow before his own door and don't mind the frost on his neighbor's roof" as an example — this is the creed of the oppressed, teaching people to do their duty, pay their taxes, contribute levies, keep their place, not be negligent, not complain, and above all not meddle in other people's business. The oppressors are not included.

The reverse side of the despot is the slave: with power, he is capable of anything; without it, he immediately displays the nature of a slave. Sun Hao was a tyrant of the first order, but after surrendering to the Jin Dynasty he behaved like a toady. Emperor Huizong of Song was all-powerful on the throne, but in captivity he humbly endured every humiliation. He who treats everyone as his slave when he is master will inevitably become a slave himself when he has a master — this is the law of nature, immovable.

Those who, while oppressed, follow the creed of "each sweep before his own door" behave exactly the opposite once they gain power and can oppress others: "No one sweeps before his own door, but everyone meddles in other people's affairs."

In the past twenty years, we have constantly seen: the military man is supposed to drill soldiers and fight — never mind whether for internal pacification or external defense; in any case, his "snow before his own door" is the military. Yet he meddles in education and appoints himself guardian of morality. The educator is supposed to run schools — whatever his results, his "snow before his own door" is the school system. Yet he goes to worship "living Buddhas" and promotes traditional Chinese medicine. The common man is drafted as a military porter, the Boy Scout goes door to door collecting donations. The leaders run riot above, the ant-people stumble about below — in the end, no one's doorstep is clean, and every roof is a mess.

That women bare their arms and calves seems to have stirred the hearts of the virtuous — I remember many who long demanded a prohibition, and indeed an official ban was enacted. Yet this year there suddenly comes: "Clothing that covers the body is sufficient — why drag it front and back, wasting cloth?... Given the severity of the times, the consequences are unthinkable." Thereupon the magistrate of Yingshan County in Sichuan ordered the Public Security Bureau to dispatch patrols to cut the lower portions off pedestrians' long garments. Long garments are indeed cumbersome; but to believe that not wearing them or cutting off the hem helps with "severe times" is a very special kind of economics. The Hanshu has a phrase: "to carry the constitution in one's mouth" — that is exactly what this means.

A certain type of person can only have the thoughts and vision of that type — he cannot see beyond his own class. This sounds again as though one were promoting the taboo word "class" — but the facts are as they are. That proverbs do not represent the opinion of the whole nation is precisely for this reason. The scholar of old considered himself omniscient; thus arose the bragging whopper "The scholar need not step out of doors and yet knows all under heaven," and the common people, believing it, gradually turned it into a proverb. In reality, however: "The scholar steps out of doors and still doesn't know what's happening in the world." A scholar has only a scholar's mind and a scholar's eyes; the affairs of the world he can neither see clearly nor think through clearly. At the end of the Qing, because they wished to "reform," various "talents" were sent abroad on inspection tours. Let us look at their travel notes today! What astonished them most was that in some museum a wax figure could play chess against a living person. Kang Youwei, the "Sage of the Southern Sea," the most distinguished of them all, toured eleven countries all the way to the Balkans and finally understood why "regicide" was so common abroad: because the palace walls were too low.

(June 13.)

Section 35

【Let Everyone Step Down One Level and See】

The "Reckoning with the Literary Book Reviews in Tushu Pinglun" in the first issue of Wenxue is a most entertaining and significant accounting. This Tushu Pinglun is not only "our sole review journal" but also the only united army of our professors and scholars. Yet in the literary section, reviews of translations and annotated editions occupy more than half — and besides all the reasons pointed out in the "Reckoning," there is one more crucial one: in our academic and literary world, most people are operating one level above their actual ability.

A proofreader must know the rules of typesetting on one hand and recognize many characters on the other. Yet looking at today's publications, "ji" and "si," "lu" and "cu," "la" and "ci" are indistinguishable in many eyes. Typesetting rules are properly the typesetter's business; since he ignores them, they fall on the proofreader's shoulders; if the proofreader also ignores them, they become nobody's business. The writer must also know his characters; yet in his prose, "zhan miao" is mistaken for "zhan li," "yi jing" is written as "yi jing"; "feichang wanyan" describes a murder from jealousy; "nian yi dingsheng" is meant to say someone is over sixty. As for translated and annotated books, they are naturally either "stiff translations" or mistranslations — and the effort to correct and reprove them fills half the literary section across nine issues of Tushu Pinglun: an irrefutable proof.

The appearance of these flawed books is of course largely due to people spotting market demand and rushing to capitalize; but it is also because those who are competent disdain to lower themselves to this laborious and poorly rewarded work. Otherwise, these translators should have stayed at university, diligently attending the professors' lectures. It is only because the capable have withdrawn in lofty self-regard, leaving the field empty, that minor soldiers now carry the commander's seal and disgrace the good name of translation.

But where have the competent translators and annotators gone? That goes without saying: they too have jumped up one level, becoming professors and scholars. "When there are no heroes in the world, upstarts become famous" — and so those who are really only fit to be students have exploited the vacuum and, under cover of the emptiness, transformed themselves into translators. By the same law, those who at best qualify as translators have occupied the professorial chairs and hold forth grandly. Professor Dewey has his pragmatism, Professor Babbitt his humanism — whoever imports a few scraps from their circles back to China is instantly transformed into a scholar who presumes to lecture all eight corners of the earth. Is this too not an irrefutable proof?

To clean up China's translation world, the best thing would be for everyone to step down one level — though whether they would all then truly be competent and content remains an open question.

(July 7.)

Section 36

Sand

Lately, educated people have frequently lamented that the Chinese seem like a tray of loose sand -- hopeless -- placing the blame for misfortune upon everyone. In truth, this is an injustice to the majority of Chinese. The common folk may be unschooled and perhaps cannot see things clearly, but when it comes to their own interests, they certainly know how to unite. In the past there were kneeling protests before incense, popular uprisings, and rebellions; today there are still petitions and the like. Their resemblance to sand is the result of having been "governed" successfully by their rulers -- in classical Chinese, this is called "administrative achievements."

Then is there no sand in China? There is, but it is not the common people -- it is the rulers, great and small.

People often say: "Rise in office and get rich." In reality these two things are not equal; one wants to rise in office only because one wants to get rich -- advancement is merely a path to wealth. Therefore officials depend on the court but are not loyal to it; yamen runners depend on their offices but do not protect them. When the chief issues a clean order, the underlings will certainly not obey -- they have their methods of "concealment." They are all grains of selfish sand: wherever they can fatten themselves, they do, and every grain is an emperor -- wherever it can lord over others, it does. Some translate the Russian Tsar as "Sand Emperor" -- to bestow this honorific upon such people would be most fitting. Where does the wealth come from? It is scraped from the common people. If the people could unite, getting rich would be troublesome -- so naturally one must devise every means to turn them into loose sand. Sand Emperors rule the common people, and thus all of China becomes "a tray of loose sand."

Yet beyond the desert there are still united people, and they march in "as if entering uninhabited territory."

This is the great upheaval of the desert. At such times, the ancients had two most apt metaphors: "The gentlemen become apes and cranes, the petty men become worms and sand." Those gentlemen either soar into the sky like white cranes or climb trees like monkeys -- "when the tree falls, the monkeys scatter" -- but there are always other trees, and they will certainly not suffer. What remains on the ground are the ants and sand of the common people -- one can trample and slaughter them at will; they could not even resist the Sand Emperors, so how could they resist those who vanquished the Sand Emperors?

Yet at precisely such times, there are those who take up pen and tongue to pose the common people a grave question: "How will the people fend for themselves?" and "How will the people bring this to a good end?" Suddenly they remember "the people," say nothing else, and demand only that the people fill the deficit once more -- is this not like demanding that a man bound hand and foot go catch a thief?

But this is precisely the backstop of the Sand Emperors' administrative achievements, the dying echo of the apes' cries and cranes' calls -- after lording it over others and fattening themselves, the last move that inevitably comes.

(July 12.)

Section 37

Letter to the "Literary Society"

Dear Editor:

In the second issue of Literature, Mr. Wu Shi wrote in "Hughes in China" the following opening passage: "Shaw is a celebrity, and it is fitting for our own celebrities to receive him; precisely because celebrity receives celebrity, Mr. Lu Xun and Dr. Mei Lanfang had a once-in-a-millennium opportunity to meet under one roof. But Hughes is not only not a celebrity in the eyes of our celebrities -- there is also the added scruple regarding his skin color!"

Indeed, I was not the only one who met Shaw, yet just for having seen him once I have been continuously ridiculed and reviled by literati great and small right up to the present; the most recent instance is this essay that lumps me together with Mei Lanfang on that account. But at that time it was the host who invited me. For this reception of Hughes, I received no notification whatsoever -- I knew neither the time nor the place -- so how could I have attended? Even if I had been invited and not come, there might have been other reasons, which ought to have been briefly investigated before the written execution commenced. Now, without even informing me, they reproach me for not attending, and from this absence conclude that I look down upon the black race. The author may believe this; readers unfamiliar with the facts can probably believe it too; but I myself cannot yet believe that I am such a calculating and contemptible person!

Slander and insult are routine matters to me; I find nothing strange in it -- I am accustomed. But that comes from tabloids, from enemies. Anyone with a modicum of discernment sees through it at once. Yet Literature bears a respectable banner, and I am one of its contributors -- why then fabricate facts out of nothing to mock me to such a degree? Could it be that they need a calculating, contemptible old man to dance upon the literary stage as well, for the audience's amusement and to provoke their nausea? I am confident I am not yet such a character -- I can still step down from this dreadful stage. Then, no matter how they slander or mock, there will be no contradiction between us.

I suspect Mr. Wu Shi is actually a pseudonym; he must be a celebrity himself, for even the reception of Hughes would hardly have admitted a non-celebrity. But if he differs from the foxes and rats of Shanghai's so-called literary world, then when launching a personal attack, he should at least assume some responsibility and reveal the name connected with his person, so that I may see his true face. This has nothing to do with politics and involves absolutely no danger, especially since we were once acquainted -- when meeting, one might even pretend to be exceedingly polite, who knows.

In closing, I demand that this letter be published in the third issue of Literature.

Lu Xun. July 29.

Section 38

On Translation

This year is "National Products Year," and aside from "American wheat," everything with the slightest whiff of foreignness is to be struck down. In Sichuan they are cutting the long robes off passersby on orders, while a generous gentleman in Shanghai, out of distaste for Western clothing, has remembered the traditional gown and riding jacket. Translation too has fallen on hard times, receiving the blanket titles of "stiff translation" and "chaotic translation." But among the "critics" I have seen, not a single one simultaneously demands "good translations."

Original creation is certainly more accessible and comprehensible to one's own countrymen than translation, yet with the slightest carelessness it too can develop the ailment of "stiff writing" and "chaotic writing" -- and this disease is far worse than in translation. Our cultural backwardness is undeniable; our creative power naturally cannot match that of the "foreign devils"; that our works turn out comparatively thin is inevitable, and moreover we must constantly learn from abroad. Therefore translation and original creation should be promoted equally; one must never suppress one side so that creation becomes the spoiled child of the moment, only to be weakened by the very indulgence.

Emphasizing translation as a mirror actually serves to promote and encourage original creation. But several years ago there were already "critics" attacking "stiff translation," scratching the crust off their old sores -- as scant as the musk on a plaster -- and because of this scarcity fancying themselves purveyors of rare treasures. And this wind has spread; many new commentators this year have begun to disparage the imported foreign goods. Compared with the military men buying aircraft en masse and the citizens donating desperately, the so-called "men of letters" are truly benighted figures.

I wish for China to have many good translators; if that is not possible, then I support "stiff translation." The reason is that China has many strata of readers and there are things that are not purely fraudulent -- perhaps someone will always absorb a little of it, which is more useful than an empty plate. And I myself have always been grateful for translation.

(August 2.)

Section 39

Preface to "The Passion of a Man"

The name "sequential pictures" is by now fairly well established and need not be changed; but properly speaking, they should be called "continuous pictures," for they are not "endless like a ring" but have a beginning and an end. The old Chinese "long scrolls" -- such as the "Endless Landscape of the Yangtze" or the "Illustrated Return Home" -- belong to the same category, except that they were joined into a single scroll.

The origins of this pictorial art reach very far back. The heroic deeds of kings carved into Egyptian stone walls, the scenes of the underworld depicted in the "Book of the Dead" -- these were already sequential pictures. Other peoples, ancient and modern, all have them, and there is no need to elaborate. They are extremely useful for the viewer, for at a glance one can roughly grasp the circumstances of the time -- quite unlike written words, which only the initiated can comprehend. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, many Western European artists liked to create such picture-works. The method of telling stories through pictures came somewhat later; the most prolific creator of such works was Frans Masereel. I believe this has a deep connection with cinema, for on one hand pictures replace the written story, and at the same time the sequence replaces the moving film.

Masereel was an opponent of the European War. By his own account he was born on July 31, 1889, in Blankenberge in Flanders, and had a very happy childhood because he played much and studied little.

The twenty-five pictures of this story contain not a single word of explanation. Yet we know at once: in a room containing nothing but table and chair, a woman has become pregnant; after giving birth she is expelled by others; she wanders the streets, eventually follows another man; her former child joins a gang of street urchins. Growing up, the boy is apprenticed to a carpenter, but the heavy labor is too much for a child -- he is kicked out like a stray dog. Driven by hunger he steals bread, is immediately caught by a policeman and thrown into prison. After his release he wanders the busy streets, yet finds work repairing roads. But the ceaseless swinging of the pickaxe brings fatigue; bad companions seize the opportunity -- he succumbs to temptation, goes to prostitutes, goes dancing. On his way home he repents, resolves to work in a factory and study books each morning; in this environment he at last encounters true comrades. But when workers and capitalists clash, he mounts the barricade, rallies the workers, and fights the capitalists -- spies reconnoiter from the front, soldiers and police crack down from behind, agents provocateurs sow discord, and he is arrested. Before the image of the crucified "Son of God" Jesus, this "Son of Man" is judged; the sentence is naturally death -- he stands there, waiting for the soldiers' bullets!

Jesus said that it is harder for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Yet the one who said this himself suffered the Passion. Today nearly all the rich men of Europe and America are followers of Jesus -- and the Passion has now fallen upon the poor.

This is what "The Passion of a Man" recounts.

August 6, 1933, Lu Xun.

Section 40

A Toast to "Taosheng"

That Taosheng has had such a long life -- when you think about it, it really is rather strange.

Three years ago and two years ago, the so-called writers still had their various associations and brandished their various literatures; last year these faded into obscurity, and this year most operate tabloids under pen names, peddling gossip. Where can so much gossip come from? So they fabricate rumors. The former so-called writers could at least still collaborate on potboiler novels; now they cannot even manage that -- they stuff it all in fragments into readers' minds, until gossip and scandal become their entire body of knowledge. The reward for these services, beyond their fees, is an "information bonus." "Hanging a sheep's head to sell dog meat" is a thing of the past -- now they are "selling human flesh."

Thus the publications and authors that do not "sell human flesh" themselves become merchandise to be sold. This is not surprising: China is an agricultural country, yet wheat must be ordered from America; only the sale of small children can be had for a few hundred copper coins a pound -- so the literati of an ancient civilization naturally have no choice but to sell their blood. Nietzsche said: "I love books written in blood!"

Yet Taosheng still endures -- this is what I mean when I say, "when you think about it, it really is rather strange."

This is a piece of good fortune and also a shortcoming. Looking at the present situation, publications whose existence is authorized or tacitly permitted are often met with head-shaking from a portion of people. Someone once commented on me: the mere fact that Lu Xun is still alive is proof enough that he is no good person. This is true -- from the Revolution of 1911 to the present, truly countless good people have been killed, only no one has ever kept an accurate account.

Taosheng frequently carries articles that fight bare-chested, battling to the death -- this temperament is the very opposite of my own and is not the reason for its survival. I believe the good fortune and also the shortcoming lies in its fondness for citing the ancients to prove the present, with a certain pedantic air.

On November 25, Taosheng indeed published a "Farewell Upon Suspension." It began: "On the afternoon of November 20, our publication was ordered to surrender its registration certificate." This is truly, as Kang Youwei put it, the "misfortune that my words have come true" -- is this not strange and yet not strange? Postscript on New Year's Eve, December 31.

Section 41

Shanghai's Young Girls

Living in Shanghai, wearing fashionable clothes is cheaper than dressing plainly. If you wear old clothes, the streetcar conductor won't stop where you ask, the park attendant will check your entrance ticket with particular zeal, and the doorman of a grand house or hotel will not let you use the main entrance. Hence some prefer to live in a tiny room, feeding bedbugs, yet that one pair of suit trousers must be pressed under the pillow every night so that the creases on both legs stay sharp day after day.

Yet even cheaper than that is the fashionable woman. This is most apparent in the shops: endless selecting, inability to decide -- and the shop assistants remain remarkably patient. But when it goes on too long, a certain prerequisite becomes necessary: bring along a touch of flirtatiousness and endure a few teasing remarks. Otherwise, one will eventually earn nothing but the standard cold stares.

Women accustomed to Shanghai life have long been clearly aware of this glory they possess, and at the same time they understand the dangers concealed within it. Therefore the expression displayed by every fashionable woman both entices and guards, both attracts and repels -- she resembles all kinsmen of the opposite sex and all enemies of the opposite sex; she is pleased and at the same time annoyed. This expression has infected even the underage girls: sometimes we see them shopping in a store, heads tilted, feigning petulance and slight anger, as if facing a formidable enemy. Naturally, the shop assistants can make the same teasing remarks to them as to grown women, and they too already understand the meaning of such teasing. In short: they are mostly precocious.

And yet we do indeed frequently read in the daily papers of the abduction of young girls and even the violation of minors.

It is not only the Demon King in "Journey to the West" who requires boys and virgin girls when eating people; among humans too, in the houses of the rich and powerful, young girls have always been used as material for service, for the gratification of lust, for demonstrations of loftiness, for seeking immortality, and as tonics -- just as when one tires of ordinary rich fare and craves suckling pig and tea buds. Today this phenomenon has already appeared among merchants and workers as well, but this is the result of people being unable to live properly.

But to put it briefly: in China, even the young girls have entered dangerous territory.

This peril makes them still more precocious; mentally they are already adults, physically still children. The Russian writer Sologub once depicted this type of girl: still children, but their eyes have already grown up. Our Chinese writers, however, have quite another, complimentary way of describing them: the so-called "dainty and exquisite."

(August 12.)

Section 42

Shanghai's Children

The area around North Sichuan Road beyond the concession boundary in Shanghai was desolate for half a year last year because of the fighting; this year it is bustling again. Shops have moved back from the French Concession, cinemas reopened long ago, and near the park one often sees couples strolling hand in hand -- something absent last summer.

But if one steps into the residential lanes, one sees chamber pots, food stalls, flies in swarms, and children in gangs -- violent commotion, abundant cursing, a chaotic little world. Yet on the main road, the eye catches only the confident, lively foreign children at play and on walks; Chinese children are almost invisible. They are not entirely absent, but because their clothes hang loose and their spirits are listless, they are pressed into the background by the others like shadows and fail to catch the eye.

In Chinese middle-class families, there are essentially only two methods of raising children. The first lets them run wild with no supervision at all -- cursing is permitted, hitting too; within the home or at the doorstep they are tyrants and despots, but once outside they are like spiders without a web, instantly helpless. The second smothers them day after day with coldness or scolding, even beating, until they become timid and cowed, like slaves, like puppets -- yet the parents call this prettily "obedient" and consider it an educational success. When these children are then released outdoors, they are like a small bird briefly let out of its cage -- unable to fly, to sing, to hop.

Now at last China also has picture books printed for children, whose protagonists are naturally children, yet the figures depicted either exude an air of brutal stubbornness, even resembling ruffians with their excessive mischief -- or they have bowed heads, hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and faces stiff as death: the so-called "good children." This is partly due to the artists' lack of skill, but they also take real children as models, and the pictures then serve in turn as models for children to imitate. Let us look at children's illustrations from other countries: the English are composed, the German robust, the Russian vigorous, the French handsome, the Japanese clever -- not a single one has the slightest trace of this Chinese exhaustion. The customs of a people can be read not only from poetry and prose, not only from paintings, but also from children's pictures that no one regards.

Wildness and dullness are both sufficient to make a people decline and perish. The circumstances of childhood are the destiny of the future. Our new people talk of love, of the small family, of independence, of enjoyment -- but very few raise the question of family education, school education, or social reform for their children. The previous generations, who knew only how to "be oxen and horses for their children and grandchildren," were certainly wrong; but to think only of the present, not of the future, and to "let one's children and grandchildren become oxen and horses" -- that is an even greater error.

(August 12.)

Section 43

One Year of Lunyu -- And Shaw Again

They say Lunyu has reached its first anniversary, and Mr. Yutang commands me to write an article. This is truly like being given the topic "The First Chapter of the Analerta" and asked to compose an eight-legged essay in vernacular. There is no help for it; I must simply start writing.

Frankly: what he advocates, I have always opposed. Previously it was "fair play"; now it is "humor." I do not care for "humor" and moreover believe it is a plaything that only a nation fond of round-table conferences can produce -- in China it cannot even be rendered in paraphrase. We have Tang Bohu, we have Xu Wenchang; and the most famous of all, Jin Shengtan: "Beheading is the greatest agony, yet Shengtan has encountered it unawares -- how extraordinary!" Whether this is sincere or jest, fact or rumor, no one knows. But in any case: first, it declares that Shengtan was no rebellious dissident; second, it transforms the butcher's cruelty into a general laugh, and the matter is closed. We have only such things, and they have nothing whatsoever to do with "humor."

Nevertheless, the Shaw Special Issue was good. It published articles that were refused elsewhere and revealed conversations that were deliberately distorted elsewhere -- to this day it keeps celebrities restless and petty officials resentful, who think of it even while eating and sleeping. How long they are hated and how many hate them -- that is the proof of its effectiveness.

Shakespeare may be the "Saint of Drama," but hardly anyone among us mentions him. During the May Fourth period, Ibsen was introduced and his reputation was still good; this year Shaw was introduced, and it was a disaster. To this day some stomachs are still rumbling.

Is it because he came smiling, and one could not tell whether it was a cold smile, a wicked smile, or a silly smile? No. Because his smile contained barbs that struck at others' sore spots? Not entirely. Levitan put it very clearly: because Ibsen is the great question mark and Shaw is the great exclamation mark.

Shaw did things differently: he made them take the stage, tore off their masks and fine clothes, then seized them by the ear and showed everyone: "Look -- these are maggots!" He gave them no time to negotiate or to cover up. At that moment, only those who had none of the ailments he pointed out could laugh -- the common people. In this respect Shaw was close to the common people, and precisely for this reason he was far from the upper classes.

This proves that there will be no "humor" in China.

(August 23.)

Section 44

The Crisis of the Familiar Essay

I seem to recall that a month or two ago I read in some daily newspaper an article about the death of a man described as a famous collector of "little ornaments." At the end there was a wistful sigh, as if with his death the last collector of such ornaments in China had departed.

Unfortunately I was not paying close attention at the time and have forgotten both the newspaper and the collector's name.

These ornaments were certainly never the property of the poor, but neither were they the furnishings of high officials or great merchants -- those wanted gem-encrusted bonsai and colorfully painted porcelain vases. They were merely the "elegant playthings" of the scholar-official class. One needed at least several dozen acres of fertile land outside, and several refined studies inside. But this world has since been tossed about by the perilous currents of the times, like a small boat in a tempest.

The demand for "little ornaments" in art -- that dream is already shattered. Yet the demand for the literary equivalent of "little ornaments" -- the familiar essay -- is growing ever more vigorous. Those who demand it believe that through soft whispers or gentle murmurs they can smooth the rough hearts of people. This is like hoping others will gaze absorbed at the Six Dynasties Anthology while one clings to the tip of a tree that barely pokes above the water after the Yellow River has burst its banks.

But at such times one needs only struggle and combat.

And the survival of the familiar essay too depends solely upon struggle and combat. The refined talk of the Jin Dynasty vanished long ago with its era. At the end of the Tang Dynasty, poetry declined, but the short essay blazed with brilliance. Yet Luo Yin's Book of Slander consisted almost entirely of resistance and indignation. The short prose works of the late Ming were by no means mere dalliance with wind and moon -- they contained resentment, satire, attack, destruction. This style also troubled the hearts of the Manchu emperors and ministers; it took the blades of many servile generals and the pens of many obsequious officials before it was finally suppressed during the Qianlong era. After that came the "little ornaments."

The familiar essay that would survive must be a dagger, a javelin, something that can hack a bloody path to survival together with the reader. Naturally, it can also give people pleasure and rest -- but this is not "ornament," still less consolation or narcosis: the rest it gives is recuperation, is preparation before labor and battle.

(August 27.)

Section 45

September 18th

Overcast sky, violent wind and rain at noon. The evening paper already has commemorative articles for the anniversary, using the storm as material. Tomorrow's dailies will surely contain a thousand more of the same. Empty words are no match for facts -- let us simply look at the news reports:

Dai Jitao Speaks on How to Save the Country (Central News Agency): Nanjing, September 18 -- The Presidential Office held a memorial assembly on the morning of the 18th... Dai spoke on "How to Save the Country," saying that on this second anniversary of September 18th, we should in deep sorrow seek ways to save the nation. There are many paths to national salvation: moral salvation, salvation through education, salvation through industry, and so forth...

Wu Jingheng Speaks on the Meaning of Commemoration (Central News Agency): Nanjing, September 18 -- The Central authorities held a memorial assembly at 8 a.m. on the 18th for the second anniversary of September 18th...

Canton Bans Public Demonstrations (Reuters): Canton, September 18 -- All offices and public organizations held memorial ceremonies for the September 18th National Humiliation Day this morning... However, a large public demonstration was banned by the authorities and could not take place.

But what about Shanghai? First the concessions: drizzle and gusts of wind -- all the more depressing. The whole city shows little of special note for September 18th; compared with last year, it seems somewhat more subdued... But this is not because the Chinese populace is growing numb; perhaps it is because they have realized that the past slogans and watchwords are not to be relied upon, and that the only way is to bury one's head and work hard.

And the Chinese quarter? For that one must read the report in the Da Wan Bao: Public Security on Alert -- The police bureau received secret reports that reactionary elements planned to use the national crisis commemoration as cover to secretly assemble ignorant workers and foment disorder... Red cars -- prisoner transport vehicles -- patrolled with armed police; the atmosphere appeared extremely solemn and imposing.

The "red car" is a prisoner transport; Chinese may ride in it, yet from the Chinese perspective, the scene appears "extremely solemn and imposing." Year after year such conditions are buried by time. What I write tonight shall serve as a commemorative piece -- and should the Chinese not be utterly exterminated, as a legacy for our descendants.

(Written this night.)

Section 46

Written by Chance

In the Shenbao of September 20th there was a news item from Jiashan County, which summarized reads: Shen Hesheng and his son Linsheng from Dayao Village were kidnapped by the bandit gang of Shitang Xiaodi, who demanded a ransom of 30,000 yuan. Since the Shen family was only of moderate means, the matter dragged on. Thereupon the bandits subjected Shen Hesheng, his son, and other kidnapping victims to the cruelest torture: they pasted cloth strips onto the back, smeared them with raw lacquer, and when the lacquer had dried somewhat, they peeled up one end of the cloth together with the skin -- the agony pierced marrow and soul, the screaming and pleading was unbearable to hear...

Reports of torture can constantly be read in local newspapers, but we feel them as "cruel" only at the moment of reading and soon forget them -- there are truly too many to remember. Yet methods of torture are never suddenly invented; they always have their tradition and lineage. What Shitang Xiaodi employed here is an old method from the novel The Story of the Loyal Yue Fei, where the villain Qin Hui tried to extort a false confession of treason from Yue Fei, using hemp strips and fish glue.

The inventors and refiners of torture are always tyrannical officials and despots -- this is their sole profession, and they also have the leisure to research it. Torture serves to intimidate the people and to eliminate traitors. But as Laozi aptly said: "If you create pecks and bushels to measure with, then pecks and bushels too will be stolen..." Slaves accustomed to torture know only that torture should be applied to people.

Yet regarding the effectiveness of torture, masters and slaves differ. The masters and their hangers-on are mostly knowledgeable; they can estimate what pain torture inflicts upon the enemy, and therefore refine it with care. But slaves are invariably ignorant; they cannot put themselves in another's place. Serafimovich describes in The Iron Flood how peasants kill the small daughter of a nobleman; the mother weeps heart-rendingly, but the peasant is bewildered: What is she crying about? So many of our children have died, and no one ever cried. He is not cruel -- he simply never knew that human life could be so precious, and he is astonished.

Those accustomed to torture as slaves know only that people are treated no differently from pigs and dogs. Those who profit from slaves and half-slaves have always feared only one thing: the slave revolt. And that is understandable.

(September 20.)

Section 47

Idle Thoughts

The autumn of the Paleozoic era in geology we can no longer clearly fathom, but today's autumn is probably not much different. If the autumn two years ago was severe, and this year's is melancholy, then the age of the earth would be even shorter than the lowest estimate of astronomers. Yet human affairs truly change fast, and the person caught in this change, especially the poet, feels a different autumn each time, transmitting this feeling in heroic or plaintive lines to all ordinary people, so that everyone may get through together and new poems may always exist in the world.

Two years ago the autumn truly seemed heroic: citizens donated money, young people sacrificed their lives, and from the poets' pens too came the sound of drums and bugles, as though they would indeed "throw down the pen and take up the sword." Yet the poets' sensitivity did not fail to register that the people stood barehanded; so they could only praise everyone's martyrdom, and beneath the heroism lay a certain emptiness.

War cries must sound at the front, at the time of advance -- they are meant to "rouse the spirit." But even then they weaken at the second call and die at the third. If they sound at a place where no advance is being prepared, they are entirely an elixir of dispersal, converting the tension of others into slackness. I have therefore compared it to "wailing for the dead" -- a device for escorting the dead, a conclusion to the funeral rites, after which the living may live contentedly and happily in another sphere.

But facts are even more merciless than criticism. In these brief two years, the former volunteer armies have been labeled "bandits," and some "anti-Japanese heroes" have long since retired to Suzhou; and even the donations have become problematic. On the September 18th anniversary, the Chinese quarter sees only prisoner transport vehicles following armed police on patrol, and these vehicles are by no means intended for the arrest of enemies or collaborators, but are thrones reserved for "reactionary elements" who "intend to cause disturbances."

A living person naturally always wants to keep living; even a genuine old-school slave fights on and endures in order to survive. Yet if one knows oneself to be a slave, and endures while being indignant, struggling, and simultaneously "intending" to break free and even attempting it -- even if one temporarily fails and is shackled again -- one is merely a slave. But if one finds "beauty" in slave life, praises it, caresses it, is intoxicated by it, then one is irredeemably a servile lackey -- one ensures that oneself and others remain forever in that life. It is precisely because this small difference exists among the enslaved that society has the difference between peace and unrest, and in literature the distinction between narcosis and combat shows itself clearly.

(September 27.)

Section 48

The Samadhi of Worldly Wisdom

The world of men is truly a hard place to navigate. To call someone "lacking in worldly wisdom" is certainly no compliment, but to call someone "deep in worldly wisdom" is equally unflattering. "Worldly wisdom" seems akin to the principle that "revolution must not be not-revolutionary, but also must not be too revolutionary" -- one must have it, but must not have too much.

Yet in my experience, those who earn the bad name of being "deep in worldly wisdom" do so precisely because they lack it.

Let me imagine offering a young person the following advice: If you encounter injustice in society, on no account step forward and speak a fair word, or the matter will land on your head, and you may even be labeled a reactionary. If you witness someone being wrongly accused or slandered, even if you know perfectly well that he is a good man, on no account step forward to explain or defend him -- otherwise they will say you are his relative or have received his bribes; if the person is a woman, you will be suspected of being her lover; if he is somewhat famous, then you are his partisan.

Best of all: do not ask about right and wrong, and simply agree with everyone; better still: do not open your mouth at all; and best of the best: do not even let your face show what your heart holds to be right or wrong.

This is the essence of the art of living: as long as the Yellow River does not reach your feet and the bombs do not fall beside you, one can guarantee a lifetime without setbacks. Yet I fear young people will not agree with me; and even the middle-aged and elderly may think I am corrupting their children. Alas, then my well-meaning advice has been in vain.

And yet: to claim that China is now a golden age like that of the legendary Emperors Yao and Shun would itself be a specimen of "worldly wisdom." What one sees with one's eyes and hears with one's ears -- a mere glance at the newspapers suffices -- reveals how much injustice exists in society, how much grievance people endure. Yet to all this, apart from occasional appeals from those in the same trade, same town, or same clan, one almost never hears the indignant voice of someone with no stake in the matter. It is plain: everyone keeps silent; or they consider it none of their business; or they do not even have the thought that it might concern them. To have become so worldly-wise that one no longer even notices how worldly-wise one is -- that is true worldly wisdom. That is the quintessence of the Chinese art of living.

But as with all that is said: once spoken, one is tangled in words and can no longer attain samadhi. He who speaks of the samadhi of worldly wisdom is already outside the samadhi of worldly wisdom. The true samadhi lies in acting, not speaking; yet the moment I say "acting, not speaking," I have again missed the true insight and am farther from samadhi than ever.

All wise ones -- comprehend the meaning in your hearts! Om!

(October 13.)

Section 49

A Family of Rumormongers

For the Double Tenth national holiday, a certain literary gentleman named Tang Zengyang published in the Shishi Xinbao a story about Hangzhou during the revolution. He says that at that time many Banner soldiers of the Manchu garrison were killed, the method of identification being that the Manchus pronounced "nine" as "gou"; so they were made to say "nine hundred and ninety-nine," and the moment they gave themselves away, the sword fell.

This sounds quite valiant and also quite entertaining. But unfortunately it is a rumor.

Among the Chinese, the people of Hangzhou are a relatively mild folk. During the reign of King Qian, the populace was squeezed so dry that they had not even trousers, covering their nakedness only with a tile -- yet still they went on paying tribute; apart from screaming like fawns when beaten, they had nothing to say. Naturally, this comes from Song records and may itself be a rumor. But that the last emperors of Song and Ming fled to Hangzhou with their decadent entourage and their gloom is a fact. In such an atmosphere, to expect bold fighting spirit from them -- difficult, difficult. To this day, the West Lake is mostly populated by languid dandys strolling about; even street brawls are rarer here than in eastern Zhejiang. In reality, there was no great slaughter. The revolutionary army besieged the garrison and fired into it; from inside they sometimes fired back. But the siege was not tight; an acquaintance of mine strolled outside during the day and went back into the garrison to sleep at night.

How then did disaster befall the Manchus? Through rumors. The Hangzhou Banner soldiers had always led a comfortable life by the West Lake and had become clever; when their stipends were cut, they had no choice but to do business -- some sold cakes, others vegetables. The Hangzhou people were polite and did not discriminate; business was not bad. But then the ancestral rumor arose: everything the Manchus sold contained poison. This immediately drove the Han Chinese away in terror. The result: the Manchus' cakes and vegetables found no buyers; they had to sell their furniture at the roadside. When the furniture was gone, everything was lost. Thus ended the Manchu garrison in Hangzhou.

A smile can conceal a knife, and a people that proclaims itself peace-loving also possesses weapons that kill without drawing blood -- namely, the fabrication of rumors. But in doing so, one harms both others and oneself, and everyone becomes confused.

The children of the rumor dynasty kill with rumors and are killed by rumors.

Sometimes I myself can no longer distinguish which statement is rumor and which is truth.

(October 13.)

Section 50

On Women's Liberation

Confucius said: "Only women and petty men are difficult to deal with -- draw near to them and they become insolent; keep away and they resent it." He put women and petty men in the same category, but whether this included his own mother, we do not know. Later Confucian scholars at least outwardly showed respect to mothers, yet even so, Chinese women as mothers continued to be despised by all men other than their own sons.

After the 1911 Revolution, the famous Ms. Shen Peizhen fought for the vote and is said to have kicked down the guard at the parliament entrance. However, I rather suspect he fell by himself -- if a man had kicked, the guard would have kicked back. That is one advantage of being a woman. Today there are various new professions for women; but apart from factory workers, who are gladly hired because of their low wages and obedience, most others are employed mainly because they are women -- hence on the one hand mocked as "flower vases," and on the other glorified in advertisements: "All service rendered by women." If a man wanted to rise so suddenly, his original manhood would not suffice -- he would have to transform himself into at least a dog.

Such is the record since the May Fourth Movement promoted women's liberation. Yet we still constantly hear the painful groans of working women and the sneers of critics toward women of the new type. They have left the boudoir and entered society, but in truth they have merely become new material for everyone's jokes and commentary.

This is because, though they are in society, they still depend on others to "support" them; and those who need to be "supported" must endure nagging and even insults. As long as the boundary between "supporting" and "being supported" is not abolished, this sighing and suffering will never disappear.

In this unreformed society, every individual novelty is merely a signboard; in reality everything is the same as before. If you cage a small bird or set it on a perch, its position may seem to have changed, but it is still just a plaything for others. Therefore I believe: unless women obtain equal economic rights with men, all fine-sounding terms are empty words.

Before true liberation comes struggle. But I do not mean that women should carry rifles like men, or nurse their children at only one breast and have men take over the other half. I only mean that one should not be complacent about the current temporary position, but ceaselessly fight for the liberation of thought, of economics, and so forth. To liberate society is also to liberate oneself. Naturally, it is also necessary to fight against the fetters that women alone bear.

I have not studied the women's question; if I must say a few words, these are the only empty words I have.

(October 21.)

Section 51

Fire

Prometheus stole fire for mankind and naturally violated the law of heaven -- he was banished to the underworld. But Suiren, the inventor of fire-drilling, seems to have committed no theft, for at that time the trees were still ownerless common property. Yet Suiren too has been forgotten, and to this day in China one sees temples to the Fire God but not a single one to Suiren.

The Fire God concerns himself only with setting fires, not with lighting lamps. Whenever there is a fire, he has a share in it. Therefore people make offerings to him, hoping he will cause less harm. But if he caused no harm -- would he still receive offerings? Think about it!

Lighting a lamp is too ordinary. From ancient times to the present, one has never heard of anyone becoming famous for lighting lamps, though humanity learned fire-making from Suiren five or six thousand years ago. Arson is a different matter. Emperor Qin Shi Huang set a great fire -- he burned books, not people; Xiang Yu set another fire upon entering the capital -- he burned the Epang Palace, not the houses of the common people. A certain Roman emperor, however, burned his citizens; and the medieval clergy burned heretics at the stake, sometimes doused with oil. These are all heroes of their respective ages. Today's Hitler is living proof. How could one not make offerings to them? Especially as the Fire God is outdone by each successive generation.

Lighting lamps is banal. Arson is magnificent. And so lamp-lighting is forbidden while arson is venerated. Do you not see the Hagenbeck Circus? They slaughter the plowing ox to feed the tiger -- that is simply the "spirit of the age."

(November 2.)

Section 52

On Reprinting Woodcuts

Masereel's four volumes of sequential pictures had not been published long before the daily papers carried all kinds of reviews -- a reception never before granted to an art book publication. This shows how closely the reading public follows this book. But the focus of discussion has shifted from last year: last year it was still about whether sequential pictures could count as art at all; now it is already about how easy or difficult these pictures are to understand.

Publishing lags behind criticism. In fact, the reproduction of Masereel's woodcuts is still only proving the one point that sequential pictures can indeed be art. Today's society has various strata of readers, and these four volumes are pictures for the educated stratum. Why then are many passages hard to understand? I believe it is due to differences in experience. If someone has already seen airplanes "saving the nation" or "laying eggs," they recognize them immediately in the pictures; but if one has never had the honor of attending such ceremonies, one will probably take them for kites or dragonflies.

Woodcuts are mainly small format, so reproductions do not diverge too greatly from the originals. But even this applies only to their introduction to the educated reading stratum. For serious art students, even zinc plate reproduction is insufficient. Lines too fine are easily lost on zinc plates; even coarse lines can turn out too thick or too thin depending on the duration of the acid bath, and in China there are still few master craftsmen who get it just right. For true fidelity, one must resort to collotype.

I printed the Shimintu in 250 copies by collotype -- the first experiment of its kind in China. Mr. Shi Zhecun wrote in the Torch supplement of the Da Wan Bao: "Perhaps it is like Mr. Lu Xun's collotype prints -- a private luxury edition that counts among rare books." He was mocking precisely this enterprise. I also heard a young man standing beside the "rare book" say that the statement "only 250 copies printed" was a lie -- surely many more had been printed, and the number was understated to drive up the price.

They themselves have never done such a laughable thing as a "private luxury edition," so this mockery is understandable. I resorted to collotype only because I wanted to offer art students the most faithful woodcut reproductions possible. But with collotype, only 300 prints can be made per plate; printing more requires a new plate. As a private individual, not a major publisher, I was naturally limited by finances and could print only one plate run. Fortunately the copies are nearly sold out, so there are indeed interested parties.

(November 6.)

Section 53

Preface to "The Art of Creative Woodcut"

Whether East or West, woodcut printing has always been done by division of labor: one person drew, another carved, a third printed. China used this technique the earliest, but as usual it had long since declined. When the Englishman John Fryer published the Gezhi Huibian in the mid-Qing era, Chinese woodcarvers could no longer cut the illustrations; the fine ones had to be imported from England. These were the so-called "end-grain woodcuts," also known as "reproductive woodcuts."

A few years ago I learned that in the West there is yet another kind: a print block created entirely by the artist alone -- the original image, which when executed on wood is called "creative woodcut." It is a direct creative work of the artist, without any assistance from carver or printer. This is what we wish to introduce here.

Why do we wish to introduce it? First, in my personal opinion, because it is fun. Speaking of fun may sound somewhat frivolous, but when we have been copying and writing for too long, everyone needs to rest their eyes -- usually one looks out the window at the sky for a while. How much better a picture on the wall would be! Those with the means to acquire masterpieces naturally have no need of this; otherwise a reduced reproduction is far inferior to an original woodcut -- faithful and inexpensive at once.

Second, because it is simple. Today gold is very expensive; if a young art student wants to paint a picture, canvas and paints cost a fortune. If the painting is finished but cannot be exhibited, one can only look at it oneself. The woodcut requires little money, just a few knives on a piece of wood -- and a creative work can come into being, much like seal carving. Once printed, one can give the same work to many people and let many share the joy of creation. In short: its capacity for dissemination is far greater than any other technique.

Third, because it is useful. Once woodcuts are used for magazine decoration, or as illustrations for literary or scientific books, they become common property -- this hardly needs explaining.

This is an art perfectly suited to present-day China.

Yet until now there has not been a single book on woodcutting -- this is the first. Though somewhat brief, it gives the reader an overview. From here the road ahead is broad. Subjects will grow richer, technique will become more refined; adopting new methods and adding China's traditional strengths, there is hope of opening a new path. When each artist then contributes their skill and insights, a brilliant light will ignite in China's woodcut world. This book may then be only a single spark, but it will have sufficient historical significance.

November 9, 1933, Lu Xun.

Section 54

The Secret of Writing

Now people are actually still writing to me asking for the secret of writing.

We constantly hear: the fencing master holds back one technique when teaching his students, for fear the student will kill him once he has learned everything and then proclaim himself master. In practice such things do indeed happen -- Feng Meng killed his master Yi, a precedent from ancient times. Feng Meng is remote, but this old-fashioned spirit has not died out, and later the "obsession with being first" was added -- though the imperial examinations have long been abolished, to this day one must always be "the only" and "the first."

Then there are doctors with secret prescriptions, cooks with secret methods, pastry shop owners with secret traditions -- to protect their livelihood, these are said to be passed only to the daughter-in-law, never to the daughter, lest they leak to another family.

"Secrecy" is an extremely common thing in China; even meetings about state affairs are always of "strictly secret content," and everyone remains ignorant. But writing apparently has no secret. If it did, every writer would bequeath it to his descendants -- yet hereditary writing dynasties are rare.

Then is there no secret to writing at all? Actually, there is. I once revealed a few words about the secret of classical prose style: the entire text must be sourced, yet not be a plagiarism of the ancients; everything must be written by oneself, yet not actually said by oneself -- "there is a cause for everything," yet "nothing can be proved." When one has achieved this, one is more or less safe from gross errors. In short, it amounts to nothing more than: "Lovely weather today, haha..."

That concerns content. As for style, there is also a secret: first, it should be hazy; second, hard to understand. The method: shorten sentences, use difficult characters. If, for instance, writing about the Qin Dynasty, one writes "Emperor Qin Shi Huang began to burn the books," this is not considered good style; one must rephrase it so that it is no longer clear at first glance. Then one needs the old dictionaries. One revises the sentence and it takes on an archaic air. Revise it further to "Zheng inaugurated the conflagration of the canons," and one achieves something approaching the tone of Ban Gu and Sima Qian -- though naturally it also becomes rather hard to understand. If one manages to compose an entire essay or even an entire book in this manner, one can be called a "scholar."

But there is also a counterpart secret, and that is "plain description."

"Plain description" has no secret. If one must name one, it is merely the opposite of obfuscation: genuine intent, no ornamentation, little artifice, no showing off.

(November 10.)

Section 55

The Esoteric Tradition of Trickery

The Chinese have a certain fondness for the bizarre and the eerie. They would rather watch an old tree glow than barley bloom -- though they have never seen barley bloom either. Thus freaks and deformities become prized newspaper material, displacing common biological knowledge. Recently I saw advertised a twin birth resembling a two-headed snake -- a fetus with two heads and four arms -- and a three-legged man, with a third leg growing from his lower belly. Certainly, there are freakish births and deformities, but nature has limited means: twins may be joined at back, belly, buttocks, or ribs, or even share a head, but never does the head grow at the rear; fingers may be fused, extra, or missing, but never does a third leg sprout alongside the two, like a "buy two, get one free" deal. Heaven truly cannot trick as well as man.

Yet man's trickery too has its limits. For the essence of trickery demands strict restraint, which is to say, suggestiveness. Once elaborated, the trick becomes clear but simultaneously constrained; therefore suggestion is deeper and more far-reaching -- but the effect is blurred by vagueness. "Every advantage has its disadvantage" -- therein lies the limitation I speak of.

In public denunciations, typically ten crimes are listed -- yet the result is usually ineffective. Ten crimes -- that is all there ever are, and whoever thinks to rouse attention by listing them is mistaken. Luo Binwang's famous indictment of Empress Wu -- the lines about her jealousy and intrigues -- surely cost him some effort, yet Wu Zetian is said to have merely smiled faintly upon reading it. Yes, exactly: so what? The thundering words of a public denunciation are often far weaker than whispers behind cupped hands -- for one is clear, the other unfathomable.

Understanding this, one also knows the method for statecraft: tell the multitude that one has a method, but on no account state clearly and plainly what it is. For once spoken, there are words, and words can be measured against deeds; therefore it is better to demonstrate unfathomability.

Trickery is an art and has effect, but it is limited. Therefore no one in history has ever accomplished great things through trickery.

(November 22.)

Section 56

The Family as China's Foundation

That China could brew its own liquor came earlier than growing its own opium, but today we see many people lying on their couches puffing clouds, while hardly anyone staggers through the streets like drunken foreign sailors. The ball-kicking of the Tang and Song dynasties has long been forgotten; the common entertainment is to shut oneself up at home and play Mahjong all night. From these two points it is clear: we are gradually retreating from the open air into the house.

Yet we are not content with the status quo either -- sitting in the confines of our small rooms, our spirits roam to the ends of the universe: the opium smoker enjoys his fantasies, the Mahjong player dreams of a good hand. Under the eaves we set off firecrackers to rescue the moon from the mouth of the Heavenly Dog; the sword immortal sits in his study, utters a sound, and a white beam kills the enemy a thousand miles away -- yet the flying sword always returns home and slips back into the original nostril, because it will be needed again next time. This is called: a thousand transformations, but always returning to the source. Hence the school is a place that draws children out of the family and educates them into members of society -- but when things become utterly unmanageable, it is still: "Return to the parents for strict supervision."

"The spirit and soul know no bounds!" A person becomes a ghost and should be freer to roam, yet the living burn a paper house for the ghost to dwell in; the wealthy even include a Mahjong table and an opium set. And immortality -- that is a great transformation, yet Lady Liu was so attached to her old home that she insisted the entire estate must ascend to heaven, chickens and dogs included, so she could go on keeping house, feeding the dogs, and tending the chickens.

Our ancestors and contemporaries certainly desire change, even acknowledge it -- as a ghost no escape, as an immortal even better -- yet they will not give up the old home even in death. I believe that gunpowder was used only for firecrackers and the compass only for reading the feng shui of graves -- the reason lies precisely here.

Today gunpowder has evolved into bombs and incendiary shells dropped from airplanes; yet we can only sit at home and wait for them to fall. Naturally, there are now plenty of people who sit in airplanes -- but they are not off to distant places; they just want to get home faster.

The family is our birthplace and also our place of death.

(December 16.)

Section 57

Preface to "The General Retreat"

In China, novels and the like have long been called "leisure books," and until about fifty years ago this was broadly true: those who toiled all day had no time for novels. Therefore anyone who read novels must have had leisure, and having leisure meant one did not have to toil too hard -- Cheng Fangwu once pronounced: "Having leisure means having money!" Indeed, from an economic standpoint, under the present system "leisure" is probably a form of "wealth." Yet even the poor loved novels; the illiterate went to teahouses to listen to storytellers, following even a hundred-chapter saga day by day. But compared with those who labored all day, they too still had relatively more leisure. Otherwise -- where would they have found the time for the teahouse and the money for the tea?

In Europe and America the novel was no different at first. Later life became harder; to make ends meet, people had less leisure and could no longer drift along so leisurely. Only occasionally did they still want to rest their minds with a book, yet they could no longer endure interminable prattle or waste time -- and so the short story had its lucky breakthrough. This trend from the Western literary world washed into China too with what the ancients called "European winds and American rains," so that after the "Literary Revolution," the fiction produced was almost exclusively short stories. However, the limited ability of authors to construct large works was also a major factor.

The protagonists too have changed. In old novels they were brave generals and shrewd advisors, chivalrous outlaws and corrupt officials, demons and immortals, beauties and geniuses; later, courtesans and their patrons, scoundrels and servants. In the short stories after the May Fourth Movement, it was mainly new intellectuals who took the stage, for they were the first to feel the swaying in the "European winds and American rains" -- yet they still carried the aura of the old heroes and geniuses. Now things are different again: everyone feels the swaying, and no one wants to hear only the fate of one special individual anymore.

This collection is a product of this era and shows a clear transformation: the characters are not heroes, the scenery is not romantic, yet it has opened China's eyes. I think the author writes about the factory less well than about the countryside -- but perhaps that is because I am more familiar with rural life, or perhaps the author is more familiar with rural life.

December 25, 1933, nighttime, Lu Xun.

Section 58

An Open Letter in Reply to Mr. Yang Cunren's Open Letter

Section 59

In the New Rulin Waishi, in the First Chapter, it merely says that the Master goes into battle wielding a great sword -- a satirical counterattack using the term as such. But the sentiments and attitude in the quoted passage are those of respectful affection for the Master. The meaning of the text is only that the Master's attack upon me through contemptuous hissing was perhaps a case of mistaking the enemy. After having the honor of reading the great work Letters Between Two Places, I wrote an introductory review; the tone there too was entirely respectful, without the slightest trace of abuse. Yet in My Vaccination, the Master seems to have mistakenly fired two or three cold arrows at me, particularly claiming that someone attacked his age. I myself never felt the Master was old, and that essay did not attack his age either -- the Master simply considers himself old. Bernard Shaw is older than the Master and his hair even whiter, yet Shaw is not old; how can the Master consider himself old?

Section 60

What follows here is my reply. Since it takes the form of a letter, it begins in the customary fashion:

Dear Mr. Cunren:

Your letter to me does not merit a reply. I do not in the least expect you to "submit inwardly," nor do you need my judgment, for the writings of the past two years have already drawn your portrait quite distinctly. Naturally, I will not believe the nonsense of the "ghost children," but I do not believe you either.

By this I do not mean that your words are the yapping of a lapdog; presumably you consider yourself forever sincere. Yet through the hasty twists and laborious evasions, you have become so entangled in contradictions that your words have become untenable and consequently lost their weight in the listener's ear. Your letter, for example, had even the slightest self-awareness been present, need never have been written.

Then there is the matter of the "three hisses." The incident did occur, but somewhat differently from the newspaper accounts. It was in a restaurant, during casual conversation, and when the talk turned to certain people's essays, I said: these all need only be dismissed with a hiss -- they are not worth refuting. You were among those people. My thought was: in your high-sounding "self-confession" you had openly acknowledged the purity of the peasants and the vacillation and selfishness of petty-bourgeois intellectuals -- and then you wanted to raise the banner of petty-bourgeois revolutionary literature, thereby slapping your own face.

As for the attitude you should take toward me henceforth: please do not forgive me on account of my supposedly imminent cessation of work "due to physiological reasons." The earth is young, it endures; hope lies in the future, and even now your banner can still be planted. This I can assure -- so work in peace.

Frankly, I believe that while you are a small peddler on the revolutionary market, you are not a swindler. What I mean by swindler: one type is the grandees of the period of national cooperation, who praised the Soviet Union and lauded communism -- and when the purge came, washed their hands in the blood of communist youth while remaining grandees; another type is the dashing warriors of revolution who toppled landlords and struck down corrupt gentry, extremely radical -- but at the first setback declared themselves "returned to the right path," cursed "bandits," killed comrades, equally radical. You, however, merely endeavored after your retreat from the revolutionary front to transform yourself into a "Third Party" person, in order to live somewhat better than a revolutionary. Since you did not make a major defection, you need only a little piecemeal repentance to defend yourself and secure your position as a "Third Party" -- which is actually rather useful to the rulers.

Honestly: you are not a failure, even though you feel squeezed. But there is no one who is not attacked as long as he lacks the immediate power to kill. Life may be toilsome, but compared with those who are killed and imprisoned, the difference is as between heaven and earth; and you can publish everywhere -- far more freely than the censored, suppressed, and banned writers on the other side.

Enough words; I close here. In summary: I shall, as before, by no means fabricate rumors or specifically attack you; but neither should you expect me to adopt a different attitude henceforth. Your "resentment" or "reverence" toward me -- I am utterly indifferent. And please do not forgive me on account of my upcoming retirement due to physiological reasons.

In reply, and with best regards.

Lu Xun. December 28, 1933.