Difference between revisions of "Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Jiwaiji shiyi"
| Line 1: | Line 1: | ||
| − | <div style="background-color: # | + | <div style="background-color: #003399; color: white; padding: 12px 15px; margin: 0 0 20px 0; border-radius: 4px; font-size: 1.1em;"> |
| − | [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works| | + | <span style="font-weight: bold;">Language:</span> [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH</span>]] · <span style="color: #FFD700; font-weight: bold;">EN</span> · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/de/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">DE</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/fr/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">FR</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/es/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ES</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/it/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">IT</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/ru/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">RU</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/ar/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">AR</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/hi/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">HI</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-en/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-EN</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-de/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-DE</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-fr/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-FR</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-es/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-ES</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-it/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-IT</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-ru/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-RU</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-ar/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-AR</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works/zh-hi/Jiwaiji_shiyi|<span style="color: #FFD700;">ZH-HI</span>]] · [[Lu_Xun_Complete_Works|<span style="color: #FFD700;">← Contents</span>]] |
</div> | </div> | ||
| − | = 集外集拾遗 = | + | |
| + | = Gleanings from the Collection Outside the Collection (集外集拾遗) = | ||
| + | |||
| + | Lu Xun | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 1 == | ||
*Nostalgia (Du Fu) | *Nostalgia (Du Fu) | ||
| Line 76: | Line 81: | ||
*Jin Lü Qu — Nostalgia | *Jin Lü Qu — Nostalgia | ||
*Lan Ling Wang — Nostalgia | *Lan Ling Wang — Nostalgia | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 2 == | ||
Mr. Mengzhen: | Mr. Mengzhen: | ||
| Line 90: | Line 97: | ||
Lu Xun, April 16 | Lu Xun, April 16 | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 3 == | ||
Lu Xun's Translation of the Prologue to "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" | Lu Xun's Translation of the Prologue to "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" | ||
| Line 431: | Line 440: | ||
== Appendix: Translator's Note == | == Appendix: Translator's Note == | ||
[Note: Lu Xun's original text includes a marker for a translator's afterword at this point, but the afterword text itself is not included in this section.] | [Note: Lu Xun's original text includes a marker for a translator's afterword at this point, but the afterword text itself is not included in this section.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 4 == | ||
Master Taiyan has suddenly taken to "urging the study of history" in order to "preserve our national character" from the lectern of the Education Reform Society's annual meeting — truly a passionate exhortation. But he neglected to cite one additional benefit: that as soon as one studies history, one discovers many things that have "existed since antiquity." | Master Taiyan has suddenly taken to "urging the study of history" in order to "preserve our national character" from the lectern of the Education Reform Society's annual meeting — truly a passionate exhortation. But he neglected to cite one additional benefit: that as soon as one studies history, one discovers many things that have "existed since antiquity." | ||
| Line 449: | Line 460: | ||
If one says that this absence of a "flogging decree" represents progress compared to the Song dynasty, then I too may be considered to have progressed from being a slave of another race to being a slave of my own race — a prospect that fills this humble subject with trembling delight beyond measure! | If one says that this absence of a "flogging decree" represents progress compared to the Song dynasty, then I too may be considered to have progressed from being a slave of another race to being a slave of my own race — a prospect that fills this humble subject with trembling delight beyond measure! | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 5 == | ||
== I == | == I == | ||
| Line 507: | Line 520: | ||
[Published on December 8, 1924, in the Beijing Newspaper Supplement.] | [Published on December 8, 1924, in the Beijing Newspaper Supplement.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 6 == | ||
Mr. Xiaoguan: | Mr. Xiaoguan: | ||
| Line 519: | Line 534: | ||
February 13, 1935, supplementary note. | February 13, 1935, supplementary note. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 7 == | ||
The day before the day before yesterday, I met "The Poetry Child" for the first time, and during our conversation, it came up that I might contribute something to the Literary Weekly. I thought to myself: if it need not be something bearing one of those grand titles of the literary world—poetry, fiction, criticism, and the like—where one must always put on a certain front to live up to the noble designation, but could instead be something casual, something akin to random reflections, then surely it should be easy enough. So I agreed on the spot. After that I frittered away two days doing nothing but eating my grain, and it was not until this evening that I sat down at my desk to prepare to write. To my dismay, I could not even think of a topic. Pen in hand, I looked around: a bookshelf to my right, a clothes trunk to my left, a wall in front, and a wall behind—none of them showed the slightest inclination to grant me any inspiration. Only then did I realize: catastrophe was already upon me. | The day before the day before yesterday, I met "The Poetry Child" for the first time, and during our conversation, it came up that I might contribute something to the Literary Weekly. I thought to myself: if it need not be something bearing one of those grand titles of the literary world—poetry, fiction, criticism, and the like—where one must always put on a certain front to live up to the noble designation, but could instead be something casual, something akin to random reflections, then surely it should be easy enough. So I agreed on the spot. After that I frittered away two days doing nothing but eating my grain, and it was not until this evening that I sat down at my desk to prepare to write. To my dismay, I could not even think of a topic. Pen in hand, I looked around: a bookshelf to my right, a clothes trunk to my left, a wall in front, and a wall behind—none of them showed the slightest inclination to grant me any inspiration. Only then did I realize: catastrophe was already upon me. | ||
| Line 541: | Line 558: | ||
January 1, 1925. | January 1, 1925. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 8 == | ||
Dear Mr. Wang Zhu, | Dear Mr. Wang Zhu, | ||
| Line 553: | Line 572: | ||
My own translation has also now gone to press, so China will have two complete translations. Lu Xun. January 9. | My own translation has also now gone to press, so China will have two complete translations. Lu Xun. January 9. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 9 == | ||
I am a lecturer — roughly equivalent to a professor. According to Mr. Jiang Zhenya's proposition, it would seem I too should not sign my name. But I have in the past published articles under several pseudonyms, only to be reproached by some for evading responsibility. Moreover, since this time my remarks carry something of an attacking posture, I have in the end signed my name — though even what I signed is not my real name; yet it is close enough to my real name that the flaw of exposing my lecturer's cloven hoof remains, and there is nothing to be done about it, so let it be. And to forestall any disputes, I must further declare: the Chinese ancients and moderns I have criticized are but a portion; many other perfectly fine ancients are not included! Yet the moment I say this, my miscellaneous jottings truly become the most tedious of things — trying to accommodate everyone is precisely how one renders oneself worthless. | I am a lecturer — roughly equivalent to a professor. According to Mr. Jiang Zhenya's proposition, it would seem I too should not sign my name. But I have in the past published articles under several pseudonyms, only to be reproached by some for evading responsibility. Moreover, since this time my remarks carry something of an attacking posture, I have in the end signed my name — though even what I signed is not my real name; yet it is close enough to my real name that the flaw of exposing my lecturer's cloven hoof remains, and there is nothing to be done about it, so let it be. And to forestall any disputes, I must further declare: the Chinese ancients and moderns I have criticized are but a portion; many other perfectly fine ancients are not included! Yet the moment I say this, my miscellaneous jottings truly become the most tedious of things — trying to accommodate everyone is precisely how one renders oneself worthless. | ||
| Line 559: | Line 580: | ||
[Published in the *Jingbao Supplement*, January 16, 1925.] | [Published in the *Jingbao Supplement*, January 16, 1925.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 10 == | ||
Mr. Tao Xuanqing is a painter who has devoted himself to quiet study for more than twenty years. In the interest of furthering his artistic cultivation, he came to this dull ochre city of Beijing only last year. By now he has over twenty works — some brought with him, some newly created — stored away in his own bedroom, unknown to anyone, save, naturally, a few people of his acquaintance. | Mr. Tao Xuanqing is a painter who has devoted himself to quiet study for more than twenty years. In the interest of furthering his artistic cultivation, he came to this dull ochre city of Beijing only last year. By now he has over twenty works — some brought with him, some newly created — stored away in his own bedroom, unknown to anyone, save, naturally, a few people of his acquaintance. | ||
| Line 567: | Line 590: | ||
March 16, 1925, Lu Xun. | March 16, 1925, Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 11 == | ||
Mr. Ke, | Mr. Ke, | ||
| Line 575: | Line 600: | ||
At the end, you declare that regarding my experience you "truly cannot fathom it even after a hundred ponderings." Well then — have you not just rescinded your own verdict? Once the verdict is rescinded, all that remains of your magnum opus is a handful of "Ah"s, "Ha"s, "Alas"es, and "Hey"s. Such noises may frighten a rickshaw puller, but they are powerless to preserve the national heritage — or indeed may bring further disgrace upon it. Lu Xun. | At the end, you declare that regarding my experience you "truly cannot fathom it even after a hundred ponderings." Well then — have you not just rescinded your own verdict? Once the verdict is rescinded, all that remains of your magnum opus is a handful of "Ah"s, "Ha"s, "Alas"es, and "Hey"s. Such noises may frighten a rickshaw puller, but they are powerless to preserve the national heritage — or indeed may bring further disgrace upon it. Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 12 == | ||
A certain Mr. Xiong, in a tone hovering between argument and personal letter, has expressed astonishment at my "shallow ignorance" and admiration for my courage. I, for my part, greatly admire the length of his essay. For now, I can only reply briefly. | A certain Mr. Xiong, in a tone hovering between argument and personal letter, has expressed astonishment at my "shallow ignorance" and admiration for my courage. I, for my part, greatly admire the length of his essay. For now, I can only reply briefly. | ||
| Line 593: | Line 620: | ||
In closing, I shall say a few more words "resolutely": I believe that if foreigners came to destroy China, they would merely teach you to stammer a few sentences in their language — they would certainly not encourage you to read more foreign books, for those books are what the conquerors themselves have read. But they would indeed reward you handsomely for reading more Chinese books, and Confucius would be venerated more than ever — just as under the Yuan and Qing dynasties. | In closing, I shall say a few more words "resolutely": I believe that if foreigners came to destroy China, they would merely teach you to stammer a few sentences in their language — they would certainly not encourage you to read more foreign books, for those books are what the conquerors themselves have read. But they would indeed reward you handsomely for reading more Chinese books, and Confucius would be venerated more than ever — just as under the Yuan and Qing dynasties. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 13 == | ||
From the correspondence of Mr. Zhao Xueyang (published in this supplement on March 31), I learn that a certain scholar, in response to my "Required Reading for Youth" answer, held forth to his students, saying: "He has read an enormous quantity of Chinese books. ... And now he refuses to let others read them. ... What can he possibly mean by that!" | From the correspondence of Mr. Zhao Xueyang (published in this supplement on March 31), I learn that a certain scholar, in response to my "Required Reading for Youth" answer, held forth to his students, saying: "He has read an enormous quantity of Chinese books. ... And now he refuses to let others read them. ... What can he possibly mean by that!" | ||
| Line 603: | Line 632: | ||
And now a separate and unrelated declaration. A friend tells me that a review of Yu Jun has appeared in the *Chenbao Supplement*, which mentions the passage from my "The Warrior and the Flies" published in *Popular Literature*. In truth, when I wrote that short piece, I was not referring to the present literary scene. By "warrior" I meant Dr. Sun Yat-sen and those martyrs who gave their lives for the nation around the time of the Republic's founding, only to be mocked and defiled by lackeys; by "flies" I naturally meant those lackeys. As for the literary scene, I feel there are as yet no warriors there; though among the critics some may indeed be men of undeserved reputation, they are not yet so loathsome as to resemble flies. I write all this out now, so as to forestall any misunderstanding. | And now a separate and unrelated declaration. A friend tells me that a review of Yu Jun has appeared in the *Chenbao Supplement*, which mentions the passage from my "The Warrior and the Flies" published in *Popular Literature*. In truth, when I wrote that short piece, I was not referring to the present literary scene. By "warrior" I meant Dr. Sun Yat-sen and those martyrs who gave their lives for the nation around the time of the Republic's founding, only to be mocked and defiled by lackeys; by "flies" I naturally meant those lackeys. As for the literary scene, I feel there are as yet no warriors there; though among the critics some may indeed be men of undeserved reputation, they are not yet so loathsome as to resemble flies. I write all this out now, so as to forestall any misunderstanding. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 14 == | ||
After the October Revolution of 1917, Russia entered the era of War Communism. The urgent demands of the time were iron and blood, and literature and art could truly be said to have been in a state of paralysis. Yet the Imaginists and Futurists attempted to stir into action and for a time seized the reins of the literary world. By 1921, the situation had changed entirely. Literature and art suddenly showed signs of life, and the most flourishing school was the Left-Wing Futurists. Their organ was a journal called *LEF* — an abbreviation formed from the initial letters of *Levy Front Iskusstv*, meaning "Left Front of the Arts" — devoted exclusively to the vigorous propagation of Constructivist art and literature of revolutionary content. | After the October Revolution of 1917, Russia entered the era of War Communism. The urgent demands of the time were iron and blood, and literature and art could truly be said to have been in a state of paralysis. Yet the Imaginists and Futurists attempted to stir into action and for a time seized the reins of the literary world. By 1921, the situation had changed entirely. Literature and art suddenly showed signs of life, and the most flourishing school was the Left-Wing Futurists. Their organ was a journal called *LEF* — an abbreviation formed from the initial letters of *Levy Front Iskusstv*, meaning "Left Front of the Arts" — devoted exclusively to the vigorous propagation of Constructivist art and literature of revolutionary content. | ||
| Line 615: | Line 646: | ||
Recorded by Lu Xun on the night of April 12, 1925. | Recorded by Lu Xun on the night of April 12, 1925. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 15 == | ||
Brother Gaoge: | Brother Gaoge: | ||
| Line 625: | Line 658: | ||
Xun, April 23rd | Xun, April 23rd | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 16 == | ||
Brother Yunru: | Brother Yunru: | ||
| Line 635: | Line 670: | ||
Xun | Xun | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 17 == | ||
Brother Peiliang: | Brother Peiliang: | ||
| Line 645: | Line 682: | ||
Xun [April 23rd] | Xun [April 23rd] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 18 == | ||
Brother Fuyuan: | Brother Fuyuan: | ||
| Line 667: | Line 706: | ||
Lu Xun. April 27th, at the Ash Shed. | Lu Xun. April 27th, at the Ash Shed. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 19 == | ||
Though *Folk Literature* calls itself folk literature, none of the issues printed so far contain any genuine work by common folk. All who hold the pen are still so-called "educated men." The common people are mostly illiterate — how could they produce literary works? A lifetime's joys and sorrows, anger and happiness, they carry with them to the grave. | Though *Folk Literature* calls itself folk literature, none of the issues printed so far contain any genuine work by common folk. All who hold the pen are still so-called "educated men." The common people are mostly illiterate — how could they produce literary works? A lifetime's joys and sorrows, anger and happiness, they carry with them to the grave. | ||
| Line 677: | Line 718: | ||
We don't know how to read. Suffered a great deal for it. In the twenty-ninth year of Guangxu. The twelfth day of the eighth month. I came to the capital. To sell pigs. I walked outside Pingze (i.e. Pingzemen) Gate. I said let me sit a while longer at the entrance to the Big Temple. Everyone laughed at me. People said I was a stupid eg (egg, i.e. a fool). I just didn't no (know). Up above somebody had wrote (written): Mosque (lit. "Qingzhen libai si," with wrong characters). I just didn't no (know). People hit and cursed me. Later I beat the pigs. Beat (made) the pigs stop eating. Xicheng Guo Jiu's pig shop. People at home offered me. One hundred and eighty silver dollars. Wouldn't sell. I said I was going to the capital to sell. Later I sold them. For one hundred and forty dollars. People at home all said I was no good. Later my. Mother-in-law (written: "Yue mu"). She only has one daughter. She has no students (meaning: sons). So she gave me money. Gave me one hundred and fifty silver dollars. Her daughter. Said to buy land. Bought eleven mu (acres, written: "mu" with wrong character) of land. (Original note: one plot of six mu and one of five mu, in the first year of the Republic, the twenty-fourth day of the third month.) Lost (written: "gave away") the six mu of land again. Later she gave money again. Gave two hundred silver dollars. I said (written with wrong character) to her. Let me do a little business. (Original note: She said good, I also said good. You just give the money.) She then — (a character is missing here) — one hundred silver dollars. I went to market to buy wheat (written: "mai" with wrong character). Bought ten *dan*. I started selling flour (written: "bai mian"). At Changxindian. There's a little business there. He ate the flour. Ate and ate and ate. One thousand four hundred and thirty-seven *jin*. (Original note: sold flour in the sixth year of the Republic.) Adding it up. Fifty-two dollars and seventy cents. Come New Year's. Not a single cent left. Changxindian. People there later. Gave (paid for) it all. Lujiao. Zhang Shishitou. What he ate. The flour money. He didn't pay. Thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. Her daughter says. You lost (threw away) all the money. You don't recognize (know) a single character. He says I have no way out (written with wrong character). Later. Our family's (i.e. my wife). She says wait until. Her son is grown. You'll see. My student (meaning: son) is grown now. Nine years old. Going to school. He'll turn out to be just the same (written with wrong character) as me. | We don't know how to read. Suffered a great deal for it. In the twenty-ninth year of Guangxu. The twelfth day of the eighth month. I came to the capital. To sell pigs. I walked outside Pingze (i.e. Pingzemen) Gate. I said let me sit a while longer at the entrance to the Big Temple. Everyone laughed at me. People said I was a stupid eg (egg, i.e. a fool). I just didn't no (know). Up above somebody had wrote (written): Mosque (lit. "Qingzhen libai si," with wrong characters). I just didn't no (know). People hit and cursed me. Later I beat the pigs. Beat (made) the pigs stop eating. Xicheng Guo Jiu's pig shop. People at home offered me. One hundred and eighty silver dollars. Wouldn't sell. I said I was going to the capital to sell. Later I sold them. For one hundred and forty dollars. People at home all said I was no good. Later my. Mother-in-law (written: "Yue mu"). She only has one daughter. She has no students (meaning: sons). So she gave me money. Gave me one hundred and fifty silver dollars. Her daughter. Said to buy land. Bought eleven mu (acres, written: "mu" with wrong character) of land. (Original note: one plot of six mu and one of five mu, in the first year of the Republic, the twenty-fourth day of the third month.) Lost (written: "gave away") the six mu of land again. Later she gave money again. Gave two hundred silver dollars. I said (written with wrong character) to her. Let me do a little business. (Original note: She said good, I also said good. You just give the money.) She then — (a character is missing here) — one hundred silver dollars. I went to market to buy wheat (written: "mai" with wrong character). Bought ten *dan*. I started selling flour (written: "bai mian"). At Changxindian. There's a little business there. He ate the flour. Ate and ate and ate. One thousand four hundred and thirty-seven *jin*. (Original note: sold flour in the sixth year of the Republic.) Adding it up. Fifty-two dollars and seventy cents. Come New Year's. Not a single cent left. Changxindian. People there later. Gave (paid for) it all. Lujiao. Zhang Shishitou. What he ate. The flour money. He didn't pay. Thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. Her daughter says. You lost (threw away) all the money. You don't recognize (know) a single character. He says I have no way out (written with wrong character). Later. Our family's (i.e. my wife). She says wait until. Her son is grown. You'll see. My student (meaning: son) is grown now. Nine years old. Going to school. He'll turn out to be just the same (written with wrong character) as me. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 20 == | ||
One frequently sees obituary notices in which the deceased is invariably styled "Imperially Enfeoffed Grand Master of Such-and-Such" or "Imperially Enfeoffed Lady of Such-and-Such." Only then did I realize that the citizens of the Republic of China, the moment they breathe their last, go and submit once more to the Qing dynasty. | One frequently sees obituary notices in which the deceased is invariably styled "Imperially Enfeoffed Grand Master of Such-and-Such" or "Imperially Enfeoffed Lady of Such-and-Such." Only then did I realize that the citizens of the Republic of China, the moment they breathe their last, go and submit once more to the Qing dynasty. | ||
One also frequently sees announcements soliciting poems for the birthday celebration of some Venerable Elder or Grand Matriarch of sixty or seventy years, whose sons are invariably men of wealth or returned students from abroad. Only then did I realize that once you have such a son, you yourself become—like "Mid-Autumn Without a Moon" or "Drinking Alone Beneath the Blossoms Until Greatly Inebriated"—nothing more than a topic for the composition of verse. | One also frequently sees announcements soliciting poems for the birthday celebration of some Venerable Elder or Grand Matriarch of sixty or seventy years, whose sons are invariably men of wealth or returned students from abroad. Only then did I realize that once you have such a son, you yourself become—like "Mid-Autumn Without a Moon" or "Drinking Alone Beneath the Blossoms Until Greatly Inebriated"—nothing more than a topic for the composition of verse. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 21 == | ||
I do not know the facts of the matter, but judging from what one reads in novels, the vicious madams of Shanghai's foreign concessions have a well-established procedure for coercing respectable women: starvation, then beatings. The result, barring those tortured to death or driven to suicide, is that not a single one fails to beg for mercy and submit. And so the madam does as she pleases, creating her world of darkness. | I do not know the facts of the matter, but judging from what one reads in novels, the vicious madams of Shanghai's foreign concessions have a well-established procedure for coercing respectable women: starvation, then beatings. The result, barring those tortured to death or driven to suicide, is that not a single one fails to beg for mercy and submit. And so the madam does as she pleases, creating her world of darkness. | ||
| Line 697: | Line 742: | ||
When I call her words dream-talk, I am still being charitable. Otherwise, Yang Yinyu would be utterly worthless -- to say nothing of the swarm of nameless maggots lurking behind the dark curtain! August 6th. | When I call her words dream-talk, I am still being charitable. Otherwise, Yang Yinyu would be utterly worthless -- to say nothing of the swarm of nameless maggots lurking behind the dark curtain! August 6th. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 22 == | ||
No matter how many years have passed since the death of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, there is, in truth, no need for commemorative essays. So long as this Republic of China -- which never existed before -- endures, it is his monument, it is his memorial. | No matter how many years have passed since the death of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, there is, in truth, no need for commemorative essays. So long as this Republic of China -- which never existed before -- endures, it is his monument, it is his memorial. | ||
| Line 711: | Line 758: | ||
This essay was first published on March 12, 1926, in the "Special Supplement Commemorating the First Anniversary of the Death of Mr. Sun Yat-sen" of the Beijing Guomin Xinbao. | This essay was first published on March 12, 1926, in the "Special Supplement Commemorating the First Anniversary of the Death of Mr. Sun Yat-sen" of the Beijing Guomin Xinbao. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 23 == | ||
The appearance of He Dian in the world must date back at least forty-seven years, as can be verified by the Supplementary Catalogue of the Shenbao Press from the fifth year of Guangxu. I came to know of its title only two or three years ago. I had made inquiries before, but never managed to obtain a copy. Now Bannong has punctuated and annotated it, and first showed me the printed proof, which truly delighted me. The only trouble is that I must write a preface, which -- rather like Ah Q drawing a circle -- makes my hand tremble somewhat. I am supremely inept at this sort of thing; even for an old friend's work, I still cannot bring myself to extol it lavishly, producing an essay of grand proportions that might render some trifling service to the book, the publisher, or the man. | The appearance of He Dian in the world must date back at least forty-seven years, as can be verified by the Supplementary Catalogue of the Shenbao Press from the fifth year of Guangxu. I came to know of its title only two or three years ago. I had made inquiries before, but never managed to obtain a copy. Now Bannong has punctuated and annotated it, and first showed me the printed proof, which truly delighted me. The only trouble is that I must write a preface, which -- rather like Ah Q drawing a circle -- makes my hand tremble somewhat. I am supremely inept at this sort of thing; even for an old friend's work, I still cannot bring myself to extol it lavishly, producing an essay of grand proportions that might render some trifling service to the book, the publisher, or the man. | ||
| Line 717: | Line 766: | ||
Idioms are different from dead classical allusions; most are the very marrow of the world as it is, and picking them up at will naturally lends a text extra vigor. Moreover, from these idioms, further threads of thought are drawn: since they spring from the seeds of worldly life, the flowers they bloom must also be flowers of worldly life. Thus the author, amid dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction, unfolds the living panorama of the human world -- or perhaps one might say he sees the entire living panorama of the human world as dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction. Even the passages of idle chatter often give one the sense of some tacit understanding, and one cannot help but break into a smile that does not come altogether easily. Enough. Being no doctoral figure, how dare I open the proceedings? Yet it is hard to refuse an old friend's entreaty, and I must put pen to paper. Since social obligations are unavoidable and there are methods for being tactful: I shall write only a short piece, so as to minimize any great offense. May 25th, the fifteenth year of the Republic of China. Respectfully composed by Lu Xun. | Idioms are different from dead classical allusions; most are the very marrow of the world as it is, and picking them up at will naturally lends a text extra vigor. Moreover, from these idioms, further threads of thought are drawn: since they spring from the seeds of worldly life, the flowers they bloom must also be flowers of worldly life. Thus the author, amid dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction, unfolds the living panorama of the human world -- or perhaps one might say he sees the entire living panorama of the human world as dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction. Even the passages of idle chatter often give one the sense of some tacit understanding, and one cannot help but break into a smile that does not come altogether easily. Enough. Being no doctoral figure, how dare I open the proceedings? Yet it is hard to refuse an old friend's entreaty, and I must put pen to paper. Since social obligations are unavoidable and there are methods for being tactful: I shall write only a short piece, so as to minimize any great offense. May 25th, the fifteenth year of the Republic of China. Respectfully composed by Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 24 == | ||
Russia's revolution of March 1917 could hardly be called a great tempest. It was not until October that the true storm came, roaring and shaking everything; all that was rotten and decrepit collapsed in a heap. Even musicians and painters were bewildered and at a loss; the poets, too, fell silent. | Russia's revolution of March 1917 could hardly be called a great tempest. It was not until October that the true storm came, roaring and shaking everything; all that was rotten and decrepit collapsed in a heap. Even musicians and painters were bewildered and at a loss; the poets, too, fell silent. | ||
| Line 761: | Line 812: | ||
July 21, 1926. Recorded by Lu Xun in Beijing. | July 21, 1926. Recorded by Lu Xun in Beijing. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 25 == | ||
After Russia's great transformation, I began seeing various commentaries by visitors. Some said the nobles suffered terribly -- that it was practically inhuman. Others said the common people had finally raised their heads, and the future was surely promising. Whether in praise or censure, the conclusions were often diametrically opposed. I think both are probably right. The nobles naturally had more cause for misery, and the common people had naturally raised their heads higher than before. The visitors, each following their own inclinations, told one side of the story. Recently, we hear that Russia is remarkably skilled at propaganda, but what one sees in Beijing's newspapers is just the opposite: the effort is largely devoted to depicting internal darkness and cruelty in the most vivid terms. This must be very alarming and horrifying to the citizens of a land governed by ritual propriety. But if one has read the literature produced by Russia under autocratic rule, one will understand that even if all those reports are true, there is nothing in them to wonder at. The Tsar's knout and gallows, his torture chambers and Siberia, were not the means to produce a people of supreme benevolence toward even their enemies. | After Russia's great transformation, I began seeing various commentaries by visitors. Some said the nobles suffered terribly -- that it was practically inhuman. Others said the common people had finally raised their heads, and the future was surely promising. Whether in praise or censure, the conclusions were often diametrically opposed. I think both are probably right. The nobles naturally had more cause for misery, and the common people had naturally raised their heads higher than before. The visitors, each following their own inclinations, told one side of the story. Recently, we hear that Russia is remarkably skilled at propaganda, but what one sees in Beijing's newspapers is just the opposite: the effort is largely devoted to depicting internal darkness and cruelty in the most vivid terms. This must be very alarming and horrifying to the citizens of a land governed by ritual propriety. But if one has read the literature produced by Russia under autocratic rule, one will understand that even if all those reports are true, there is nothing in them to wonder at. The Tsar's knout and gallows, his torture chambers and Siberia, were not the means to produce a people of supreme benevolence toward even their enemies. | ||
| Line 773: | Line 826: | ||
November 14, 1926, on a stormy night. Recorded by Lu Xun in Xiamen. | November 14, 1926, on a stormy night. Recorded by Lu Xun in Xiamen. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 26 == | ||
The topic of my talk today is "The Old Tune Has Been Sung Out." At first glance this may seem a trifle strange, but in truth there is nothing strange about it at all. | The topic of my talk today is "The Old Tune Has Been Sung Out." At first glance this may seem a trifle strange, but in truth there is nothing strange about it at all. | ||
| Line 831: | Line 886: | ||
Now I must also thank you all for the kindness of coming here today. | Now I must also thank you all for the kindness of coming here today. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 27 == | ||
The *Youxianku* [Record of a Journey to the Fairy Grotto] today survives only in Japan, in an old manuscript copy preserved at the Shōhei Academy. It is attributed to Zhang Wencheng, District Magistrate of Xiangle in Ningzhou. Wencheng was the courtesy name of Zhang Zhuo; using one's courtesy name in attributions was common practice among the ancients—just as the Jin dynasty's Chang Qu, in his *Huayang Guozhi*, signed one volume as "collected by Chang Daojiang." | The *Youxianku* [Record of a Journey to the Fairy Grotto] today survives only in Japan, in an old manuscript copy preserved at the Shōhei Academy. It is attributed to Zhang Wencheng, District Magistrate of Xiangle in Ningzhou. Wencheng was the courtesy name of Zhang Zhuo; using one's courtesy name in attributions was common practice among the ancients—just as the Jin dynasty's Chang Qu, in his *Huayang Guozhi*, signed one volume as "collected by Chang Daojiang." | ||
| Line 845: | Line 902: | ||
Lu Xun's note, the seventh day of the seventh month of the sixteenth year of the Republic of China [July 7, 1927]. | Lu Xun's note, the seventh day of the seventh month of the sixteenth year of the Republic of China [July 7, 1927]. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 28 == | ||
Gunpowder and the compass, invented by the ancient Chinese and now used for making firecrackers and practicing geomancy, were transmitted to Europe, where they were applied to guns and cannon and ocean navigation—and our erstwhile pupils gave the old master no end of trouble. There remains one more small case to settle, which, being harmless, has been all but forgotten. That is the woodcut. | Gunpowder and the compass, invented by the ancient Chinese and now used for making firecrackers and practicing geomancy, were transmitted to Europe, where they were applied to guns and cannon and ocean navigation—and our erstwhile pupils gave the old master no end of trouble. There remains one more small case to settle, which, being harmless, has been all but forgotten. That is the woodcut. | ||
| Line 865: | Line 924: | ||
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume One.] | [Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume One.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 29 == | ||
The twelve woodcuts in this collection are all selected from the British publications *The Bookman*, *The Studio*, and *The Woodcut of To-day* (edited by G. Holme). A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here. C. C. Webb is a celebrated modern British artist who has been teaching art at the Birmingham Central School since 1922. The first piece, *The Viaduct*, is a consummate large-scale picture, carved by a distinctive original method; one can almost count each individual stroke of his chisel. Viewed as a whole, it presents a pattern of exquisite luminous white markings on a field of pure black. In *The Farmyard*, the knife-work is largely similar. *Goldfish* reveals Webb's characteristic style more fully; it was recently given high praise by George Sheringham in *The Studio*. | The twelve woodcuts in this collection are all selected from the British publications *The Bookman*, *The Studio*, and *The Woodcut of To-day* (edited by G. Holme). A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here. C. C. Webb is a celebrated modern British artist who has been teaching art at the Birmingham Central School since 1922. The first piece, *The Viaduct*, is a consummate large-scale picture, carved by a distinctive original method; one can almost count each individual stroke of his chisel. Viewed as a whole, it presents a pattern of exquisite luminous white markings on a field of pure black. In *The Farmyard*, the knife-work is largely similar. *Goldfish* reveals Webb's characteristic style more fully; it was recently given high praise by George Sheringham in *The Studio*. | ||
| Line 888: | Line 949: | ||
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), January 26, 1929.] | [Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), January 26, 1929.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 30 == | ||
The temporary shifts and vogues in China's new literature and art are at times almost entirely governed by foreign booksellers. When a batch of books arrives, it brings a measure of influence with it. When the A. V. Beardsley album in the "Modern Library" entered China, its keen, piercing force galvanized nerves that had been dormant for years. Yet Beardsley's line was in the end too intense. Just at this juncture, the prints of Tsugutani Kōji were brought to China, and his tender, melancholy brush tempered Beardsley's cutting edge. This suited the hearts of modern Chinese youth even better, and so imitation of his work persists to this day. | The temporary shifts and vogues in China's new literature and art are at times almost entirely governed by foreign booksellers. When a batch of books arrives, it brings a measure of influence with it. When the A. V. Beardsley album in the "Modern Library" entered China, its keen, piercing force galvanized nerves that had been dormant for years. Yet Beardsley's line was in the end too intense. Just at this juncture, the prints of Tsugutani Kōji were brought to China, and his tender, melancholy brush tempered Beardsley's cutting edge. This suited the hearts of modern Chinese youth even better, and so imitation of his work persists to this day. | ||
| Line 920: | Line 983: | ||
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume Two.] | [Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume Two.] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 31 == | ||
In the sixth issue of *Morning Flowers* we published a short piece about the Norwegian writer Hamsun. Last year, Japan's *International Culture* classified him as a left-wing writer, but judging from several of his works, such as *Victoria* and *Hunger*, there is no shortage of aristocratic leanings in them. | In the sixth issue of *Morning Flowers* we published a short piece about the Norwegian writer Hamsun. Last year, Japan's *International Culture* classified him as a left-wing writer, but judging from several of his works, such as *Victoria* and *Hunger*, there is no shortage of aristocratic leanings in them. | ||
| Line 944: | Line 1,009: | ||
Published in the eleventh issue of *Morning Flowers Biweekly*, March 14, 1929. | Published in the eleventh issue of *Morning Flowers Biweekly*, March 14, 1929. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 32 == | ||
When we entered primary school, we saw a few small illustrations in our textbooks and thought them quite fine. But when later we first encountered the illustrations in foreign-language readers, we were astonished at their exquisite craftsmanship — what we had seen before could scarcely compare. The small pictures in English dictionaries, too, were remarkably delicate. All of these were examples of what was discussed earlier: "end-grain wood engraving." | When we entered primary school, we saw a few small illustrations in our textbooks and thought them quite fine. But when later we first encountered the illustrations in foreign-language readers, we were astonished at their exquisite craftsmanship — what we had seen before could scarcely compare. The small pictures in English dictionaries, too, were remarkably delicate. All of these were examples of what was discussed earlier: "end-grain wood engraving." | ||
| Line 960: | Line 1,027: | ||
[Published in the third fascicle of the first series of *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden: Morning Blossoms).] | [Published in the third fascicle of the first series of *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden: Morning Blossoms).] | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 33 == | ||
Most of the twelve woodcuts in this collection were selected from the British publications *The Woodcut of To-day*, *The Studio*, and *The Smaller Beasts*. A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here. | Most of the twelve woodcuts in this collection were selected from the British publications *The Woodcut of To-day*, *The Studio*, and *The Smaller Beasts*. A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here. | ||
| Line 978: | Line 1,047: | ||
Nagase Yoshirō studied sculpture at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts in Japan, then devoted himself energetically to printmaking and wrote a volume titled *For Those Who Study Printmaking*. "The Sunken Bell" is one of its illustrations, serving as an example of "end-grain wood engraving," further reproduced by the renowned engraver Kikuchi Taketsugu. Though reproduced yet again here, one can still perceive the subtle mastery of the arrangement of black and white. | Nagase Yoshirō studied sculpture at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts in Japan, then devoted himself energetically to printmaking and wrote a volume titled *For Those Who Study Printmaking*. "The Sunken Bell" is one of its illustrations, serving as an example of "end-grain wood engraving," further reproduced by the renowned engraver Kikuchi Taketsugu. Though reproduced yet again here, one can still perceive the subtle mastery of the arrangement of black and white. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 34 == | ||
Aubrey Beardsley (1872–1898) lived only twenty-six years; he died of consumption. Though his life was so brief, no artist — no artist in black and white — has won a more universal fame than he; nor has any artist influenced modern art so broadly. The first influence on Beardsley's early life was music; his true passion was literature. Apart from two months at an art school, he had no artistic training. His success was entirely self-taught. | Aubrey Beardsley (1872–1898) lived only twenty-six years; he died of consumption. Though his life was so brief, no artist — no artist in black and white — has won a more universal fame than he; nor has any artist influenced modern art so broadly. The first influence on Beardsley's early life was music; his true passion was literature. Apart from two months at an art school, he had no artistic training. His success was entirely self-taught. | ||
| Line 992: | Line 1,063: | ||
April 20, 1929 — The Zhaohua Society. | April 20, 1929 — The Zhaohua Society. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 35 == | ||
About thirty years ago, the Danish critic Georg Brandes traveled through Imperial Russia, wrote his *Impressions*, and exclaimed in wonder at the "black earth." And indeed, his observation proved true. From this "black earth," there grew one after another the exotic flowers and towering trees of culture, astonishing the people of Western Europe: first literature and music, then dance, and also painting. | About thirty years ago, the Danish critic Georg Brandes traveled through Imperial Russia, wrote his *Impressions*, and exclaimed in wonder at the "black earth." And indeed, his observation proved true. From this "black earth," there grew one after another the exotic flowers and towering trees of culture, astonishing the people of Western Europe: first literature and music, then dance, and also painting. | ||
| Line 1,012: | Line 1,085: | ||
February 25, 1930, at night. Lu Xun. | February 25, 1930, at night. Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 36 == | ||
Literature and art ought not to be things that only a select few of superior talent can appreciate; rather, they should be things that only a few who are congenitally deficient cannot appreciate. | Literature and art ought not to be things that only a select few of superior talent can appreciate; rather, they should be things that only a few who are congenitally deficient cannot appreciate. | ||
| Line 1,026: | Line 1,101: | ||
In short, producing a certain amount of literature and art at a level of popularization is indeed an urgent task of the present day. But if one envisions large-scale implementation, then the power of politics must come to its aid — one cannot walk on a single leg. Many a fine-sounding pronouncement is no more than a writer's way of consoling himself. | In short, producing a certain amount of literature and art at a level of popularization is indeed an urgent task of the present day. But if one envisions large-scale implementation, then the power of politics must come to its aid — one cannot walk on a single leg. Many a fine-sounding pronouncement is no more than a writer's way of consoling himself. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 37 == | ||
This play was translated from the English version by L. A. Magnus and K. Walter, *Three Plays of A. V. Lunacharski*. The original book is preceded by a joint introduction by the translators, which, compared with the brief biography by Owase Keishi included here, is detailed in some respects and summary in others, with quite different points of emphasis. A portion is now excerpted here for the reader's reference — | This play was translated from the English version by L. A. Magnus and K. Walter, *Three Plays of A. V. Lunacharski*. The original book is preceded by a joint introduction by the translators, which, compared with the brief biography by Owase Keishi included here, is detailed in some respects and summary in others, with quite different points of emphasis. A portion is now excerpted here for the reader's reference — | ||
| Line 1,050: | Line 1,127: | ||
The editor, June 1930, Shanghai. | The editor, June 1930, Shanghai. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 38 == | ||
The author of this book is a writer who has recently risen to fame. In Professor P. S. Kogan's *Literature of the Great Decade*, published in 1927, his name had not yet appeared, and we have been unable to obtain his autobiography. The biographical sketch at the beginning of this volume is translated from the appendix of the German anthology *Thirty New Storytellers of the New Russia* (*Dreißig neue Erzähler des neuen Russland*). The first three parts of *And Quiet Flows the Don* were translated into German by Olga Halpern and published just last year; at the time, the press carried introductions rather more detailed than the brief biographical note: | The author of this book is a writer who has recently risen to fame. In Professor P. S. Kogan's *Literature of the Great Decade*, published in 1927, his name had not yet appeared, and we have been unable to obtain his autobiography. The biographical sketch at the beginning of this volume is translated from the appendix of the German anthology *Thirty New Storytellers of the New Russia* (*Dreißig neue Erzähler des neuen Russland*). The first three parts of *And Quiet Flows the Don* were translated into German by Olga Halpern and published just last year; at the time, the press carried introductions rather more detailed than the brief biographical note: | ||
| Line 1,068: | Line 1,147: | ||
September 16, 1930. | September 16, 1930. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 39 == | ||
The novel *Cement* is a celebrated work by Gladkov and an enduring monument of new Russian literature. Regarding its content, Professor Kogan provided a concise account in his *Literature of the Great Decade*. He considered the novel to depict two social forces in conflict: the force of construction on the one hand, and the forces of regression, disorganisation, and the decadence of the past on the other. Yet the battle is fought not on the military front, but on the economic one. The great theme of the era has metamorphosed into a psychological question: the struggle of human consciousness against the forces that clash with economic recovery. The author tells of how, through titanic effort, damaged factories were made to function again and silent machines set back in motion. But alongside this story unfolds yet another — the story of the transformation of every order of human psychology. The machines emerge from darkness and stagnation, their flames illuminating the dim windowpanes of the factory. And with them, human intellect and emotion blaze into brilliance as well. | The novel *Cement* is a celebrated work by Gladkov and an enduring monument of new Russian literature. Regarding its content, Professor Kogan provided a concise account in his *Literature of the Great Decade*. He considered the novel to depict two social forces in conflict: the force of construction on the one hand, and the forces of regression, disorganisation, and the decadence of the past on the other. Yet the battle is fought not on the military front, but on the economic one. The great theme of the era has metamorphosed into a psychological question: the struggle of human consciousness against the forces that clash with economic recovery. The author tells of how, through titanic effort, damaged factories were made to function again and silent machines set back in motion. But alongside this story unfolds yet another — the story of the transformation of every order of human psychology. The machines emerge from darkness and stagnation, their flames illuminating the dim windowpanes of the factory. And with them, human intellect and emotion blaze into brilliance as well. | ||
| Line 1,076: | Line 1,157: | ||
The novel *Cement* has already been translated jointly by Dong Shaoming and Cai Yongshang, using the Cantonese transliteration; in Shanghai it is commonly called *shuimenting*; in earlier times it was also known as *sanhetǔ*. September 27, 1930. | The novel *Cement* has already been translated jointly by Dong Shaoming and Cai Yongshang, using the Cantonese transliteration; in Shanghai it is commonly called *shuimenting*; in earlier times it was also known as *sanhetǔ*. September 27, 1930. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 40 == | ||
Before this translation could finally meet its readers, it passed through a small but difficult history. | Before this translation could finally meet its readers, it passed through a small but difficult history. | ||
| Line 1,159: | Line 1,242: | ||
This naturally does not amount to any real "difficulty" — it is merely a handful of trifles. But the reason I have deliberately recounted these trifles is, in truth, that I wish the reader to know: under present conditions, it is no easy thing to produce a reasonably good book. Though this book is merely a translation of a novel, it was produced through the combined modest efforts of three people — one translating, one supplementing, one proofreading — and not one of the three harboured the least intention of amusing himself or of deceiving the reader under cover of the project. If the reader does not, upon finding that this book lacks the "smoothness" of *Peter Pan* or *Andersen's Fairy Tales*, close the volume with a sigh and go off to drink coffee; if, in the end, the reader is willing to read it through, and perhaps even to read it again, together with the preface and appendix — then the reward we receive will be quite sufficient. October 10, 1931. Lu Xun. | This naturally does not amount to any real "difficulty" — it is merely a handful of trifles. But the reason I have deliberately recounted these trifles is, in truth, that I wish the reader to know: under present conditions, it is no easy thing to produce a reasonably good book. Though this book is merely a translation of a novel, it was produced through the combined modest efforts of three people — one translating, one supplementing, one proofreading — and not one of the three harboured the least intention of amusing himself or of deceiving the reader under cover of the project. If the reader does not, upon finding that this book lacks the "smoothness" of *Peter Pan* or *Andersen's Fairy Tales*, close the volume with a sigh and go off to drink coffee; if, in the end, the reader is willing to read it through, and perhaps even to read it again, together with the preface and appendix — then the reward we receive will be quite sufficient. October 10, 1931. Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 41 == | ||
In the south they hold great assemblies all day long; in the north the beacon fires suddenly blaze. | In the south they hold great assemblies all day long; in the north the beacon fires suddenly blaze. | ||
| Line 1,179: | Line 1,264: | ||
Published February 11, 1931, in the first issue of the fortnightly *Crossroads*. | Published February 11, 1931, in the first issue of the fortnightly *Crossroads*. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 42 == | ||
General He Jian, sabre in hand, takes charge of education, | General He Jian, sabre in hand, takes charge of education, | ||
| Line 1,216: | Line 1,303: | ||
But pray, good sirs, do not cling too rigidly to my textbook, | But pray, good sirs, do not cling too rigidly to my textbook, | ||
Lest His Excellency take displeasure and call us reactionaries. | Lest His Excellency take displeasure and call us reactionaries. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 43 == | ||
The First Plenary Session is all astir -- suddenly debating who sold out the country. | The First Plenary Session is all astir -- suddenly debating who sold out the country. | ||
| Line 1,263: | Line 1,352: | ||
Rubbish! Rubbish! Utter dog's rubbish! Truly, how can there be such a thing! | Rubbish! Rubbish! Utter dog's rubbish! Truly, how can there be such a thing! | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 44 == | ||
—Lecture delivered on November 22 at the Second Campus of Peking University. I have not been here for four or five years and am not very familiar with the situation here; nor are you acquainted with my circumstances in Shanghai. So today I shall still speak on the literature of leisure-making and the literature of service. | —Lecture delivered on November 22 at the Second Campus of Peking University. I have not been here for four or five years and am not very familiar with the situation here; nor are you acquainted with my circumstances in Shanghai. So today I shall still speak on the literature of leisure-making and the literature of service. | ||
| Line 1,275: | Line 1,366: | ||
This state of service and leisure-making has persisted for a very long time. I do not advise anyone to immediately cast aside all of China's cultural heritage, for without it there would be nothing to read; literature that neither serves nor amuses is truly all too rare. Nowadays nearly all those who write are people of service and leisure. Some say that literary men are very noble; I do not believe they are unrelated to the question of earning a living. Yet I also think it does not matter if literature is related to that question—as long as one can, relatively speaking, refrain from serving and amusing. | This state of service and leisure-making has persisted for a very long time. I do not advise anyone to immediately cast aside all of China's cultural heritage, for without it there would be nothing to read; literature that neither serves nor amuses is truly all too rare. Nowadays nearly all those who write are people of service and leisure. Some say that literary men are very noble; I do not believe they are unrelated to the question of earning a living. Yet I also think it does not matter if literature is related to that question—as long as one can, relatively speaking, refrain from serving and amusing. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 45 == | ||
In Chinese poetry, the suffering of the lower classes is sometimes expressed. But painting and fiction are the opposite: by and large, they depict those people as exceedingly happy, saying they "know not, understand not, and follow the ways of the emperor," as tranquil as flowers and birds. Indeed, from the perspective of the educated class, the toiling masses of China belong in the same category as flowers and birds. | In Chinese poetry, the suffering of the lower classes is sometimes expressed. But painting and fiction are the opposite: by and large, they depict those people as exceedingly happy, saying they "know not, understand not, and follow the ways of the emperor," as tranquil as flowers and birds. Indeed, from the perspective of the educated class, the toiling masses of China belong in the same category as flowers and birds. | ||
| Line 1,287: | Line 1,380: | ||
March 22, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai. | March 22, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 46 == | ||
I have now been entrusted with the role of writing a brief introduction to this novel. The task is not an onerous one; I need only divide it into four sections and give a rough account. | I have now been entrusted with the role of writing a brief introduction to this novel. The task is not an onerous one; I need only divide it into four sections and give a rough account. | ||
| Line 1,303: | Line 1,398: | ||
4. As for the translator, I need say nothing more. His thorough command of Russian and his fidelity in translation are by now well known to present-day readers. The five illustrations are taken from the *Beginner's Series* edition, though I know nothing at all about the artist Ez (I. Gotz). Night of May 13, 1933. Lu Xun. | 4. As for the translator, I need say nothing more. His thorough command of Russian and his fidelity in translation are by now well known to present-day readers. The five illustrations are taken from the *Beginner's Series* edition, though I know nothing at all about the artist Ez (I. Gotz). Night of May 13, 1933. Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 47 == | ||
At the time when such writers as Turgenev and Chekhov were being greatly extolled by the Chinese reading public, Gorky received little attention. Even when an occasional translation or two appeared, it was only because the characters he depicted seemed peculiar, but on the whole no one found any great significance in his work. | At the time when such writers as Turgenev and Chekhov were being greatly extolled by the Chinese reading public, Gorky received little attention. Even when an occasional translation or two appeared, it was only because the characters he depicted seemed peculiar, but on the whole no one found any great significance in his work. | ||
| Line 1,319: | Line 1,416: | ||
May 27, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun. | May 27, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 48 == | ||
Suppose there were a man today who fancied himself a Huang Tianba, wearing a hero's topknot, dressed in a night-prowler's garb, with a single-edged sword of tinplate at his side, charging through towns and villages to rid the world of tyrants and right all wrongs—he would certainly be laughed to scorn, and judged either a madman or a fool, though still somewhat fearsome. But if he were exceedingly frail and always ended up being beaten himself, then he would be merely a laughable madman or fool; people would lose all their wariness, and rather enjoy watching him. The hero of *Don Quixote* (Vida y hechos del ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha) by the great Spanish writer Cervantes (Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1547–1616) is precisely someone who, though living in his own time, insists on practicing the ways of the ancient knights-errant; he persists in his delusion and finally dies in poverty and hardship, thereby winning the amusement and hence the affection of many readers, who pass his story along. | Suppose there were a man today who fancied himself a Huang Tianba, wearing a hero's topknot, dressed in a night-prowler's garb, with a single-edged sword of tinplate at his side, charging through towns and villages to rid the world of tyrants and right all wrongs—he would certainly be laughed to scorn, and judged either a madman or a fool, though still somewhat fearsome. But if he were exceedingly frail and always ended up being beaten himself, then he would be merely a laughable madman or fool; people would lose all their wariness, and rather enjoy watching him. The hero of *Don Quixote* (Vida y hechos del ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha) by the great Spanish writer Cervantes (Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1547–1616) is precisely someone who, though living in his own time, insists on practicing the ways of the ancient knights-errant; he persists in his delusion and finally dies in poverty and hardship, thereby winning the amusement and hence the affection of many readers, who pass his story along. | ||
| Line 1,371: | Line 1,470: | ||
October 28, 1933, Shanghai. Lu Xun. | October 28, 1933, Shanghai. Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 49 == | ||
To carve an image upon wood and print it on plain paper, that it may travel far and reach the multitude—this art did in truth originate in China. The printed Buddhist image obtained by the Frenchman Pelliot from the Thousand Buddha Caves at Dunhuang is, in the judgment of scholars, a work of the late Five Dynasties period, to which color was added in the early Song; it precedes the earliest German woodcut by nearly four hundred years. In Song printed editions, as we see from surviving medical texts and Buddhist scriptures, illustrations appear from time to time—some to distinguish objects, some to inspire faith—and thus the form of illustrated histories was established. By the Ming dynasty, the applications grew ever broader: novels and dramatic romances were regularly furnished with illustrations, some crude as lines drawn in sand, others fine as the grain of a split boot; there were also painting manuals, printed in successive overlays, their colors brilliant and dazzling, seizing the viewer's eye. This was the golden age of woodcut. The Qing dynasty favored textual scholarship and frowned upon ornament, and so this art went into decline. In the early Guangxu reign, Wu Youru, based at the Dianshi Studio, made illustrations for novels printed by Western methods; fully illustrated books enjoyed a considerable vogue, but fine woodcut engraving grew ever rarer, and survived only in New Year prints and everyday letter paper, gasping for breath. In recent years, even printed New Year pictures have been supplanted by Western methods and vulgar workmanship; the old images of the Mouse's Wedding and the Maiden Picking Flowers have vanished without a trace; letter paper too has gradually lost its old form without gaining any new inspiration, merely growing ever more coarse and debased. Peking has long been a gathering place for men of letters who cherish paper and ink; the old standards have not entirely fallen, and fine letter papers still exist. Yet, pressed by the times, decline is about to begin, and I, who love such things, am also much given to anxious foreboding. Therefore I searched the shops and stalls, selected the finest specimens, printed them from the original blocks, and compiled them into a book titled *The Beiping Letter Paper Album*. Herein one may see that the paper shops of the Guangxu era still merely took painting manuals of the late Ming or suitable small works by earlier masters and had them carved as letter papers, intended simply to please the eye; occasionally there were also works by artisan-painters, but these lacked elegance and were not worth looking at. Near the end of the Xuantong reign, Mr. Lin Qinnan's landscape letter papers appeared, seemingly marking the beginning of modern literati creating letter-paper designs expressly for this purpose, though I am not certain. After the Republic of China was established, Chen Shizeng of Yining came to Peking and at first made designs for inkstone cases and paperweights for the copper engravers, who carved them accordingly; the resulting ink rubbings were full of refined charm. Before long he extended his art to letter paper, and his talent burst forth abundantly—his brushwork was spare yet richly evocative, and he also took care to ease the engraver's labor at the knife, whereupon poetic letter paper entered a new realm. For at this point painter and engraver met in silent communion, joining forces in collaboration, and surpassed all predecessors. Not long after came Qi Baishi, Wu Daiqiu, Chen Banding, Wang Mengbai, and others, all masters of letter-paper painting, with engravers fully equal to them. After the xinwei year, one began to see several painters, each painting a different subject, gathering them into albums—the format was novel but the spirit dissipated, unlike the works of auspicious times past. Perhaps as the arts of writing are about to change, the way of letter paper will come to its end; future artists will surely have to break new paths and strive for renewal; as for gazing back upon the old country, that must await a more leisurely day. Though this is but a small book and records but trifles, the rise and fall of painting and engraving in one time and one place are amply contained within it; if it is not a grand monument in the history of Chinese woodcut, it may perhaps serve as an old garden of the minor arts, to be visited now and again by future antiquarians. | To carve an image upon wood and print it on plain paper, that it may travel far and reach the multitude—this art did in truth originate in China. The printed Buddhist image obtained by the Frenchman Pelliot from the Thousand Buddha Caves at Dunhuang is, in the judgment of scholars, a work of the late Five Dynasties period, to which color was added in the early Song; it precedes the earliest German woodcut by nearly four hundred years. In Song printed editions, as we see from surviving medical texts and Buddhist scriptures, illustrations appear from time to time—some to distinguish objects, some to inspire faith—and thus the form of illustrated histories was established. By the Ming dynasty, the applications grew ever broader: novels and dramatic romances were regularly furnished with illustrations, some crude as lines drawn in sand, others fine as the grain of a split boot; there were also painting manuals, printed in successive overlays, their colors brilliant and dazzling, seizing the viewer's eye. This was the golden age of woodcut. The Qing dynasty favored textual scholarship and frowned upon ornament, and so this art went into decline. In the early Guangxu reign, Wu Youru, based at the Dianshi Studio, made illustrations for novels printed by Western methods; fully illustrated books enjoyed a considerable vogue, but fine woodcut engraving grew ever rarer, and survived only in New Year prints and everyday letter paper, gasping for breath. In recent years, even printed New Year pictures have been supplanted by Western methods and vulgar workmanship; the old images of the Mouse's Wedding and the Maiden Picking Flowers have vanished without a trace; letter paper too has gradually lost its old form without gaining any new inspiration, merely growing ever more coarse and debased. Peking has long been a gathering place for men of letters who cherish paper and ink; the old standards have not entirely fallen, and fine letter papers still exist. Yet, pressed by the times, decline is about to begin, and I, who love such things, am also much given to anxious foreboding. Therefore I searched the shops and stalls, selected the finest specimens, printed them from the original blocks, and compiled them into a book titled *The Beiping Letter Paper Album*. Herein one may see that the paper shops of the Guangxu era still merely took painting manuals of the late Ming or suitable small works by earlier masters and had them carved as letter papers, intended simply to please the eye; occasionally there were also works by artisan-painters, but these lacked elegance and were not worth looking at. Near the end of the Xuantong reign, Mr. Lin Qinnan's landscape letter papers appeared, seemingly marking the beginning of modern literati creating letter-paper designs expressly for this purpose, though I am not certain. After the Republic of China was established, Chen Shizeng of Yining came to Peking and at first made designs for inkstone cases and paperweights for the copper engravers, who carved them accordingly; the resulting ink rubbings were full of refined charm. Before long he extended his art to letter paper, and his talent burst forth abundantly—his brushwork was spare yet richly evocative, and he also took care to ease the engraver's labor at the knife, whereupon poetic letter paper entered a new realm. For at this point painter and engraver met in silent communion, joining forces in collaboration, and surpassed all predecessors. Not long after came Qi Baishi, Wu Daiqiu, Chen Banding, Wang Mengbai, and others, all masters of letter-paper painting, with engravers fully equal to them. After the xinwei year, one began to see several painters, each painting a different subject, gathering them into albums—the format was novel but the spirit dissipated, unlike the works of auspicious times past. Perhaps as the arts of writing are about to change, the way of letter paper will come to its end; future artists will surely have to break new paths and strive for renewal; as for gazing back upon the old country, that must await a more leisurely day. Though this is but a small book and records but trifles, the rise and fall of painting and engraving in one time and one place are amply contained within it; if it is not a grand monument in the history of Chinese woodcut, it may perhaps serve as an old garden of the minor arts, to be visited now and again by future antiquarians. | ||
October 30, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun. | October 30, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 50 == | ||
Once something stirs a feeling, if I do not write it down at once, I forget it — because one grows accustomed. As a small child, the moment foreign paper came into my hands I would be struck by its rank, sheepish odor; now I feel nothing particular at all. The first sight of blood is disagreeable, but after a long sojourn in a district famed for its killings, one can behold even a severed head hanging in public without much surprise. This is because one is capable of growing accustomed. Seen in this light, for people — at least, for people of my sort — to go from being free men to being slaves would probably not be so very troublesome either. No matter what it is, one gets used to it. | Once something stirs a feeling, if I do not write it down at once, I forget it — because one grows accustomed. As a small child, the moment foreign paper came into my hands I would be struck by its rank, sheepish odor; now I feel nothing particular at all. The first sight of blood is disagreeable, but after a long sojourn in a district famed for its killings, one can behold even a severed head hanging in public without much surprise. This is because one is capable of growing accustomed. Seen in this light, for people — at least, for people of my sort — to go from being free men to being slaves would probably not be so very troublesome either. No matter what it is, one gets used to it. | ||
| Line 1,395: | Line 1,498: | ||
December 5. | December 5. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 51 == | ||
That I should have gradually acquired so many woodcuts by Soviet artists over the course of these three years is something I had not anticipated even myself. Around 1931, when I was preparing to proofread and print The Iron Flood, I happened to see in the magazine Graphika that Piskaryov had engraved illustrations for stories from this book, and I wrote to ask Brother Jinghua to seek them out. After much trouble, he met Piskaryov, and at last the woodcuts were sent; fearing they might be lost in transit, he even sent two identical sets. In his letter, Brother Jinghua wrote that the price of these woodcut prints was not small; yet there was no need to pay — the Soviet woodcut artists all said that Chinese paper was the finest for printing, and it would suffice to send them some. I looked at the paper on which The Iron Flood illustrations were printed and indeed it was Chinese paper — but a kind of Shanghai "chao-geng paper," made by collecting scraps of better-quality paper and re-pulping them. In China, apart from making account books, invoices, and bills, it has virtually no higher use. So I purchased a great variety of Chinese xuan paper as well as Japanese "Nishinouchi" and "Torinoko," and sent them in parcels to Jinghua, asking him to pass them on, with any surplus going to other woodcut artists. This single gesture yielded an unexpected harvest: two more rolls of woodcuts arrived — thirteen by Piskaryov, one by Kravchenko, six by Favorsky, one by Pavlinov, and sixteen by Goncharov. A third roll was lost by the postal service and could not be traced; I do not know whose works it contained. These five artists were all living in Moscow at the time. | That I should have gradually acquired so many woodcuts by Soviet artists over the course of these three years is something I had not anticipated even myself. Around 1931, when I was preparing to proofread and print The Iron Flood, I happened to see in the magazine Graphika that Piskaryov had engraved illustrations for stories from this book, and I wrote to ask Brother Jinghua to seek them out. After much trouble, he met Piskaryov, and at last the woodcuts were sent; fearing they might be lost in transit, he even sent two identical sets. In his letter, Brother Jinghua wrote that the price of these woodcut prints was not small; yet there was no need to pay — the Soviet woodcut artists all said that Chinese paper was the finest for printing, and it would suffice to send them some. I looked at the paper on which The Iron Flood illustrations were printed and indeed it was Chinese paper — but a kind of Shanghai "chao-geng paper," made by collecting scraps of better-quality paper and re-pulping them. In China, apart from making account books, invoices, and bills, it has virtually no higher use. So I purchased a great variety of Chinese xuan paper as well as Japanese "Nishinouchi" and "Torinoko," and sent them in parcels to Jinghua, asking him to pass them on, with any surplus going to other woodcut artists. This single gesture yielded an unexpected harvest: two more rolls of woodcuts arrived — thirteen by Piskaryov, one by Kravchenko, six by Favorsky, one by Pavlinov, and sixteen by Goncharov. A third roll was lost by the postal service and could not be traced; I do not know whose works it contained. These five artists were all living in Moscow at the time. | ||
| Line 1,469: | Line 1,574: | ||
Recorded on the night of January 20, 1934. | Recorded on the night of January 20, 1934. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 52 == | ||
On the night of January 20, 1934, when I wrote the postscript to The Jade-Attracting Collection, I quoted the autobiography that a woodcut artist had written for the Chinese — "Alekseev (Nikolai Vasilievich Alekseev). Graphic artist. Born in 1894 in the city of Morshansk in Tambov province. Graduated from the reproduction department of the Leningrad Academy of Fine Arts in 1917. Began printing works in 1918. Currently works for the Leningrad publishing houses: the 'Academy,' 'Gikhl' (State Literary Publishing Department), and the 'Writers' Publishing House.' | On the night of January 20, 1934, when I wrote the postscript to The Jade-Attracting Collection, I quoted the autobiography that a woodcut artist had written for the Chinese — "Alekseev (Nikolai Vasilievich Alekseev). Graphic artist. Born in 1894 in the city of Morshansk in Tambov province. Graduated from the reproduction department of the Leningrad Academy of Fine Arts in 1917. Began printing works in 1918. Currently works for the Leningrad publishing houses: the 'Academy,' 'Gikhl' (State Literary Publishing Department), and the 'Writers' Publishing House.' | ||
| Line 1,489: | Line 1,596: | ||
Recorded while ailing, March 10, 1936. | Recorded while ailing, March 10, 1936. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 53 == | ||
=== I === | === I === | ||
| Line 1,522: | Line 1,631: | ||
Old friends have scattered like clouds — | Old friends have scattered like clouds — | ||
I too am no more than a mote of dust! | I too am no more than a mote of dust! | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 54 == | ||
* Qian Qi (Tang dynasty): "Occasional Verses," five-character regulated verse | * Qian Qi (Tang dynasty): "Occasional Verses," five-character regulated verse | ||
| Line 1,549: | Line 1,660: | ||
* Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (After snow, the plum blossom shows its color and fragrance)," classical Chinese poem | * Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (After snow, the plum blossom shows its color and fragrance)," classical Chinese poem | ||
* Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (By the bamboo fence, green grass grows in rows)," classical Chinese poem | * Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (By the bamboo fence, green grass grows in rows)," classical Chinese poem | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 55 == | ||
: I | : I | ||
| Line 1,575: | Line 1,688: | ||
: December | : December | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 56 == | ||
What is called the "Weiming Series" does not mean "nameless anthology" — it simply means we had not yet settled on a name, and so this itself became the name, sparing us further agonizing. | What is called the "Weiming Series" does not mean "nameless anthology" — it simply means we had not yet settled on a name, and so this itself became the name, sparing us further agonizing. | ||
| Line 1,581: | Line 1,696: | ||
Grand ambitions we have none whatsoever. Our only wishes: for ourselves, that the printed copies sell out quickly so we can recoup the funds and print a second title; for our readers, that after reading they will not feel too thoroughly cheated. The above was said in December 1924. Now we have divided this into two parts. The "Weiming Series" is devoted exclusively to translations; separately we have established another series for the original works of authors who lack prestige, called the "Wuhe Congshu" [Motley Crew Series]. | Grand ambitions we have none whatsoever. Our only wishes: for ourselves, that the printed copies sell out quickly so we can recoup the funds and print a second title; for our readers, that after reading they will not feel too thoroughly cheated. The above was said in December 1924. Now we have divided this into two parts. The "Weiming Series" is devoted exclusively to translations; separately we have established another series for the original works of authors who lack prestige, called the "Wuhe Congshu" [Motley Crew Series]. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 57 == | ||
1. This journal publishes works, translations, and introductions pertaining to literature and the arts. Contributors write and translate according to their own interests and abilities, for the perusal of fellow enthusiasts. | 1. This journal publishes works, translations, and introductions pertaining to literature and the arts. Contributors write and translate according to their own interests and abilities, for the perusal of fellow enthusiasts. | ||
| Line 1,591: | Line 1,708: | ||
5. Each issue is priced at twenty-eight fen. For those who subscribe before November: half a volume (five issues) costs one yuan and twenty-five fen; a full volume (ten issues) costs two yuan and forty fen, supplementary issues included at no extra charge, postage included. Overseas subscribers pay an additional forty fen postage per half volume. | 5. Each issue is priced at twenty-eight fen. For those who subscribe before November: half a volume (five issues) costs one yuan and twenty-five fen; a full volume (ten issues) costs two yuan and forty fen, supplementary issues included at no extra charge, postage included. Overseas subscribers pay an additional forty fen postage per half volume. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 58 == | ||
Though our resources are meager, we wish to introduce foreign works of art to China, and also to reprint from China's past those forgotten designs and patterns still capable of being brought back to life. At times we resurrect old treasures that remain useful today; at times we excavate the foreign ancestral tombs of China's currently fashionable artists; at times we bring in brilliant new works from around the world. Each subscription period comprises twelve installments, each installment containing twelve plates, published in succession. Each installment costs forty fen; a subscription for one full period costs four yuan and forty fen. The catalogue is as follows: | Though our resources are meager, we wish to introduce foreign works of art to China, and also to reprint from China's past those forgotten designs and patterns still capable of being brought back to life. At times we resurrect old treasures that remain useful today; at times we excavate the foreign ancestral tombs of China's currently fashionable artists; at times we bring in brilliant new works from around the world. Each subscription period comprises twelve installments, each installment containing twelve plates, published in succession. Each installment costs forty fen; a subscription for one full period costs four yuan and forty fen. The catalogue is as follows: | ||
| Line 1,608: | Line 1,727: | ||
Published by the Chaohua Society. | Published by the Chaohua Society. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 59 == | ||
The prevailing spirit of speculation has driven from the publishing world those few who genuinely worked for the sake of literature and art. Even when such people occasionally appear, they soon either change course or fail. We are merely a handful of young people whose abilities are not yet sufficient, but we want to try once more. First, we are printing a small series on literature and art — the "Literary and Art Chain Series." Why "small"? That is a matter of our capacity; for now there is nothing to be done about it. But the editors we have engaged are editors willing to take responsibility, and the manuscripts we collect are reliable manuscripts. In short: our present intention is a good one — we simply wish to become a small series that will never deceive. As for grandiose schemes of "breaking the fifty-thousand-copy mark" — we would not dare. If only a few thousand readers would lend us their support, that would be the very best we could hope for. The titles already published are: | The prevailing spirit of speculation has driven from the publishing world those few who genuinely worked for the sake of literature and art. Even when such people occasionally appear, they soon either change course or fail. We are merely a handful of young people whose abilities are not yet sufficient, but we want to try once more. First, we are printing a small series on literature and art — the "Literary and Art Chain Series." Why "small"? That is a matter of our capacity; for now there is nothing to be done about it. But the editors we have engaged are editors willing to take responsibility, and the manuscripts we collect are reliable manuscripts. In short: our present intention is a good one — we simply wish to become a small series that will never deceive. As for grandiose schemes of "breaking the fifty-thousand-copy mark" — we would not dare. If only a few thousand readers would lend us their support, that would be the very best we could hope for. The titles already published are: | ||
| Line 1,620: | Line 1,741: | ||
4. *Noa Noa*, by Gauguin (France), translated by Luo Wu. The author was a fierce champion of French painting who, disgusted with so-called civilized society, fled to the savage island of Tahiti and lived there for several years. This book is a record of that time, describing the decline of so-called "civilized man" and how the pure and genuine savages were poisoned by these declining "civilized" people, along with the island's customs, manners, and myths. The translator is an unknown figure, but the quality of the translation is in no way inferior to that of famous names. With twelve woodcut illustrations. Now in press. | 4. *Noa Noa*, by Gauguin (France), translated by Luo Wu. The author was a fierce champion of French painting who, disgusted with so-called civilized society, fled to the savage island of Tahiti and lived there for several years. This book is a record of that time, describing the decline of so-called "civilized man" and how the pure and genuine savages were poisoned by these declining "civilized" people, along with the island's customs, manners, and myths. The translator is an unknown figure, but the quality of the translation is in no way inferior to that of famous names. With twelve woodcut illustrations. Now in press. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 60 == | ||
*Yiwen* [Translated Literature] has now been in publication for a full year. It still has a few readers. Now, owing to the sudden emergence of reasons that make continuation very difficult, we have no choice but to suspend publication for the time being. However, the materials already accumulated have cost the translators, proofreaders, and typesetters considerable effort, and most of these materials are by no means without merit. To abandon them henceforth would be truly regrettable. Therefore we have gathered them into one final volume, to serve as a closing issue and present to our readers — as a small token of our contribution, and also as a memento of farewell. | *Yiwen* [Translated Literature] has now been in publication for a full year. It still has a few readers. Now, owing to the sudden emergence of reasons that make continuation very difficult, we have no choice but to suspend publication for the time being. However, the materials already accumulated have cost the translators, proofreaders, and typesetters considerable effort, and most of these materials are by no means without merit. To abandon them henceforth would be truly regrettable. Therefore we have gathered them into one final volume, to serve as a closing issue and present to our readers — as a small token of our contribution, and also as a memento of farewell. | ||
A public statement from the members of the Yiwen Society. September 16th, Year 24 [1935]. | A public statement from the members of the Yiwen Society. September 16th, Year 24 [1935]. | ||
| + | |||
| + | == Section 61 == | ||
All the contents of this volume are essays on literary theory. The authors are masters of their fields, and the translators are renowned adepts — faithful and yet fluent, a combination without equal in our time. Among them, *On Realist Literature* and *Selected Essays of Gorky* are particularly monumental works. The other essays, too, are without exception excellent — sufficient to edify, sufficient to endure. The complete book runs to over six hundred and seventy pages, with nine collotype illustrations. Only five hundred copies have been printed, on fine paper with elegant binding: one hundred copies with leather spine and linen covers, gilt top edge, priced at three yuan and fifty fen per copy; four hundred copies in full cloth covers, blue top edge, priced at two yuan and fifty fen per copy. Mail orders incur an additional postage fee of twenty-three fen. Good books sell out quickly — those who wish to purchase should do so without delay. The second volume is also in press and is scheduled for publication within the year. Available at the Uchiyama Bookstore, at the end of North Sichuan Road, Shanghai. | All the contents of this volume are essays on literary theory. The authors are masters of their fields, and the translators are renowned adepts — faithful and yet fluent, a combination without equal in our time. Among them, *On Realist Literature* and *Selected Essays of Gorky* are particularly monumental works. The other essays, too, are without exception excellent — sufficient to edify, sufficient to endure. The complete book runs to over six hundred and seventy pages, with nine collotype illustrations. Only five hundred copies have been printed, on fine paper with elegant binding: one hundred copies with leather spine and linen covers, gilt top edge, priced at three yuan and fifty fen per copy; four hundred copies in full cloth covers, blue top edge, priced at two yuan and fifty fen per copy. Mail orders incur an additional postage fee of twenty-three fen. Good books sell out quickly — those who wish to purchase should do so without delay. The second volume is also in press and is scheduled for publication within the year. Available at the Uchiyama Bookstore, at the end of North Sichuan Road, Shanghai. | ||
| − | |||
| − | |||
| − | |||
| − | |||
Latest revision as of 11:42, 12 April 2026
Language: ZH · EN · DE · FR · ES · IT · RU · AR · HI · ZH-EN · ZH-DE · ZH-FR · ZH-ES · ZH-IT · ZH-RU · ZH-AR · ZH-HI · ← Contents
Gleanings from the Collection Outside the Collection (集外集拾遗)
Lu Xun
Section 1
- Nostalgia (Du Fu)
- Nostalgia (Wang Anshi)
- Nostalgia (Chao Yuezhi)
- Nostalgia (Zou Hao)
- Nostalgia (Zheng Gangzhong)
- Nostalgia (Li Zhengmin)
- Nostalgia (Lu You)
- Nostalgia (Zhao Fan)
- Nostalgia (Liu Kezhuang)
- Nostalgia (Shu Yuexiang)
- Nostalgia (Li Junmin)
- Nostalgia (Zheng Dong)
- Nostalgia (Zhang Yu)
- Nostalgia (Zhang Yu)
- Nostalgia (Li Shimian)
- Nostalgia (Wu Yubi)
- Nostalgia (Wu Xuan)
- Nostalgia (Zhang Ning)
- Nostalgia (Xie Fu)
- Nostalgia (Feng Yuanchong)
- Nostalgia (Zhang Yanxiu)
- Nostalgia (Zhang Zhu)
- Nostalgia (Shen Qin)
- Nostalgia (Jin Sangxian)
- Nostalgia (Hong Xiji)
- Nostalgia (Li Jian)
- Nostalgia (Shi Runzhang)
- Nostalgia (Yin Zheng)
- Nostalgia (Piao Yunmo)
- Nostalgia (Zhou Zhun)
- Nostalgia (Li Xisheng)
- Nostalgia, No. 105
- Nostalgia, No. 106
- Nostalgia, No. 107
- Nostalgia, No. 108
- Nostalgia, No. 109
- Nostalgia, Assembled Lines
- Nostalgia, One Poem
- Nostalgia, Six Poems
- Nostalgia, Three Poems
- Nostalgia, Two Poems
- Nostalgia, Twelve Poems
- Nostalgia, Four Poems
- Nostalgia, Ten Quatrains
- Nostalgia, Sixteen Rhymes
- Nostalgia, Matching Rhymes
- Nostalgia, Using the Rhyme Scheme of an Old Poem on the Shu Road
- Nostalgia, A Rhapsody
- Nostalgia, A Poem
- Nostalgia, Nine Poems
- Nostalgia, Thirteen Chapters of Verse
- Nostalgia, A Song
- Su Mu Zhe — Nostalgia
- Die Lian Hua — Nostalgia
- Mu Lan Hua Man — Nostalgia
- Yi Jian Mei — Nostalgia
- Huan Xi Sha — Nostalgia
- Yu Mei Ren — Nostalgia
- Shuang Tian Xiao Jiao — Nostalgia
- Ta Sha Xing — Nostalgia
- Wu Ye Ti — Nostalgia
- Man Jiang Hong — Nostalgia
- Tai Chang Yin — Nostalgia
- Chang Xiang Si — Nostalgia
- Jin Lü Qu — Nostalgia
- Lan Ling Wang — Nostalgia
Section 2
Mr. Mengzhen:
Your letter has been received. At present I have no other opinions regarding New Tide; should I think of something in the future, I shall be most willing to communicate it at any time.
It is good for each issue of New Tide to contain one or two articles of pure science. But in my view, there should not be too many; and it would be best if, no matter what, they always manage to prick a few needles at China's chronic ailments — for instance, a piece on astronomy that suddenly attacks the lunar calendar, or a physiology lecture that ends up assailing the traditional doctors. Nowadays, the venerable old gentlemen do not object when they hear someone say "the earth is elliptical" or "there are seventy-seven elements." If New Tide were filled with such articles, they might even secretly rejoice. (Many of them actively encourage the young to devote themselves exclusively to science and not to engage in polemics; the letter from Mr. Shi Zhiyuan in the correspondence section of issue three of New Tide seems also to have fallen for their trick.) What we should do instead is insist on being polemical, and moreover talk about science — talk about science while still being polemical — so that they still cannot rest easy, and we too can declare ourselves guiltless before the world. In sum, viewed through the eyes of the era of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, both talking science and being polemical are snakes — the former merely a green whip snake and the latter a viper; the moment a stick is at hand, both are to be beaten to death. Since this is so, it is naturally better to be the more venomous one. — But the snake itself is unwilling to be beaten, which naturally goes without saying.
The poetry in New Tide mostly describes scenes and narrates events, with little lyrical expression, so it is somewhat monotonous. It would be good if hereafter there could be more poems in quite different styles. Translating foreign poetry is also an important matter, but unfortunately this is very difficult.
"Diary of a Madman" is very immature and too rushed; from an artistic standpoint, it should not be so. Your letter says it is good — probably because at night, when all other birds have returned to their nests to sleep, the bat alone appears capable. I myself know that I am truly not a writer; my present clamoring is meant to rouse a few new creative writers — I think China must surely have geniuses, crushed beneath the weight of society — to break China's desolation.
"Snowy Night," "This Too Is a Person," and "Is It Love or Suffering?" (there is a small blemish at the beginning) in New Tide are all good. The novelists of Shanghai have never dreamed of anything like them. If things continue this way, creative writing has considerable hope. "Fan Wu" is very well translated. "Tui Xia" I really cannot compliment.
Lu Xun, April 16
Section 3
Lu Xun's Translation of the Prologue to "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" [Translator's note: This is Lu Xun's 1920 Chinese rendering of the Prologue (Vorrede) of Nietzsche's Also sprach Zarathustra, sections 1-10. The translation below is a back-translation from Lu Xun's Chinese, not a reproduction of Nietzsche's original. Where Lu Xun's interpretation diverges notably from Nietzsche's German, annotations are provided in brackets.]
One
When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his homeland and the lake of his homeland, and walked into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not grow weary. But at last his heart changed — one morning he rose together with the dawn, stepped before the sun, and spoke to it thus:
"You great star! What happiness would you have, if you did not have those whom you illuminate!
For ten years you have come to my stone cave: your light and your path would long since have grown weary, were it not for me, my eagle and my serpent.
But each morning we awaited you, took from you your overflow, and for this blessed you.
Behold! I am sated with my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey; I await the outstretched hands.
I would give, I would share, until the wise among men once more rejoice in their folly, and the poor once more rejoice in their riches.
For this I must descend to the depths: as you do in the evening, when you go behind the sea and still bring light to the underworld, you over-rich star!
I must, like you, go down [Note: Lu Xun renders Nietzsche's wordplay on 'untergehen' (to go down / to perish) literally as 'descend,' losing the double meaning], as these people call it — I must go down to them.
Then bless me, you tranquil eye, that can behold the greatest happiness without envy!
Bless this cup that wants to overflow; the water shall pour from it golden-glittering, carrying everywhere the reflection of your delight!
Behold! This cup wants to be empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become man again."
— Thus began Zarathustra's going-down.
Two
Zarathustra came down the mountain alone, and no one met him. But when he reached the forest, there suddenly stood before him an old man who had left his holy dwelling to seek roots in the forest. And the old man spoke thus to Zarathustra:
"This wanderer is no stranger to me: many years ago he passed through here. His name is Zarathustra, but he has changed.
Before, you carried your ashes up the mountain: now do you want to bring your fire into the valley? Do you not fear the punishment for arson?
Yes, I recognize Zarathustra — pure are his eyes, and in his mouth there is nothing disgusting hidden. Does he not walk like a dancer?
Zarathustra has changed, Zarathustra has become a child, Zarathustra is an awakened one: what do you want among the sleepers?
You lived in solitude as in the sea, and the sea bore you. Alas, you want to go ashore? Alas, you want to drag your body about again?"
Zarathustra answered: "I love mankind."
"Why," said the saint, "did I go into the forest and the wasteland? Was it not because I loved mankind too much?
Now I love God: mankind I do not love. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love of man would destroy me."
Zarathustra answered: "What did I say of love! I bring gifts to mankind."
"Give them nothing," said the saint, "rather take something from them and bear it together with them — that is most comfortable for them: if only it be comfortable for you too!
And if you want to give to them, give no more than an alms, and let them beg for it besides!"
"No," answered Zarathustra, "I do not give alms. I am not poor enough for that."
The saint laughed at Zarathustra and spoke thus: "Then see to it that they accept your treasures! They are suspicious of hermits and do not believe that we come to give.
Our footsteps sound too solitary through their streets. At night, when they lie in their beds and hear someone walking while the sun has not yet risen, they always ask themselves: where is this thief going?
Do not go to mankind, stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not be, as I am — a bear among bears, a bird among birds?"
"And what does the saint do in the forest?" asked Zarathustra.
The saint answered: "I make songs and sing them; when I make songs, I laugh, weep, and hum: thus I praise God.
With singing, laughing, weeping and humming I praise God, praise my God. But what do you bring us as a gift?"
When Zarathustra heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: "What could I give you! But let me go quickly, before I take something from you!" — And so they parted, the old man and the younger, laughing like two boys.
When Zarathustra was alone, he spoke thus to his heart: "How is this possible! This old saint in his forest has not yet heard that God is dead!" [Note: Lu Xun's Chinese breaks off the famous declaration with an exclamation mark, rendering it as "还没有听到这件事" (has not yet heard this thing), leaving the content — "God is dead" — unstated but implied.]
Three
When Zarathustra reached the nearest town adjoining the forest, he found many people gathered in the marketplace: for it had been announced that a tightrope walker would perform. And Zarathustra spoke thus:
I teach you the overman [Note: Lu Xun renders 'Übermensch' as '超人' (chaoren), literally 'super-person,' which became the standard Chinese term]. Man is a thing that shall be overcome — what have you done to overcome him?
All things hitherto have created something beyond themselves: yet you want to be the ebb of this great flood, and would rather go back to the animals than overcome man?
What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful disgrace. And that is precisely what man shall be to the overman: a laughingstock or a painful disgrace.
You have made the way from worm to man, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now man is more ape than any ape.
Whoever is the wisest among you is but a discord and hybrid of plant and ghost. But do I bid you become ghosts or plants?
Behold, I teach you the overman!
The overman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: the overman shall be the meaning of the earth!
I beseech you, my brothers, remain faithful to the earth and do not believe those who speak to you of otherworldly hopes! They are poisoners, whether they know it or not.
They are despisers of life, decaying and self-poisoned, of whom the earth is weary: let them be gone!
Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy, but God died, and thereupon these blasphemers died too. Now the most terrible thing is to blaspheme the earth, and to esteem the entrails of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!
Once the soul looked contemptuously upon the body: and then this contempt was the highest — the soul wanted the body lean, ghastly, and starved. Thus the soul thought to escape the body and the earth.
Oh, but this soul was itself lean, ghastly, and starved: and cruelty was the delight of this soul!
But you, my brothers, tell me: what does your body say about your soul? Is not your soul poverty and filth and wretched contentment?
Truly, man is a polluted stream. One must already be a sea to take in a polluted stream without becoming unclean.
Behold, I teach you the overman: he is this sea, in him your great contempt can be submerged.
What is the greatest thing you can experience? That is the hour of the great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness disgusts you, and likewise your reason and your virtue.
The hour in which you say: 'What good is my happiness! It is but poverty and filth and wretched contentment. But my happiness itself should justify existence!'
The hour in which you say: 'What good is my reason! Does it hunger for knowledge as the lion hungers for its food? It is but poverty and filth and wretched contentment!'
The hour in which you say: 'What good is my virtue! It has not yet made me rage. How weary I am of my good and my evil! All that is but poverty and filth and wretched contentment!'
The hour in which you say: 'What good is my justice! I do not see that I am fire and coal. Yet the just are fire and coal!'
The hour in which you say: 'What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross upon which he who loves man is nailed? But my pity is not a crucifixion.'
Have you spoken thus? Have you cried thus? Ah, that I might have heard you cry thus!
Not your sins — but your self-satisfaction cries to heaven; your stinginess even in your sins cries to heaven!
Where is the lightning that shall lick you with its tongue? Where is the madness that should be inoculated into you?
Behold, I teach you the overman: he is this lightning, he is this madness! —
When Zarathustra had spoken thus, one of the people cried out: "We have heard enough about the tightrope walker; now let us see him!" And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the tightrope walker, who thought the words concerned him, began his performance.
Four
But Zarathustra gazed at the people and was amazed. Then he spoke thus:
Man is a rope, fastened between animal and overman — a rope over an abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous shuddering and standing-still.
What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end; what can be loved in man is that he is a crossing and a going-down. [Note: Lu Xun renders 'Übergang und ein Untergang' as '又是' (and also is), losing Nietzsche's characteristic wordplay.]
I love those who do not know how to live except as those who go down, for they are the crossers.
I love the great despisers, for they are the great reverers, and arrows of longing for the other shore.
I love those who do not first seek a reason behind the stars to go down and to be sacrificed, but who sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth may one day belong to the overman.
I love him who lives only for knowledge, and who wants knowledge that the overman may one day live. And thus he wills his own going-down.
I love him who works and invents, only to build the house for the overman and to prepare for him the earth, animals, and plants: for thus he wills his going-down.
I love him who loves his virtue: for virtue is the will to go down and an arrow of longing.
I love him who does not keep back a single drop of spirit for himself, but wants his spirit to belong entirely to his virtue: thus as spirit he crosses the bridge.
I love him who makes of his virtue his inclination and his destiny: thus for the sake of his virtue he will live or will no longer live.
I love him who does not want too many virtues. One virtue is more than two, because it is a stronger knot on which destiny hangs.
I love him who is lavish with his spirit, who wants no thanks and gives no return: for he only gives and does not want to keep.
I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favor, and who then asks: am I a dishonest gambler? — for he wants to perish.
I love him who casts golden words before his deeds, and always does more than he promises: for he wills his going-down.
I love him who justifies the future and redeems the past: for he wants to perish in the present.
I love him who chastens his God because he loves his God: for he must perish by the wrath of his God.
I love him whose soul is deep even when wounded, and who can perish from a small experience: thus he gladly crosses the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so full that he forgets himself, and all things are in him: thus all things become his going-down.
I love him who has a free spirit and a free heart: thus his head is but the entrails of his heart, and his heart drives him to go down.
I love all those who are like heavy drops falling one by one from the dark cloud that hangs over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and as heralds they perish.
Behold, I am the herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called the overman. —
Five
When Zarathustra had said these words, he looked again at the people and was silent. "There they stand," he said to his heart, "there they laugh: they do not understand me, I am not the mouth for these ears.
Must one first shatter their ears so that they learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and preachers of repentance? Or do they believe only the stammerer?
They have something of which they are proud. What is it that makes them proud? They call it 'education' [Note: Lu Xun uses '教育' (jiaoyu, education), while Nietzsche uses 'Bildung' (culture/cultivation)]; it is what distinguishes them from the goatherds.
Therefore they dislike hearing the word 'contempt' applied to themselves. Then I shall speak to their pride.
Then I shall tell them of the most contemptible thing: but that is the last man."
And thus Zarathustra spoke to the people:
It is time for man to set himself a goal. It is time for man to plant the seed of his highest hope.
His soil is still rich enough. But one day this soil will be poor and exhausted, and no tall tree will be able to grow from it.
Alas! The time is coming when man will no longer shoot the arrow of his longing beyond man, and the string of his bow will have forgotten how to twang!
I tell you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos in you.
Alas! The time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas! The time of the most contemptible man is coming, who can no longer despise himself.
Behold! I show you the last man [Note: Lu Xun renders 'der letzte Mensch' as '末人' (moren), literally 'end-person' or 'final-person'].
"What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?" — thus asks the last man, blinking.
The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His race is as ineradicable as the flea; the last man lives longest.
"We have discovered happiness," say the last men, and they blink.
They have left the places where it was hard to live: for one needs warmth. One still loves one's neighbor and rubs against him: for one needs warmth.
Becoming sick and harboring suspicion are sinful to them: one walks carefully. A fool, whoever still stumbles over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams. And much poison in the end, for a pleasant death.
One still works, for work is entertainment. But one takes care that the entertainment does not strain.
One no longer becomes poor or rich: both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd and one herd! Everybody wants the same, everybody is the same: whoever thinks differently goes voluntarily into the madhouse.
"Formerly all the world was mad," say the most refined, and they blink.
One is clever and knows everything that has ever happened: so there is no end of mockery. One still quarrels, but one soon makes up — otherwise it spoils the stomach.
One has one's little pleasure for the day and one's little pleasure for the night: but one respects health.
"We have discovered happiness," say the last men, and they blink. —
Here ended the first speech of Zarathustra, which is also called "the Prologue": for at this point the shouting and merriment of the crowd interrupted him. "Give us this last man, O Zarathustra," they cried, "make us into these last men! We will make you a gift of the overman!" And all the people cheered and clucked their tongues. But Zarathustra grew sad, and said to his heart:
"They do not understand me: I am not the mouth for these ears.
Perhaps I have lived too long in the mountains, I have listened too much to the streams and trees: now I speak to them as to goatherds.
My soul is unmoved and bright as the morning mountains. But they think I am cold, and a mocker making dreadful jests.
Now they look at me and laugh: and as they laugh, they still hate me. There is ice in their laughter."
Six
But then something happened that made every mouth dumb and every eye wide. For the tightrope walker had begun his performance: he had stepped out of a small door and was walking on the rope, which was stretched between two towers, suspended above the marketplace and the crowd. But when he was at the midpoint of his way, the small door opened once more, and a brightly dressed fellow, like a buffoon, leapt out and followed the first with quick steps. "Forward, lame-foot," his terrible voice cried, "forward, lazy beast, smuggler, pale face! Do not let me tickle you with my heel! What are you doing between these towers? You belong inside the tower, you should be locked up — you are blocking the way for a better man!" — And with every word he came closer and closer: but when he was only one step behind him, something terrible happened that made every mouth dumb and every eye wide: — he uttered a shriek like a devil, and leaped over the man who was in his way. But when the other saw his rival win, he lost his head and the rope; he flung away his pole, and shot downward faster than the pole, a whirlwind of arms and legs, plunging into the depths. The marketplace and the crowd were like the sea when a storm drives the waves inward; they all surged and pushed in flight, and most of all where the body was about to crash down.
But Zarathustra stood still, and the body fell right beside him, disfigured and broken, but not yet dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. "What are you doing here?" he said at last. "I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he drags me to hell — will you prevent him?"
"On my honor, friend," answered Zarathustra, "all that you speak of does not exist: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body: now fear nothing more!"
The man looked up distrustfully. "If you speak the truth," he said, "then if I lose my life I lose nothing. I am hardly more than an animal that has been taught to dance by blows and meager food."
"Not so," said Zarathustra. "You have made danger your calling, and there is nothing contemptible in that. Now you perish of your calling: so I will bury you with my own hands."
When Zarathustra had said this, the dying man answered no more; but he moved his hand, as if seeking Zarathustra's hand in thanks.
Seven
Meanwhile evening had come, and the marketplace was shrouded in darkness; the crowd dispersed, for even curiosity and terror grow weary. But Zarathustra sat on the ground beside the dead man, lost in thought: thus he forgot the time. But at last night came, and a cold wind blew over the solitary one. Then Zarathustra rose and said to his heart:
"Truly, Zarathustra has made a fine catch today! He caught no man, but he did catch a corpse.
Uncanny is human existence, and still without meaning: a buffoon can be fatal to it.
I want to teach men the meaning of their existence: which is the overman, the lightning out of the dark cloud of man.
But I am still far from them, my mind does not speak to their minds. To men I am still something between a fool and a corpse.
Dark is the night, dark are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, you cold and stiff companion! I will carry you to the place where I shall bury you with my own hands."
Eight
When Zarathustra had said these things to his heart, he hoisted the corpse on his back and set out on his way. He had not yet gone a hundred steps when a man crept close to him and whispered in his ear — and behold! the one who spoke was the buffoon from the tower. "Leave this town, O Zarathustra," he said; "too many here hate you. The good and the just hate you, and they call you their enemy and their despiser; the believers of the true faith hate you, and they call you a danger to the multitude. It was your good luck that they laughed at you: and truly, you spoke like a buffoon. It was your good luck that you took up with the dead dog; when you debased yourself thus, you saved yourself for today. But leave this town — or tomorrow I shall leap over you, a living man over a dead one." And when he had said this, the man vanished; but Zarathustra continued on his way through the dark streets.
At the town gate he met the gravediggers: they held their torches to his face, recognized Zarathustra, and mocked him greatly. "Zarathustra is carrying off the dead dog! Excellent — Zarathustra has become a gravedigger! For our hands are too clean for this roast. Does Zarathustra want to steal the devil's meal? Good then! And good appetite! If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra! — He will steal both of them, he will eat both of them!" And they laughed among themselves and put their heads together.
Zarathustra said nothing to this and went his way. When he had walked for two hours, past forests and swamps, he heard the hungry howling of wolves, and he himself grew hungry. So he stopped at a lonely house in which a light was burning.
"Hunger attacks me," said Zarathustra, "like a robber. In the forests and swamps my hunger attacks me, and in the deep of night.
My hunger has strange moods. It often comes to me only after a meal, and today it did not come all day: where has it been?"
And so Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man appeared; he carried a lamp and asked: "Who comes to me and to my bad sleep?"
"A living man and a dead man," said Zarathustra. "Give me food and drink. I forgot them during the day. He who feeds the hungry refreshes his own soul: thus speaks the wise man."
The old man went away but came back at once and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. "This is a bad land for the hungry," he said; "that is why I live here. Animal and man come to me, the hermit. But bid your companion eat and drink too, he is wearier than you." Zarathustra answered: "My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him." "That does not concern me," said the old man grumpily; "whoever knocks at my house must also take what I offer. Eat, and fare you well!"
After that Zarathustra walked for another two hours, trusting to the road and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker and liked to look into the face of all who slept. But when the morning came, Zarathustra found himself in a deep forest, and no path was visible. He then placed the dead man in a hollow tree, at his head — for he wanted to protect him from the wolves — and lay down himself on the ground and moss. And at once he fell asleep, with a weary body but an unmoved soul.
Nine
Zarathustra slept a long time, and not only the dawn passed over his face but also the morning. But at last he opened his eyes: amazed, he looked into the forest and the stillness; amazed, he looked into himself. Then he rose quickly, like a seafarer who suddenly sees land, and he rejoiced: for he saw a new truth. And he spoke thus to his heart:
"A light has dawned upon me: I need companions, and living ones — not dead companions and corpses, which I carry with me wherever I wish.
I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves — and to the place where I want to go!
A light has dawned upon me: Zarathustra shall not speak to the crowd, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be shepherd and dog to the herd!
To lure many from the herd — for that I have come. The crowd and the herd shall be angry with me: Zarathustra wants to be called a robber by the shepherds.
I say shepherds, but they call themselves the good and the just. I say shepherds, but they call themselves the believers of the true faith.
Behold the good and the just! What do they hate most? Him who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker: — but he is the creator.
Behold the believers of all faiths! What do they hate most? Him who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker: — but he is the creator.
The creator seeks companions, not corpses, and not herds or believers either. The creator seeks fellow-creators, those who write new values on new tablets.
The creator seeks companions, fellow-harvesters: for everything about him is ripe for the harvest. But he lacks a hundred sickles: so he plucks the ears and is vexed.
The creator seeks companions, those who know how to whet their sickles. They will be called destroyers, despisers of good and evil. But they are the harvesters and celebrants.
Zarathustra seeks companions, Zarathustra seeks fellow-harvesters and fellow-celebrants: what has he to do with herds and shepherds and corpses!
And now, my first companion, rest in peace! I have buried you well in your hollow tree, I have protected you well from the wolves.
But I part from you, the time has come. Between dawn and dawn a new truth has come to me.
I shall not be shepherd, not gravedigger. Never again shall I speak to the crowd: this is the last time I have spoken to a corpse.
I want to join the creators, the harvesters, the celebrants: I want to show them the rainbow and all the stairs of the overman.
I shall sing my song to the solitary and to those in pairs; and whoever still has ears for unheard things, his heart shall be heavy with my happiness.
I go to my goal, I walk my way; I shall leap over the hesitant and the slow. Thus let my going be their going-down!"
Ten
Zarathustra spoke these words to his heart as the sun stood at noon: then he looked questioningly into the sky — for he heard the sharp cry of a bird above him. And behold! An eagle was sweeping through the air in wide circles, and on it hung a serpent, not as prey, but as a friend: for the serpent had coiled tightly around the eagle's neck.
"These are my animals!" said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart.
"The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun — they have come out to scout.
They want to find out whether Zarathustra is still alive. Truly, am I still alive?
I found it more dangerous among men than among animals. Zarathustra walks dangerous paths. May my animals guide me!"
When Zarathustra had said this, he recalled the words of the saint in the forest, sighed, and spoke thus to his heart:
"Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the ground up, like my serpent!
But I ask the impossible: so I ask my pride to always go together with my wisdom!
And if one day my wisdom should leave me — ah, it loves to fly away! — may my pride then fly together with my folly!"
— Thus began Zarathustra's going-down.
Appendix: Translator's Note
[Note: Lu Xun's original text includes a marker for a translator's afterword at this point, but the afterword text itself is not included in this section.]
Section 4
Master Taiyan has suddenly taken to "urging the study of history" in order to "preserve our national character" from the lectern of the Education Reform Society's annual meeting — truly a passionate exhortation. But he neglected to cite one additional benefit: that as soon as one studies history, one discovers many things that have "existed since antiquity."
Mr. Yiping is presumably not much given to studying history, which is why he treats the notion that excessive use of exclamation marks should be punishable as a piece of "humor" — meaning, surely, that such a punishment must be something unheard-of in this world. Yet he does not know that it has "existed since antiquity."
I myself do not study history at all, so I am quite unfamiliar with it. But I recall that during the Song dynasty's great purge of factionalists — perhaps it was the prohibition of Yuanyou scholarship — because several of the factionalists happened to be famous poets, the government's wrath extended to poetry itself, and a decree was issued forbidding everyone from writing poems, on pain of one hundred strokes! And we should note that this made no distinction as to whether the content was pessimistic or optimistic — even if optimistic, one still got one hundred strokes!
At that time, probably because Mr. Hu Shizhi had not yet been born, no one used exclamation marks in poetry. Had they done so, one would fear the penalty might have been a thousand strokes; and had those marks been placed after "Alas!" or "Oh my!", the sentence would surely have been ten thousand strokes; add the charge of being "reduced like bacteria, enlarged like cannonballs," and the minimum would have been a hundred thousand. Mr. Yiping's proposed punishment of a mere few hundred strokes and a few years' imprisonment is rather too lenient, with a suspicion of indulgence. But I know that if he were to become an official, he would certainly be a very magnanimous "father and mother of the people" — only, wanting to study psychology would not suit him very well.
But how did the ban on writing poetry come to be lifted? I am told it was because the emperor himself first wrote one, whereupon everyone else resumed writing too.
Unfortunately, China no longer has an emperor — only unexplosive cannonballs flying through the sky. Who is there to deploy these as-yet-unmagnified cannonballs?
Oh my! To the emperors of all those great empires that still possess an emperor, Your Imperial Majesties — please write a few poems, use some exclamation marks, and spare the poets of our humble country from punishment! Alas!!! This is the voice of a slave, I fear the patriots will say.
Indeed, that is correct. Thirteen years ago, I was in truth a slave of another race, and the national character is still preserved, so it "still exists today"; and because I do not much believe in historical progress, I fear it may "continue to exist hereafter" as well. Old habits will always show through. Are not several young critics in Shanghai already advocating "the regulation of literary men" and forbidding the use of "O flowers!" and "my beloved!"? Though they have not yet prescribed a "flogging decree."
If one says that this absence of a "flogging decree" represents progress compared to the Song dynasty, then I too may be considered to have progressed from being a slave of another race to being a slave of my own race — a prospect that fills this humble subject with trembling delight beyond measure!
Section 5
I
High up, high up in the sky a butterfly was soaring. He took pride in his beauty and his freedom, and especially in enjoying all the views that lay spread out beneath him.
"Come up here, up here!" he called out loudly to his brothers, who were always below him, flitting about among the trees on the ground.
"Oh no, we are sipping nectar and staying down here!"
"If only you knew how beautiful it is up here, with everything before your eyes! Oh, come, come!"
"Up there, are there also flowers with nectar that can nourish us?"
"From up here one can see all the flowers, and this enjoyment..."
"But do you have nectar up there?"
No, that was true — there was no nectar up there!
This objection silenced the poor butterfly below, who was growing weary...
Yet he wanted to remain in the sky.
He thought that being able to look down upon everything, with everything before his eyes, was very beautiful.
But the nectar... nectar? No, there was no nectar up there.
He grew weak, this poor butterfly. The beating of his wings only grew more sluggish. He descended, and his horizons only diminished...
But still he struggled...
No, it was no use — he sank lower and lower!...
"Ah, so you've finally come down here," his brothers cried out. "What did we tell you? Now come, come sip nectar like us, from the flowers we know so well!"
The brothers cried out like this and were pleased, thinking they were right, and not merely because they had no need for the beauty above.
"Come, and sip nectar like us!"
The butterfly only sank lower... he still wanted to... here was a cluster of flowers... had he reached it?... He was no longer merely sinking — he was falling! He fell beside the flower cluster, onto the road, onto the carriage track...
There he was trampled to pulp by a donkey.
II
High up, high up in the sky a butterfly was soaring. He took pride in his beauty and his freedom, and especially in enjoying all the views that lay spread out beneath him.
He called out to his brothers, urging them to come up, but they refused, for they would not leave the nectar below.
He, however, did not wish to stay below, for he feared being trampled to pulp by clip-clopping hooves.
In the meantime, having the same need for nectar as the other butterflies, he flew to a mountain where beautiful flowers grew, and which was too steep for any donkey.
And whenever he caught sight of one of his brothers below venturing too close to the ruts in the road — the place where many a fallen butterfly had been trampled — he did his utmost to warn them with the beating of his wings.
Yet this went unheeded. His brothers below did not notice the butterfly on the mountain at all, for they were busy gathering nectar in the valley floor and did not know that flowers also grew on the mountain.
(Translated from "Ideen," 1862.)
[Published on December 8, 1924, in the Beijing Newspaper Supplement.]
Section 6
Mr. Xiaoguan:
My trivial little piece has unexpectedly elicited a major essay, to the point of driving the editor into retreat, making him first "respectfully note" and then "apologize" — I am most grateful and impressed.
In my youth I had not seen the Yongchuang Xiaopin; thinking back, what I saw was apparently the Xihu Youlan Zhi and its supplement Zhi Yu, written by Tian Rucheng during the Jiajing reign of the Ming. Unfortunately I no longer have this book, so I cannot re-examine it. I imagine that in it one might still find some material regarding the Leifeng Pagoda.
Lu Xun. The 24th.
Note: In my essay "On the Collapse of the Leifeng Pagoda," I said that this was in fact the Baochu Pagoda, but Fuyuan disagreed. Mr. Zheng Xiaoguan then wrote an essay, "The Leifeng Pagoda and the Baochu Pagoda," citing the Yongchuang Xiaopin and other works to demonstrate that identifying it as the Baochu Pagoda is approximately correct. The essay was published in the supplement of the 24th and is quite long, so I cannot quote it in full.
February 13, 1935, supplementary note.
Section 7
The day before the day before yesterday, I met "The Poetry Child" for the first time, and during our conversation, it came up that I might contribute something to the Literary Weekly. I thought to myself: if it need not be something bearing one of those grand titles of the literary world—poetry, fiction, criticism, and the like—where one must always put on a certain front to live up to the noble designation, but could instead be something casual, something akin to random reflections, then surely it should be easy enough. So I agreed on the spot. After that I frittered away two days doing nothing but eating my grain, and it was not until this evening that I sat down at my desk to prepare to write. To my dismay, I could not even think of a topic. Pen in hand, I looked around: a bookshelf to my right, a clothes trunk to my left, a wall in front, and a wall behind—none of them showed the slightest inclination to grant me any inspiration. Only then did I realize: catastrophe was already upon me.
Fortunately, "The Poetry Child" led my thoughts by association to poetry; but unfortunately, I happen to be a complete layman when it comes to verse. Were I to hold forth on matters of "principles and methods" and such, would that not be "brandishing a great axe before the gate of Lu Ban"? I recall once meeting a returned student who was said to be a man of great learning. He liked to speak to us in foreign languages, leaving me utterly bewildered, yet when he encountered foreigners he invariably spoke Chinese. This memory suddenly gave me an inspiration: I would write about boxing in the Literary Weekly; as for poetry—I would save that for when I happened to meet a boxing master. But just as I was hesitating slightly, a more suitable idea came to me by association: an article by Harubi Ichiro that I had once seen in the Xuedeng—not the Shanghai-published Xuedeng—and so I copied his title straight down: "Enemies of Poetry."
That article begins by saying that no matter what the era, there is always an "Anti-Poetry Party." The members composing this faction are: first, the obstinate intellectualists who, in order to feel the charm of any art that appeals exclusively to the imagination—the most essential thing being a fervent expansion of the spirit—have already become completely incapable of such expansion; second, the writers who once offered themselves in fawning devotion to the goddess of art but ultimately failed, and so turned to attacking poets as a form of revenge; third, those people of religious spirit who believe that the passionate outpouring of emotion in poetry is sufficient to endanger the morals and peace of society. But this, of course, pertains exclusively to the West.
Poetry cannot be apprehended through philosophy and intellect alone, and so thinkers whose emotions have already frozen solid often pass erroneous judgments and make alienated mockeries of poets. The most conspicuous example is Locke, who regarded writing poetry as no different from kicking a ball. Pascal, who displayed magnificent genius in the realm of science, understood nothing whatsoever of poetic beauty, and once declared in the manner of a geometrician: "Poetry is a thing of little solidity." Among people of a scientific bent, there are quite a few like this, for in meticulously drilling into one small, limited field of vision, they can never commune with the spirit of the great poet who grasps the whole of the human world and simultaneously comprehends both the supreme bliss of heaven and the profound anguish of hell. Although recent scientists have come to pay somewhat more attention to literature and art, those like the Italian Lombroso who always seek to find madness in great art, and those like the Austrian Freud who exclusively use the scalpel of dissection to carve up literature, so coolly absorbed that they fail to notice their own excessive forced interpretations—they too belong to this category. As for certain Chinese scholars, I cannot presume to guess how deep their scientific attainments actually go; but when one sees them expressing astonishment that today's youth should want to introduce the literature of oppressed peoples, or using an abacus to calculate whether new poetry is optimistic or pessimistic in order to determine the future fate of China, one is strongly inclined to suspect this is a cold mockery of Pascal. For at this point one could alter his words: "Scholars are things of little solidity."
But the generalissimo of the Anti-Poetry Party must be counted as Plato. He was a negator of art who attacked both tragedy and comedy, considering them sufficient to destroy the lofty reason in our souls and to encourage base emotions. All art, he held, was imitation of imitation, still three removes from "Reality"; and on the same grounds he rejected Homer. In his Republic, because poetry has a tendency to stir the hearts of the people, the poet is regarded as a dangerous figure in society; the only works permitted are those suitable as educational material—hymns to gods and heroes. On this point, the difference from the views of China's Confucian moralists, past and present, seems negligible. Yet Plato himself was a poet; in his writings, passages narrated with a poet's feeling are frequent, and even the Republic is still a poet's dream-book. In his youth he had devoted himself to the cultivation of the garden of art, but once he realized he could not triumph over the invincible Homer, he reversed course and began to attack and despise poetry. But selfish prejudice, it seems, is also not easy to sustain for long: his most distinguished disciple Aristotle composed a Poetics, snatching enslaved literature out of his master's hands in one stroke and placing it in a world of freedom and independence.
The third type is something seen everywhere, in China and abroad, in ancient times and modern. If we could see the Index of Forbidden Books in the palace of the Roman Pontiff, or know the names cursed in the churches of old Russia, we could probably discover many unexpected things; but what I know at present is all hearsay, so I simply lack the courage to commit it to paper. In short, that ordinary society has through the ages reviled and destroyed no small number of poets—this is fully attested by the historical facts of literary history. China's penchant for making mountains out of molehills is no less than that of the Western past; it fabricates many vile epithets, like nicknames, and loads them all upon men of letters, especially lyric poets. And Chinese poets, for their part, often cannot help feeling things too superficially and too narrowly: passing by Gongren Xie they compose a poem called "Untitled," and catching sight of a forked branch they produce a piece called "Reflections." Correspondingly, the Confucian moralists become hypersensitive in the extreme: one glimpse of "Untitled" and their hearts pound; encountering "Reflections" their faces immediately flush with fever; they even insist on styling themselves as scholars, terrified lest future national histories append them to the chapter on literary gardens.
It is said that since the Literary Revolution, literature has taken a turn for the better; to this day I still do not understand whether this claim is true. But drama has not yet even sprouted, while poetry is already on its last breath; even when a few people occasionally groan, it is like winter flowers trembling in a harsh wind. I hear that the senior old gentlemen, as well as the junior but prematurely aged young gentlemen, have lately grown especially disgusted with love poetry; and strangely enough, poems singing of love have indeed become rare. From the perspective of a layman like me, poetry is fundamentally meant to express one's own passion—once expressed, that is all; but one also hopes for sympathetic heart-strings to resonate, and however many or few there are, once found, that too is all. There is no cause whatsoever for shame before the frown of the old gentlemen. Even if the poetry carries a slight tinge of ulterior motive—what is called intending to tantalize a lover or to "show off"—this is not greatly contrary to human nature, and so is utterly unremarkable. Moreover, before the frown of the old gentlemen, there is even less cause for shame. For if the intention is directed at a lover, it has as much to do with the senior old gentleman as a horse with a cow separated by wind—if one were to halt one's pen in a panic at their head-shaking, just to please them, that would actually be tantamount to flirting with the old gentleman, and would on the contrary be disrespectful.
If we appreciate beautiful things but insist on judging motives through the lens of ethics, demanding that they be "without purpose," then the first thing we must do is sever ourselves from all living beings. Beneath the shade of willows we hear the oriole sing, and feel the spring air overflowing between heaven and earth; we see fireflies flickering among the thick grasses and are instantly moved to autumnal sentiments. But what is the singing of birds and the glowing of fireflies "for"? Without the slightest ceremony: it is all so-called "immoral," all an exercise in "showing off," all in the hope of finding a mate. As for all flowers, they are simply the reproductive organs of plants. Though many are draped in beautiful attire, their sole purpose is pollination—even more blatant than people's talk of sacred love. Even those as lofty and pure as plum blossoms and chrysanthemums cannot escape this rule—and poor Tao Qian and Lin Bu did not understand those motives at all.
If I am not careful, my words have again become less than well-behaved; if I do not quickly exercise restraint, I fear I may truly end up dragged into a discussion of boxing. But having strayed so far from the topic, it is not easy to rein things back, so I will merely raise one more related matter and bring things to a close.
Keeping literary men as retainers may seem like patronage of literature and art, but in reality it too is enmity. Song Yu, Sima Xiangru, and their ilk received precisely this sort of treatment, not unlike the "idle guests" of later powerful households—all playthings ranked among entertainments of music, beauty, dogs, and horses. The words and deeds of Charles IX demonstrated this with perfect thoroughness. He was fond of poetry and often gave poets a bit of recompense to induce them to write good verse, and he frequently said: "Poets are like racehorses, so they should be given good things to eat. But they must not be made too fat; too fat, and they are no longer any use." While this is not good news for those who are stout and aspire to be poets, it does contain more than a grain of truth. The greatest lyric poet of Hungary, Petofi (A. Petofi), has a poem inscribed on a photograph of Mrs. B. Sz., the gist of which says: "I hear that her husband is happy now; I hope it has not come to this, for he is the nightingale of sorrow, and now he has fallen silent in happiness. Treat him harshly, so that he may therefore constantly sing sweet songs." The meaning is exactly the same. But do not misunderstand and think I am advocating that if young people want to write good poetry, they must fight with their wives every day in their happy homes. Things are not entirely like that. There are plenty of contrary examples, the most conspicuous being the Brownings—Robert and his wife.
January 1, 1925.
Section 8
Dear Mr. Wang Zhu,
I am most grateful for your letter sent from so far away.
By the time I came across Kuriyagawa's works on literature, it was already after the earthquake. *Symbols of Anguish* was the first; before that I had paid him no attention at all. At the end of the book there is a short postscript by his student Yamamoto Shūji, and when I translated it, I drew on a few lines from that postscript for my preface. The gist of the postscript is this: the first half of the book had originally been published in the magazine *Kaizō*; after the earthquake, when they dug out the surviving manuscripts, they found a second half as well, but with no overall title. So Yamamoto, following the heading used for the portion published in *Kaizō*, titled the whole *Symbols of Anguish* and sent it to press.
In light of this, the history of the book becomes largely clear. (1) The author had intended to write a book on literature — without having settled on an overall title — and first completed two essays, "On Creative Writing" and "On Appreciation," which were published in *Kaizō*; the translation by Mr. Mingquan that appeared in *Xuedeng* was presumably rendered from that *Kaizō* version. (2) Afterwards he continued working and completed a third and fourth essay, but these were not published until after his death in the disaster, so the first half appeared publicly for the second time while the second half appeared for the first. (3) The manuscripts of all four essays constituted a single book, but the author himself had never given it a title, so his student Yamamoto had no choice but to follow the heading used at the time of first publication and call it *Symbols of Anguish*. As for what exactly that heading was based on, he does not explain — perhaps there was some such wording beneath the chapter titles, though one cannot be certain. Since I do not have copies of *Kaizō*, I have no way to verify this.
Judging from the overall structure, the four essays appear to form a complete work; what was lacking was merely final polishing. When I was translating it, I heard that Mr. Feng Zikai also had a translation underway; now I learn it has gone to press as one of the "Literary Research Society Series." Last month I saw in issue twenty of *The Eastern Miscellany* a piece by Mr. Zhongyun translating one of Kuriyagawa's essays — the third chapter of *Symbols of Anguish*. And now, with your letter, I learn that *Xuedeng* had already published an earlier version. The esteem in which this book is held by our countrymen is thus quite apparent.
My own translation has also now gone to press, so China will have two complete translations. Lu Xun. January 9.
Section 9
I am a lecturer — roughly equivalent to a professor. According to Mr. Jiang Zhenya's proposition, it would seem I too should not sign my name. But I have in the past published articles under several pseudonyms, only to be reproached by some for evading responsibility. Moreover, since this time my remarks carry something of an attacking posture, I have in the end signed my name — though even what I signed is not my real name; yet it is close enough to my real name that the flaw of exposing my lecturer's cloven hoof remains, and there is nothing to be done about it, so let it be. And to forestall any disputes, I must further declare: the Chinese ancients and moderns I have criticized are but a portion; many other perfectly fine ancients are not included! Yet the moment I say this, my miscellaneous jottings truly become the most tedious of things — trying to accommodate everyone is precisely how one renders oneself worthless.
(January 15.)
[Published in the *Jingbao Supplement*, January 16, 1925.]
Section 10
Mr. Tao Xuanqing is a painter who has devoted himself to quiet study for more than twenty years. In the interest of furthering his artistic cultivation, he came to this dull ochre city of Beijing only last year. By now he has over twenty works — some brought with him, some newly created — stored away in his own bedroom, unknown to anyone, save, naturally, a few people of his acquaintance.
Among those works buried in obscurity, however, the author's personal vision and temperament are abundantly displayed. One can see, in particular, how he labors and devotes himself to brushwork, color, and sensibility. Moreover, the author has long excelled at Chinese painting, so that an inherent Eastern sentiment seeps naturally from the works, fusing into a distinctive spirit — yet not one arrived at by contrivance.
In the future, he will surely advance further into the realm of transcendent mastery. But for now he is about to leave. A few friends, regretting that he has come and gone so quietly, are arranging a small, short exhibition of his limited works, so that those with an interest in such things may see them. But of course it may also be called an ornament to his time in the capital, and a memento of his departure.
March 16, 1925, Lu Xun.
Section 11
Mr. Ke,
I have made quite enough concessions to people of your sort. My reply at the time was, to begin with, not written under the heading "Required Reading"; it further qualified itself with "a certain number," then "for reference," then "perhaps" — all to make clear that I had no pretension of instructing every young person alive. I trust I am not so dim as to be unaware that young people come in every variety. The few words I tossed off at the time were meant solely for a handful of reformers, some known to me and some not, so they might know they were not alone. As for you, sir — had you not called out to me with a "Hey!," I would have had no need whatsoever to bandy words with you.
Judging from the earlier passage of your magnum opus, what you mean by "..." is presumably "selling out the country." Whether China will have been sold out by the time I die remains to be seen; even if it is, whether I am the one who sold it remains equally uncertain. These are matters of the future, and I need not waste words on you about them. But on one point I must beg your discernment: at the fall of the Song, at the fall of the Ming, when the nation was forfeited; when the Qing ceded Taiwan, Lüshun, and other territories — I was not present on any of those occasions. Nor were those who were present, as you "have heard it said," all "foreign-educated holders of doctoral and master's degrees." Darwin's works had not yet been introduced, Russell had not yet come to China, and yet the writings of "Laozi, Confucius, Mencius, Xunzi, and their ilk" had long since been in circulation. Qian Nengxun did indeed practice spirit-writing, yet never proposed to abolish the Chinese script. Though you fancy that "Ha ha! Now I know!," in reality you are quite ignorant of even recent events in recent places.
At the end, you declare that regarding my experience you "truly cannot fathom it even after a hundred ponderings." Well then — have you not just rescinded your own verdict? Once the verdict is rescinded, all that remains of your magnum opus is a handful of "Ah"s, "Ha"s, "Alas"es, and "Hey"s. Such noises may frighten a rickshaw puller, but they are powerless to preserve the national heritage — or indeed may bring further disgrace upon it. Lu Xun.
Section 12
A certain Mr. Xiong, in a tone hovering between argument and personal letter, has expressed astonishment at my "shallow ignorance" and admiration for my courage. I, for my part, greatly admire the length of his essay. For now, I can only reply briefly.
1. All Chinese books are good, and anyone who says otherwise simply doesn't understand them — this is an argument so old it has rusted like an ancient weapon. Exponents of the *Book of Changes* make frequent use of this method: the *Changes* is profound and mysterious; if you think otherwise, it is simply because you fail to comprehend it. Naturally I have no means of proving I can understand every Chinese book and competing with Mr. Xiong on that score; nor have I read any particularly rare volumes. But of the several titles you cite, I have in fact leafed through them — only my editions seem to differ somewhat from yours. The *Outer Chapters* of the *Baopuzi* that I have seen, for instance, are not exclusively about immortals. As for Yang Zhu's own writings, I have never seen them; the *Liezi* itself is suspected of being a forgery, to say nothing of what it purports to quote. I am ashamed of my shallowness and dare not rely on such sources to gauge Master Yang Zhu's spirit.
2. "Action needs the support of learning" — this I know. But what I said was: if you want to learn, you should read more foreign books. "Just act, don't read" is your own revised version of my words. Though you proceeded to unleash a long torrent of complaint on that basis, I have no need to add further idle words. But I fail to see why young people should be forbidden from serving as delegates or chairing meetings, on pain of being accused of "showing off." Must it be old men like Zhao Erxun who alone are qualified to serve as delegates and chair meetings? 3. I said "read more foreign books," and you extrapolated that in the future everyone would speak foreign languages and turn into foreigners. You are steeped in the classics — do you now speak entirely in classical Chinese whenever you open your mouth? Have you turned into an ancient and ceased to be a citizen of the Republic of China? Think it over yourself. I hope you will see the light at once; common sense alone suffices for this.
4. What you call "the Five Barbarians becoming Chinese ... the Manchus reading Chinese texts, having now all been read into becoming Han" — such talk, I presume, derives from your thorough understanding of the old books. When I occasionally leaf through a few Chinese books, I too often sense a similar spirit in them — perhaps this is what you call being "proactive." It may well be that I have "forgotten the fundamentals," as you suggest, but I should still prefer to engage with foreign countries on the basis of host and guest, rather than witness another repetition of the Five Barbarians overrunning China or the Manchu invasion — first a master-slave relationship, and only afterwards the so-called "assimilation"! If we continue to follow the old precedent of these "fundamentals," then Greater Japan comes in and gets assimilated by the Han and becomes useless; Greater America comes in and gets assimilated by the Han and becomes useless ... right down to the Blacks and the Red Indians coming in and all getting assimilated by the Han and all becoming useless. After that no one else comes in; Europe, America, Africa, Australia, and much of Asia are all empty land, and there is nothing left but a great heap of mongrels reading Chinese texts, all crammed into China. What a glorious tale that would be!
5. Suppose, as you argue, that reading foreign books would indeed lead everyone to speak foreign languages — but speaking a foreign language does not in itself make one a foreigner. A Han person is always a Han person: a citizen when the nation stands, a "subject of a conquered state" when it falls, regardless of what language is spoken. For the survival of a nation depends on political sovereignty, not on language or script. America uses English but is not a dependency of England; Switzerland uses German and French but is not carved up between the two countries; Belgium uses French but has not invited a Frenchman to be its emperor. The Manchus did "read Chinese texts," yet before the revolution they were our conquerors, and afterward, under the Republic of Five Races, they coexisted with us as equals — they never turned into Han people. But precisely because they "read Chinese texts," they contracted the "optimism of a corpse," and so unlike the Mongols — who could rampage through and then gallop back to where they came from — they had no choice but to sit alongside the Han and respectfully await the arrival of the next people to come and assimilate them. But suppose those who came next were, like the Mongols, disinclined to stay — would that not represent a considerable loss of capital?
Your opus further claims that a few years after my "loud and urgent cries," young people will only be able to speak foreign languages. I consider this the talk of a man in a coma. The unification of the national language has been promoted for years now; never mind all young people — even among students in school, have any of them actually forgotten their native dialect? And even if they could only speak a foreign language, why should that mean they could "only love the foreign country"? Did Cai Songpo oppose Yuan Shikai because they spoke different dialects? Did the Manchus enter through Shanhai Pass because the Han could all speak Manchu and had come to love them? Was the revolution against the Qing at the end of the dynasty because the Manchus had all suddenly stopped reading Chinese texts, so that we ceased to love them? One who fails to grasp even such plain human affairs — what business has he talking about glory or estimating value?
6. Like one or two other opponents, you take great pains to calculate the advantages and disadvantages for my own person, and I ought by convention to be grateful. Though I lack learning and ability, I am not entirely unacquainted with the legendary art of "positioning oneself between talent and mediocrity" — that undying, half-alive method of getting along in the world — but I have no wish to follow it. The honorable titles of "long reputed as a scholar" and "standing before the youth of China" are ones you have attached to me of your own accord; now that you find me "shallow and ignorant," you may of course remove them just as freely. I am sorry that I cannot say things that please people, least of all things that accord with the views of gentlemen such as yourself. But your speculation about my private motives is wrong. I am still alive — not like Yang Zhu or Mozi, who are dead and cannot testify, so that you alone can claim to understand them. Nor have I written any "Biography of Ah Rat"; I have only written one piece called "The True Story of Ah Q."
And here I come to your closing challenge: "Having said 'I have never paid attention to'" refers to "required reading for youth," and was written within the column itself; "how then can he speak so resolutely" — that was written in an "addendum," offered as a reference for whatever readers might care to see it. Though I confess my sentences are not as easy to understand as those in the old books, this should nonetheless allow me to ignore your final demand. Besides, I need not wait for the likes of you to render a verdict. Even if a verdict were reached, it would be nothing but empty words — it would hardly become the universal standard. And in any case, as a rule, no verdict is ever final; at best it amounts to some lukewarm proposition of the sort: "Among Chinese books there are bad ones, but also good ones; among Western books there are good ones, but also bad ones." Fool that I am, am I really so foolish as to present a reading list before the likes of you?
In closing, I shall say a few more words "resolutely": I believe that if foreigners came to destroy China, they would merely teach you to stammer a few sentences in their language — they would certainly not encourage you to read more foreign books, for those books are what the conquerors themselves have read. But they would indeed reward you handsomely for reading more Chinese books, and Confucius would be venerated more than ever — just as under the Yuan and Qing dynasties.
Section 13
From the correspondence of Mr. Zhao Xueyang (published in this supplement on March 31), I learn that a certain scholar, in response to my "Required Reading for Youth" answer, held forth to his students, saying: "He has read an enormous quantity of Chinese books. ... And now he refuses to let others read them. ... What can he possibly mean by that!"
I have indeed read some Chinese books, but not "an enormous quantity"; nor do I "refuse to let others read them." If anyone wants to read them, they are naturally free to do so. Only if you ask my opinion, it is this: read few — or perhaps none at all — Chinese books, and read more foreign ones. This is what I mean — I used to be a nondrinker; a few years ago, with something of a self-destructive air, I took to drink, and at first it did seem rather agreeable. I started with small amounts, progressed to large ones, but as my tolerance for alcohol increased, my appetite for food declined; I knew the alcohol had damaged my stomach. Nowadays I sometimes abstain, sometimes still drink — much as I still leaf through Chinese books. But when I talk to young people about eating and drinking, I always say: don't drink. My listeners, though aware that I once drank to excess, all understand what I mean.
Even if I myself have had natural smallpox, I would never on that account oppose vaccination; even if I ran a coffin shop, I would not sing the praises of plague.
That is exactly what I mean.
And now a separate and unrelated declaration. A friend tells me that a review of Yu Jun has appeared in the *Chenbao Supplement*, which mentions the passage from my "The Warrior and the Flies" published in *Popular Literature*. In truth, when I wrote that short piece, I was not referring to the present literary scene. By "warrior" I meant Dr. Sun Yat-sen and those martyrs who gave their lives for the nation around the time of the Republic's founding, only to be mocked and defiled by lackeys; by "flies" I naturally meant those lackeys. As for the literary scene, I feel there are as yet no warriors there; though among the critics some may indeed be men of undeserved reputation, they are not yet so loathsome as to resemble flies. I write all this out now, so as to forestall any misunderstanding.
Section 14
After the October Revolution of 1917, Russia entered the era of War Communism. The urgent demands of the time were iron and blood, and literature and art could truly be said to have been in a state of paralysis. Yet the Imaginists and Futurists attempted to stir into action and for a time seized the reins of the literary world. By 1921, the situation had changed entirely. Literature and art suddenly showed signs of life, and the most flourishing school was the Left-Wing Futurists. Their organ was a journal called *LEF* — an abbreviation formed from the initial letters of *Levy Front Iskusstv*, meaning "Left Front of the Arts" — devoted exclusively to the vigorous propagation of Constructivist art and literature of revolutionary content.
Yet the emergence of *LEF* had itself passed through many storms and transformations. The reaction following the first revolution of 1905 — the ruthless oppression by the government and the merchant class — gave rise to a peculiar brand of art: Symbolism, Mysticism, perverse eroticism. Four or five years later, with a view to reforming this prevailing taste, the Impressionists finally opened fire, remaining in a state of combat for three full years, ultimately evolving into the Futurists, who launched even more violent attacks on the old social order. Their first journal appeared in 1914, bearing the title: *A Slap in the Face of Public Taste*!
The old society naturally employed every means at its disposal against these reformers, heaping abuse and slander upon them; the government too intervened, banning the publication of their journals. But the capitalists, in truth, never felt the sting of that slap at all. The Futurists nevertheless continued their struggle, and only after the February Revolution did they split into left and right factions. The Right allied itself with the democrats. The Left, baptized in Bolshevik art during the October Revolution, formed ranks as a left-wing detachment guarding the Left Front of the new art. They commenced operations on October 25th — and this was the origin of "LEF."
The formal unveiling of "LEF," however — the launch of its organ — came on February 1, 1923; from that point onward its activities grew ever more vigorous. The gist of their program was to overthrow the old traditions, to destroy the dead bourgeois art of the Aestheticist and Classicist schools that had deceived the people, and to build in its place a new, living art for the present age. They therefore called themselves creators of art-as-life, declared October their birthday, and on that day proclaimed the freedom of art, naming it: the revolutionary art of the proletariat.
It is not literature and art alone — China to this day remains largely ignorant of Soviet Russia's new culture, though from time to time someone expresses delight at the supposed revival of its capitalist system. Mr. Ren Guozhen alone has been able to select and translate three critical essays from Russian journals, allowing us to gain at least a rough idea of the debates on their literary scene. This is truly a most beneficial undertaking — at the very least for those who follow world literature attentively. Additionally appended is an essay, "Plekhanov and the Question of Art," which applies Marxism to the study of literature and art, and is included here for the reader's related reference.
Recorded by Lu Xun on the night of April 12, 1925.
Section 15
Brother Gaoge:
Your letter has been received.
As for your news, Changhong told me a few words about it — roughly four or five sentences — but that was enough to give me the general picture.
"Thinking it fine to rob others, but feeling rather displeased when robbed oneself" — do you consider this evidence of a corrupted nature? I think it is neither good nor bad, but perfectly ordinary. So in the end, you still cannot prove that you are a bad person. Just look at any number of Chinese: they oppose robbery and claim to give willingly; and indeed, we never do see them robbing anyone — yet their homes are filled to the brim with other people's belongings.
Xun, April 23rd
Section 16
Brother Yunru:
I have received your letter. It gives me the greatest satisfaction to learn that many cursing mouths are about to open wide in Kaifeng, and I wish you every success in your campaign to "fight your way forward."
I think that cursing is an exceedingly common affair in China. The pity is that everyone only knows how to curse without knowing *why* one should curse, or *whom* one should curse — and so it comes to nothing. What we must do now is point out precisely what is deserving of curses, and then follow up with the cursing itself. That way, it becomes truly interesting, and from cursing, perhaps, things greater than cursing may arise.
(The rest is omitted.)
Xun
Section 17
Brother Peiliang:
I do think Henan truly needs a somewhat more modern daily paper; if things go smoothly, so much the better. Our *Mangyuan* will be published tomorrow. Looking over the manuscripts as a whole, I feel rather unsatisfied — though I cannot tell whether they are genuinely mediocre or whether my expectations are simply too extravagant.
The mystery of "Qinxin" has been solved: the person is Ouyang Lan. To use such methods to defend oneself is truly contemptible — and moreover, "it is said that Xuewen's articles were also written by him." Recalling how Sun Fuyuan was once so dazzled by red envelopes and green letter-paper that he was firmly convinced it must be "a newly emerging woman writer" — I cannot help bursting into a great laugh.
In the first issue of *Mangyuan*, two pieces from the *Betel Nut Collection* have been published. The third piece, the one attacking Zhu Xiang, I think could be deleted, with the fourth moved up to take its place. For Zhu Xiang seems to have already fallen from sight, and no one mentions him anymore — though he is China's Keats. I imagine you must be very busy, yet I very much hope you will keep sending your work.
Xun [April 23rd]
Section 18
Brother Fuyuan:
Today I received a letter from Brother Xiang Peiliang containing several paragraphs that he hopes to make public. I paste them below —
"Since coming to Kaifeng, I have found the students here rather lacking in knowledge suited to the times and the intellectual atmosphere rather stifling. I very much wanted to do my part, but little did I expect the *Morning Post* to fabricate stories and publish news about the ruination of female students!
The *Morning Post* of the 20th reported that soldiers in Kaifeng had violated female students at the Iron Pagoda. I can prove this entirely fictitious on the following two grounds:
First: The Iron Pagoda lies in the north of the city, less than a *li* from Zhongzhou University and the provincial capital. If female students were climbing it, it can hardly be a place of utter desolation. Soldiers violating women is, of course, a commonplace affair in our esteemed country — there is no need to conceal the fact — but it simply cannot happen in peacetime, in the middle of a city, in a place that is not especially remote. Moreover, I observe that there are not very many stray soldiers in Kaifeng, and military discipline is not particularly chaotic.
Second: The *Morning Post* claims the soldiers cut open the students' clothing with bayonets. But at present there are no deserters, and soldiers leaving their posts may not carry bayonets unless on official duty. That soldiers on official duty would commit such an act — I think no one would believe."
In truth, in our esteemed country, slaughtering an entire city's populace, burning dozens of villages — when the soldier-lords are in the mood, they do as they please; none of this is considered anything extraordinary. However, newspapers of supposed repute should not be making waves where there is no wind. In China, women were never really counted as human beings to begin with. Journalists casually picking up their pens to write up some rape case or elopement scandal, or perhaps some story about female students running swindles to amuse their readers' eyes and ears — this has long been taken for granted; I am merely commenting on what I happen to see and hear. The newspapers do it for circulation, the special correspondents do it for payment — these are all matters of the so-called rice bowl, sacred and inviolable. What can I possibly do about it?
In truth, the female students of Kaifeng are also quite inexcusable. They should remain in the inner chambers and embroidery rooms. Going to school is already wildly impudent, and then they must "leave campus to stroll about, indulging their grand enthusiasm for climbing to high places" — no wonder the *Morning Post*'s correspondent felt compelled to issue them a warning: "You see? The moment you step outside, soldiers are going to come and violate you! Hurry back inside, hide in the school — no, that won't do either, hide yourselves back in the inner chambers and embroidery rooms."
In truth, China has always been a federation of the Land of Lies and the Land of Rumors; such news stories are hardly surprising. Even in Beijing they emerge in endless succession: the "Great Demon of Nanxiawa," or "the dead possessing the living," or "the kidnapper's magic powder," and so on. Unless we "cut open" their very souls with bayonets and give them a thorough washing with clean water, this malady is incurable.
But his intentions are, after all, good, and so I am sending it along. Set it in type and include it — I trust it will not, like my doggerel "My Lost Love" of last year, have the honor of encountering the chief editor's disdainful eye and being expelled, going so far as to cost you your rice bowl. That it will occupy space otherwise reserved for the "Oh my!" style poetry and prose of the Miss Qinxin whom you so admire — for this, I am truly and deeply sorry. No more for now. I bid you farewell.
Lu Xun. April 27th, at the Ash Shed.
Section 19
Though *Folk Literature* calls itself folk literature, none of the issues printed so far contain any genuine work by common folk. All who hold the pen are still so-called "educated men." The common people are mostly illiterate — how could they produce literary works? A lifetime's joys and sorrows, anger and happiness, they carry with them to the grave.
Yet I have had the honor of introducing this rare specimen of such literature. It was written by an arrested "robbery convict." I need not reveal his name, nor do I intend to draw any conclusions from it. Suffice it to say that the piece begins by speaking of the hardships of illiteracy — though this may not be entirely sincere, since the text was written for the teacher who taught him to read. Next, it tells how society cheated and bullied him, how his livelihood collapsed; and then, it seems to say that his son may not have much more hope than he did. But of the robbery itself — not a single word.
The original text had punctuation marks, which are all preserved here; there are also quite a few wrong characters, and where I have guessed the intended character, I note it in parentheses below.
Appended on April 7th, in a room without an elegant name.
We don't know how to read. Suffered a great deal for it. In the twenty-ninth year of Guangxu. The twelfth day of the eighth month. I came to the capital. To sell pigs. I walked outside Pingze (i.e. Pingzemen) Gate. I said let me sit a while longer at the entrance to the Big Temple. Everyone laughed at me. People said I was a stupid eg (egg, i.e. a fool). I just didn't no (know). Up above somebody had wrote (written): Mosque (lit. "Qingzhen libai si," with wrong characters). I just didn't no (know). People hit and cursed me. Later I beat the pigs. Beat (made) the pigs stop eating. Xicheng Guo Jiu's pig shop. People at home offered me. One hundred and eighty silver dollars. Wouldn't sell. I said I was going to the capital to sell. Later I sold them. For one hundred and forty dollars. People at home all said I was no good. Later my. Mother-in-law (written: "Yue mu"). She only has one daughter. She has no students (meaning: sons). So she gave me money. Gave me one hundred and fifty silver dollars. Her daughter. Said to buy land. Bought eleven mu (acres, written: "mu" with wrong character) of land. (Original note: one plot of six mu and one of five mu, in the first year of the Republic, the twenty-fourth day of the third month.) Lost (written: "gave away") the six mu of land again. Later she gave money again. Gave two hundred silver dollars. I said (written with wrong character) to her. Let me do a little business. (Original note: She said good, I also said good. You just give the money.) She then — (a character is missing here) — one hundred silver dollars. I went to market to buy wheat (written: "mai" with wrong character). Bought ten *dan*. I started selling flour (written: "bai mian"). At Changxindian. There's a little business there. He ate the flour. Ate and ate and ate. One thousand four hundred and thirty-seven *jin*. (Original note: sold flour in the sixth year of the Republic.) Adding it up. Fifty-two dollars and seventy cents. Come New Year's. Not a single cent left. Changxindian. People there later. Gave (paid for) it all. Lujiao. Zhang Shishitou. What he ate. The flour money. He didn't pay. Thirty-six dollars and fifty cents. Her daughter says. You lost (threw away) all the money. You don't recognize (know) a single character. He says I have no way out (written with wrong character). Later. Our family's (i.e. my wife). She says wait until. Her son is grown. You'll see. My student (meaning: son) is grown now. Nine years old. Going to school. He'll turn out to be just the same (written with wrong character) as me.
Section 20
One frequently sees obituary notices in which the deceased is invariably styled "Imperially Enfeoffed Grand Master of Such-and-Such" or "Imperially Enfeoffed Lady of Such-and-Such." Only then did I realize that the citizens of the Republic of China, the moment they breathe their last, go and submit once more to the Qing dynasty.
One also frequently sees announcements soliciting poems for the birthday celebration of some Venerable Elder or Grand Matriarch of sixty or seventy years, whose sons are invariably men of wealth or returned students from abroad. Only then did I realize that once you have such a son, you yourself become—like "Mid-Autumn Without a Moon" or "Drinking Alone Beneath the Blossoms Until Greatly Inebriated"—nothing more than a topic for the composition of verse.
Section 21
I do not know the facts of the matter, but judging from what one reads in novels, the vicious madams of Shanghai's foreign concessions have a well-established procedure for coercing respectable women: starvation, then beatings. The result, barring those tortured to death or driven to suicide, is that not a single one fails to beg for mercy and submit. And so the madam does as she pleases, creating her world of darkness.
This time, Yang Yinyu's method of dealing with the students of the Women's Normal University who opposed her was, I hear, first to have police beat them, then to cut off their food supply. But I was not yet surprised, thinking this was still merely some new pedagogical method she had brought back from Columbia University. It was only when I saw in today's paper that Yang had written to the students' parents demanding they resubmit enrollment applications, with "those who do not submit being regarded as unwilling to continue at the school," that I suddenly understood, and was seized by boundless grief: the new woman is, after all, still the old woman; the new method is, after all, still the old method; and the distance from any light is very great indeed.
Are the students of the Women's Normal University not from provinces across the country? Then most of their homes are far away -- how are their parents to know the circumstances their daughters face? How are they to know this is the scene of forced capitulation and groveling for mercy that follows the coercion? Naturally, the students could inform their parents of the truth; but Yang Yinyu, in her dignity as university president, has already cast her net over the parents with ambiguous language.
On the question of "moral character," six faculty members once issued a public statement proving Yang's slander. This seems to have struck a mortal nerve, for "according to those close to Yang," she said: "The inner workings of the disturbance have now been exposed; first there was the declaration by Peking University faculty members such as OO, ... and more recently the speeches of so-called 'citizens' ..." (Chenbao, the 6th). Even now she uses the old tactic of slandering students to slander the faculty as well. But on closer examination, this is nothing to wonder at, for slander is the very root of her pedagogical method; anyone who dares shake it will naturally receive the retribution of being slandered in turn.
Most extraordinary of all is Yang Yinyu's letter requesting the police bureau to dispatch officers: "In view of the reorganization of classes to resolve the disturbance, and fearing that male students from a certain school may come to render aid, I earnestly request that thirty to forty security police be dispatched to the school on August 1st to provide protection," and so on. The letter was dated July 31st. The entry into the school was in early August, yet she was already at the end of July dreaming of "male students coming to help female students," and moreover inserted such dream-talk into an official document. Unless there is some malady in her brain, it surely should not have come to this. I have no wish to dissect her thoughts like a psychologist, nor to punish her intentions like a Neo-Confucian moralist, but I do think that to first fabricate a dream-scenario and then use that dream-scenario to slander others -- if done unconsciously, it is laughable; if done deliberately, it is despicable and base. Her "studies across the ocean, ten years wielding the teaching rod" have all been squandered in vain.
I truly cannot fathom why it must necessarily be male students coming to help female students. Because they are of the same kind? In that case, the male police officers who came to help -- were they perhaps female police officers? And the person ghostwriting for the female president -- was that perhaps a male president?
"With regard to student moral character and academic work, we must attend to practical realities" -- this is indeed most admirable. But to take the things one fabricates in one's own nighttime dreams and pin them on others is rather too far removed from practical reality. Poor parents -- how could you know your children have encountered such a woman!
When I call her words dream-talk, I am still being charitable. Otherwise, Yang Yinyu would be utterly worthless -- to say nothing of the swarm of nameless maggots lurking behind the dark curtain! August 6th.
Section 22
No matter how many years have passed since the death of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, there is, in truth, no need for commemorative essays. So long as this Republic of China -- which never existed before -- endures, it is his monument, it is his memorial.
Every citizen who acknowledges himself a citizen of the Republic -- who among them does not remember the warrior who created it, and who was moreover the first among them? Yet the great majority of our citizens are remarkably placid, truly concealing joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness beneath an impassive countenance, let alone giving expression to their ardor and passion. This makes commemoration all the more necessary; and it also shows how arduous the revolution was in those days, which deepens the significance of this memorial all the more.
I recall that not long after his death last year, there were even a few commentators making snide remarks. Was it from hatred of the Republic of China? Was it that so-called "holding the worthy to higher standards"? Was it a display of their own cleverness? I cannot tell. But in any case, Dr. Sun's lifelong record is there for all to see: from the moment he stepped into the world, it was revolution; when he failed, it was still revolution. Even after the Republic of China was established, he was never satisfied, never at ease, but continued ceaselessly working toward a revolution approaching completion. Until the very moment of his death, he said: "The revolution is not yet accomplished; comrades must still exert themselves!"
At that time there was a brief item in the news that moved me no less than his entire revolutionary career. It was reported that when Western medicine had already proven powerless, someone proposed trying Chinese medicine. But Dr. Sun did not approve, saying that while Chinese medicinal substances might indeed contain effective remedies, the knowledge of diagnosis was utterly lacking. Without diagnosis, how could one prescribe? There was no need to take it. When a man is on the verge of death, he is generally willing to try anything, yet even with regard to his own life, he still maintained such clear reason and firm resolve.
He was a complete, an eternal revolutionary. Whatever he did -- all of it was revolution. No matter how posterity may cavil at him or neglect him, he remains, in the end, entirely a revolutionary. Why? Trotsky once explained what revolutionary art is: even if the subject does not speak of revolution, so long as there runs through it a consciousness of new things born from revolution, it is revolutionary art; otherwise, even if revolution is the subject, it is not revolutionary art. It has now been a year since Dr. Sun's death. "The revolution is not yet accomplished," and we compose this memorial under just such circumstances. Yet what this memorial reveals is still this: that he continues, in the end, to lead new revolutionaries forward forever, striving together toward a revolution approaching completion.
Morning of March 10th.
This essay was first published on March 12, 1926, in the "Special Supplement Commemorating the First Anniversary of the Death of Mr. Sun Yat-sen" of the Beijing Guomin Xinbao.
Section 23
The appearance of He Dian in the world must date back at least forty-seven years, as can be verified by the Supplementary Catalogue of the Shenbao Press from the fifth year of Guangxu. I came to know of its title only two or three years ago. I had made inquiries before, but never managed to obtain a copy. Now Bannong has punctuated and annotated it, and first showed me the printed proof, which truly delighted me. The only trouble is that I must write a preface, which -- rather like Ah Q drawing a circle -- makes my hand tremble somewhat. I am supremely inept at this sort of thing; even for an old friend's work, I still cannot bring myself to extol it lavishly, producing an essay of grand proportions that might render some trifling service to the book, the publisher, or the man.
Having examined the proof, I find the textual collation at times a touch pedantic, the blank spaces stifling, and Bannong's scholarly airs still somewhat excessive. As for the book itself -- well, its talk of ghosts is precisely like talk of men; its use of new allusions is just like its use of old. A village sage dons an open-chested jacket and makes a bow to the Most Holy Teacher of Perfect Accomplishment, and even turns a somersault, scaring the proprietor of the "Confucius Says Shop" into a dead faint. But once they all stand upright again, they are, after all, still the long-gown set. Yet that single somersault -- the audacity of those who dared to turn it in those days -- that courage must be reckoned very great indeed.
Idioms are different from dead classical allusions; most are the very marrow of the world as it is, and picking them up at will naturally lends a text extra vigor. Moreover, from these idioms, further threads of thought are drawn: since they spring from the seeds of worldly life, the flowers they bloom must also be flowers of worldly life. Thus the author, amid dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction, unfolds the living panorama of the human world -- or perhaps one might say he sees the entire living panorama of the human world as dead spectral scribblings and spectral walls of obstruction. Even the passages of idle chatter often give one the sense of some tacit understanding, and one cannot help but break into a smile that does not come altogether easily. Enough. Being no doctoral figure, how dare I open the proceedings? Yet it is hard to refuse an old friend's entreaty, and I must put pen to paper. Since social obligations are unavoidable and there are methods for being tactful: I shall write only a short piece, so as to minimize any great offense. May 25th, the fifteenth year of the Republic of China. Respectfully composed by Lu Xun.
Section 24
Russia's revolution of March 1917 could hardly be called a great tempest. It was not until October that the true storm came, roaring and shaking everything; all that was rotten and decrepit collapsed in a heap. Even musicians and painters were bewildered and at a loss; the poets, too, fell silent.
Speaking of the poets: unable to withstand this upheaval from the very foundations, some crossed the border and died, like Andreyev; some became emigres in Germany or France, like Merezhkovsky and Balmont; some, though they did not flee, became comparatively lifeless, like Artsybashev. But there were also those who remained vital, like Bryusov, Gorky, and Blok.
However, the decline of Symbolism, which had flourished so magnificently on the Russian poetic stage, was not solely a gift of the revolution. From 1911 onward, assailed from without by the Futurists, and fragmented from within by the Acmeists, mystical nihilists, and various Ego-Futurist factions, it had already entered a period of disintegration. As for the October Revolution -- that, naturally, was an additional heavy blow.
The Merezhkovskys, having become emigres, busied themselves with incessant denunciations of Soviet Russia. Other writers still produced work, but it was merely writing about "something or other," in dim colors, enfeebled. Among the Symbolist poets, the one with the richest harvest was Blok alone.
Blok, whose given name was Alexander, had once written a very brief autobiography: "Born in Petersburg in 1880. First attended a classical gymnasium, then after graduation entered the Faculty of Letters at the University of Petersburg. In 1904, composed the lyric poetry collection Verses About the Beautiful Lady; in 1907, published two more volumes of lyric verse, The Unexpected Joy and The Snow Mask. The lyric tragedies The Puppet Show, The King in the Square, and The Unknown Woman have only just been completed. Currently in charge of the criticism column of Zolotoe Runo, and also involved with several other journals and newspapers."
After that, his works were still numerous: Retribution, Collected Works, The Golden Age, Welling from the Heart, The Sunset Has Burned Out, The Water Has Fallen Asleep, and The Song of Fate. During the revolution, the work that delivered the most powerful shock to the Russian poetic world was The Twelve.
He was forty-two when he died, in 1921.
From 1904, when he published his first Symbolist collection Verses About the Beautiful Lady, Blok was hailed as the foremost poet of the modern city. His distinction as an urban poet lay in using fantasy -- the eye of poetic imagination -- to perceive daily life in the metropolis, and giving those hazy impressions symbolic form. He breathed spirit into the phenomena he described, bringing them to life; that is to say, he discovered the elements of poetry in vulgar existence and the dust and clamor of city streets. What Blok excelled at, therefore, was taking base, bustling, chaotic material and fashioning it into poetry of mystical realism.
China has no such urban poet. We have palace poets, mountain-and-forest poets, flower-and-moonlight poets... but no urban poet.
One who can perceive poetry in the tumult of the city will also perceive poetry in the upheaval of revolution. Thus Blok wrote The Twelve, and thereby "entered upon the stage of the October Revolution." But his ability to mount the revolutionary stage was not merely because he was an urban poet; it was, as Trotsky said, because he "charged toward our side. He charged and was wounded."
The Twelve thus became the major work of the October Revolution, destined to be transmitted forever.
The old poets fell silent, were at a loss, fled. The new poets had not yet struck the strings of their extraordinary lyres. Blok alone, in revolutionary Russia, listened to "the savage, roaring music of destruction, breathing long sighs." He heard the wind between the dark night and white snow, the lament of the old woman, the bewilderment of the priest, the rich man, and the lady, the talk of whoring money in the council, the song of vengeance and the sound of gunfire, Katka's blood. And yet he also heard the old world like a mangy dog: he had charged toward the side of revolution.
Yet he was, after all, not a poet of the newly risen revolution, and so, though he charged, he was in the end wounded. Before the twelve, he beheld Jesus Christ wearing a wreath of white roses.
But this is precisely "the most important work of the era" of the Russian October Revolution.
Those who invoke blood and fire, those who hymn wine and women, those who savor secluded groves and autumn moonlight -- all require a heart that truly yearns, or else it is equally hollow. Most men are but a single drop in "the river of life," carrying the past, facing the future; unless they are so truly extraordinary as to be exceptional, they inevitably contain both forward striving and backward glancing. In the poem The Twelve one can see just such a heart: he looked forward, and so charged toward the revolution; yet he looked back, and so was wounded.
The appearance of Jesus Christ at the poem's end seems to admit of two interpretations: one, that He too approves; the other, that salvation must still depend upon Him. But in any case, the latter interpretation is probably closer to the truth. Therefore this great work of the October Revolution, The Twelve, is also not yet revolutionary poetry. And yet neither is it hollow.
The form of this poem seems very strange in China; but I believe it captures remarkably well the spirit of Russia at that time (!). On close reading, one may perhaps sense the breath of that great upheaval, that great roar. It is a pity that translation is supremely difficult. We once had a retranslation from an English version; since there was no harm in having an alternative translation, Mr. Hu Chengcai has now translated it directly from the original. But a poem can exist only once; even if one were to rewrite Russian in Russian, it would be absolutely impossible, let alone using the language of another country. Yet this is all we can do. As for the meaning, it was first collated by Mr. Ivanov, and afterward, Wei Suyuan and I made a few minor amendments.
The preceding "On Blok" is something I added in translation, being the third chapter of Literature and Revolution (Literatura i Revolutzia), retranslated from Morimoto's Japanese version. Wei Suyuan then checked it against the original and made many additions and corrections.
In the minds of the Chinese, Trotsky is probably still regarded as a thundering revolutionary and warrior, but reading this essay of his, one sees that he is also a critic with deep understanding of literature and art. In Russia, his income from royalties exceeded his salary. But without thorough knowledge of the Russian literary scene, his work may be difficult to understand; my own clumsy and stilted translation is naturally another significant reason.
The cover and the four illustrations in the volume are by Masiutin (V. Masiutin). He is a renowned printmaker. These illustrations have been called exemplary works of artistic printmaking; the originals are woodcuts. The portrait of Blok at the beginning of the volume is also remarkable, but it is reproduced from The Dawn of New Russian Literature, and the artist is unknown.
The flourishing of Russian printmaking was initially due to the decline of photographic reproduction and the lack of fine paper during the revolution; if illustrations were wanted, one naturally had to employ line drawings with clear strokes. Yet as long as the people have vitality, this art too will develop. At the International Book Exhibition in Florence in 1922, Russian prints received extraordinary praise.
July 21, 1926. Recorded by Lu Xun in Beijing.
Section 25
After Russia's great transformation, I began seeing various commentaries by visitors. Some said the nobles suffered terribly -- that it was practically inhuman. Others said the common people had finally raised their heads, and the future was surely promising. Whether in praise or censure, the conclusions were often diametrically opposed. I think both are probably right. The nobles naturally had more cause for misery, and the common people had naturally raised their heads higher than before. The visitors, each following their own inclinations, told one side of the story. Recently, we hear that Russia is remarkably skilled at propaganda, but what one sees in Beijing's newspapers is just the opposite: the effort is largely devoted to depicting internal darkness and cruelty in the most vivid terms. This must be very alarming and horrifying to the citizens of a land governed by ritual propriety. But if one has read the literature produced by Russia under autocratic rule, one will understand that even if all those reports are true, there is nothing in them to wonder at. The Tsar's knout and gallows, his torture chambers and Siberia, were not the means to produce a people of supreme benevolence toward even their enemies.
The heroes of old Russia truly used their blood in various ways -- to inspire their comrades, to move the tender-hearted to tears, to furnish the executioners with meritorious service, to provide the idle with entertainment. They were, on the whole, beneficial to others -- and especially beneficial to tyrants, cruel officials, and idlers, and for the greater part of the time at that: sating their bloodlust, supplying material for their gossip. Written down on paper, the color of the blood had long since faded; the gallantry of a Decembrist, the compassion of a Tolstoy -- how gentle their hearts! Yet at the time, even this was not allowed to be published. This writing, this banning of publication, also served to satiate bloodlust and to add to gossip. The blood of heroes has ever been the salt of human existence in this flavorless land, and for the most part, salt to season the lives of the idle. That this should be so is truly a thing to marvel at.
The character of Sophia in this book will still move people, and the lives depicted under Gorky's pen still pulsate with vitality, but most of it will probably be reduced to mere ledger entries as well. Yet to leaf through the blood-stained ledger of the past is not without use in foreseeing the future, as long as one does not treat those accounts as entertainment.
Some people to this day still cry injustice on behalf of Russia's upper classes, arguing that the bright slogans of revolution have in practice produced only darkness. This is probably true as well. The slogans of reform are certainly brighter than the reality. In the era when the essays collected in this book were written, the reformers probably very much wished to bestow an equal measure of light upon all people. But they were tortured, imprisoned, exiled, slaughtered. Even if they wished to give, they could not. This has all been written down in the ledger; one need only turn the pages to understand. If those who suppressed reform and slaughtered reformers could, after the reform, bask equally in its light, theirs would be the most secure position of all. But it has all been written down in the ledger, and therefore the manner of the bloodshed was different later on: the kind of era they had known was already past for them.
Whether China will ever have an era of the common people, it is naturally impossible to say with certainty. But in any case, the common people would surely not sacrifice their lives for reform only to then arrange shark-fin banquets for the upper classes. That much is obvious enough -- for the upper classes have never once arranged so much as a meal of mixed-flour noodles for them. One need only leaf through this book to gain a general understanding of how others' freedom was won, its antecedents and consequences, so that even should one's position decline in the future, one will not cry injustice without reason -- which is far more practical than turning to Buddhism after suffering disappointment. And so I think these essays are still of great benefit in China.
November 14, 1926, on a stormy night. Recorded by Lu Xun in Xiamen.
Section 26
The topic of my talk today is "The Old Tune Has Been Sung Out." At first glance this may seem a trifle strange, but in truth there is nothing strange about it at all.
Everything old, everything antiquated, is finished! And so it should be. Though this statement may offend certain venerable elders, I have no other way of putting it. The Chinese harbor a contradictory wish: they want their descendants to survive, yet they themselves also wish to live very long, to never die; and when they realize there is no help for it and die they must, they hope their corpses will never decay. But consider: if no one since the dawn of humanity had ever died, the earth's surface would long ago have been packed solid, and there would be no room left for any of us; if no corpse since the dawn of humanity had ever rotted, would not the dead bodies have piled up higher than the fish in a fishmonger's, leaving no ground even for sinking wells or building houses? Therefore, I believe, everything old and antiquated would really do better to die cheerfully.
In literature it is just the same: everything old and antiquated has already been sung out, or is about to be. Take the most recent example: Russia. Under the Tsar's despotism, many writers sympathized deeply with the common people and uttered cries of anguish. Later, when they perceived the people's shortcomings, they grew disillusioned and could no longer sing as before. After the Revolution, literature produced no great works. A few old writers fled abroad and wrote some pieces, but these were nothing remarkable either, for they had lost their former environment and could no longer open their mouths as they once had.
At such a time, new voices ought to have appeared in their homeland, but we have not yet heard much. I believe they will certainly have voices in time, because Russia is alive. Though temporarily silent, she possesses the capacity to transform her environment, and therefore will surely produce new voices in the future.
Now consider the nations of Europe and America. Their literature had long been somewhat old and stale. It was not until the Great War that a war literature arose. Once the war ended, the environment changed again; the old tune could no longer be sung, and so literature too has fallen somewhat quiet. What the future holds we truly cannot predict. But I believe they too will certainly produce new voices.
Now let us think about our own China. Chinese writing is the most unchanging, its tune the most antiquated, the thought within it the most obsolete. And yet—how strange—unlike other countries, that old tune has still not been sung out.
Why is this? Some say we Chinese have "special national conditions." Whether the Chinese are truly so "special" I do not know, though I have heard people say so. If it is true, then as I see it, the reasons for this specialness are roughly two.
First, it is because the Chinese have no memory. Having no memory, what they heard yesterday they forget today, and when they hear it again tomorrow it still strikes them as perfectly fresh. The same applies to their actions: what they bungled yesterday they forget today, and when they set about it again tomorrow it is still the same "business as usual" old tune.
Second, individual old tunes have not yet been sung out, but the nation has already perished several times over. How so? I believe that all old and antiquated tunes ought, at a certain point, to be sung out. Anyone with a conscience, anyone with awareness, will at a certain point naturally recognize that the old tune should no longer be sung and will discard it. But those self-centered people who refuse to take the populace as their subject, who pursue only their own convenience, keep flipping and flopping and singing on without end. And so their own old tune remains unfinished, while the nation has already been sung to its finish.
The scholars of the Song dynasty preached Neo-Confucianism, preached the School of Principle, venerated Confucius—a thousand essays all alike. Though there were a few reformers, such as Wang Anshi, who implemented new policies, they failed to win general approval. Thereafter everyone sang the old tune once more—an old tune with no connection to society—straight through to the fall of the Song.
When the Song was sung out, the ones who came in as emperors were the Mongols—the Yuan dynasty. Surely the Song's old tune should have ended with the Song? No. Although the Yuan rulers at first looked down upon the Chinese, they gradually found our old tune rather novel and began to admire it. So the Yuan people too took up our tune and sang it all the way to their own downfall.
Next came the founding Emperor of the Ming. The Yuan's old tune ought to have been sung out at this point, but it still had not been. The Ming founder found it still had some interest and ordered everyone to keep on singing. The eight-legged essay, Neo-Confucian moralizing—none of it had anything to do with society or the common people. They simply marched down that same old road, straight through to the fall of the Ming.
The Qing dynasty was once again ruled by foreigners. China's old tune looked fresh again in the eyes of the new foreign masters, and so on it went. Still the eight-legged essay, the examinations, writing in classical prose, reading classical books. But the Qing ended—that was sixteen years ago now, as everyone knows. Toward the end, they did have a slight awakening and tried to learn some new methods from abroad to save themselves, but it was already too late.
The old tune has sung China out, finished it off several times over, and yet it can still be sung on. This gives rise to a small argument. Some say: "This proves China's old tune is truly excellent, and there is no reason not to keep singing it. Look—were not the Mongols of the Yuan and the Manchus of the Qing all assimilated by us? At this rate, no matter what nation comes along in the future, China will assimilate them just the same." So it turns out our China is like a patient with a contagious disease—sick ourselves, yet able to pass the disease on to others. Quite a special talent, that.
What such people fail to realize is that this view is utterly wrong in the present day. Why were we able to assimilate the Mongols and the Manchus? Because their cultures were far lower than ours. If others' cultures are on a par with ours or more advanced, the result will be very different indeed. If they are cleverer than we, then not only can we not assimilate them—on the contrary, they will make use of our decayed culture to govern our decayed nation. They have not the slightest affection for the Chinese and will naturally let you go on rotting. Nowadays one hears that foreigners are again showing respect for China's old culture. Are they truly respectful? They are merely making use of it!
Once upon a time, a Western nation—I have forgotten which—wanted to build a railway in Africa. The obstinate African natives were strongly opposed. So the builders exploited their mythology to hoodwink them, saying: "In ancient times one of your gods once built a bridge from the earth to the sky. The railway we are building is exactly in the spirit of your ancient sage." The Africans were overcome with admiration and delight, and the railway was built.—The Chinese have always rejected foreigners, yet now people are gradually going over there to sing the old tune for them, even saying: "Confucius himself said, 'If the Way does not prevail, I shall put to sea on a raft.' So foreigners are really quite fine." And the foreigners reply: "What your sage said is absolutely right."
If things go on this way, what will become of China's future? I do not know about other places, so I can only extrapolate from Shanghai. In Shanghai, those with the most power are a group of foreigners; circling close to them is a ring of Chinese merchants and so-called educated people; outside the circle are the multitude of Chinese poor—the lowest-grade slaves. And the future? If the old tune keeps being sung, Shanghai's situation will spread to the entire country, and the poor will multiply. For this is no longer the Yuan or the Qing; we can no longer sing others to their finish with our old tune—we can only sing ourselves to our finish. And that is because the foreigners of today are not like the Mongols and the Manchus; their culture is by no means below ours.
What then is to be done? I believe the only method is, first of all, to cast off the old tune. Old literature, old thought—these have absolutely no connection with present-day society. In the time when Confucius traveled from state to state, he rode in an ox-cart. Do we still ride in ox-carts? In the age of Yao and Shun, people ate from clay bowls. What do we eat from now? Therefore, living in the present age and clutching ancient books is utterly useless.
But certain scholars say: "We look at these old things and really do not see how they harm China. Why must we so resolutely cast them away?" Precisely so. And the terror of old things lies right here. If we felt them to be harmful, we would be on our guard. It is precisely because we do not feel them to be particularly harmful that we can never diagnose this fatal disease. For it is a "soft knife." This name "soft knife" is not my invention either. A Ming dynasty scholar called Jia Fuxi once said in a drum ballad about King Zhou of Shang: "For years the soft knife has been cutting off heads without anyone noticing death; only when the white flag of surrender is hung up do they realize their fate has gone awry." Our old tune is just such a soft knife.
If a Chinese person is cut with a steel blade, he feels the pain and can still think of something to do. But if it is a soft knife—then truly "heads are cut off without anyone noticing death," and the end is certain.
We Chinese have been attacked by others with weapons many times before. The Mongols and Manchus, for instance, used bows and arrows; and people of other countries used guns and cannon. I was already born by the time of the last few attacks with guns and cannon, though I was young. I seem to recall that people did feel some pain then and made some attempts at resistance and reform. When they attacked us with guns and cannon, it was said to be because we were barbarous. Nowadays we are not so often attacked with guns and cannon—presumably because we have become civilized. And indeed, people constantly say now that China's culture is splendid and ought to be preserved. The proof? Foreigners are always praising it. That is the soft knife. With a steel blade we might still feel something, so they switch to the soft knife. I think the moment when we are made to use our own old tune to sing ourselves out is nearly upon us.
As for China's culture—I truly do not know where it resides. What does so-called culture and the like have to do with the common people? What good does it do them? Lately foreigners often say that the Chinese have fine manners, that Chinese cuisine is superb. And the Chinese chime in. But what do these things have to do with the common people? The rickshaw puller cannot even afford a suit of formal clothes. The best food for the great majority of farmers, north and south, is coarse grain. What connection is there?
China's culture is entirely a culture of serving masters, purchased at the cost of the suffering of a great many people. Whether Chinese or foreign, all who praise Chinese culture are merely those who consider themselves masters.
In the past, books written by foreigners mostly mocked and reviled China's corruption. Nowadays they no longer mock so much; some even praise China's culture. One often hears them say: "I live very comfortably in China!" This is proof that the Chinese are gradually handing over their own happiness for foreigners to enjoy. So the more they praise us, the deeper our suffering will be in the future!
What this means is: preserving old culture is to ensure that the Chinese remain forever the raw material for serving masters, to go on suffering, suffering, suffering. Even the rich and wealthy of today—their descendants cannot escape. I once wrote a miscellaneous reflection, the gist of which was: "All who praise China's old culture are mostly the rich, living in the concessions or in secure places. Because they have money and have not suffered from the domestic wars, they can issue such praise. What they fail to realize is that in the future their descendants will have to take up occupations even more menial than those of today's poor, and the mines they go down to dig will be even deeper than those of today's poor." What I meant was: they too will be impoverished eventually, only a little later. But the poor who are impoverished first, having dug the shallower mines, will leave their descendants to dig deeper ones. No one paid any attention to my words. They kept singing the old tune—singing it into the concessions, singing it abroad. But from now on, it will not be like the Yuan or Qing dynasties: they will not be singing others to their finish. They will be singing themselves to their finish.
What is to be done about this? I think, first of all, we should ask them to step out of their foreign-style mansions, their bedrooms, their studies, and take a look at what is around them, then take a look at what society is like, what the world is like. Then think for themselves, and if they find a method, do something about it. "Stepping outside is dangerous," the gentlemen who sing the old tune will of course say once more. But living always involves some danger. If staying in one's room guaranteed long life, white-bearded old gentlemen ought to be extraordinarily numerous. But how many do we actually see? They too die early often enough—and though they face no danger, they die in a muddle all the same.
If one wants to avoid danger, I have actually discovered a very suitable place. That place is: prison. Once a man is in jail, he is unlikely to make further trouble or commit crimes; the firefighting equipment is fully adequate, so there is no fear of fire; and there is no fear of robbery either—a bandit who breaks into a prison to steal things has never been heard of. Sitting in prison is truly the safest thing.
But sitting in prison lacks precisely one thing, and that is: freedom. Therefore, if you covet safety, you will have no freedom; if you want freedom, you will always have to pass through some danger. There are only these two paths. Which is the better one is perfectly obvious, and there is no need for me to say it.
Now I must also thank you all for the kindness of coming here today.
Section 27
The *Youxianku* [Record of a Journey to the Fairy Grotto] today survives only in Japan, in an old manuscript copy preserved at the Shōhei Academy. It is attributed to Zhang Wencheng, District Magistrate of Xiangle in Ningzhou. Wencheng was the courtesy name of Zhang Zhuo; using one's courtesy name in attributions was common practice among the ancients—just as the Jin dynasty's Chang Qu, in his *Huayang Guozhi*, signed one volume as "collected by Chang Daojiang."
Zhang Zhuo was a native of Luhun in Shenzhou. Both the *Old* and *New Tang History* include his biography appended to that of Zhang Jian, recording that he passed the *jinshi* examination in the Tiaolu reign period, served as adjutant in the household of the Prince of Qi, achieved top marks in examination after examination, and won great literary renown. He was appointed Magistrate of Chang'an and promoted to Vice Director of the Court of Diplomatic Reception. During the Zhengshen period, the Minister of Personnel Liu Qi recommended him as Censor. He was impetuous and reckless by nature, wild and without restraint. Yao Chong particularly detested him. In the early Kaiyuan years, the Censor Li Quanjiao impeached Zhang Zhuo for slandering current policies, and he was banished to Lingnan, though he was soon permitted to return northward, and eventually died as Vice Director of the Bureau of Gates.
The *Veritable Records of Emperor Shunzong* likewise describe Zhang Zhuo as broadly learned and skilled in literary composition, having passed the literary examination seven times. The *Datang Xinyu* adds that he was later transferred to the post of Luoyang Magistrate, which occasioned his "Poem on the Swallow," whose final stanza runs: "Heavy as a transformed stone, my body; / feeble still, carrying mud in my beak; / since ever I frequented noble mansions, / rising together, a pair in flight." In his day no one failed to recite these lines.
Although the *Tang History* praises his writing as flowing effortlessly from the brush, enormously popular in its time, so that no younger writer failed to transcribe and transmit it, and notes that when envoys from Japan and Silla arrived they invariably paid in gold and treasures to purchase his works—yet it also disparages his style as florid and frivolous, lacking in substance. Critics have likewise been generally scornful, denouncing it as tawdry. Of Zhang Zhuo's writings that have come down to us, there survive also the *Chaoye Qianzai* [Comprehensive Record of Court and Country] and the *Longjin Fengsui Pan* [Judgments on Dragon Sinews and Phoenix Marrow], and these too are indeed full of florid frivolities and scornful denunciations.
The *Youxianku*, being a work of *chuanqi* fiction heavily laced with jesting and banter, is recorded in none of the official bibliographies. It was not until the Qing dynasty that Yang Shoujing, in his *Catalogue of Books Seen in Japan*, first entered it, dismissing it in terms identical to those of the *Tang History*. In Japan, by contrast, the work was initially treasured as a rare text. It was even annotated, apparently also by a Tang-era hand. He Shining once selected more than ten of its poems for inclusion in his *Supplement to the Complete Tang Poems*, which Bao's press published within the *Zhi Buzu Zhai Congshu* series. Now Mr. Maochen is about to print the full text, and the complete work will at last return to Chinese soil.
Not only are the customs of the time—such as the exchanges of poetry and dance—and the contemporary colloquialisms, like *dingning* [ogling] and *yingming* [charming], valuable for broadening one's knowledge; the very fact that it pioneered the use of parallel prose for *chuanqi* fiction, antedating Chen Qiu's *Yanshan Waishi* by a full millennium, makes it indispensable to students of literary history.
Lu Xun's note, the seventh day of the seventh month of the sixteenth year of the Republic of China [July 7, 1927].
Section 28
Gunpowder and the compass, invented by the ancient Chinese and now used for making firecrackers and practicing geomancy, were transmitted to Europe, where they were applied to guns and cannon and ocean navigation—and our erstwhile pupils gave the old master no end of trouble. There remains one more small case to settle, which, being harmless, has been all but forgotten. That is the woodcut.
Though no absolutely conclusive proof has yet emerged, a good number of scholars in Europe have maintained that the European woodcut was learned from China, around the early fourteenth century—approximately 1320. The precursors were probably playing cards printed from very crude woodblocks. Such cards can still be seen in the Chinese countryside today. Yet these gamblers' implements traveled onto the European continent and became the ancestor of their printing press—that engine of civilization.
Woodblock prints were presumably transmitted in the same fashion. By the early fifteenth century, Germany already possessed a woodblock image of the Virgin Mary; the original print survives in the museum in Brussels, Belgium, though no earlier printed example has yet been discovered. In the early sixteenth century, the great masters of woodcutting—Dürer and Holbein—appeared, and Dürer was especially famous; later generations all but regarded him as the founder of the woodcut. The art continued in their current through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Besides single prints, the woodcut served as book illustration. But when the refined art of copper engraving appeared, the woodcut suddenly declined—an inevitable development. Only England, where copper engraving was imported relatively late, continued to preserve the old technique, regarding this as both a duty and an honor. In 1771, Thomas Bewick appeared, the first to use wood-end engraving—the so-called "white-line method." When this new technique crossed to the European continent, it became the catalyst for the revival of the woodcut.
Yet the increasingly refined engraving gradually deviated toward the imitation of other printing methods—watercolor, etching, photogravure, and so on—or else a photograph was transferred onto the woodblock and then carved with exquisite skill. The technique was of course supremely accomplished, but the woodcut had become merely reproductive. By the mid-nineteenth century came the great turning point: the rise of the creative woodcut.
What is meant by the "creative" woodcut? No imitation, no reproduction: the artist grasps the knife and cuts directly into the wood.—I recall a Song dynasty figure, probably Su Dongpo, who wrote a poem commissioning someone to paint plum blossoms, with the line: "I have a bolt of fine eastern silk; / pray set your brush free for the straight trunk!" This "setting the knife free for the straight trunk" is precisely what the creative print requires above all else. What distinguishes it from painting is simply that the knife replaces the brush, and wood replaces paper or canvas. Chinese woodblock illustration, though known as "embroidered engraving," has long since been left far behind. In spirit, only those who carve seal-stones with an iron stylus come close.
Because it is creative, the style and technique vary from artist to artist. The creative woodcut has separated itself from reproductive woodcutting and become a pure art form; today nearly every painter tries his hand at it.
What is introduced here is entirely the work of contemporary artists. But these few pieces alone are not enough to display the full range of styles. If circumstances permit, we shall import more by and by. Surely the woodcut's return home will not—like those other two inventions—cause the old master any grief.
Recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai, January 20, 1929.
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume One.]
Section 29
The twelve woodcuts in this collection are all selected from the British publications *The Bookman*, *The Studio*, and *The Woodcut of To-day* (edited by G. Holme). A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here. C. C. Webb is a celebrated modern British artist who has been teaching art at the Birmingham Central School since 1922. The first piece, *The Viaduct*, is a consummate large-scale picture, carved by a distinctive original method; one can almost count each individual stroke of his chisel. Viewed as a whole, it presents a pattern of exquisite luminous white markings on a field of pure black. In *The Farmyard*, the knife-work is largely similar. *Goldfish* reveals Webb's characteristic style more fully; it was recently given high praise by George Sheringham in *The Studio*.
Stephen Bone's piece is one of the illustrations for George Bourne's *A Farmer's Life*. Critics have said that among the woodcut artists of England's southern counties, none surpasses him, and that prose, complemented by such images, only grows more vivid in its imagination.
E. Fitch Daglish is a Fellow of the Zoological Society of London and also a distinguished woodcut artist, especially skilled at illustrating books of natural history, combining the most rigorous naturalism with a delicately perceptive decorative sensibility. *The Lapwing* is one of the illustrations for E. M. Nicholson's *Birds in England*; *The Freshwater Perch* is from Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton's *The Compleat Angler*. Looking at these two prints, one can readily see how the art of woodcutting may serve science.
Herman Paul is French. He originally made lithographs, then turned to woodcuts, and later moved into popular art. He once said, "Art is a continuous emancipation," and accordingly simplified his style. The two pieces in this collection already reveal his later manner quite clearly. The first is an illustration for a work by Rabelais, depicting a moment of heavy rain; the second decorates André Marty's collection of poems *La Doctrine des Preux* (*The Creed of the Valiant*). The gist of the poem runs:
> Behold the ruined body and the face's engine, > poisoned sores redden the countenance, > men of little courage and great ugliness, rumor says, > have through a thousand hardships won a good name.
Benvenuto Disertori, an Italian, is a versatile artist skilled in lithography and etching, but woodcutting is his true hallmark. *La Musa del Loreto* is a figure imbued with rhythmic movement; the impression is so natural that the image seems born from the wood itself.
Madame S. Magnus-Lagercranz is a Swedish engraver who excels especially in floral subjects. Her most important work is a set of illustrations for the collection *Flowers* by the Swedish poet Atterbom.
C. B. Falls is considered one of the most versatile artists in America. He has tried his hand at every art form and succeeded in each. *The Island Temple* in this collection is a piece he himself selected as his most accomplished work.
Edward Warwick is also an American woodcut artist. *The Meeting* is a decorative and imaginative print suffused with a strong medieval flavor. The two small pieces on the cover and frontispiece are by the French artist Alfred Latour, taken from *The Woodcut of To-day*; they are not listed in the table of contents and are noted here as an addendum.
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), January 26, 1929.]
Section 30
The temporary shifts and vogues in China's new literature and art are at times almost entirely governed by foreign booksellers. When a batch of books arrives, it brings a measure of influence with it. When the A. V. Beardsley album in the "Modern Library" entered China, its keen, piercing force galvanized nerves that had been dormant for years. Yet Beardsley's line was in the end too intense. Just at this juncture, the prints of Tsugutani Kōji were brought to China, and his tender, melancholy brush tempered Beardsley's cutting edge. This suited the hearts of modern Chinese youth even better, and so imitation of his work persists to this day.
The pity is that his forms and lines have been willfully mangled—though one cannot detect the damage without comparison. We have now selected six plates from his album *Dream of the Water Lily*, five from *A Desolate Smile*, and one from *My Album of Paintings*. These are all, roughly speaking, works that reveal his distinctive qualities. Although Chinese reproduction cannot be of the highest quality, one can at least catch a more authentic glimpse of his true face through them.
As for what constitutes the artist's distinctive qualities, let us allow him to speak for himself:
"My art takes delicacy as its life, and at the same time wields the keen edge of a scalpel as its strength.
"The lines I draw must be as swift as a small serpent and as alert as a silverfish.
"For what I paint, mere lifelike 'realism' is not enough.
"For sorrow, I would paint the lone star-nymph wandering by the lakeside; for joy, a moonlit nymph sporting with Pan deep in the spring forest.
"To portray the feminine, I choose the dreaming maiden, investing her with the bearing of a queen and infusing the love of a star-princess.
"To portray the masculine, I would delve into myth, haul out Apollo, and fit him with the sandals of a wanderer.
"To portray the child, I give it the wings of an angel, and over these I drape many-colored damask.
"And in order to nurture these models of love's fantasy, my thought must be as dark as the deep of night, as clear as limpid water." (Preface to *A Desolate Smile*)
This may be said to cover practically everything. Yet viewed from the other side of these same virtues, one sees precisely why critics have judged him a writer who appeals primarily to adolescent boys and girls.
The artist has now gone to Europe to study. His road ahead is long, and these are but the vestiges of one period, now displayed before the Chinese reader as a portion of the secret treasury of a few Chinese artists—a small mirror, if you will. Or, to put it more grandly: perhaps this will gradually make us more earnest, so that we may at last produce small but genuine works of our own creation.
From the first to the eleventh plate, each is accompanied by a brief poem or text, which I have translated and placed before the respective image. Several of these, however, are in classical prose, a field I have not studied, so some errors are not impossible. The small figure on the title page is also from *My Album of Paintings*; the original is titled "The Pupil"—one of those eyes, enlarged beyond reality, that the artist so loves to draw.
Recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai, January 24, 1929.
[Published in *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden Morning Flowers), First Series, Volume Two.]
Section 31
In the sixth issue of *Morning Flowers* we published a short piece about the Norwegian writer Hamsun. Last year, Japan's *International Culture* classified him as a left-wing writer, but judging from several of his works, such as *Victoria* and *Hunger*, there is no shortage of aristocratic leanings in them.
He was, however, very popular in Russia in earlier days. About twenty years ago, the celebrated magazine *Niva* had already published his collected works up to that date as a supplement. Presumably it was his Nietzschean and Dostoevskian atmosphere that found a resonance in readers there. Even in the critical essays after the October Revolution, he is still mentioned from time to time, which shows how deep the influence of his works in Russia has been—not forgotten to this day.
Of his many works, apart from the two mentioned above and *In Fairyland*—a travelogue of Russia—I have read none. Last year, in a biography of Hamsun written by the Japanese Katayama Masao, I came across his views on Tolstoy and Ibsen. It being the centenary of both these literary giants, I had meant to introduce these passages, but they were too fragmentary, and I finally abandoned the idea. This year, while moving house and sorting books, I came upon the biography again, and in my three-idle-moments I translate the following.
The passage is from his work *Mysteries*, written when he was thirty. The views on life and literature expressed by the character Nagel can naturally be taken as those of the author Hamsun himself. He stamps his foot and curses Tolstoy:
"In short, the fellow called Tolstoy is the most actively stupid man of our time... His doctrine is not a whit different from the Salvation Army singing Hallelujah. I do not find Tolstoy's mind any deeper than that of General Booth [then commander of the Salvation Army]. Both are preachers, but neither is a thinker. They peddle ready-made goods, disseminate received ideas, supply the people with cut-rate thinking, and thereby steer the rudder of this world. But, gentlemen, if one does business, one must reckon one's interest, and Tolstoy loses his capital on every single transaction... That garrulous respectability that does not know how to be silent, that effort to flatten the cheerful world as flat as an iron pan, that moral nagging like an old gadabout, that willful moral grandeur that blusters on without knowing high from low—one blushes to think of him, even though it is someone else's affair..."
Strange to say, this reads almost as if it were lancing the boil of every "revolutionary" and every "obedient" critic in China. As for his views on his compatriot and literary elder Ibsen—especially the latter half of Ibsen's career—he says:
"Ibsen is a thinker. Might it not be well to draw a small distinction between popular sermonizing and genuine thinking? Certainly, Ibsen is a famous man. And one may go on talking about Ibsen's courage until calluses form in one's listeners' ears. Yet between logical courage and practical courage, between the free and independent revolutionary daring that has renounced self-interest and the domestic, agitational kind of courage—does one not see the need for a small distinction? The one shines forth in life itself; the other merely makes the audience gasp in the theater... A man who means to rebel ought at least to manage the small feat of not grasping his steel pen with kid gloves. He should not be merely a queer little fellow who can write, not merely one more concept in a German essay; he should be a living, active figure in the hubbub called human life. Ibsen's revolutionary courage is presumably not the kind that would ever land its owner in peril. Laying torpedoes under the hulls of ships—compared with living, blazing action, that is merely the feeble table-talk of the study. Have you ever heard the sound of hemp being torn apart, gentlemen? Heh heh heh—what a grand noise it makes."
This lays bare, quite bluntly, the difference between revolutionary literature and revolution, between the revolutionary writer and the revolutionary. As for "obedient" literature, that goes without saying. Perhaps it is partly for this reason that Hamsun may be called left-wing after all—and not solely because he once performed various kinds of hard labor.
The figure he praises most highly is Bjornson, Ibsen's literary adversary of old who later became his in-law. Hamsun says Bjornson is active, soaring, alive. In victory or defeat, he is always infused with personality and spirit. He is the one poet in Norway possessed of inspiration and divine sparks. But when I recall the short stories I have read, none left as deep an impression as Hamsun's own works. In China there are probably few if any translations of Bjornson. I can only recall one story called "The Father," which has been translated at least five times.
We have few translations of Hamsun's works either. During the May Fourth Movement, young people in Beijing put out a periodical called *The New Tide*, and later there was a "New Books Review" issue, in whose preview Luo Jialun was said to be planning an introduction to *New Earth*. This is a novel by Hamsun. Though merely a roman à thèse about the lives of literary men, it could well serve as a mirror for the Chinese. The pity is that this introduction has never been published to this day.
(March 3, in Shanghai.)
Published in the eleventh issue of *Morning Flowers Biweekly*, March 14, 1929.
Section 32
When we entered primary school, we saw a few small illustrations in our textbooks and thought them quite fine. But when later we first encountered the illustrations in foreign-language readers, we were astonished at their exquisite craftsmanship — what we had seen before could scarcely compare. The small pictures in English dictionaries, too, were remarkably delicate. All of these were examples of what was discussed earlier: "end-grain wood engraving."
The materials for Western woodblocks are of course various, but for fine engraving, boxwood is generally used. Even with boxwood, because there are two ways of sawing, the resulting blocks differ. Sawn lengthwise along the grain, like a plank for a chest or tabletop, yields one kind; sawn crosswise against the grain, like a chopping block, yields another. The first is softer — when carving, the chisel moves freely, but it is unsuitable for fine detail, since fine lines easily splinter. The second kind consists of the tips of wood fibers packed tightly together, making it hard and fit for fine work: this is "end-grain wood engraving." This type of engraving is sometimes distinguished from the term "wood-cut" and called instead "wood-engraving." In China, when woodblock carving reached a high degree of fineness, it was called "embroidered block" (xiuzi) — a term that could well serve as a translation. By contrast, carving done on plank-sawn blocks is called "plank-face wood carving."
But what we are introducing here is not the kind of woodcut found in textbooks, for those aim at verisimilitude and precision: when they are carved, there is a painting underneath as a model. Since there is a model, the knife merely imitates the brush — it copies rather than creates, and so these are merely "reproductive block prints." As for "creative block prints," there is no separate original at all: the artist takes up an iron stylus and draws directly on the woodblock. The two works by Daglish and the one by Nagase Yoshirō in this collection are examples. Naturally, creative prints too may achieve verisimilitude and precision, yet beyond these qualities they possess beauty and power. If one looks carefully, even in reproduced prints one can still discern a hint of this "beauty of power."
But this "beauty of power" is probably not immediately agreeable to our eyes. In the fashionable decorative paintings of today, we already see mostly narrow-shouldered beauties, emaciated bodhisattvas, and the dissolved forms of Constructivist painting.
Only when there are artists and viewers brimming with vitality can an art of "power" come into being. Paintings that "let the brush run and paint the trunk straight" can hardly survive in a decadent, petty society.
A note in passing: the poem quoted last time was wrongly attributed. Ji Fu has written to say that "I have a bolt of fine patterned silk..." comes from Du Fu's "Playfully Addressing Wei Yan on His Painting of Twin Pines." The final lines read: "It is no less precious than a roll of brocade; / Already wiped clean, its lustre gleams in splendid confusion. / I beg you, sir, let your brush run free and paint the trunk straight." It is not a poem by Su Dongpo.
(March 10, 1929)
[Published in the third fascicle of the first series of *Yiyuan Zhaohua* (Art Garden: Morning Blossoms).]
Section 33
Most of the twelve woodcuts in this collection were selected from the British publications *The Woodcut of To-day*, *The Studio*, and *The Smaller Beasts*. A few explanatory notes are also excerpted here.
Arthur J. Gaskin is an Englishman. He is not an artist who began simply and later grew refined. He understood early the tonal relations of solid black. The bleakness of this "Heavy Snow" and the vista of the little cottage are deeply moving. That a snow scene can be rendered more powerfully in this way than by any other method is a new discovery in the art of woodcut. "Fairy Tale" shares the same style as "Heavy Snow."
Robert Gibbings was early on one of the most prolific and versatile of English woodcut artists. His conception of black and white is always richly suggestive and original. The illustrations for E. Powys Mathers' *Red Wisdom* display, amid the radiance of black-white contrast, an oriental splendor and an exquisite rhythm of white lines. His delightful "Sitting Idle" demonstrates his temperament for black-and-white contrast within meaningful form.
Eric Fitch Daglish has already been discussed in our *Selected Modern Woodcuts* (1). "The Shrike" appears in J. H. Fabre's *Animal Life in Field and Garden*. "The Beaver" appears in the second volume of Daglish's own *Animal in Black and White* series, *The Smaller Beasts*.
Émile Charles Carlègle is of Swiss origin and has since taken French nationality. Woodcutting is for him a direct medium of expression, as painting or etching is for others. He arranges light and shadow, indicating gradations of color; his works vibrate with life. He has no aesthetic theory — he believes that whatever is interesting can make life beautiful.
Emil Orlik was the first to bring Japanese woodcutting methods to Germany. Yet he blended the various techniques of his own country into his wood engravings.
In M. Dobuzinski's "The Window," we can imagine anyone standing there, as that figure stands, gazing out at the rainy day, wondering what he is about to encounter. A Russian is very much inclined to think of the person standing at that window.
William Zorach is a Russian-born American. He is interested in the play of white masses against a black ground, without overly striving for profundity of meaning. "The Swimming Woman," seen from the swimmer's perspective, is somewhat dazzling. It looks more like linoleum-cut than woodcut. Swimming is a favorite subject of American woodcut artists; each uses his own technique to create a different style.
Nagase Yoshirō studied sculpture at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts in Japan, then devoted himself energetically to printmaking and wrote a volume titled *For Those Who Study Printmaking*. "The Sunken Bell" is one of its illustrations, serving as an example of "end-grain wood engraving," further reproduced by the renowned engraver Kikuchi Taketsugu. Though reproduced yet again here, one can still perceive the subtle mastery of the arrangement of black and white.
Section 34
Aubrey Beardsley (1872–1898) lived only twenty-six years; he died of consumption. Though his life was so brief, no artist — no artist in black and white — has won a more universal fame than he; nor has any artist influenced modern art so broadly. The first influence on Beardsley's early life was music; his true passion was literature. Apart from two months at an art school, he had no artistic training. His success was entirely self-taught.
It was with the illustrations for *Le Morte d'Arthur* that he first set foot in the literary world. He then made illustrations for *The Studio* and became the art editor of *The Yellow Book*. He came in through *The Yellow Book* and went out through *The Savoy*. Inevitably, the age demanded that he live in the world. These 1890s were what the world calls the fin de siècle. He was the sole embodiment of the unique sensibility of that decade. The restless, fastidious, insolent mood of the Nineties called him forth.
Beardsley was a satirist. He could only depict hell, as Baudelaire did, without pointing to any reflection of a modern paradise. This was because he loved beauty, and it was beauty's degradation that constrained him; this was because he was so acutely conscious of virtue that vice found its rationale. At times his work attains pure beauty, but it is a demonic beauty, constantly shadowed by the consciousness of sin — sin received by beauty and deformed, then exposed again by beauty.
Considered as a purely decorative artist, Beardsley is without peer. He gathered all the world's incongruous things into a heap and wove them into unity using his own mold. But Beardsley was not an illustrator. No book of his illustrations reaches the summit — not because they are too great, but because they are incommensurate, even irrelevant. He failed as an illustrator because his art was abstract decoration; it lacked relational rhythm — just as he himself lacked any relation to the decade before or after his own. He is buried in his period as his drawings are absorbed into their own resolute lines. Beardsley was not an Impressionist like Manet or Renoir, painting what he "saw"; he was not a visionary like William Blake, painting what he "dreamed"; he was a man of intellect like George Frederick Watts, painting what he "thought." Though not a day passed without his keeping company with the medicine pot, he could still command nerve and emotion. Such was the strength of his intellect.
Beardsley was considerably influenced by others, yet these influences were absorbed by him rather than absorbing him. That he could constantly receive influence was itself one of his distinctive traits. Burne-Jones aided him in his illustrations for *Le Morte d'Arthur*; Japanese art, especially the work of Keisai Eisen, helped him break free from the influence of Eisen and Saint-Aubin that had manifested in *The Rape of the Lock*. But Burne-Jones's ecstatic, languorous spirituality was transformed into grotesque, disdainful carnality — if there be such a thing as languid, sinful languor. The frozen reality of Japan became the scorching imagery of Western passion expressed in the sharp, clear shadows and curves of black and white, suggesting tones that even the rainbow-rich East had never dreamed of.
His works, because of the reprinting of the *Salomé* illustrations and because of our own fashionable artists' borrowings, seem to have become somewhat familiar, even in their charm. But his decorative works have never been honestly introduced. So now we select and print these twelve pieces, to give lovers of Beardsley a glimpse of his visage undefiled, and excerpt the words of Arthur Symons and Holbrook Jackson as a brief introduction to his distinctive qualities.
April 20, 1929 — The Zhaohua Society.
Section 35
About thirty years ago, the Danish critic Georg Brandes traveled through Imperial Russia, wrote his *Impressions*, and exclaimed in wonder at the "black earth." And indeed, his observation proved true. From this "black earth," there grew one after another the exotic flowers and towering trees of culture, astonishing the people of Western Europe: first literature and music, then dance, and also painting.
Yet at the end of the nineteenth century, Russian painting was still under the sway of Western European art — blindly following, seldom creating independently — and the Academy held sway over the art world (Academismus). In the 1890s, the "Wanderers" (the Society for Travelling Art Exhibitions) appeared, vigorously attacking the classicism of the Academy, denouncing imitation and championing independence, until they finally seized control of the art world and used it to promote their views and ideals. However, to reject the foreign easily leads to nostalgia for the ancient, and nostalgia for the ancient inevitably results in stagnation. Thus, before long, art declined, and the school of those who followed the French colorist Cézanne (Cézannists) arose. At the same time, Cubism and Futurism from southwestern Europe also spread into Russia and flourished.
At the time of the October Revolution, it was the heyday of the Left (the Cubists and Futurists), for in the matter of destroying the old order — revolution itself — they shared common ground with the social revolutionaries. But when asked about the goal they were heading toward, these two schools had no answer. What proved particularly fatal was that, though novel, their work was incomprehensible to the masses. So when the phase of destruction gave way to construction, and the demand arose for a popular, accessible art beneficial to the workers and peasants, these two schools could no longer escape rejection. What was needed was Realism, and so the Right rose and won a temporary victory. But conservatives are ultimately devoid of new vitality; before long, they proved their own ruin through their own works.
At this juncture, there was a demand for art to be united with social construction. Both Left and Right had failed alike, but within the Left there had already been internal fragmentation. After realignments, a new faction emerged called the "Productivists," who, in the name of industrialism and machine civilization, negated pure art and directed all creative purpose toward utilitarian industrial design. Through further struggles with rival factions and the departure of opponents, this movement eventually coalesced around Tatlin and Rodchenko to form "Constructivism" (Konstruktivismus). Their position was not Composition but Construction, not depiction but organization, not creation but building. Rodchenko said: "The artist's task is not the abstract apprehension of color and form, but the resolution of any given problem in the construction of concrete objects." This means that Constructivism has no eternally fixed laws; its very capability lies in solving each new problem afresh according to the circumstances of the moment. Since we are modern people, we should take pride in modern industrial enterprise, and therefore industrial creation is the expression of modern genius. Steamships, iron bridges, factories, airplanes — each possesses its own beauty, at once austere and magnificent. Thus Constructivist painters often cease to depict actual objects and instead compose geometric patterns, going a step further than the Cubists. The first two of the three works by Krinsky included in this collection may serve as a clear standard. Gastev, who advocates the efficient use of time and has struck out on his own path, is represented here by only one piece.
Moreover, because the revolution required propaganda, education, decoration, and dissemination, the graphic arts — woodcut, lithography, illustration, book design, and etching — flourished extraordinarily in this era. Left-wing artists unwilling to abandon pure art often took refuge in printmaking, such as Masliutin (whose four illustrations from *The Twelve* appear in the Weiming Series) and Annenkov (represented in this collection by his "Portrait of the Novelist Zamyatin"). Constructivist artists, too, given their aim of uniting art with industry, were extremely active. The poetry collections of modern poets decorated by Rodchenko and Lissitzky are said to be exemplary works of artistic printmaking, though I have not seen a single one.
Among woodcut artists, Favorsky (represented in this collection by "Moscow") is foremost. Kuprianov ("Woman Ironing"), Pavlinov ("Portrait of Belinsky"), and Masliutin all show his influence. Ms. Kruglikova is a renowned etcher; the two works included here are silhouettes, while the one introduced previously in *Torrent* ("Portrait of Sologub") is an engraving — all genres in which she excels.
Although the art of New Russia has already exerted a considerable influence upon the world, in China accounts of it remain exceedingly scant. These twelve meager pages are truly inadequate for the task of introduction; moreover, since most of the works selected are prints, major masterworks have inevitably been omitted — a matter we deeply regret.
However, the preponderance of prints was chosen for other reasons as well: first, China's reproductive techniques remain imperfect to this day, and rather than distort the originals, it is better to wait; second, in times of revolution, prints are the most widely useful medium — even in the greatest haste, they can be produced in an instant. When *Yiyuan Zhaohua* was first conceived, this point had already been noted; hence from the first to the fourth fascicles, all works were black-and-white line drawings. Yet the art world abandoned the project, and it proved very difficult to continue. Now we send this fifth fascicle into the world — by now it is probably already noontime — but we still hope that some readers may derive at least a measure of benefit from it.
The narrative and five illustrations in this essay are excerpted from Sheng Shimeng's *Survey of New Russian Art*; the remaining eight plates are reproduced from those in R. Fülöp-Miller's *The Mind and Face of Bolshevism*. This is hereby noted.
February 25, 1930, at night. Lu Xun.
Section 36
Literature and art ought not to be things that only a select few of superior talent can appreciate; rather, they should be things that only a few who are congenitally deficient cannot appreciate.
If one says that the loftier the work, the fewer those who understand it, then, following this logic to its conclusion, a thing that nobody understands must be the greatest masterpiece in the world.
Yet readers, too, should possess a certain level of attainment. First, they must be literate; second, they must have a general, basic knowledge; and their thought and feeling must also have reached a roughly adequate standard. Otherwise, they can have no connection with literature and art. If literature and art try to stoop down, it becomes very easy to slide into pandering to the masses, flattering the masses. Pandering and flattery do the masses no good. — As to what constitutes "doing good," that lies outside the scope of this question and need not be discussed here.
Therefore, in the present society of unequal education, there should still be literature and art of varying degrees of difficulty, to meet the needs of readers at various levels. Nevertheless, there should be more writers who think on behalf of the masses, striving to produce works that are plain and easy to understand, works that everyone can comprehend and enjoy reading, so as to push out the musty old rubbish. But I am afraid that the level of such writing can only go as far as that of popular ballad-books.
Because the present is a time of preparation for an era in which the masses will be able to appreciate literature and art, I think this is the most one can do.
If one demands total popularization right this instant, it is nothing but empty talk. The great majority of people are illiterate; even the current vernacular writing is not prose that everyone can understand. Moreover, speech is not unified: if one uses dialect, many words cannot be written down, and even if substitute characters are used, the writing will only be understood by the people of one locality — the readership is actually narrowed rather than broadened.
In short, producing a certain amount of literature and art at a level of popularization is indeed an urgent task of the present day. But if one envisions large-scale implementation, then the power of politics must come to its aid — one cannot walk on a single leg. Many a fine-sounding pronouncement is no more than a writer's way of consoling himself.
Section 37
This play was translated from the English version by L. A. Magnus and K. Walter, *Three Plays of A. V. Lunacharski*. The original book is preceded by a joint introduction by the translators, which, compared with the brief biography by Owase Keishi included here, is detailed in some respects and summary in others, with quite different points of emphasis. A portion is now excerpted here for the reader's reference —
"Anatoli Vasilievich Lunacharski was born in 1876 in the province of Poltava. His father was a landowner; the Lunacharski family was a semi-aristocratic landed gentry that had produced many intellectuals. He received his secondary education in Kiev, then went to the University of Zurich. There he encountered many Russian émigrés as well as Avenarius and Axelrod, and the course of his future was determined. From this time on, he spent much of his life in Switzerland, France, and Italy, and sometimes in Russia.
He was from the beginning a Bolshevik — that is to say, he belonged to the Marxist faction of the Russian Social Democratic Party. This faction won the majority at the second and third congresses, and the word 'Bolshevik' thus became a political term, different from its simple original meaning. He was a contributor to Krylia (The Wing), the first Marxist journal; he was a Bolshevik belonging to a particular group that, at the beginning of this century, established the Marxist journal Vperëd (Forward) and worked tirelessly for it. His associates included Pokrovsky, Bogdanov, and Gorky, among others; they organized lectures and school courses, and, generally speaking, engaged in revolutionary propaganda. He was a member of the Moscow Social Democratic association, was exiled to Vologda, and from there fled to Italy. In Switzerland, he was a regular editor of Iskra (The Spark) until it was shut down by the Mensheviks in 1906. After the Revolution of 1917, he finally returned to Russia.
This fact alone reveals the genesis of Lunacharski's inspiration. He was thoroughly conversant with France and Italy; he loved the erudite medieval homeland; many of his dreams were set in the Middle Ages. At the same time, his viewpoint was absolutely that of revolutionary Russia. The extreme modernism of his thought was equally distinctly different, linking the semi-medieval city to form the shadow of 'modern' Moscow. Medievalism and utopia meet upon the medium of the late nineteenth century — much as in *News from Nowhere* — and the medieval communal self-government wars appear in the terminology of Soviet Russia.
A profound faith in social improvement colors Lunacharski's works and, to a certain degree, distinguishes him from his great revolutionary contemporaries. Blok — the incomparable, beloved lyric poet who cherished a Sidneyan ardor for a fair lady, that is Russia or the new creed, possessing all beauty yet fragile, much like Shelley and his greatness; Esenin, who cried out more roughly and passionately for a not-quite-distinct ideal — an ideal that the people of Russia were able to see, to feel its existence and its vital force; Demian Bedny, the popular satirist; or, from another camp, the well-known L.E.F. (Left Front of the Arts), this Esprit Nouveau of France, producing bold new poetry, this poetic Futurism and Cubism — all of these, in a sense, were purer poets, less concerned with the practical. Lunacharski constantly dreamed of building, of building humanity into something better, though often still 'relapsing.' So in a sense, his art is more ordinary, lacking the soaring sublimity of his contemporaries, because he wanted to build and did not float off into empiricism; whereas Blok and Bely were empiricists of a sort — lofty, yet without belief.
Lunacharski's literary development may be dated from about 1900. His earliest printed works were philosophical lectures. He was an extraordinarily prolific writer; his thirty-six books could fill fifteen large volumes. An early work was *Studies*, a collection of philosophical essays from a Marxist viewpoint. Treating art and poetry, including appreciations of Maeterlinck and Korolenko, these writings already foreshadow his highly mature poetics. *The Foundations of Positive Aesthetics*, *Revolutionary Silhouettes*, and *Literary Silhouettes* all belong to this category. Among the shorter pieces in this group are attacks on the intelligentsia, polemics, and occasionally other kinds of writing, such as *Culture Under Capitalism*, *Ideals in Masks*, *Science, Art, and Religion*, *Religion*, *Introduction to the History of Religion*, and so on. He often took an interest in religion, placing himself within Russia's current anti-religious movement. ... Lunacharski was also a great authority on music and theater; in his plays, especially the verse dramas, one senses unwritten wounds resounding within. ... At the age of twelve, he wrote *Temptation*, an immature work about a young monk who has greater ideals than the church can satisfy. The devil tempts him with lust, but when the monk goes to marry lust, he preaches socialism. His second play was *The King's Barber*, an obscene story of the defeat of despotism, written in prison. Next came *Faust and the City*, an anticipation of the course of the Russian Revolution, finally revised in 1916, with the first draft completed in 1908. He then wrote comedies under the collective title *Three Travelers and It*. *The Magi* was written in 1918 (its essence resides in the 1905 essay *Positivism and Art*); in 1919 came *The Wise Man Vasily* and *Ivan in Paradise*. Then he tried his hand at historical drama: *Oliver Cromwell* and *Thomas Campanella*; afterward he returned to comedy, completing *The Chancellor and the Locksmith* and *Don Quixote Liberated* in 1921. The latter was begun in 1916. *The Bear's Wedding* appeared in 1922." (Excerpted and translated at the time.) In this same English edition there is a preface by the author, which explains in greater detail the reasons and circumstances of his writing *Faust and the City* — "No reader who knows Goethe's great 'Faust' will fail to realize that my *Faust and the City* was inspired by scenes in the Second Part of 'Faust.' There, Goethe's hero discovers a 'free city.' The mutual relationship between this child of genius and its creator — the resolution of that problem in dramatic form: on the one hand, a genius and his tendency toward enlightened despotism; on the other, democracy — this conception influenced me and prompted my work. In 1906, I structured the material. In 1908, in the pleasant countryside of Introdacqua in the Abruzzi, I spent a month writing the play. I set it aside for a very long time. In 1916, in the particularly beautiful surroundings of the village of St. Leger on Lake Geneva, I made one final revision; the important revision consisted in vigorous cutting." (Excerpted and translated by Rou Shi.)
This play, as the English translators believe, is "an anticipation of the course of the Russian Revolution" — and indeed it is. But it is also the author's anticipation of the course of world revolution. After Faust's death, the play comes to a close. Yet in *The Foundations of Positive Aesthetics*, we can discover part of what the author envisioned for the aftermath — "... New classes or races generally develop in opposition to their former rulers. And they have grown accustomed to hating their culture. Therefore the actual pace of cultural development is largely intermittent. In various places, at various times, humanity begins to build. And having reached a possible level, it tends toward decline. This is not because it encounters objective impossibility, but because subjective possibility is damaged.
"However, later generations, together with the development of the spirit — that is, rich association, the establishment of evaluative principles, the growth of historical meaning and feeling — increasingly learn to enjoy all art objectively. And so the opium-eater's delirious, gorgeous and strange Indian temples, the oppressively heavy Egyptian temples laden with cloying color, the Greek elegance, the Gothic rapture, the tempestuous hedonism of the Renaissance — all become comprehensible, valuable things for this new human being. Why? Because for this complete man of the new humanity, nothing that is human is a matter of indifference. Suppressing one set of associations and intensifying another, the complete man summons forth in the depths of his own psyche the feelings of Indians and Egyptians. He can be moved by children's prayers without himself believing; without being bloodthirsty, he can cheerfully project himself into the destructive fury of Achilles; he can immerse himself in the bottomless depth of Faust's thoughts, and with a smile contemplate the joyous farce and the comic operetta." (Translated by Lu Xun: *On Art*, pp. 165–166.)
Because the new class and its culture do not suddenly descend from heaven but generally develop in opposition to the old rulers and their culture — that is, they develop in antagonism to the old — the new culture still inherits something, and from the old culture it still selects. This helps explain why Lunacharsky, at the outset of revolution, still wanted to preserve the peasants' native art; why he feared soldiers' muddy boots trampling the carpets of the palace; and why, here too, the genius Faust — who founded a new city but inclined toward despotism, though he later repented — dies amid the hymns of the new people. This, in the eyes of the English translators, is, I believe, what they called "relapsing."
Therefore, his advocacy of preserving the cultural heritage stems from the conviction that "we inherit humanity's past and also love humanity's future." His view that the heroic founders of enterprises surpass the decadent men of the fin de siècle arises from the fact that in the enterprises created by the ancients there is contained a legacy that later emerging classes may all select from, whereas the decadent set themselves above and beyond humanity, of no benefit to their own time or posterity. But naturally there is also destruction — destruction for the sake of new construction to come. The ideal of new construction is the compass for all words and deeds. Without this ideal, to speak of destruction is, like Futurism, merely to be a fellow-traveler of destruction; and to speak of preservation is simply to be a maintainer of the old society.
Lunacharski's writings have been translated into Chinese in comparatively large numbers. Besides *On Art* (which includes *The Foundations of Positive Aesthetics*; Da Jiang Bookstore edition), there is *The Social Foundations of Art* (translated by Xue Feng; Shuimo Bookstore edition), *Literature and Criticism* (translated by Lu Xun; same publisher), *On Hoenstein* (same translator; Guanghua Press), and others. In these works, passages that serve to corroborate the ideas contained in *Faust and the City* may be found at any time.
The editor, June 1930, Shanghai.
Section 38
The author of this book is a writer who has recently risen to fame. In Professor P. S. Kogan's *Literature of the Great Decade*, published in 1927, his name had not yet appeared, and we have been unable to obtain his autobiography. The biographical sketch at the beginning of this volume is translated from the appendix of the German anthology *Thirty New Storytellers of the New Russia* (*Dreißig neue Erzähler des neuen Russland*). The first three parts of *And Quiet Flows the Don* were translated into German by Olga Halpern and published just last year; at the time, the press carried introductions rather more detailed than the brief biographical note:
"Sholokhov is one of those Russian poets who spring directly from the people and retain their origins. Only about two years ago did the name of this young Cossack first appear in the Russian literary world, yet he is already regarded as one of the most talented writers of the new Russia. Before he had even reached fourteen, he was already actively engaged in the struggle of the Russian Revolution; he was wounded several times and was finally driven from his homeland by counter-revolutionary forces.
"His novel *And Quiet Flows the Don* opens in 1913, and with the blazing colours of the south he paints for us the life of the Cossacks — those descendants of the heroic, rebellious slaves Pugachev, Stenka Razin, Bulavin and the like, whose deeds grow ever more magnificent in history. But what he describes has nothing in common with the spurious romanticism that has partly governed the Western European imagination of the Don Cossacks.
"The patriarchal life of the Cossacks before the war is depicted with remarkable skill in this novel. At the centre of the narrative stand the young Cossack Grigory and Aksinya, a neighbour's wife, two people welded together by a powerful passion, sharing both happiness and ruin. And around them, the Russian countryside breathes, works, sings, chats, and rests.
"One day, a sudden cry erupts in this peaceful village: War! The strongest men all depart. Blood flows even in this Cossack settlement. But during the course of the war there grows a sombre hatred — the harbinger of the approaching revolution..."
Not long after the book's publication, F. C. Weiskopf gave it a fair assessment:
"Sholokhov's *And Quiet Flows the Don* strikes me as the fulfilment of a promise — the promise that young Russian literature, through Fadeyev's *The Rout*, Panfyorov's *The Poor Peasants' Commune*, and the novels and tales of Babel and Ivanov, had made to the attentively listening West. That is to say, a new literature brimming with primal force has grown up, a literature as vast as the Russian steppe, as fresh and untrammelled as the Soviet Union's new youth. All that in the works of young Russian writers was merely a presentiment and an embryo — the new perspective, the observation of problems from an utterly unconventional, new angle, the new mode of depiction — has reached full maturity in this novel by Sholokhov. In the grandeur of its conception, the diversity of its life, and the power of its descriptions, this novel calls to mind Tolstoy's *War and Peace*. We eagerly await the sequel."
The German translation of the sequel appeared only this autumn, but it will presumably need yet another continuation, since the original work remains unfinished to this day. This translation corresponds to the first half of the first volume of Olga Halpern's German edition, so the matter of "sombre hatred growing during the course of the war" is not yet to be found here. Yet the landscape is singular, the human passions distinctive, and the writing lucid and spare, entirely free of the old literati's bad habit of embellishing every detail with sinuous flourishes. What Weiskopf called "a new literature brimming with primal force" can already be clearly discerned in broad outline. Should a complete translation appear in future, it would certainly provide still greater inspiration to new writers here. Whether this can be realised, however, depends on the daring of the reading public of this ancient land.
September 16, 1930.
Section 39
The novel *Cement* is a celebrated work by Gladkov and an enduring monument of new Russian literature. Regarding its content, Professor Kogan provided a concise account in his *Literature of the Great Decade*. He considered the novel to depict two social forces in conflict: the force of construction on the one hand, and the forces of regression, disorganisation, and the decadence of the past on the other. Yet the battle is fought not on the military front, but on the economic one. The great theme of the era has metamorphosed into a psychological question: the struggle of human consciousness against the forces that clash with economic recovery. The author tells of how, through titanic effort, damaged factories were made to function again and silent machines set back in motion. But alongside this story unfolds yet another — the story of the transformation of every order of human psychology. The machines emerge from darkness and stagnation, their flames illuminating the dim windowpanes of the factory. And with them, human intellect and emotion blaze into brilliance as well.
These ten woodcuts depict the revival of industry from extinction. From disorganisation to organisation, through organisation to restoration, and from restoration to greatness. One can also glimpse the concomitant transformation of the human psyche, though the artist seems less concerned with the struggle between the two contending social forces — the visible form of the entanglement of consciousness. I suspect this is because the realistic depiction of states of mind is inherently more difficult in visual art than in writing, and because the engraver, having grown up in Germany, experienced circumstances quite different from those of the author.
I know very little about Meyerfeld. I have only heard that he is one of Germany's most revolutionary artists, that he is just twenty-seven years old, and that eight of those years were spent in prison. He is particularly fond of engraving series of prints with revolutionary content; I have seen *Hamburg*, *The Disciples of Nurture*, and *Your Sister*. In all of these, a compassionate sensibility is still faintly discernible, but in these illustrations for *Cement*, owing to the different background, they convey instead an impression of rugged vigour and organisational force.
The novel *Cement* has already been translated jointly by Dong Shaoming and Cai Yongshang, using the Cantonese transliteration; in Shanghai it is commonly called *shuimenting*; in earlier times it was also known as *sanhetǔ*. September 27, 1930.
Section 40
Before this translation could finally meet its readers, it passed through a small but difficult history.
In the first half of last year, when leftist literature had not yet been severely suppressed, many bookshops, eager to display their progressiveness at least on the surface, were generally willing to print a few books of this kind; even if they hadn't actually accepted manuscripts, they were at the very least keen to advertise a forthcoming title. This trend even moved the Shenzhou Guoguang Press, which had hitherto specialised exclusively in rubbings and art reproductions, to agree to publish a series of works from new Russian literature. At that time we selected ten plays and novels that had long been critically acclaimed worldwide, arranged translators, and named the series *The Modern Literature Series*.
Those ten books were:
1. *Faust and the City*, by A. Lunacharsky, translated by Rou Shi. 2. *Don Quixote Liberated*, by the same author, translated by Lu Xun. 3. *October*, by A. Yakovlev, translated by Lu Xun. 4. *The Naked Year*, by B. Pilnyak, translated by Pengzi. 5. *Armoured Train 14-69*, by V. Ivanov, translated by Fu Heng. 6. *Insurrection*, by D. Furmanov, translated by Cheng Wenying. 7. *The Fiery Steed*, by F. Gladkov, translated by Shi Heng. 8. *The Iron Flood*, by A. Serafimovich, translated by Cao Jinghua. 9. *The Rout*, by A. Fadeyev, translated by Lu Xun. 10. *And Quiet Flows the Don*, by M. Sholokhov, translated by Hou Pu. Libedinsky's *A Week* and Gladkov's *Cement* are also works of monumental significance, but since translations of them had already been published, they were not included here.
It was an exciting time. Not long after the catalogue of the series was announced, rival translations were already appearing on the market, such as Mr. Yang Sao's translations of *October* and *The Iron Flood*, and Mr. Gao Ming's translation of *The Conquest* — which was in fact *Insurrection*. We also heard that the Shuimo Bookshop was preparing to publish a similar series under the direction of Mr. Dai Wangshu. But our own translation work progressed slowly; the only one to hand in his manuscript early was Rou Shi, whose book was promptly printed. The rest were submitted only by early winter of last year, when *October*, *Armoured Train*, and a portion of *And Quiet Flows the Don* were finally handed in one after another.
Yet the suppression of leftist writers was tightening by the day, eventually growing so severe that even the bookshops were frightened. The Shenzhou Guoguang Press came forward to declare that it wished to annul the old contract; the manuscripts already submitted would of course be accepted, but the remaining six titles — those not yet begun or only partially translated — must on no account proceed further. What, then, was to be done? We asked the translators, and they all said: that's all right. This was not because Chinese bookshops were particularly faint-hearted; it was because the Chinese authorities' suppression was particularly ferocious. So: it was all right. And thus the contract was annulled.
Yet the three manuscripts already submitted still have not been published, the earliest having been handed in over a year ago and the latest nearly a year. In truth, there is nothing fearsome about any of the three. However, there was one translator we did not notify of the cancellation: Jinghua. For we knew that although Mr. Yang Sao's translation of *The Iron Flood* already existed, this was precisely why another translation was necessary. Without mentioning anything else, the mere fact that he had rendered *yunker* — sons of the gentry trained as officer cadets — as "primary school pupils" could lead readers into the gravest misunderstanding. Primary school pupils coming in droves to slaughter poor peasants — had the world truly gone utterly mad?
The translator's posting of manuscripts was no easy matter. Postal items between China and Russia frequently failed to arrive, so he used carbon paper when translating, to ensure that even if one copy was lost, a duplicate would still exist. When he later sent the author's autobiography, essays, and annotations, he dispatched two identical copies each time, in case one should be lost in transit. But as it happened, every single item arrived; though some had been slit open during inspection, none had gone missing.
To translate and publish this book, we exchanged no fewer than twenty letters. The earlier ones have all been mislaid; I shall now transcribe a few passages from the most recent letters below. They may be of some use to the reader.
From his letter posted on May 30, which contained the following: "I finished translating *The Iron Flood* the day before May Day and sent it by registered post. After completing it, I read through it once myself and felt the translation rather clumsy, and feared there might be wrong characters or missing characters. I hope you will correct these as you go through it.
"As for illustrations, I have searched everywhere for the past two years without success. I wrote a letter to Piskarev requesting them from the artist himself, but when I asked someone in Moscow to find out his address, they could not discover it. Today I went to the local art academy to inquire; the academy has addresses for almost all Soviet artists, but when I checked, Piskarev's was simply not there. ... There are also the original annotations to *The Iron Flood*, concerning the historical events in the book, which would greatly aid the reader's understanding; I plan to translate them shortly and send them on. I also intend to translate a piece by the author, *How I Wrote The Iron Flood*, as an appendix. Additionally, the new edition of the original includes one map and four photographs; if they can be used, they could be included in the translation. ..."
N. Piskarev is a celebrated woodcut artist who engraved a number of illustrations for *The Iron Flood*; his work had long been famous, and we had sought to include it in the translation. Regrettably it could not be obtained. This time we have had to follow the original edition in using four photographs and one map.
His letter of July 28 contained the following: "On the 16th I sent a letter enclosing several pages of 'Errata for *The Iron Flood*.' Fearing it might not arrive, I made a duplicate at the time, which I am now sending again. I hope you will correct the translation manuscript accordingly — I would be most grateful. The translation of *The Iron Flood* was based on the fifth edition published last year and the pocket edition — the two showed no differences. But in the most recently published sixth edition, the author states in his preface that this edition has been personally revised by him and all errors in previous editions corrected. So I went through it again carefully against the new edition and corrected all errors, listing them herewith. ..." His letter posted on August 16 contained the following: "I wonder whether you have received all the items I sent consecutively — the errata, annotations, author's autobiography — all in duplicate? I am now sending by registered post the author's essay *How I Wrote The Iron Flood* together with the two short prefaces from the fifth and sixth editions; but the latter are of no great importance — only the sixth edition preface reveals that it has been carefully revised by the author. The essay was published in 1928 in *On the Literary Outpost* (formerly *Na Postu*), and is now included in the second edition (1930) of the *Collected Essays on Serafimovich*, which is the eighth volume in the *Critical Series on Contemporary Writers* published by Nikitin's Saturday Press; the essay is the second piece in the collection, the first being the *Author's Autobiography* which I sent you the other day. This essay is largely similar in content to the *Author's Remarks* (recorded by the editor Neradov) on pages 243-248 of the sixth edition of *The Iron Flood*, each having its own strengths, so I have not translated that one. In addition, there is a preface by the editor of Serafimovich's Collected Works, appearing at the front of the original volume, entitled *Artist of October*; I had originally intended to translate it too, but it is rather long, and since the new term begins on September 1, with grammar syllabi to compile, meetings to attend, and numerous other matters pressing in, I shall have no more time for translation. Since *The Iron Flood* needs to be published promptly, I shall have to set it aside and translate it later, for inclusion in a second edition.
"We are returning to the city at the end of this month. Since arriving in Svidala, two full months have passed without our noticing it. Summer did not make itself felt; what has come is autumn — an autumn that resembles winter in China. In summer the Chinese go to the countryside or the seaside to escape the heat; here one goes to bask in the sun.
"I have asked many people to look up Piskarev's address, all without success. Moscow has a 'Bureau of Names and Addresses,' but one must state the person's age and background to use it — how could I possibly know that? I think that when I have the opportunity to go to Moscow, I shall look for him myself; if I find him, the illustrations can be included in a second edition. Originally I also wanted to translate a couple of critical essays on *The Iron Flood*, such as D. Furmanov's, but these too will have to wait until I have the time. ..."
The absence of woodcut illustrations was not too serious a matter, but the lack of a proper preface was truly felt as a deficiency. Fortunately, Shi Tie'er undertook to translate Neradov's essay especially for this edition — nearly twenty thousand characters, and a most important text indeed. If the reader studies this together with the appended *How I Wrote The Iron Flood* at the end of the volume, with careful and repeated reading, it will greatly aid not only the understanding of this book but also the understanding of the theory of creative writing and criticism.
There is one more letter, written on September 1: "In the past few days I have sent you consecutively the author's biography, original annotations, essay, the original text of *The Iron Flood*, and, posted the day before yesterday, volume one of the *Collected Works of Serafimovich* (which contains several illustrations that might be usable: 1. The author in 1930; 2. On the right, the author's mother holding the future author in her arms, on the left, the author's father; 3. The author in Mariupol in 1897; 4. A letter from Lenin to the author). Have all of these been duly received?
"Piskarev's illustrations are simply impossible to find; in the end I wrote to Serafimovich, who provided his address, and I have now written to Piskarev — we shall see what comes of his reply.
"While writing to Serafimovich, I took the opportunity to ask about several words in *The Iron Flood* that lacked annotations, such as *pugach* and others. The author was kind enough to annotate the difficult Kuban-Ukrainian words in the book, one by one with their Russian equivalents, and sent them typed, eleven pages in all. As a result, several errors in the translation came to light. Apart from the annotations, during translation each of these words required consultation with several experts in Ukrainian before I dared decide on a rendering, and yet some were still misunderstood — these are the particular and unavoidable snags of post-October literature. I have now corrected the errors and added annotations according to the author's explanations, and am sending them to you by express mail. If they arrive in time, I hope you will take the trouble to make the corrections. If not, they will just have to wait for the second edition. ..."
When the first errata sheet arrived, the book was in the process of being typeset, so all corrections could be made. But this latest batch arrived when more than half had already been proofread, and alterations were no longer possible; moreover, the additions and corrections were almost all in the first half. They are reproduced below as an errata and addenda sheet for *The Iron Flood*:
Page 13, line 2: Before "Don't you know!" add: "Pah, have you lost your mind!" Page 13, line 20: "melon-grower" should be changed to: "melon-watchman." Page 14, line 17: "Have you lost your mind?!" should be changed to: "Gone mad, perhaps?!" Page 34, line 6: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "Hui-tzu": "*Hui-tzu* was one of the most contemptuous and insulting terms used by people with Great Russian chauvinist attitudes during the Tsarist era to refer to non-Orthodox peoples in general, and especially to Muslims and Turks." — Author's special note for the Chinese translation. Page 36, line 3: "You must grow up to be like a man" should be changed to: "We shall have to go work in the fields." Page 38, line 3: After "a man with sparse hair" add: "dishevelled." Page 43, line 2: "mongrel lamb" should be changed to: "mad-born bastard." Page 44, line 16: "to drink" should be changed to: "to squander." Page 46, line 8: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "reconnaissance battalion": "Reconnaissance battalion (translator's note: in Russian, *plastun* battalion): Black Sea Cossacks lying flat in grass, in reeds, in dense forest, lying in ambush to wait for and guard against the enemy." — Author's special note. Page 49, line 14: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "the flat sea surface": "This refers to the Sea of Azov, which is very shallow in places. Fishermen all call it 'the washtub.'" — Author's special note. Page 49, line 17: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "then comes another sea": "This refers to the Black Sea." — Author's special note. Page 50, line 4: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "wild ox": "The extremely rare, nearly extinct, shaggy-maned wild ox (bison)." — Author's special note. Page 52, line 7: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "Zaporozhye Sich": "The Free Zaporozhye Sich: a form of Ukrainian Cossack organisation that arose in the sixteenth century on the 'Zaporozhye' island in the rapids of the Dnieper. The Zaporozhians often campaigned southward against the Crimea and the Black Sea coast, bringing back great quantities of plunder. They participated in the Ukrainian Cossack uprisings against the autocratic Russian state. The life of the Zaporozhian peasants is described in Gogol's *Taras Bulba*." — Author's special note. Page 53, line 6: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "Sharp-belly Chiga": "A teasing nickname used among horsemen in Cossack villages. Derived from the name of the bandit Chiga." — Author's special note. Page 53, line 11: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "gakluk": "A local despot." — Author's special note. Page 53, line 11: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "pugach": "A flogger; an owl; a scarecrow in the fields (for frightening sparrows)." — Author's special note. Page 56, line 3: "insatiably greedy creature!" should be changed to: "useless creature!" Page 57, line 15: "lodging" should be changed to: "nose." Pages 71, lines 5-6: "It stretches flat all the way to the sea?" should be changed to: "It stretches flat far, far into the distance all the way to the sea?" Page 71, line 8: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "when Moses delivered the Jews from their slavery in Egypt": "According to the *Old Testament*, the ancient Jews were in Egypt, enslaved under the Egyptian king, building the great pyramids. Moses led them out of there." — Author's special note. Page 71, line 13: "He'll get everything done at once" should be changed to: "He'll think of every expedient at once." Page 71, line 18: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "bay": "This refers to the Bay of Novorossiysk." — Author's special note. Page 94, line 12: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "gazyri": "Small pockets sewn with braid onto the breast of the garment, used for holding cartridges." — Author's special note. Page 145, line 14: "hut" should be changed to: "little tavern." Page 179, line 21: A note should be added at the bottom of the page for "the fairies' wedding": "'The fairies' wedding' is a Ukrainian folk expression, meaning for instance just before a thunderstorm — when it suddenly turns pitch dark and lightning flashes and dances, this is called 'the fairy woman holding her wedding'; it also refers more generally to gloom and drizzle." — Translator's note.
The above comprises twenty-five items. Three of them — "gakluk," "pugach," and "gazyri" — had already been given explanatory notes by the proofreader during the typesetting process, based on annotations from the Japanese translation; these differ somewhat, but can no longer be changed. Readers should, of course, trust the author's own notes.
As for the illustrations in volume one of the *Collected Works of Serafimovich*, none have been used here. For we have already included all four illustrations from volume ten (that is, the sixth edition of *The Iron Flood*), among which is a portrait of the author; at the front of the book we have added a portrait drawn by L. Radinov, and in the middle we have inserted *The Iron Flood*, originally a large oil painting by R. Frenz. Since there is still no word regarding Piskarev's woodcuts, we have taken a reduced reproduction from the fourth volume of the magazine *Prints* (*Graviura*, 1929) and placed it on the cover; it depicts the scene of "outsiders" being slaughtered.
Among foreign translations, within the proofreader's range of knowledge, there are German and Japanese versions. The German translation is appended to Neverov's *Tashkent, the City of Bread* (*A. Neverow: Taschkent, die Brotreiche Stadt*), published in 1929 by the Neuer Deutscher Verlag in Berlin; the translator is unnamed, and abridgements are encountered frequently — it cannot be called a good book. The Japanese translation, however, is complete, entitled *The Iron Torrent*, published in 1930 by Tokyo's Sobunkaku as the first volume in the *Soviet Writers Series*; the translator, Kurahara Korehito, is a widely trusted translator, and for difficult passages he had the assistance of Konstantinov from the Soviet Embassy, making it quite reliable. However, because the original text is so fiendishly difficult, minor errors are still unavoidable — for example, the "fairies' wedding" just annotated above is rendered there as "the fairy woman's freedom," a clear misunderstanding.
Our edition, owing to the limitations of our abilities, naturally cannot claim to be "definitive," but in completeness it certainly surpasses the German translation, and in its thoroughness of preface, afterword, annotations, map, and illustrations, it also exceeds the Japanese edition. Only, by the time we had managed to assemble the whole thing, the state of affairs in Shanghai's publishing world was already vastly different from before: not a single bookshop dared to print it. Under this rock-like weight of oppression, we had to twist and wind our way, but in the end we succeeded in unfurling before the reader's eyes this brilliant, iron-hard new flower.
This naturally does not amount to any real "difficulty" — it is merely a handful of trifles. But the reason I have deliberately recounted these trifles is, in truth, that I wish the reader to know: under present conditions, it is no easy thing to produce a reasonably good book. Though this book is merely a translation of a novel, it was produced through the combined modest efforts of three people — one translating, one supplementing, one proofreading — and not one of the three harboured the least intention of amusing himself or of deceiving the reader under cover of the project. If the reader does not, upon finding that this book lacks the "smoothness" of *Peter Pan* or *Andersen's Fairy Tales*, close the volume with a sigh and go off to drink coffee; if, in the end, the reader is willing to read it through, and perhaps even to read it again, together with the preface and appendix — then the reward we receive will be quite sufficient. October 10, 1931. Lu Xun.
Section 41
In the south they hold great assemblies all day long; in the north the beacon fires suddenly blaze.
Northerners flee as refugees, southerners shout and rail; petitions and telegrams raise an uproar that fills the sky.
Then there is your cursing me and my cursing you, each proclaiming himself sweet as honey.
The men of letters laugh and call Yue Fei a fraud; the men of arms retort that Qin Hui is the villain.
Amid the mutual abuse, territory is lost; amid the mutual abuse, copper coins are donated.
Territory lost and coins donated, the shouting and cursing fall silent too.
The man of letters has a toothache; the man of arms takes to the hot springs.
In the end they realise that neither is Yue Fei nor Qin Hui, issue declarations of misunderstanding, and bury the hatchet.
They are all fine fellows, and at last they gather together in one hall to smoke their cigars.
Published February 11, 1931, in the first issue of the fortnightly *Crossroads*.
Section 42
General He Jian, sabre in hand, takes charge of education, And decrees what schools ought to add to the curriculum. First of all, a subject called "Civics" -- What exactly this subject teaches, nobody knows. But pray, good sirs, do not be impatient; Let me compile the textbook. Being a citizen is no easy matter; Let no one take it lightly.
Lesson One: Learn to endure. Be stubborn as a pig and strong as an ox. Once slaughtered, you can be eaten; while alive, put to work. Even when you die of plague, you're still good for rendering into oil.
Lesson Two: First you must kowtow. First bow to His Excellency He, then bow to Master Kong. Bow badly and your head comes off. When your head is being lopped, do not beg for your life; To beg for your life is to be a counter-revolutionary. His Excellency has the sword, you have the head -- This bit of duty to Heaven you ought to fulfil.
Lesson Three: Do not speak of love. Free marriage is a load of hot air. Best to become the tenth or twentieth concubine; And if your parents need money, You can be sold for a few hundred or a few thousand. Rectifying public morals and turning a profit besides -- Could there be a better deal than this?
Lesson Four: Do as you are told. Whatever His Excellency says, that is what you do. A citizen's duties are ever so many, Known only to His Excellency in his own heart. But pray, good sirs, do not cling too rigidly to my textbook, Lest His Excellency take displeasure and call us reactionaries.
Section 43
The First Plenary Session is all astir -- suddenly debating who sold out the country.
The Guangdong delegates jabber and gibber, seeking to pin the blame on the authorities.
Old Wu, more vigorous with age, bellows back: "Rubbish! Rubbish!" Declaring that the seller is someone else, not far off, right here in this hall.
Some cry: "Hear, hear! Quite right!" Others hiss and jeer.
The hissing hardly matters, but the "hear-hears" have vexed the Crown Prince.
Without a word he departs for "the new capital"; the flags in the hall turn deathly pale.
A crowd of dignitaries chase after him, hat in hand, respectfully imploring His Sacred Carriage to return.
We are all about to "rush to the national crisis" together -- why pull the rug from under us now?
The champagne is going flat and the banquet grows cold; pray do not keep our comrades waiting.
Old Wu voluntarily abstains from the session; no more fox-spirit to stir up trouble.
Besides, fame and profit cannot both be had -- who can shove the bitter aside and taste only the sweet?
If we sell, then let us all sell, or none at all; otherwise one side loses too much face.
Now let us go and drink a few more rounds to our hearts' content; when ears are flushed and wine is warm, everyone is happy.
Then anything can be settled -- and only thus can we comfort the spirits in heaven.
Theory and practice alike ring out loud and clear.
A nod of the little dragon's head, and it's back on the railway.
Only the great pillar of state still seems to be plotting a coup.
Comrade Zhan Tang has high blood pressure; Mr. Jing Wei has diabetes.
The national crisis cannot be rushed to just yet, though Old Wu has already received his warning.
How can things go on like this? The Republic of China remains forever headless.
Those who wish for party rule cannot even get it; the common people, I fear, are in for suffering.
If only curing illness and unifying the country were equally easy -- just toss those "verbal disputes" into the privy.
Rubbish! Rubbish! Utter dog's rubbish! Truly, how can there be such a thing!
Section 44
—Lecture delivered on November 22 at the Second Campus of Peking University. I have not been here for four or five years and am not very familiar with the situation here; nor are you acquainted with my circumstances in Shanghai. So today I shall still speak on the literature of leisure-making and the literature of service.
How shall I put this? After the May Fourth Movement, the new literary figures enthusiastically promoted fiction. The reason was that the advocates of new literature saw how highly the novel was esteemed in Western literature, almost on a par with poetry—so much so that if you didn't read novels, you seemed scarcely human. But from the old Chinese perspective, fiction was meant for idle amusement, for the hours after wine and tea. For when one has eaten and drunk one's fill, having nothing to do is truly agonizing—and in those days there were no dance halls. In the late Ming and early Qing, every respectable household kept its retainers of leisure. Those who could recite poetry, play chess, or paint would accompany the master in reading a bit, playing a game, or dashing off a few brushstrokes. This was called "helping with leisure"—in other words, being a sycophant! Hence the literature of leisure-making is also known as sycophant literature. Fiction served precisely this sycophantic function. In the time of Emperor Wu of Han, only Sima Xiangru was disinclined to play along, often feigning illness to avoid going out. As to why he truly feigned illness, I cannot say. If one claims he opposed the emperor for the sake of rubles, I expect that is unlikely, since rubles did not yet exist in those days. Generally, when a dynasty is about to fall, the emperor has nothing to do, and his ministers chat about women and wine—as in the Southern Dynasties of the Six Dynasties period. When a dynasty is founded, these same men draft edicts, decrees, proclamations, and telegrams—composing what are called "magnificent official documents." But by the second generation the master is no longer busy, and so the ministers help him pass the time. Thus the literature of leisure-making is in truth the literature of service.
From my point of view, Chinese literature can be divided into two great categories: (1) Court literature—the literature of those who have entered the master's household and must either serve his needs or help fill his idle hours; and opposed to this is (2) Recluse literature. Tang poetry already contained both kinds. In modern parlance, these would be called "in office" and "out of power." Although the latter sort has neither tasks to help with nor idle hours to fill for the moment, the recluse dwells in the mountains yet "keeps the palace in his heart." If he can neither serve nor amuse, then his heart is filled with sorrow.
In China, hermits and bureaucrats have always been closest to each other. In those days there was always the hope of being summoned, and once summoned, one was called a "recruited gentleman." Pawnshop owners and candied-hawthorn vendors, on the other hand, were never summoned. I once heard that someone writing a world literary history called Chinese literature "bureaucratic literature." When you think about it, this is really not far off. On one hand, of course, this was because writing was difficult and ordinary people received little education and could not compose essays; but on the other hand, Chinese literature and the bureaucracy are indeed closely intertwined.
The situation today is probably much the same—only the methods have grown far more ingenious, to the point of being undetectable. The most ingenious literary movement today is the so-called art-for-art's-sake school. During the May Fourth era, this school was genuinely revolutionary, for it was attacking the doctrine that "literature is the vehicle of the Way." But now it has lost even its spirit of resistance. Not only has it lost its resistance, it actually suppresses the emergence of new literature. It dares not criticize society, nor can it resist; and if it does resist, one is told that this offends Art. Thus it too has become a servant of service plus leisure. The art-for-art's-sake school does not concern itself with worldly affairs, yet it opposes those who do concern themselves with worldly affairs, such as the advocates of art for life's sake—just like the Contemporary Review clique, who oppose scolding, yet when someone scolds them, they scold right back. They scold those who scold—just as one kills those who kill: they are executioners.
This state of service and leisure-making has persisted for a very long time. I do not advise anyone to immediately cast aside all of China's cultural heritage, for without it there would be nothing to read; literature that neither serves nor amuses is truly all too rare. Nowadays nearly all those who write are people of service and leisure. Some say that literary men are very noble; I do not believe they are unrelated to the question of earning a living. Yet I also think it does not matter if literature is related to that question—as long as one can, relatively speaking, refrain from serving and amusing.
Section 45
In Chinese poetry, the suffering of the lower classes is sometimes expressed. But painting and fiction are the opposite: by and large, they depict those people as exceedingly happy, saying they "know not, understand not, and follow the ways of the emperor," as tranquil as flowers and birds. Indeed, from the perspective of the educated class, the toiling masses of China belong in the same category as flowers and birds.
I grew up in a large family in the city and from childhood was steeped in the teachings of ancient books and tutors, so I too regarded the toiling masses as one regards flowers and birds. Sometimes, when I felt the hypocrisy and corruption of so-called high society, I even envied their contentment. But my mother's family was from the countryside, which allowed me to draw near to many peasants from time to time, and I gradually came to know that they were oppressed their whole lives through, that they suffered greatly, and that they were not at all like flowers and birds. Yet I still had no way to make this widely known.
Later I read some foreign novels, especially Russian, Polish, and those from the small Balkan nations, and I came to understand that there were many people in the world who shared the same fate as our toiling masses, and that some writers were crying out and fighting on their behalf. The scenes of rural life and such things that I had witnessed over the years also reappeared more vividly before my eyes. When I happened upon an opportunity to write, I began to publish the degradation of so-called high society and the misfortunes of the lower classes, one after another, in the form of short stories. My original intention was simply to lay these things before the reader and raise a few questions—not for what the literary men of the day called Art.
Yet these writings attracted the notice of a portion of readers, and although they were much rejected by certain critics, they have to this day not been extinguished, and are now even being translated into English to meet readers in the New World—something I had never dreamed of.
But I have not written short stories for a long time now. The people are even more afflicted than before; my own ideas have changed somewhat from what they were; and I have seen the tides of a new literature. In this situation, I cannot write the new, yet I am unwilling to write the old. There is an analogy in ancient Chinese books: the gait of Handan was famous throughout the land; a man went to learn it, and not only failed, but forgot his own original way of walking, so that he had to crawl back home. I am crawling now. But I intend to keep learning, and to stand up again.
March 22, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai.
Section 46
I have now been entrusted with the role of writing a brief introduction to this novel. The task is not an onerous one; I need only divide it into four sections and give a rough account.
1. Regarding the author's career, I have already recorded it in the afterword to *A Day's Work*, and my knowledge has not increased since then, so I shall simply copy it here: "Neverov (Aleksandr Neverov), whose real surname was Skobelev, was born in 1886 as the son of a peasant in Samara Province. After completing the second level of teachers' college in 1905, he became a village schoolteacher. During the civil war, he served as editor of *Red Guard*, the organ of the revolutionary military committee of Samara. During the great famine of 1920–21, he fled with the starving masses from the Volga to Tashkent; in 1922 he went to Moscow and joined the literary group 'The Smithy'; in the winter of 1923, he died of heart failure at the age of thirty-seven. His earliest fiction was published in 1905, and his subsequent works were very numerous. His most famous is *Tashkent, the City of Plenty*, of which there is a Chinese translation by Mu Mutian."
2. As for criticism of the author, the most concise assessment within my reading is still that of Professor Kogan in *The Literature of the Great Decade*. Here I retranslate a passage based on the Japanese translation by Kuroda Tatsuo: "The most gifted novelist to emerge from the 'Smithy' group was, needless to say, Aleksandr Neverov, one of those writers who excelled at depicting rural life in an era of collapse. He breathed the breath of revolution while at the same time loving life. With love he observed the individuality of living people and admired all the variegated colors scattered across Russia's boundless great plains. To the issues of the day he was both distant and close. Distant, because he set out from a philosophy of ardent love for life; close, because he perceived the force standing on the road toward life, happiness, and fulfillment, and felt the force that liberates life. Neverov was one of those writers who ascended from everyday life to the realm of the universally human; a thorough-going realist and a depicter of life, he placed before us the visage of life in its contemporary aspect, rising to the depiction of the so-called 'eternal' qualities of human nature—in other words, he seized more profoundly the phenomena and states of mind that lay before us, illuminated them deeply, and made them reveal an interest that transcended the boundaries of any one time or place."
3. This story is one piece from his short-story collection *The Face of Life*. The story is old but still retains its value. Just last year in his own country a new abridged edition with illustrations was printed in the *Beginner's Series*. It is preceded by a short preface explaining its significance for the present-day Soviet Union:
"A. Neverov died in 1923. He was one of the greatest revolutionary peasant writers. In this novel *Andron Who Took the Wrong Path*, Neverov calls for the destruction of the entire old-style peasant way of life, regardless of how much suffering and sacrifice must be endured.
"The era described in this story is precisely the time when the Soviet Republic had finished off the White forces and begun peaceful construction. Those years happened to be the first in which the dark, old-fashioned countryside began to be transformed. Andron is an uncompromising, fierce fighter, struggling for a new life, and his working conditions are extremely harsh. To battle the kulaks, to battle the darkness and ignorance of the peasants—this required careful calculation, caution, and thoroughness. The slightest misstep could cause disaster. Andron, so loyal to the revolution, did not reckon with this complex environment. What he had built up through hardship and toil simply collapsed. But though the bestial kulaks killed his friend and burned down his house, they could never shake his iron will or his revolutionary ardor. The wounded Andron resolves to press forward, onto the hard road, to carry out the socialist transformation of the countryside.
"Today, our country is victoriously building socialism and, on the basis of collectivization of entire regions, is proceeding to liquidate the kulak class. Therefore, the first steps of the revolution in the countryside, described so truthfully and so clearly in *Andron Who Took the Wrong Path*, are well worth recalling now."
4. As for the translator, I need say nothing more. His thorough command of Russian and his fidelity in translation are by now well known to present-day readers. The five illustrations are taken from the *Beginner's Series* edition, though I know nothing at all about the artist Ez (I. Gotz). Night of May 13, 1933. Lu Xun.
Section 47
At the time when such writers as Turgenev and Chekhov were being greatly extolled by the Chinese reading public, Gorky received little attention. Even when an occasional translation or two appeared, it was only because the characters he depicted seemed peculiar, but on the whole no one found any great significance in his work.
The reason for this is now quite clear: it was because he was the representative of the "lowest depths," a writer of the proletariat. That the old intellectual class of China could not resonate with his work was only natural.
Yet the guiding spirit of revolution, more than twenty years before, already knew that Gorky was the great new artist of Russia—a comrade fighting toward the same enemy, for the same purpose, with a different kind of weapon; and that his weapon—the language of art—was of the greatest significance.
And this foresight has now been confirmed by the facts.
The workers and peasants of China, squeezed so dry that they can barely stave off death, how can one speak to them of education? And with a writing system so difficult, to hope that a writer as great as Gorky might emerge from among them is, for now, probably very hard. Yet people's aspiration toward the light is everywhere the same, and literature without a fatherland knows no boundaries between nations; we can of course begin by borrowing and reading some of these imported, advanced exemplars.
Although this little volume is merely a single short story, by virtue of the author's greatness and the translator's integrity, it is precisely such an exemplar. Moreover, it has now left the scholar's study to meet the masses for the first time; henceforth it will inspire a different kind of reader than before, and it will produce different results.
These results, too, will one day be confirmed by the facts.
May 27, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun.
Section 48
Suppose there were a man today who fancied himself a Huang Tianba, wearing a hero's topknot, dressed in a night-prowler's garb, with a single-edged sword of tinplate at his side, charging through towns and villages to rid the world of tyrants and right all wrongs—he would certainly be laughed to scorn, and judged either a madman or a fool, though still somewhat fearsome. But if he were exceedingly frail and always ended up being beaten himself, then he would be merely a laughable madman or fool; people would lose all their wariness, and rather enjoy watching him. The hero of *Don Quixote* (Vida y hechos del ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha) by the great Spanish writer Cervantes (Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1547–1616) is precisely someone who, though living in his own time, insists on practicing the ways of the ancient knights-errant; he persists in his delusion and finally dies in poverty and hardship, thereby winning the amusement and hence the affection of many readers, who pass his story along.
But let us ask: did injustice exist in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish society? I think one can hardly answer otherwise than: yes. Then Quixote's resolve to fight injustice cannot be called wrong; nor can his failure to measure his own strength be called wrong. The error lies in his method of fighting. Muddled thinking led to mistaken methods. A knight-errant cannot right all the world's wrongs through his own "exploits," just as a philanthropist cannot relieve all the world's suffering through his own good deeds. Moreover, "not only is it useless, it actually does harm." He punished a master for beating his apprentice, congratulated himself on this "exploit," and swaggered off—but the moment he left, the apprentice suffered even worse. That is a fine example.
Yet the bystanders who mock Quixote do not always mock him justly. They laugh at him for not being a hero yet fancying himself one, for being out of step with the times and ending up in misery and ruin; from this mockery they elevate themselves above the "non-hero" and gain a sense of superiority—yet they themselves have no better strategy for combating society's injustices, and some have not even perceived the injustice. As for philanthropists and humanitarians, others have long since exposed them as merely purchasing peace of mind with sympathy or money. This is certainly correct. But if one is not a warrior and merely seizes this argument to cloak one's own coldness, then one is purchasing peace of mind by not giving a hair—a transaction without capital.
This play brings Quixote onto the stage and demonstrates with the utmost clarity the flaws, indeed the poison, of Quixotism. In the first act, through stratagem and his own beatings, he rescues the revolutionaries; spiritually he is victorious, and in fact he achieves a real victory too: the revolution does break out, and the despot is thrown into prison. But then this humanitarian suddenly sees the dukes as the oppressed, releases the serpent back into the ravine, enabling it to spread its venom once more—burning, killing, raping, and plundering far beyond the sacrifices of the revolution. Though not believed by the people—even his squire Sancho barely believes him—he is constantly exploited by scoundrels, helping to keep the world in darkness.
The duke is merely a puppet; the incarnations of the despotic devil are Count Murzio (Graf Murzio) and the court physician Pappo del Babbo. Murzio once called Quixote's fantasies "the bovine happiness of sheep-like equality," and then declared the "happiness of wild beasts" that they intended to realize—saying: "Oh, Don Quixote! You do not know us beasts. The brute beast, clamping its jaws on a fawn's skull, snapping its throat, slowly drinking its hot blood, feeling the little legs quivering beneath its claws, gradually dying away—that is truly, exquisitely sweet. But man is a refined beast. To rule, to live in luxury, to compel others to pray to you, to tremble before you and bow and scrape. Happiness lies in feeling the strength of millions concentrated in your hands, surrendered to you unconditionally; they are slaves, and you are God. The happiest, most comfortable men in the world were the Roman emperors. Our duke could be like a resurrected Nero, or at least like Heliogabalus. But our court is small; we are still far from that.
"To destroy all the laws of God and man, and according to the law of one's own will, to forge new chains for others! Power! In that word is everything: it is a marvelous, intoxicating word. Life must be measured by the degree of power. He who has no power is a corpse." (Act II)
This is a secret that is ordinarily never stated openly. Murzio truly deserves to be called a "little devil"; he has spoken it aloud—perhaps because he considers Quixote "honest." Quixote did remark at the time that sheep should defend themselves, but when the revolution came, he forgot this, saying instead that "the new justice is nothing but the twin sister of the old justice," equating the revolutionaries with the former despot. Thereupon Drigo Pazz said—
"Yes, we are despots, we are dictatorial. Look at this sword—see it?—it is the same as the nobleman's sword, and it kills just as accurately; but their sword kills for the sake of slavery, while ours kills for the sake of freedom. It is hard for your old head to change. You are a good man; good men always like to help the oppressed. Now, for this brief period, we are the oppressors. Come fight us. And we shall certainly fight you too, because our oppression is for the sake of making sure that soon no one in this world will be able to oppress anyone." (Act VI)
This is a most lucid dissection. Yet Quixote still does not awaken; in the end he goes to dig up graves. He digs graves, and he "prepares" to shoulder all responsibility himself. But, as Don Balthazar says: what use is such resolve?
And Balthazar goes on loving Quixote, willing to vouch for him, insisting on being his friend—because Balthazar comes from the intellectual class. But in the end he cannot change him. At this point one must acknowledge that Drigo's mockery, his loathing, his refusal to listen to empty talk, is the most justified of all—he is a warrior with correct tactics and an iron will.
This is quite different from the mockery of ordinary bystanders.
However, the Quixote of this play is not entirely a figure from reality. The original work was published in 1922, just six years after the October Revolution, at a time when the world was rife with slanders and calumnies from its opponents, who strained every nerve to defame it. Those who worshipped the spirit, loved freedom, and preached humanitarianism were mostly indignant at the authoritarianism of the Party, believing that the revolution, far from reviving humanity, had created a hell on earth. This play is the comprehensive answer to all these critics. The Quixote of the play is a composite of many thinkers and literary men who denounced the October Revolution. Among them are certainly Merezhkovsky and the Tolstoyans; also Romain Rolland and Einstein. I even suspect that Gorky is included—at that time he was running about on behalf of all sorts of people, helping them leave the country, helping them settle, and reportedly even coming into conflict with the authorities on their account.
But such justifications and predictions people are unlikely to believe, for they assume that under a one-party dictatorship there will always be writings that defend tyranny, and however ingeniously and movingly they are composed, they are nothing but a cover draped over bloodstains. Yet several of the literary men saved by Gorky proved the truth of this prediction: the moment they left the country, they bitterly cursed Gorky, just like the resurrected Count Murzio.
And what has further confirmed the truth of what this play predicted a decade ago is this year's events in Germany. In China, although there are already several books describing the life and exploits of Hitler, very little has been introduced about conditions within the country. Let me now copy a few passages from the Paris weekly *Vu*'s reports (translated by Suqin, published in *Dalu Magazine*, October issue):
"'Please allow me not to say that you have already seen me; please do not reveal to others what I have told you. ... We are all being watched. ... I tell you honestly, this is simply a hell.' The person speaking to us was not a man of political experience; he was a scientist. ... He had arrived at a few vague and generous notions about the fate of humanity, and that was the cause of his offense. ...'"
"'The stubborn ones were weeded out from the start,' our guide in Munich had already told us. ... But other National Socialists pushed things a step further. 'The method is classical. We tell them to go to the barracks to fetch something, and then we shoot them in the back. In official language, this is called: shot while attempting to escape.'"
"'Is the life or property of German citizens hostile to the regime of danger? ... Has Einstein's property been confiscated? What about the corpses, pierced by multiple bullets and covered with wounds, found almost daily in vacant lots or in the forests outside the city, as even the German newspapers acknowledge?
Is all this the provocation of the Communists, too? This explanation seems a bit too convenient, does it not? ...'"
But twelve years earlier, the author had already put the explanation in Murzio's mouth. Let me also copy a passage from the French weekly *Le Monde* (translated by Boxin, published in *Chinese and Foreign Book News*, No. 3):
"Many leaders of workers' parties have suffered similar cruel tortures. In Cologne, what the Social Democrat Salomon endured truly surpassed all imagination! First, Salomon was beaten in turns for several hours. Then they burned his feet with torches. At the same time they doused him with cold water; when he fainted, they stopped; when he came to, the torment resumed. Upon his bleeding face they urinated repeatedly. Finally, believing him dead, they threw him into a cellar. His friends rescued him and smuggled him across to France, where he is still in a hospital. This right-wing Social Democrat Salomon, in response to the inquiry of the editor-in-chief of the German *Volksstimme*, made the following statement: 'On March 9, I understood fascism more thoroughly than from reading any book. Whoever thinks he can defeat fascism through intellectual argument is dreaming. We have now entered the era of heroic, combative socialism.'"
This is also the most penetrating interpretation and the most precise corroboration of this book—more illuminating even than the conversion of Romain Rolland and Einstein, and it shows that the author's depiction of the savagery of the counter-revolution was by no means exaggerated, but rather had not yet gone far enough.
Yes, the bestiality of the counter-revolutionaries is something that revolutionaries would find hard to imagine.
The Germany of 1925 was somewhat different from today. This play was performed at the National Theater, and a translation by I. Gotz was published. Soon a Japanese translation also appeared, included in the *Social Literature Series*; I also heard that it was performed in Tokyo. Three years ago, working from both translations, I translated one act and published it in *Big Dipper* magazine. My friend Jinghua, knowing that I was translating this book, sent me a very beautiful original edition. Although I cannot read the original text, after comparison I discovered that the German translation had significant cuts—not just a few sentences or lines here and there; in the fourth act, all of Quixote's lengthy recitation of craft poetry had been deleted without a trace. Perhaps this was done for the sake of performance, to avoid tedium. The Japanese version was the same, being based on the German. This made me suspicious of the translations, and in the end I put the work aside and stopped translating.
But the editor managed to obtain, by another route, a complete manuscript translated directly from the original, continuing from the second act onward; my joy at that moment was truly, as they say, "beyond words." Unfortunately, by the time it reached the fourth act, publication ceased along with *Big Dipper*'s suspension. Later, after much searching, the unpublished manuscript was found; by then even the first act had been retranslated, differing considerably from my old version, and with detailed annotations—it was an eminently trustworthy edition. It had lain in a trunk for nearly a year, with no opportunity for publication. Now the Lianhua Press is publishing it, giving China one more good book, which is most gratifying.
The original contains decorative woodcuts by I. I. Piskarev, which are also reproduced here. The table of dramatis personae, places, and periods is supplemented from the German edition; but the first part of *Don Quixote* was published in 1604, which would place the action in the late sixteenth century, while the table gives the seventeenth century—this may be an error, though it is of no great consequence.
October 28, 1933, Shanghai. Lu Xun.
Section 49
To carve an image upon wood and print it on plain paper, that it may travel far and reach the multitude—this art did in truth originate in China. The printed Buddhist image obtained by the Frenchman Pelliot from the Thousand Buddha Caves at Dunhuang is, in the judgment of scholars, a work of the late Five Dynasties period, to which color was added in the early Song; it precedes the earliest German woodcut by nearly four hundred years. In Song printed editions, as we see from surviving medical texts and Buddhist scriptures, illustrations appear from time to time—some to distinguish objects, some to inspire faith—and thus the form of illustrated histories was established. By the Ming dynasty, the applications grew ever broader: novels and dramatic romances were regularly furnished with illustrations, some crude as lines drawn in sand, others fine as the grain of a split boot; there were also painting manuals, printed in successive overlays, their colors brilliant and dazzling, seizing the viewer's eye. This was the golden age of woodcut. The Qing dynasty favored textual scholarship and frowned upon ornament, and so this art went into decline. In the early Guangxu reign, Wu Youru, based at the Dianshi Studio, made illustrations for novels printed by Western methods; fully illustrated books enjoyed a considerable vogue, but fine woodcut engraving grew ever rarer, and survived only in New Year prints and everyday letter paper, gasping for breath. In recent years, even printed New Year pictures have been supplanted by Western methods and vulgar workmanship; the old images of the Mouse's Wedding and the Maiden Picking Flowers have vanished without a trace; letter paper too has gradually lost its old form without gaining any new inspiration, merely growing ever more coarse and debased. Peking has long been a gathering place for men of letters who cherish paper and ink; the old standards have not entirely fallen, and fine letter papers still exist. Yet, pressed by the times, decline is about to begin, and I, who love such things, am also much given to anxious foreboding. Therefore I searched the shops and stalls, selected the finest specimens, printed them from the original blocks, and compiled them into a book titled *The Beiping Letter Paper Album*. Herein one may see that the paper shops of the Guangxu era still merely took painting manuals of the late Ming or suitable small works by earlier masters and had them carved as letter papers, intended simply to please the eye; occasionally there were also works by artisan-painters, but these lacked elegance and were not worth looking at. Near the end of the Xuantong reign, Mr. Lin Qinnan's landscape letter papers appeared, seemingly marking the beginning of modern literati creating letter-paper designs expressly for this purpose, though I am not certain. After the Republic of China was established, Chen Shizeng of Yining came to Peking and at first made designs for inkstone cases and paperweights for the copper engravers, who carved them accordingly; the resulting ink rubbings were full of refined charm. Before long he extended his art to letter paper, and his talent burst forth abundantly—his brushwork was spare yet richly evocative, and he also took care to ease the engraver's labor at the knife, whereupon poetic letter paper entered a new realm. For at this point painter and engraver met in silent communion, joining forces in collaboration, and surpassed all predecessors. Not long after came Qi Baishi, Wu Daiqiu, Chen Banding, Wang Mengbai, and others, all masters of letter-paper painting, with engravers fully equal to them. After the xinwei year, one began to see several painters, each painting a different subject, gathering them into albums—the format was novel but the spirit dissipated, unlike the works of auspicious times past. Perhaps as the arts of writing are about to change, the way of letter paper will come to its end; future artists will surely have to break new paths and strive for renewal; as for gazing back upon the old country, that must await a more leisurely day. Though this is but a small book and records but trifles, the rise and fall of painting and engraving in one time and one place are amply contained within it; if it is not a grand monument in the history of Chinese woodcut, it may perhaps serve as an old garden of the minor arts, to be visited now and again by future antiquarians.
October 30, 1933, recorded by Lu Xun.
Section 50
Once something stirs a feeling, if I do not write it down at once, I forget it — because one grows accustomed. As a small child, the moment foreign paper came into my hands I would be struck by its rank, sheepish odor; now I feel nothing particular at all. The first sight of blood is disagreeable, but after a long sojourn in a district famed for its killings, one can behold even a severed head hanging in public without much surprise. This is because one is capable of growing accustomed. Seen in this light, for people — at least, for people of my sort — to go from being free men to being slaves would probably not be so very troublesome either. No matter what it is, one gets used to it.
China is a land of incessant change, yet somehow one does not feel it changing much. There are so many changes that one very quickly forgets them. To remember so many changes would indeed require a superhuman memory.
Still, of what I felt during this past year, though my impressions are faint, I can recall a few things. Somehow, it seems as if everything — no matter what — has become clandestine activity, secret activity.
Until now, what one heard was that revolutionaries, being oppressed, resorted to going underground or working in secret. But by 1933, one perceived that the rulers, too, were doing the very same thing. For instance, when Magnate A travels to the place where Magnate B resides, ordinary people naturally assume he has come to discuss politics; but the newspapers report otherwise — he merely wished to visit scenic spots, or bathe in a hot spring. When a foreign diplomat arrives, the public is told there is no diplomatic issue at all; he has simply come to inquire after the health of some great celebrity. And yet, in the end, it always seems as though that is not quite the case.
Those who wield the pen feel it most keenly in what they call affairs of the literary world. Wealthy men are kidnapped by bandits and held for ransom — a common enough occurrence in Shanghai — but lately, even writers frequently vanish without a trace. Some say they have been seized by the government; yet those on the government's side seem to deny it. And yet it also seems as if they really are being held in some government organ or other. There is no published list of banned books and periodicals, yet after they are mailed, they, too, often vanish. If it were the works of Lenin, that would hardly be surprising; but sometimes the Collected Works of Kunikida Doppo are also intercepted, and even Amicis' Cuore. Yet bookshops that sell possibly forbidden merchandise still exist — they do still exist — though sometimes, from who knows where, an iron hammer flies in and smashes the large pane of glass in the shopfront, costing more than two hundred yuan in damages. There are shops that have had two panes smashed — this time coming to a round total of five hundred yuan. Sometimes leaflets are also scattered about, invariably signed by such-and-such a "corps" or "league." In the placid periodicals one finds biographies of Mussolini or Hitler, praised to the skies, with the added claim that to save China one needs just such a hero; and yet when it comes to the crucial conclusion — who exactly is China's Mussolini or Hitler? — they are always politely silent. This is a secret, to be divined by the reader himself, at his own risk. As for their polemical opponents: when relations with Soviet Russia were severed, they accused them of receiving rubles; when the anti-Japanese resistance was underway, they accused them of selling China's secrets to Japan for money. But the person who uses pen and ink to denounce these treasonous affairs always writes under a pseudonym, as though, should his denunciation by some chance take effect and his enemy be killed on account of it, he would rather not bear that responsibility.
Revolutionaries, because they are oppressed, burrow underground. Now the oppressors and their lackeys, too, have crept into the shadows. This is because, though they talk reckless nonsense under the protection of military sabers, they in fact have no confidence whatsoever; and moreover they even doubt the power of those sabers. While talking reckless nonsense on one hand, on the other they think about future upheavals and shrink ever further into the darkness, readying themselves to don a different face and raise a different banner and start all over again when the situation changes. And the money that the great saber-wielding personages have deposited in foreign banks further shakes their self-confidence. This is planning for the not-too-distant future. For the remote future, they would like to leave a fragrant name in history. China differs from India in this: it places great store by history. But they do not quite believe in it, always thinking that some clever stratagem will suffice to have themselves written up in a flattering manner. As for readers other than themselves — well, naturally they want those readers to believe it.
From earliest childhood we have been educated never to be surprised by unexpected events, by extraordinary transformations. Our textbook is Journey to the West, which is entirely filled with the metamorphoses of demons. Bull Demon King, Monkey King — these are examples. According to the author, there is a distinction between the evil and the righteous, but on the whole, both sides are demons, and we humans need not be overly concerned. If, however, these were not matters in a book but things one experienced oneself, it would be rather awkward. What you took to be a bathing beauty turns out to be the Spider Demon; what you took to be the great gate of a temple turns out to be the mouth of a monkey — how is one supposed to manage? Having been schooled by Journey to the West since childhood, one is unlikely to be frightened to death, but all in all, one cannot help but regard everything with suspicion.
Diplomats are suspicious by nature; but I have come to feel that the Chinese in general are mostly suspicious. If you go to the countryside and ask a peasant the way, ask his name, ask about the harvest, he is never quite willing to tell you the truth. It is not necessarily that he takes you for a Spider Demon, but he seems always to assume you will bring him some calamity. This state of affairs greatly incenses the upright gentlemen, who have bestowed upon the peasants the sobriquet of "ignorant rabble." But in reality, there are times when calamity does indeed come to them. Through a full year's experience, I have grown more suspicious even than the peasant — when I see someone bearing the conspicuous mien of an upright gentleman, I actually suspect he may be the Spider Demon. But even this, I suppose, one will get used to.
The creation of an ignorant populace is the result of a policy of keeping the people ignorant. Qin Shihuang has been dead for more than two thousand years, and a glance at history shows that no one has employed such a policy again — yet how frightfully enduring are its lingering effects!
December 5.
Section 51
That I should have gradually acquired so many woodcuts by Soviet artists over the course of these three years is something I had not anticipated even myself. Around 1931, when I was preparing to proofread and print The Iron Flood, I happened to see in the magazine Graphika that Piskaryov had engraved illustrations for stories from this book, and I wrote to ask Brother Jinghua to seek them out. After much trouble, he met Piskaryov, and at last the woodcuts were sent; fearing they might be lost in transit, he even sent two identical sets. In his letter, Brother Jinghua wrote that the price of these woodcut prints was not small; yet there was no need to pay — the Soviet woodcut artists all said that Chinese paper was the finest for printing, and it would suffice to send them some. I looked at the paper on which The Iron Flood illustrations were printed and indeed it was Chinese paper — but a kind of Shanghai "chao-geng paper," made by collecting scraps of better-quality paper and re-pulping them. In China, apart from making account books, invoices, and bills, it has virtually no higher use. So I purchased a great variety of Chinese xuan paper as well as Japanese "Nishinouchi" and "Torinoko," and sent them in parcels to Jinghua, asking him to pass them on, with any surplus going to other woodcut artists. This single gesture yielded an unexpected harvest: two more rolls of woodcuts arrived — thirteen by Piskaryov, one by Kravchenko, six by Favorsky, one by Pavlinov, and sixteen by Goncharov. A third roll was lost by the postal service and could not be traced; I do not know whose works it contained. These five artists were all living in Moscow at the time.
Unfortunately, I was too impatient — searching for prints on one hand while printing the book on the other, so that by the time The Iron Flood illustrations arrived, the book had long since been published. I could only plan to print them separately as individual sheets, to introduce them to China and repay the artists' generosity. By year's end, I delivered them to the printing house, had the plates made, retrieved the originals, and instructed them to begin printing. But then the hostilities broke out, and from a rooftop in the distance I watched with my own eyes as that printing house, and my zinc plates with it, burned to ashes. Later I myself escaped through the battle lines, but my books and woodcuts remained under the crossfire, and I had very little leisure to think of them. Another unexpected thing was that when I returned to my old lodgings and checked my books, they had suffered not the slightest damage; however, my nerves were still unsettled, and for a while I did not think of reproducing them again.
Last autumn I finally remembered The Iron Flood illustrations and asked the Literature Society to make plates, appending them to the first issue of Literature — and so these images at last met the Chinese reader. At the same time, I sent another package of xuan paper, and three months later what came in return was: five by Favorsky, eleven by Bikhov, two by Mocharov, five each by Khizhinsky and Pozharsky, forty-one by Alekseev, and three by Mitrokhin — even more than the previous time. Mocharov and the five who follow were all woodcut artists residing in Leningrad.
But these works in my hands felt rather like a heavy burden. I often thought: of these original woodcut prints, amounting to over a hundred pieces, I am probably the only person in China who possesses them — and yet to keep them locked in a chest, would that not be a betrayal of the artists' goodwill? Moreover, a portion had already been scattered and lost, another portion had nearly perished in the flames of war, and life today is so uncertain as to be less lasting than dew on a scallion leaf — should they perish together with me, I would feel it a greater loss than losing my life. Time flows swiftly; while I hesitated, the New Year had already passed. I resolved to select sixty pieces and reproduce them in a book, to be handed down to young art students and lovers of printmaking. Among them, the works of Favorsky and Goncharov are mostly large-format, but owing to limited resources they have had to be reduced in size here.
I know nothing whatsoever about the history of Russian printmaking; fortunately, I obtained an article translated in excerpts by Mr. Chen Jie, which gave me a general picture of the past fifteen years. I have printed it at the beginning of the volume to serve as a preface; the order of the artists also follows the sequence of the preface. Several masters mentioned in the text are not represented by works in my collection; since this edition is limited to originals in my possession, I have not supplemented it by extracting works from other books. For readers who wish to know more, Chekhonin published a Russian-language art album, and Lebedev has an album with English commentary —
Ostroumova-Lebedeva by A. Benois and S. Ernst.
State Press, Moscow–Leningrad. Mitrokhin also has an album with English commentary —
D. I. Mitrohin by M. Kouzmin and V. Voinoff. State Editorship, Moscow–Petrograd.
However, these were published quite early and may by now be out of print. I once purchased them from the Japanese "Nauka-sha" for only four yen, though they contain few woodcuts.
Because I very much wished to know the artists' biographies, Brother Jinghua conveyed my request, and all five residing in Leningrad wrote theirs. We often see autobiographies of literary figures, but autobiographies of artists — and ones written expressly for us at that — are exceedingly rare, so I have transcribed them all here, to preserve a small portion of historical material. The following is Mitrokhin's autobiography — "Mitrokhin (Dmitri Isidorovich Mitrokhin), born in 1883 in Yepsk (in the North Caucasus). Graduated from the local vocational school. Later studied at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture and the Stroganov School of Applied Art. Did not graduate. Worked in Paris for one year. Began exhibiting from 1903. Began working on book decoration and illustration in 1904. Currently works principally for the 'Academy' and the 'State Literary Publishing House.'
July 30, 1933. Mitrokhin."
I have not yet been able to obtain the autobiographies of the woodcut artists in Moscow. One could, of course, investigate gradually, but I did not wish to wait. Favorsky has established his own school and already enjoys considerable renown, so the Small Soviet Encyclopedia contains a brief biography of him. This is what Jinghua translated for me —
"Favorsky (Vladimir Andreevich Favorsky)
Born in 1886. A contemporary Soviet woodcut artist and painter who founded a school of woodcutting distinguished by its lofty craftsmanship in form and structure, with exquisite technique. Favorsky's woodcuts are overly formalist in character and contain elements of mysticism, expressing the sentiments of a portion of the petty-bourgeois intelligentsia during the early revolutionary period. His finest works are: illustrations for the works of Mérimée, Pushkin, Balzac, and Anatole France, and the single-block woodcuts October 1917 and 1919–1921."
I am most gratified that this small collection contains his October 1917 and Portrait of Mérimée, both of which are documented in the records. The former I suspect is one of what the preface calls "The Revolutionary Years" — originally a large piece, a foot square, which regrettably can only be printed in reduced size. I also have in my possession a three-color print of an illustration for The Seven Monsters, together with hand-copied verse; it cannot be reproduced now, which is also a great pity. As for the other four artists, at present there is no way to look up information about them. The one I cannot forget above all is Piskaryov — the first to send his works to China. For now, I can only include one print, At the Piskaryov Family's New Residence, in which husband and wife work under a lamp while a small child holds onto the crib railing; though we know nothing of his life story, it is as if we have witnessed his family with our own eyes.
What follows are several newer artists. The preface merely lists their names, but here we have autobiographies written expressly for us —
"Mocharov (Sergei Mikhailovich Mocharov), born in 1902 in the city of Astrakhan. Graduated from the local art teacher-training school. Went to St. Petersburg in 1922; graduated from the engraving department of the Academy of Fine Arts in 1926. Began printmaking in 1924. Currently works for the 'Academy' and the 'Young Guard' publishing houses.
July 30, 1933. Mocharov."
"Khizhinsky (L. S. Khizhinsky), born in 1896 in Kiev. Graduated from the Kiev Art School in 1918. Entered the Leningrad Academy of Fine Arts in 1922; graduated in 1927. Began woodcutting from 1927.
Principal works as follows:
1. Pavlov: Three Stories.
2. Atsalovsky: The Five Rivers.
3. Vergilius: Aeneid.
4. The Centenary Volume of the Alexandrinsky Theatre (in Leningrad).
5. Russian Riddles.
July 30, 1933. Khizhinsky."
The last two have names not found in the "preface in lieu"; I think this is probably because both are graphic artists rather than woodcut specialists. The following are their autobiographies —
"Alekseev (Nikolai Vasilievich Alekseev). Graphic artist. Born in 1894 in the city of Morshansk in Tambov province. Graduated from the reproduction department of the Leningrad Academy of Fine Arts in 1917. Began printing works in 1918. Currently works for the Leningrad publishing houses: the 'Academy,' 'Gikhl' (State Literary Publishing Department), and the 'Writers' Publishing House.'
Principal works: Dostoevsky's The Gambler, Fedin's Cities and Years, Gorky's Mother.
July 30, 1933. Alekseev."
"Pozharsky (Sergei Mikhailovich Pozharsky)
Born on November 16, 1900 in the village of Karbas in Tauride province (in southern Russia, near the Black Sea).
Studied at the Kiev secondary school and the Academy of Fine Arts. From 1923 onward, worked in Leningrad, participating as a graphic artist in all major Leningrad exhibitions, and in foreign exhibitions — Paris, Kulp, etc. Began studying woodcut technique in 1930.
July 30, 1933. Pozharsky."
Of Alekseev's works, I have the complete sets for Mother and Cities and Years. The former already has a Chinese translation by Mr. Shen Duanxian, so I have included them all here. The latter is also a monumental work, and perhaps a translation will appear in the future; for now I set it aside, to await its time.
In my introduction of woodcuts, first there was Carl Meffert's illustrations for Cement; next, the Beiping Letter-Paper Album, co-edited with Mr. Xidi. This is the third, and since all of them were obtained by trading white paper, I have adopted the meaning of "casting a brick to attract jade" and called it Yinyu ji — The Jade-Attracting Collection. But present-day China is truly a land of thorns and brambles; all one sees is the tyranny of foxes and tigers and the furtive survival of pheasants and hares; in literature and art, only indifference and destruction remain. Moreover, buffoons have seized the opportunity to take the stage amidst the desolation, and the introduction of woodcuts has already drawn the mockery of rich men's sons-in-law and their hangers-on. But the great wheel of history will certainly not stop turning because of the dissatisfaction of hangers-on. I am now firmly convinced: the brightness of the future will surely prove that we are not only the preservers of the heritage of literature and art, but also its pioneers and builders.
Recorded on the night of January 20, 1934.
Section 52
On the night of January 20, 1934, when I wrote the postscript to The Jade-Attracting Collection, I quoted the autobiography that a woodcut artist had written for the Chinese — "Alekseev (Nikolai Vasilievich Alekseev). Graphic artist. Born in 1894 in the city of Morshansk in Tambov province. Graduated from the reproduction department of the Leningrad Academy of Fine Arts in 1917. Began printing works in 1918. Currently works for the Leningrad publishing houses: the 'Academy,' 'Gikhl' (State Literary Publishing Department), and the 'Writers' Publishing House.'
Principal works: Dostoevsky's The Gambler, Fedin's Cities and Years, Gorky's Mother.
July 30, 1933. Alekseev."
After this came a few lines of my own narration — "Of Alekseev's works, I have the complete sets for Mother and Cities and Years. The former already has a Chinese translation by Mr. Shen Duanxian, so I have included them all here. The latter is also a monumental work, and perhaps a translation will appear in the future; for now I set it aside, to await its time."
But the following year, when a German-language newspaper in the Czech capital introduced The Jade-Attracting Collection, above his name were already printed the words "deceased."
I was quite taken aback, and deeply saddened. Naturally, when misfortune befalls someone who had a connection with our literature and art, we are bound to grieve.
This February, the "Soviet Prints Exhibition" was held in Shanghai, but his woodcuts were not among them. A glance at his autobiography reveals that he lived barely forty years, worked for less than twenty, and was naturally not yet a master. Yet in that brief span of time he had already engraved the illustrations for three major works, and sent two complete sets to China — and one, though long since published, and the other still in my hands, had not yet been passed on to young lovers of art — this must be counted as no small negligence.
Fedin's (Konstantin Fedin) Cities and Years has still not been translated to this day. As it happens, a synopsis by Brother Cao Jinghua arrived just now. I do not wish to sit idle and wait. So I am printing the entire set of original woodcut prints, without deletions, together with the synopsis as a single volume, for the appreciation of readers, to fulfill my own responsibility, and as a memorial to our Nikolai Alekseev.
Naturally, someone who had a connection with our literature and art — we are bound to remember!
Recorded while ailing, March 10, 1936.
Section 53
I
In wind and rain the world is tossed about; I think of you, Fan Ainong. White-haired, you withered in neglect, And cast cold eyes on petty men's intrigues. The taste of life is bitter as autumn thistle, And the straight path in this world leads nowhere. Why, after a parting of three months, Must I lose your singular self forever!
II
Sea-grass laps green against the nation's gate; For years you aged in exile far from home. The foxes have just left their dens, And puppet figures already take the stage. In your old village, cold clouds gather, ominous; Through scorching days, the chill night stretches long. You sank alone into the cold, clear water — Could it have washed away your grief?
III
Cup in hand, we talked of our times; You, sir, drank sparingly. The great world yet swirled in darkness, And lightly tipsy, you let yourself drift down. This parting has become eternity; From now on, no more words between us. Old friends have scattered like clouds — I too am no more than a mote of dust!
Section 54
- Qian Qi (Tang dynasty): "Occasional Verses," five-character regulated verse
- Dai Shulun (Tang dynasty): "Occasional Verses," five-character quatrain
- Wang Anshi (Song dynasty): "Two Occasional Verses"
- Yang Wanli (Song dynasty): "Occasional Verses," five-character quatrain
- Cheng Hao (Song dynasty): "Occasional Verses," seven-character regulated verse
- Wen Tianxiang (Song dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Wang Mian (Yuan dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Zhu Youdun (Ming dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Liu Shu (Ming dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Xu Feng (Ming dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Kwon Pil (Joseon dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Yuan Zhu (Qing dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Wang Guowei (Qing dynasty): "Occasional Verses"
- Wang Guowei (Qing dynasty): "Two Occasional Verses"
- Dai Wangshu (modern era): "Occasional Verses," new-style poem
- Lu Xun (modern era): "Occasional Verses" (from Southern Tones and Northern Accents), essay
- Lu Xun (modern era): "Occasional Verses" (from Quasi-Erta on Wind and Moon), essay
- Lu Xun (modern era): "Occasional Verses" (from Gleanings from the Outer Collection), five-character regulated verse
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (The desolate garden has no master, moss grows on trees)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (Begging for food and chanting verse, the ancients knew such men)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (Idly I go into the garden)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (Human feeling is as thin as paper)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (Counting past hardships from the start)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (Bedeviled by Scorpio, fate grows stranger still)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (After snow, the plum blossom shows its color and fragrance)," classical Chinese poem
- Lai He (modern era, Taiwan): "Occasional Verses (By the bamboo fence, green grass grows in rows)," classical Chinese poem
Section 55
- I
- He who makes the laws does not perish by them,
- And saunters past the age of forty.
- Why not wager his fat head
- Against the dialectical method?
- II
- Alas, the Weaving Maid star
- Has become a cowherd's wife.
- The magpies suspect they need not come —
- So far, so far, the Milky Way of milk.
- III
- The world has literature,
- And maidens have ample hips.
- Chicken broth has replaced pork,
- And Beixin Press has shut its doors.
- IV
- A celebrity selects short stories;
- Those who make the cut, he says, are few.
- Though he has a telescope,
- Alas, he is nearsighted.
- December
Section 56
What is called the "Weiming Series" does not mean "nameless anthology" — it simply means we had not yet settled on a name, and so this itself became the name, sparing us further agonizing.
Nor is this a precious collection curated by scholars, one that every citizen must read. As long as there are manuscripts and printing costs, we send them to press, hoping to let desolate readers, authors, and translators alike feel a touch of liveliness. The contents are naturally quite miscellaneous, but because we wished to discern a thread of unity within this miscellany, we gathered them into a common format and called them the "Weiming Series."
Grand ambitions we have none whatsoever. Our only wishes: for ourselves, that the printed copies sell out quickly so we can recoup the funds and print a second title; for our readers, that after reading they will not feel too thoroughly cheated. The above was said in December 1924. Now we have divided this into two parts. The "Weiming Series" is devoted exclusively to translations; separately we have established another series for the original works of authors who lack prestige, called the "Wuhe Congshu" [Motley Crew Series].
Section 57
1. This journal publishes works, translations, and introductions pertaining to literature and the arts. Contributors write and translate according to their own interests and abilities, for the perusal of fellow enthusiasts.
2. The translations and introductions in this journal may concern the newborn infants of modernity, or the mothers who gave birth to them, or perhaps even the grandmothers who came before — they are not necessarily novel.
3. This journal issues one volume per month, approximately one hundred and fifty pages, occasionally with illustrations, and sometimes supplementary issues. Barring unforeseen obstacles, publication is scheduled for the middle of each month.
4. This journal also accepts unsolicited manuscripts. Any piece born of original thought and not written to order — unlike the eight-legged essays of the Ming and Qing — we most earnestly hope you will send, with manuscripts forwarded via the Beixin Bookstore.
5. Each issue is priced at twenty-eight fen. For those who subscribe before November: half a volume (five issues) costs one yuan and twenty-five fen; a full volume (ten issues) costs two yuan and forty fen, supplementary issues included at no extra charge, postage included. Overseas subscribers pay an additional forty fen postage per half volume.
Section 58
Though our resources are meager, we wish to introduce foreign works of art to China, and also to reprint from China's past those forgotten designs and patterns still capable of being brought back to life. At times we resurrect old treasures that remain useful today; at times we excavate the foreign ancestral tombs of China's currently fashionable artists; at times we bring in brilliant new works from around the world. Each subscription period comprises twelve installments, each installment containing twelve plates, published in succession. Each installment costs forty fen; a subscription for one full period costs four yuan and forty fen. The catalogue is as follows:
1. Modern Woodcut Selections (1) 2. Selected Paintings of Takehisa Yumeji 3. Modern Woodcut Selections (2) 4. Selected Drawings of Beardsley — the above four installments have been published 5. Catalogue of New Russian Art 6. Selected French Illustrations 7. Selected English Illustrations 8. Selected Russian Illustrations 9. Modern Woodcut Selections (3) 10. Selected Greek Vase Paintings 11. Modern Woodcut Selections (4) 12. Selected Sculptures of Rodin
Published by the Chaohua Society.
Section 59
The prevailing spirit of speculation has driven from the publishing world those few who genuinely worked for the sake of literature and art. Even when such people occasionally appear, they soon either change course or fail. We are merely a handful of young people whose abilities are not yet sufficient, but we want to try once more. First, we are printing a small series on literature and art — the "Literary and Art Chain Series." Why "small"? That is a matter of our capacity; for now there is nothing to be done about it. But the editors we have engaged are editors willing to take responsibility, and the manuscripts we collect are reliable manuscripts. In short: our present intention is a good one — we simply wish to become a small series that will never deceive. As for grandiose schemes of "breaking the fifty-thousand-copy mark" — we would not dare. If only a few thousand readers would lend us their support, that would be the very best we could hope for. The titles already published are:
1. *Andron Who Wouldn't Take the Proper Road*, by Neverov (Soviet Union), translated by Cao Jinghua, with a preface by Lu Xun. The author was one of the greatest peasant writers, a master at depicting the turbulent life of the peasantry. Regrettably, he died ten years ago. This novella recounts how, in the early days of the revolution, a simple-minded revolutionary in the countryside was opposed by the peasants and met with failure. It is vividly and humorously written. The translator is thoroughly versed in Russian, and having taught Chinese literature for years at a university in Leningrad, he was able to consult on difficult dialectal expressions at any time. The reliability of his translations has long been well known in the reading world. The volume includes five illustrations by Aizhi, which are likewise works of a fresh and original character. Now published; each copy priced at twenty-five fen.
2. *Don Quixote Liberated*, by Lunacharsky (Soviet Union), translated by Yi Jia. This is a grand drama in ten acts, depicting how that muddled, obstinate Don Quixote, through his knight-errantry, keeps running headlong into walls, and though liberated by the revolution, still finds no way forward. With villains and beauties as foils, it is written with both comedy and profundity. Two years ago, Lu Xun had retranslated one act from the German and published it in *Beidou* magazine, but upon learning that the German translation contained considerable deletions, he promptly laid down his pen. What followed was Yi Jia's complete translation directly from the Russian, but the magazine soon ceased publication and the translation was never finished there. Our group has now managed to obtain the complete manuscript — a cause for true delight — and so we have hastened to proofread and publish it for fellow enthusiasts. Each act is adorned with a woodcut decoration by Piskaryov, thirteen pieces in all, large and small, which are a feast for the eyes and surpass the German edition. Each copy priced at fifty fen.
Currently being proofread and printed:
3. *Idylls of the Mountain Folk*, by Baroja (Spain), translated by Lu Xun. Of Spanish writers, China generally knows only Blasco Ibáñez, but in literary skill Baroja far surpasses him. A Japanese *Selected Works* in one volume records the customs and ways of the mountain-dwelling Basque people. The translator previously published selected translations in *Benliu* [Torrent], which were well received by readers. This is the complete translation of the *Selected Works*. Publication forthcoming.
4. *Noa Noa*, by Gauguin (France), translated by Luo Wu. The author was a fierce champion of French painting who, disgusted with so-called civilized society, fled to the savage island of Tahiti and lived there for several years. This book is a record of that time, describing the decline of so-called "civilized man" and how the pure and genuine savages were poisoned by these declining "civilized" people, along with the island's customs, manners, and myths. The translator is an unknown figure, but the quality of the translation is in no way inferior to that of famous names. With twelve woodcut illustrations. Now in press.
Section 60
- Yiwen* [Translated Literature] has now been in publication for a full year. It still has a few readers. Now, owing to the sudden emergence of reasons that make continuation very difficult, we have no choice but to suspend publication for the time being. However, the materials already accumulated have cost the translators, proofreaders, and typesetters considerable effort, and most of these materials are by no means without merit. To abandon them henceforth would be truly regrettable. Therefore we have gathered them into one final volume, to serve as a closing issue and present to our readers — as a small token of our contribution, and also as a memento of farewell.
A public statement from the members of the Yiwen Society. September 16th, Year 24 [1935].
Section 61
All the contents of this volume are essays on literary theory. The authors are masters of their fields, and the translators are renowned adepts — faithful and yet fluent, a combination without equal in our time. Among them, *On Realist Literature* and *Selected Essays of Gorky* are particularly monumental works. The other essays, too, are without exception excellent — sufficient to edify, sufficient to endure. The complete book runs to over six hundred and seventy pages, with nine collotype illustrations. Only five hundred copies have been printed, on fine paper with elegant binding: one hundred copies with leather spine and linen covers, gilt top edge, priced at three yuan and fifty fen per copy; four hundred copies in full cloth covers, blue top edge, priced at two yuan and fifty fen per copy. Mail orders incur an additional postage fee of twenty-three fen. Good books sell out quickly — those who wish to purchase should do so without delay. The second volume is also in press and is scheduled for publication within the year. Available at the Uchiyama Bookstore, at the end of North Sichuan Road, Shanghai.