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且介亭杂文二集 (且介亭杂文二集)

Lu Xun (鲁迅, Lǔ Xùn, 1881–1936)

中文（原文）	English
昨天編完了去年的文字，取發表於日報的短論以外者，謂之《且介亭雜文》；今天再來編今年的，因為除做了幾篇《文學論壇》，沒有多寫短文，便都收錄在這裡面，算是《二集》。過年本來沒有什麼深意義，隨便那天都好，明年的元旦，決不會和今年的除夕就不同，不過給人事借此時時算有一個段落，結束一點事情，倒也便利的。倘不是想到了已經年終，我的兩年以來的雜文，也許還不會集成這一本。編完以後，也沒有什麼大感想。要感的感過了，要寫的也寫過了，例如「以華制華」之說罷，我在前年的《自由談》上發表時，曾大受傅公紅蓼之流的攻擊，今年才又有人提出來，卻是風平浪靜。一定要到得「不幸而吾言中」，這才大家默默無言，然而為時已晚，是彼此都大可悲哀的。我寧可如邵洵美輩的《人言》之所說：「意氣多於議論，捏造多於實證。」我有時決不想在言論界求得勝利，因為我的言論有時是梟鳴，報告著大不吉利事，我的言中，是大家會有不幸的。在今年，為了內心的冷靜和外力的迫壓，我幾乎不談國事了，偶爾觸著的幾篇，如《甚麼是諷刺》，如《從幫忙到扯淡》，也無一不被禁止。別的作者的遭遇，大約也是如此的罷，而天下太平，直到華北自治，才見有新聞記者懇求保護正當的輿論。我的不正當的輿論，卻如國土一樣，仍在日即於淪亡，但是我不想求保護，因為這代價，實在是太大了。單將這些文字，過而存之，聊作今年筆墨的記念罷。一九三五年十二月三十一日，魯迅記於上海之且介亭。	Yesterday I finished compiling last year's writings; setting aside the short commentaries published in the daily papers, I called the collection Essays from the Semi-Concession. Today I set about compiling this year's. Since, apart from a few pieces written for the "Literary Forum," I have not written many short essays, I have simply gathered them all in here and called it "Volume Two." The New Year has no particularly deep significance in itself; any day would do just as well. New Year's Day of next year will certainly not be different from New Year's Eve of this year. But it is convenient for human affairs to use these occasions as periodic markers, to bring some matters to a close. Were it not for the thought that the year is already ending, the zawen I have written over the past two years might not yet have been collected into this one volume. Having finished the compilation, I have no great reflections. What there was to feel, I have felt; what there was to write, I have written. Take, for example, the notion of "using Chinese to control Chinese." When I published it in the "Free Talk" column the year before last, I was fiercely attacked by the likes of the honorable Fu Hongliao. It was only this year that others brought it up again, and this time all was calm. It is always only when "unfortunately my words prove true" that everyone falls silent — but by then it is too late, and both sides have cause for great sorrow. I would rather have what Shao Xunmei's (邵洵美) journal Renyan said of me: "More passion than argument, more fabrication than evidence." There are times when I have no desire to seek victory in the arena of public opinion, for my words are sometimes the cry of the owl, heralding great misfortune. When my words prove true, it means everyone will suffer. This year, owing to inner calm and external pressure, I have scarcely touched on national affairs. The few pieces where I happened to do so — such as "What Is Satire?" and "From Lending a Hand to Idle Chatter" — were without exception banned. Other writers have probably met with similar fates. And so the world was at peace — until the North China Autonomy movement prompted journalists to plead for the protection of legitimate public opinion. My own illegitimate public opinion, however, like the national territory itself, continues to shrink by the day. But I have no intention of seeking protection, for the price would simply be too high. Let me simply preserve these writings in passing, as a small memento of this year's penmanship. December 31, 1935, recorded by Lu Xun at the Semi-Concession Studio in Shanghai.
作者寫出創作來，對於其中的事情，雖然不必親歷過，最好是經歷過。詰難者問：那麼，寫殺人最好是自己殺過人，寫妓女還得去賣淫麼？答曰：不然。我所謂經歷，是所遇，所見，所聞，並不一定是所作，但所作自然也可以包含在裡面。天才們無論怎樣說大話，歸根結蒂，還是不能憑空創造。描神畫鬼，毫無對證，本可以專靠了神思，所謂「天馬行空」似的揮寫了，然而他們寫出來的，也不過是三隻眼，長頸子，就是在常見的人體上，增加了眼睛一隻，增長了頸子二三尺而已。這算什麼本領，這算什麼創造？地球上不只一個世界，實際上的不同，比人們空想中的陰陽兩界還利害。這一世界中人，會輕蔑，憎惡，壓迫，恐怖，殺戮別一世界中人，然而他不知道，因此他也寫不出，於是他自稱「第三種人」，他「為藝術而藝術」，他即使寫了出來，也不過是三隻眼，長頸子而已。「再亮些」？不要騙人罷！你們的眼睛在那裡呢？偉大的文學是永久的，許多學者們這麼說。對啦，也許是永久的罷。但我自己，卻與其看薄凱契阿，雨果的書，寧可看契訶夫，高爾基的書，因為它更新，和我們的世界更接近。中國確也還盛行著《三國志演義》和《水滸傳》，但這是為了社會還有三國氣和水滸氣的緣故。《儒林外史》作者的手段何嘗在羅貫中下，然而留學生漫天塞地以來，這部書就好像不永久，也不偉大了。偉大也要有人懂。這裡的六個短篇，都是太平世界的奇聞，而現在卻是極平常的事情。因為極平常，所以和我們更密切，更有大關係。作者還是一個青年，但他的經歷，卻抵得太平天下的順民的一世紀的經歷，在轉輾的生活中，要他「為藝術而藝術」，是辦不到的。但我們有人懂得這樣的藝術，一點用不著誰來發愁。這就是偉大的文學麼？不是的，我們自己並沒有這麼說。「中國為什麼沒有偉大文學產生？」我們聽過許多指導者的教訓了，但可惜他們獨獨忘卻了一方面的對於作者和作品的摧殘。「第三種人」教訓過我們，希臘神話裡說什麼惡鬼有一張床，捉了人去，給睡在這床上，短了，就拉長他，太長，便把他截短。左翼批評就是這樣的床，弄得他們寫不出東西來了。現在這張床真的擺出來了，不料卻只有「第三種人」睡得不長不短，剛剛合式。仰面唾天，掉在自己的眼睛裡，天下真會有這等事。但我們卻有作家寫得出東西來，作品在摧殘中也更加堅實。不但為一大群中國青年讀者所支持，當《電網外》在《文學新地》上以《王伯伯》的題目發表後，就得到世界的讀者了。這就是作者已經盡了當前的任務，也是對於壓迫者的答覆：文學是戰鬥的！我希望將來還有看見作者的更多，更好的作品的時候。一九三五年一月十六日，魯迅記於上海。	When an author produces a creative work, although it is not necessary that he has personally experienced everything in it, it is best if he has some experience of it. The objector asks: Then does one who writes about murder have to have killed someone, and must one who writes about prostitutes go sell oneself? The answer: No. What I mean by experience is what one has encountered, seen, and heard — not necessarily what one has done, though what one has done can naturally be included. However much geniuses may boast, at the end of the day they still cannot create out of thin air. When it comes to painting gods and ghosts, there is nothing to check against, so one might think one could rely entirely on imagination — what they call "a heavenly horse galloping across the sky" — and dash it off. Yet what they produce is nothing more than three eyes or an elongated neck: merely adding one extra eye to the ordinary human body, or extending the neck by two or three feet. What kind of skill is that? What kind of creation? There is more than one world on this earth, and the actual differences between them are more extreme than the gulf between the realms of the living and the dead in people's idle fancies. The people of one world may despise, detest, oppress, terrorize, and slaughter the people of another world, yet they know nothing about them — and therefore they cannot write about them. So they call themselves "the Third Category," they pursue "art for art's sake." Even if they do manage to write something, it is still nothing more than three eyes and an elongated neck. "A little brighter"? Don't try to deceive people! Where are your eyes, after all? Great literature is eternal, so many scholars say. Indeed — perhaps it is eternal. But personally, I would rather read Chekhov and Gorky than Boccaccio and Hugo, because their work is newer and closer to our world. It is true that Romance of the Three Kingdoms and Water Margin are still widely popular in China, but that is because society still has the atmosphere of the Three Kingdoms and of Water Margin in it. The technique of the author of The Scholars is certainly no less than that of Luo Guanzhong (罗贯中), yet ever since returned students have flooded every corner, that book seems to have become neither eternal nor great. Greatness, too, requires someone who understands it. The six short stories collected here are all extraordinary tales from a world at peace — and yet in our time they are the most ordinary of occurrences. Because they are so ordinary, they are all the more intimately connected with us, all the more profoundly relevant. The author is still a young man, but his experiences are worth a century of the experiences of a docile citizen in a peaceful age. In the midst of a life of constant upheaval, to demand that he pursue "art for art's sake" is simply impossible. But we have people who understand this kind of art — there is no need at all for anyone to worry. Is this, then, great literature? No, we ourselves have never said so. "Why has China not produced great literature?" We have heard the lectures of many instructors on this subject, but unfortunately they invariably forget one thing: the persecution of authors and their works on the other side. The "Third Category" people once lectured us with a story from Greek mythology about a demon who had a bed: he would catch people and make them lie on it; if they were too short, he would stretch them; if too long, he would chop them down to size. Left-wing criticism, they said, was just such a bed — it had made them unable to write. Now this bed has truly been set out — but who would have thought it is only the "Third Category" people who fit it perfectly, neither too long nor too short. To spit at the sky and have it fall back into one's own eyes — can such a thing really happen in this world? But we do have writers who can produce work, and their creations grow all the more robust under persecution. Not only are they supported by a great mass of young Chinese readers — when "Beyond the Electric Fence" was published under the title "Uncle Wang" in Literary New Ground, the author immediately gained readers throughout the world. This shows that the author has fulfilled the task at hand, and it is an answer to those who oppress: literature is combat! I hope there will be a time when I shall see more and better works from this author. January 16, 1935, recorded by Lu Xun in Shanghai.
了一切古今人，只留下自己的沒意思。要是古今中外真的有過這等事，這才叫作希奇，但實際上並沒有，將來大約也不會有。豈但一切古今人，連一個人也沒有罵倒過。凡是倒掉的，決不是因為罵，卻只為揭穿了假面。揭穿假面，就是指出了實際來，這不能混謂之罵。然而世間往往混為一談。就以現在最流行的袁中郎為例罷，既然肩出來當作招牌，看客就不免議論這招牌，怎樣撕破了衣裳，怎樣畫歪了臉孔。這其實和中郎本身是無關的，所指的是他的自以為徒子徒孫們的手筆。然而徒子徒孫們就以為罵了他的中郎爺，憤慨和狼狽之狀可掬，覺得現在的世界是比五四時代更狂妄了。但是，現在的袁中郎臉孔究竟畫得怎樣呢？時代很近，文證具存，除了變成一個小品文的老師，「方巾氣」的死敵而外，還有些什麼？和袁中郎同時活在中國的，無錫有一個顧憲成，他的著作，開口「聖人」，閉口「吾儒」，真是滿紙「方巾氣」。而且疾惡如仇，對小人決不假借。他說：「吾聞之：凡論人，當觀其趨向之大體。趨向苟正，即小節出入，不失為君子；趨向苟差，即小節可觀，終歸於小人。又聞：為國家者，莫要于扶陽抑陰，君子即不幸有詿誤，當保護愛惜成就之；小人即小過乎，當早排絕，無令為後患。……」（《自反錄》）推而廣之，也就是倘要論袁中郎，當看他趨向之大體，趨向苟正，不妨恕其偶講空話，作小品文，因為他還有更重要的一方面在。正如李白會做詩，就可以不責其喝酒，如果只會喝酒，便以半個李白，或李白的徒子徒孫自命，那可是應該趕緊將他「排絕」的。中郎還有更重要的一方面麼？有的。萬曆三十七年，顧憲成辭官，時中郎「主陝西鄉試，發策，有『過劣巢由』之語。監臨者問『意云何？』袁曰：『今吳中大賢亦不出，將令世道何所倚賴，故發此感爾。』」（《顧端文公年譜》下）中郎正是一個關心世道，佩服「方巾氣」人物的人，贊《金瓶梅》，作小品文，並不是他的全部。中郎之不能被罵倒，正如他之不能被畫歪。但因此也就不能作他的蛀蟲們的永久的巢穴了。一月二十六日。	all the people of past and present, leaving only his own meaninglessness behind. If such a thing had truly ever happened anywhere in the world, ancient or modern, Chinese or foreign, that would indeed be remarkable — but in fact it never has, and most likely never will. Far from toppling all people past and present, not even a single person has ever been toppled by abuse. Those who have fallen did so never because of abuse, but only because their masks were torn away. To tear away a mask is to point out the reality — this cannot be lumped together with abuse. Yet in the world, the two are constantly confused. Take the currently most fashionable Yuan Zhonglang (袁中郎) as an example. Since he has been hoisted up as a signboard, the spectators naturally cannot help but comment on it — how the clothes on the signboard have been torn, how the face has been painted crooked. This actually has nothing to do with Zhonglang himself; what is being pointed at is the handiwork of those who presume to be his disciples and grand-disciples. But these disciples and grand-disciples take it as an insult to their ancestor Zhonglang, and their indignation and discomfiture are quite a sight, feeling that the present world has become even more audacious than the May Fourth era. But what does the face of the present-day Yuan Zhonglang actually look like? The era is recent, documentary evidence survives — apart from having been turned into a teacher of the familiar essay and a mortal enemy of "pedantic airs," what else is there? Living in China at the same time as Yuan Zhonglang, in Wuxi there was a certain Gu Xiancheng (顧憲成), whose writings invariably opened with "the Sage" and closed with "we Confucians" — truly dripping with "pedantic airs" on every page. Moreover, he hated evil as one hates an enemy, and would never show leniency toward petty men. He said: "I have heard this: in judging a person, one should observe the general direction of his aspirations. If the direction is right, then even if there are minor lapses, he does not cease to be a gentleman; if the direction is wrong, then even if his minor conduct is admirable, he ultimately belongs among the petty. I have also heard: those who govern the state should above all uphold the righteous and suppress the wicked. If a gentleman should unfortunately err, one should protect and cherish him to help him succeed; if a petty man commits even a minor offense, one should remove him early, lest he become a future disaster..." (from the Self-Reflection Record). To extend this principle: if one is to judge Yuan Zhonglang, one should look at the general direction of his aspirations. If that direction is right, one may forgive his occasional empty talk or familiar essays, for he has a more important side. Just as Li Bai (李白) could write poetry, one need not reproach him for drinking; but if a man can only drink and presumes to call himself half a Li Bai, or a disciple of Li Bai, then he should indeed be promptly "removed." Does Zhonglang have a more important side? He does. In the thirty-seventh year of the Wanli era, when Gu Xiancheng resigned from office, Zhonglang "was presiding over the Shaanxi provincial examination. In setting the essay topic, he included the phrase 'surpassing the likes of Chao and You.' When the supervising official asked 'What is your meaning?', Yuan replied: 'Now the great worthies of Wu do not come forth — upon whom shall the moral order of the world depend? Hence I express this feeling.'" (from the Chronological Biography of Lord Gu Duanwen, part two). Zhonglang was precisely someone who cared about the moral order of the world and admired men of "pedantic airs." Praising Jin Ping Mei and writing familiar essays was not the whole of him. Zhonglang cannot be toppled by abuse, just as he cannot be distorted in portraiture. But for this very reason, he also cannot serve as the permanent nest for his parasites. January 26.
把大部的叢書印給讀者看，是宋朝就有的，一直到現在。缺點是因為部頭大，所以價錢貴。好處是把研究一種學問的書彙集在一處，能比一部一部的自去尋求更省力；或者保存單本小種的著作在裡面，使它不易於滅亡。但這第二種好處，是也靠著部頭大，價錢貴，人們就因此格外珍重的缺點的。但叢書也有蠹蟲。從明末到清初，就時有欺人的叢書出現。那方法之一，是刪削內容，輕減刻費，而目錄卻有一大串，使購買者只覺其種類之多；之二，是不用原題，別立名目，甚至另題撰人，使購買者只覺其收羅之廣。如《格致叢書》，《歷代小史》，《五朝小說》，《唐人說薈》等，就都是的。現在是大抵消滅了，只有末一種化名為《唐代叢書》，有時還在流毒。然而時代改變，新花樣也要跟著出來了。推測起新花樣來：其一，是豫先設定一種叢書的大名，羅列目錄，大如宇宙，微至蒼蠅身上的細菌，無所不包，這才分頭覓人，托他譯作，限定時日，必須完工，雖然譯作者未必定是專家，但總之有許多手同時在稿紙上寫字，於是不必窮年累月，一大部煌煌巨制也就出現了；其二，是原有一批零碎的舊譯作，一向不甚流行，或者雖曾流行，而現在卻已經過了時候，於是聚在一起，略加類別，開成一串五花八門的目錄，而一大部煌煌巨制也就出現了。出版者是明白讀者們的心想的，有些讀者們，苦於不知道什麼是必要的書，所以往往以為被選進叢書裡的，總該是必要的書籍；而且叢書裡的一本，價錢也比單行本便宜，所以看起來好像很上算；加以大小一律，也很合人們愛好整齊的心情。本數又多，一下子可以填滿幾書架，規模不大的圖書館有這幾部，館員就省下時常留心選購新書的精神了。然而出版者是又很明白購買者們的經濟狀況的，他深知道現在他們手頭已沒有這許多錢，所以這些書一定是廉價，使他們拚命的辦出來，或者是分期豫約，使他們逐漸的繳進去。彙印新作，當然是很好的，但新作必須是精粹的本子，這才可以救讀者們的智識的饑荒。就是重印舊作，也並不算壞，不過這舊作必須已是一種帶著文獻性的本子，這才足供讀者們的研究。如果僅僅是克日速成的草稿，或是棧房角落的存書，改換新裝，招搖過市，但以「大」或「多」或「廉」誘人，使讀者化去不少的錢，實際上卻不過得到一大堆廢物，這惡影響之在讀書界是很不小的。凡留心於文化的前進的人，對於這些書應該加以檢討！二月十五日。	Printing large collected series for readers has been done since the Song dynasty and continues to the present day. The disadvantage is that, because the volumes are numerous, the price is high. The advantage is that books for researching a particular field of study are gathered in one place, saving more effort than hunting them down one by one; or that small, individual works are preserved within them, making them less likely to perish. But this second advantage actually depends on the very disadvantage of large size and high price, which causes people to treasure them all the more. But collected series also have their bookworms — parasites. From the late Ming to the early Qing, fraudulent collected series appeared from time to time. One method was to delete content and reduce printing costs while presenting a long table of contents, so that buyers would be impressed only by the number of titles. The second was to discard the original titles and substitute new ones, even attributing works to different authors, so that buyers would be impressed only by the breadth of coverage. Series such as the Gezhi congshu, the Lidai xiaoshi, the Wuchao xiaoshuo, and the Tangren shuohui are all examples of this. Most have now been eliminated; only the last, disguised under the name Tangdai congshu, still occasionally spreads its poison. But as times change, new tricks must follow. Let me speculate on the new tricks. First: a grand title for a collected series is determined in advance, a table of contents is drawn up encompassing everything from the universe down to the bacteria on a fly's body, and only then are contributors sought out piecemeal, commissioned to translate or write, given deadlines that must be met. Although the translators and writers are not necessarily specialists, many hands are simultaneously putting pen to paper, and so without years of painstaking labor, a magnificent great work appears. Second: there already exists a batch of miscellaneous old translations that were never very popular, or that were once popular but have since become outdated. These are gathered together, roughly categorized, arranged into an impressive and variegated table of contents, and — behold — another magnificent great work appears. Publishers understand the mentality of their readers. Some readers, at a loss to know what books are essential, tend to assume that anything selected for inclusion in a collected series must be essential reading. Moreover, a single volume within a series is cheaper than a standalone edition, so it appears to be a good bargain. The uniform size also appeals to people's love of tidiness. With so many volumes, one can fill several bookshelves at a stroke; a modestly sized library that possesses a few of these sets can spare its staff the mental effort of constantly keeping an eye out for new books to acquire. Yet the publisher also understands the financial situation of his buyers very well. He knows that they no longer have so much money on hand, so these books must be cheap, compelling them to strain every nerve to scrape together the funds, or else offered on installment plans, letting them pay in gradually. Collecting and printing new works is of course an excellent thing, but the new works must be select and refined — only then can they relieve the intellectual famine of readers. Even reprinting old works is not a bad thing, but these old works must already be texts of documentary value — only then do they serve the research needs of readers. If they are merely rushed manuscripts completed against a deadline, or old stock from warehouse corners dressed up in new clothes and paraded through the streets, luring people only with "bigness" or "quantity" or "cheapness," causing readers to spend no small amount of money while actually obtaining nothing but a great heap of rubbish — the harmful influence on the reading public is considerable indeed. All who care about the advancement of culture should subject these books to rigorous scrutiny! February 15.
孩子們吵架，有一個用木炭——上海是大抵用鉛筆了——在牆壁上寫道：「小三子可乎之及及也，同同三千三百刀！」這和政治之類是毫不相干的，然而不能算小品文。畫也一樣，住家的恨路人到對門來小解，就在牆上畫一個烏龜，題幾句話，也不能叫它作「漫畫」。為什麼呢？就因為這和被畫者的形體或精神，是絕無關係的。　　漫畫的第一件緊要事是誠實，要確切的顯示了事件或人物的姿態，也就是精神。　　漫畫是Karikatur的譯名，那「漫」，並不是中國舊日的文人學士之所謂「漫題」「漫書」的「漫」。當然也可以不假思索，一揮而就的，但因為發芽於誠實的心，所以那結果也不會僅是嬉皮笑臉。這一種畫，在中國的過去的繪畫裡很少見，《百醜圖》或《三十六聲粉鐸圖》庶幾近之，可惜的是不過戲文裡的醜腳的摹寫；羅兩峰的《鬼趣圖》，當不得已時，或者也就算進去罷，但它又太離開了人間。　　漫畫要使人一目了然，所以那最普通的方法是「誇張」，但又不是胡鬧。無緣無故的將所攻擊或暴露的對象畫作一頭驢，恰如拍馬家將所拍的對象做成一個神一樣，是毫沒有效果的，假如那對象其實並無驢氣息或神氣息。然而如果真有些驢氣息，那就糟了，從此之後，越看想像，比讀一本做得很厚的傳記還明白。關於事件的漫畫，也一樣的。所以漫畫雖然有誇張，卻還是要誠實。「燕山雪花大如席」，是誇張，但燕山究竟有雪花，就含著一點誠實在裡面，使我們立刻知道燕山原來有這麼冷。如果說「廣州雪花大如席」，那可就變成笑話了。　　「誇張」這兩個字也許有些語病，那麼，說是「廓大」也可以的。廓大一個事件或人物的特點固然使漫畫容易顯出效果來，但廓大了並非特點之處卻更容易顯出效果。矮而胖的，瘦而長的，他本身就有漫畫相了，再給他禿頭，近視眼，畫得再矮而胖些，瘦而長些，總可以使讀者發笑。但一位白淨苗條的美人，就很不容易設法，有些漫畫家畫作一個髑髏或狐狸之類，卻不過是在報告自己的低能。有些漫畫家卻不用這呆法子，他用廓大鏡照了她露出的搽粉的臂膊，看出她皮膚的褶皺，看見了這些褶皺中間的粉和泥的黑白畫。這麼一來，漫畫稿子就成功了，然而這是真實，倘不信，大家或自己也用廓大鏡去照照去。於是她也只好承認這真實，倘要好，就用肥皂和毛刷去洗一通。　　因為真實，所以也有力。但這種漫畫，在中國是很難生存的。我記得去年就有一位文學家說過，他最討厭論人用顯微鏡。　　歐洲先前，也並不兩樣。漫畫雖然是暴露，譏刺，甚而至於是攻擊的，但因為讀者多是上等的雅人，所以漫畫家的筆鋒的所向，往往只在那些無拳無勇的無告者，用他們的可笑，襯出雅人們的完全和高尚來，以分得一枝雪茄的生意。像西班牙的戈雅（Francisco de Goya）和法國的陀密埃（Honoré Daumier）那樣的漫畫家，到底還是不可多得的。	Children quarrel, and one of them writes on the wall with charcoal — in Shanghai it is mostly pencil nowadays — "Little Sanzi is such-and-such, thirty-three hundred cuts!" This has nothing whatsoever to do with politics and the like, but it cannot be called a familiar essay. The same goes for drawings: when a householder resents passersby relieving themselves at his neighbor's doorstep, he draws a tortoise on the wall and writes a few lines beneath it, but that cannot be called a "caricature" either. Why not? Because these bear absolutely no relation to the physical form or spirit of the person depicted. The first essential thing about caricature is honesty — it must accurately reveal the posture, which is to say the spirit, of an event or a person. Caricature is the translation of the word Karikatur. The "man" in manhua is not at all the "man" of the old Chinese literati's "casual inscriptions" or "casual writings." Of course, a caricature can also be dashed off without deliberation in a single stroke, but because it sprouts from an honest heart, its result will not be merely frivolous grinning. This kind of drawing is rarely seen in China's traditional painting. The Hundred Ugly Figures or the Thirty-Six Tones of the Powdered Bell come close, but unfortunately they are merely depictions of the clown roles in opera. Luo Liangfeng's (羅兩峰) Ghost Amusements might, if one must, also be counted among them, but it strays too far from the human world. A caricature must be comprehensible at a single glance, so the most common method is "exaggeration" — but not wanton nonsense. To draw the object of one's attack or exposure as a donkey for no reason at all is just as pointless as a flatterer's making his target into a god — if the object in fact possesses no donkeyish or godlike quality. But if there really is a whiff of the donkey about him, then it is all over: from that point on, the more you look, the more you see the resemblance, more clearly than from reading even a very thick biography. The same applies to caricatures of events. So although caricature involves exaggeration, it must still be honest. "Snowflakes on Mount Yan are as big as rush mats" — that is exaggeration, but Mount Yan does in fact have snowflakes, so it contains a grain of honesty, letting us immediately know that it is that cold on Mount Yan. If one were to say "Snowflakes in Guangzhou are as big as rush mats," that would become a joke. The term "exaggeration" may be somewhat misleading; one might also call it "magnification." To magnify the distinctive features of an event or person naturally makes a caricature effective, but to magnify what is not distinctive produces an even easier effect. The short and fat, the thin and tall — they already have a caricature-ready physique; give them a bald head and nearsighted eyes, draw them a bit shorter and fatter, thinner and taller, and you can always make the reader laugh. But a fair-complexioned, slender beauty is very hard to handle. Some caricaturists draw her as a skeleton or a fox, but that only advertises their own incompetence. Other caricaturists, however, do not resort to such stupid methods: they hold a magnifying glass over her exposed, powdered arms, revealing the wrinkles in her skin, and the black-and-white picture of powder and grime lodged in those wrinkles. With that, the caricature is done — and it is the truth. If you don't believe it, anyone can go hold a magnifying glass to their own skin. And so she too can only acknowledge this truth; if she wants to improve things, she need only give herself a good scrubbing with soap and a brush. Because it is true, it is also powerful. But this kind of caricature has a very hard time surviving in China. I recall that just last year a certain man of letters said that what he detested most was people who examine others under a microscope. In earlier times in Europe, things were no different. Although caricature is exposure, mockery, and even attack, because the readership consisted mostly of upper-class refined persons, the caricaturist's pen was most often aimed at the defenseless and voiceless, using their absurdity to set off the perfection and nobility of the refined, in exchange for a cigar's worth of business. Caricaturists like Spain's Goya (Francisco de Goya) and France's Daumier (Honoré Daumier) are, in the end, not easily found.
德國現代的畫家格羅斯（George Grosz），中國已經紹介過好幾回，總可以不算陌生人了。從有一方說，他也可以算是漫畫家；那些作品，大抵是白地黑線的。　　他在中國的遭遇，還算好，翻印的畫雖然製版術太壞了，或者被縮小，黑線白地卻究竟還是黑線白地。不料中國「文藝」家的腦子今年反常了，在掛著「文藝」招牌的雜誌上紹介格羅斯的黑白畫，線條都變了雪白；地子呢，有藍有紅，真是五顏六色，好看得很。　　自然，我們看石刻的拓本，大抵是黑地白字的。但翻印的繪畫，卻還沒有見過將青綠山水變作紅黃山水，水墨龍化為水粉龍的大改造。有之，是始於二十世紀過了三十五年的上海的「文藝」家。我才知道畫家作畫時候的調色，配色之類，都是多事。一經中國「文藝」家的手，全無問題，——嗡，嗡，隨隨便便。　　這些翻印的格羅斯的畫是有價值的，是漫畫而又漫畫。	The modern German artist George Grosz has already been introduced in China several times, so by now he should not be considered a stranger. From a certain perspective, he too can be counted as a caricaturist; those works of his are mostly black lines on a white ground. His fortunes in China have been, relatively speaking, not bad. Although the reproductions of his drawings have suffered from poor printing techniques, or have been reduced in size, the black lines on white ground have at least remained black lines on white ground. But who could have expected that the brains of China's "literary" figures would go haywire this year? In magazines bearing the signboard of "literature and art," they have introduced Grosz's black-and-white drawings with the lines all turned snow-white, while the backgrounds come in blue, red — truly a riot of colors, very pretty to look at. Naturally, when we look at rubbings of stone inscriptions, they are mostly white characters on a black ground. But in reproduced paintings, no one has yet seen blue-green landscape paintings turned into red-yellow landscape paintings, or ink-wash dragons transformed into gouache dragons — such grand transformations. If this has occurred, it began in Shanghai in the thirty-fifth year of the twentieth century, at the hands of its "literary" figures. Now I understand that all the business of mixing colors and matching hues that a painter goes through when painting is quite superfluous. Once it passes through the hands of China's "literary" figures, there is no problem at all — buzz, buzz, anything goes. These reproductions of Grosz's drawings do have value: they are caricature, and caricature again.
一　　凡是關心現代中國文學的人，誰都知道《新青年》是提倡「文學改良」，後來更進一步而號召「文學革命」的發難者。但當一九一五年九月中在上海開始出版的時候，卻全部是文言的。蘇曼殊的創作小說，陳嘏和劉半農的翻譯小說，都是文言。到第二年，胡適的《文學改良芻議》發表了，作品也只有胡適的詩文和小說是白話。後來白話作者逐漸多了起來，但又因為《新青年》其實是一個論議的刊物，所以創作並不怎樣著重，比較旺盛的只有白話詩；至於戲曲和小說，也依然大抵是翻譯。　　在這裏發表了創作的短篇小說的，是魯迅。從一九一八年五月起，《狂人日記》，《孔乙己》，《藥》等，陸續的出現了，算是顯示了「文學革命」的實績，又因那時的認為「表現的深切和格式的特別」，頗激動了一部分青年讀者的心。然而這激動，卻是向來怠慢了紹介歐洲大陸文學的緣故。一八三四年頃，俄國的果戈理（N. Gogol）就已經寫了《狂人日記》；一八八三年頃，尼采（Fr. Nietzsche）也早借了蘇魯支（Zarathustra）的嘴，說過「你們已經走了從蟲豸到人的路，在你們裏面還有許多份是蟲豸。你們做過猴子，到了現在，人還尤其猴子，無論比那一個猴子」的。而且《藥》的收束，也分明的留著安特萊夫（L. Andreev）式的陰冷。但後起的《狂人日記》意在暴露家族制度和禮教的弊害，卻比果戈理的憂憤深廣，也不如尼采的超人的渺茫。此後雖然脫離了外國作家的影響，技巧稍為圓熟，刻劃也稍加深切，如《肥皂》，《離婚》等，但一面也減少了熱情，不為讀者們所注意了。　　從《新青年》上，此外也沒有養成什麼小說的作家。較多的倒是在《新潮》上。從一九一九年一月創刊，到次年主幹者們出洋留學而消滅的兩個年中，小說作者就有汪敬熙，羅家倫，楊振聲，俞平伯，歐陽予倩和葉紹鈞。自然，技術是幼稚的，往往留存著舊小說上的寫法和語調；而且平鋪直敘，一瀉無餘；或者過於巧合，在一刹時中，在一個人上，會聚集了一切難堪的不幸。然而又有一種共同前進的趨向，是這時的作者們，沒有一個以為小說是脫俗的文學，除了為藝術之外，一無所為的。他們每作一篇，都是「有所為」而發，是在用改革社會的器械，——雖然也沒有設定終極的目標。　　俞平伯的《花匠》以為人們應該屏絕矯揉造作，任其自然，羅家倫之作則在訴說婚姻不自由的苦痛，雖然稍嫌淺露，但正是當時許多智識青年們的公意；輸入易卜生（H. Ibsen）的《娜拉》和《群鬼》的機運，這時候也恰恰成熟了，不過還沒有想到《人民之敵》和《社會柱石》。楊振聲是極要描寫民間疾苦的；汪敬熙並且裝著笑容，揭露了好學生的秘密和苦人的災難。但究竟因為是上層的智識者，所以筆墨總不免伸縮於描寫身邊瑣事和小民生活之間。後來，歐陽予倩致力於劇本去了；葉紹鈞卻有更遠大的發展。汪敬熙又在《現代評論》上發表創作，至一九二五年，自選了一本《雪夜》，但他好像終於沒有自覺，或者忘卻了先前的奮鬥，以為他自己的作品，是並無「什麼批評人生的意義的」了。序中有云—— 　　「我寫這些篇小說的時候，是力求著去忠實的描寫我所見的幾種人生經驗。我只求描寫的忠實，不攙入絲毫批評的態度。雖然一個人敘述一件事實之時，他的描寫是免不了受他的人生觀之影響，但我總是在可能的範圍之內，竭力保持一種客觀的態度。　　「因為持了這種客觀態度的緣故，我這些短篇小說是不會有什麼批評人生的意義。我只寫出我所見的幾種經驗給讀者看罷了。讀者看了這些小說，心中對於這些種經驗有什麼評論，是我所不問的。」　　楊振聲的文筆，卻比《漁家》更加生髮起來，但恰與先前的戰友汪敬熙站成對郯：他「要忠實於主觀」，要用人工來製造理想的人物。而且憑自己的理想還怕不夠，又請教過幾個朋友，刪改了幾回，這才完成一本中篇小說《玉君》，那自序道—— 　　「若有人問玉君是真的，我的回答是沒有一個小說家說實話的。說實話的是歷史家，說假話的才是小說家。　　歷史家用的是記憶力，小說家用的是想像力。歷史家取的是科學態度，要忠實於客觀；小說家取的是藝術態度，要忠實於主觀。一言以蔽之，小說家也如藝術家，想把天然藝術化，就是要以他的理想與意志去補天然之缺陷。」　　他先決定了「想把天然藝術化」，唯一的方法是「說假話」，「說假話的才是小說家」。於是依照了這定律，並且博采眾議，將《玉君》創造出來了，然而這是一定的：不過一個傀儡，她的降生也就是死亡。我們此後也不再見這位作家的創作。二　　「五四」事件一起，這運動的大營的北京大學負了盛名，但同時也遭了艱險。終於，《新青年》的編輯中樞不得不複歸上海，《新潮》群中的健將，則大抵遠遠的到歐美留學去了，《新潮》這雜誌，也以雖有大吹大擂的豫告，卻至今還未出版的「名著紹介」收場；留給國內的社員的，是一萬部《孑民先生言行錄》和七千部《點滴》。創作衰歇了，為人生的文學自然也衰歇了。　　但上海卻還有著為人生的文學的一群，不過也崛起了為文學的文學的一群。這裏應該提起的，是彌灑社。它在一九二三年三月出版的《彌灑》（Musai）上，由胡山源作的《宣言》（《彌灑臨凡曲》）告訴我們說——「我們乃是藝文之神；我們不知自己何自而生，也不知何為而生：…………我們一切作為只知順著我們的Inspiration！」到四月出版的第二期，第一頁上便分明的標出了這是「無目的無藝術觀不討論不批評而只發表順靈感所創造的文藝作品的月刊」，即是一個脫俗的文藝團體的刊物。但其實，是無意中有著假想敵的。陳德征的《編輯余談》說：「近來文學作品，也有商品化的，所謂文學研究者，所謂文人，都不免帶有幾分販賣者底色彩！這是我們所深惡而且深以為痛心疾首的一件事。……」就正是和討伐「壟斷文壇」者的大軍一鼻孔出氣的檄文。這時候，凡是要獨樹一幟的，總打著憎惡「庸俗」的幌子。　　一切作品，誠然大抵很致力於優美，要舞得「翩躚回翔」，唱得「宛轉抑揚」，然而所感覺的範圍卻頗為狹窄，不免咀嚼著身邊的小小的悲歡，而且就看這小悲歡為全世界。在這刊物上，作為小說作者而出現的，是胡山源，唐鳴時，趙景沄，方企留，曹貴新；錢江春和方時旭，卻只能數作速寫的作者。從中最特出的是胡山源，他的一篇《睡》，是實踐宣言，籠罩全群的佳作，但在《櫻桃花下》（第一期），卻正如這面的過度的睡覺一樣，顯出那面的病的神經過敏來了。「靈感」也究竟要露出目的的。趙景沄的《阿美》，雖然簡單，雖然好像不能「無所為」，卻強有力的寫出了連敏感的作者們也忘卻了的「丫頭」的悲慘短促的一世。　　一九二四年中發祥於上海的淺草社，其實也是「為藝術而藝術」的作家團體，但他們的季刊，每一期都顯示著努力：向外，在攝取異域的營養，向內，在挖掘自己的魂靈，要發見心裏的眼睛和喉舌，來凝視這世界，將真和美歌唱給寂寞的人們。韓君格，孔襄我，胡絮若，高世華，林如稷，徐丹歌，顧随，莎子，亞士，陳翔鶴，陳煒謨，竹影女士，都是小說方面的工作者；連後來是中國最為傑出的抒情詩人馮至，也曾發表他幽婉的名篇。次年，中樞移入北京，社員好像走散了一些，《淺草》季刊改為篇葉較少的《沉鐘》週刊了，但銳氣並不稍衰，第一期的眉端就引著吉辛（G. Gissing）的堅決的句子——「而且我要你們一齊都證實……我要工作啊，一直到我死之一日。」　　但那時覺醒起來的智識青年的心情，是大抵熱烈，然而悲涼的。即使尋到一點光明，「徑一週三」，卻更分明的看見了周圍的無涯際的黑暗。攝取來的異域的營養又是「世紀末」的果汁：王爾德（Oscar Wilde），尼采（Fr. Nietzsche），波特萊爾（Ch. Baudelaire），安特萊夫（L. Andreev）們所安排的。「沉自己的船」還要在絕處求生，此外的許多作品，就往往「春非我春，秋非我秋」，玄發朱顏，卻唱著飽經憂患的不欲明言的斷腸之曲。雖是馮至的飾以詩情，莎子的託辭小草，還是不能掩飾的。凡這些，似乎多出於蜀中的作者，蜀中的受難之早，也即此可以想見了。不過這群中的作者們也未嘗自餒。陳煒謨在他的小說集《爐邊》的「Proem」裏說——「但我不要這樣；生活在我還在剛開頭，有許多命運的猛獸正在那邊張牙舞爪等著我在。可是這也不用怕。　　人雖不必去崇拜太陽，但何至於懦怯得連暗夜也要躲避呢？怎的，禿筆不會寫在破紙上麼？若干年之後，回想此時的我，即不管別人，在自己或也可值眷念罷，如果值得憶念的地方便應該憶念。……」　　自然，這仍是無可奈何的自慰的傷心之言，但在事實上，沉鐘社卻確是中國的最堅韌，最誠實，掙扎得最久的團體。它好像真要如吉辛的話，工作到死掉之一日；如「沉鐘」的鑄造者，死也得在水底裏用自己的腳敲出洪大的鐘聲。然而他們並不能做到，他們是活著的，時移世易，百事俱非；他們是要歌唱的，而聽者卻有的睡眠，有的槁死，有的流散，眼前只剩下一片茫茫白地，於是也只好在風塵肮洞中，悲哀孤寂地放下了他們的箜篌了。　　後來以「廢名」出名的馮文炳，也是在《淺草》中略見一斑的作者，但並未顯出他的特長來。在一九二五年出版的《竹林的故事》裏，才見以沖淡為衣，而如著者所說，仍能「從他們當中理出我的哀愁」的作品。可惜的是大約作者過於珍惜他有限的「哀愁」，不久就更加不欲像先前一般的閃露，於是從率直的讀者看來，就只見其有意低徊，顧影自憐之態了。　　馮沅君有一本短篇小說集《卷施》——是「拔心不死」的草名，也是一九二三年起，身在北京，而以「淦女士」的筆名，發表於上海創造社的刊物上的作品。其中的《旅行》是提煉了《隔絕》和《隔絕之後》（並在《卷施》內）的精粹的名文，雖嫌過於說理，卻還未傷其自然；那「我很想拉他的手，但是我不敢，我只敢在間或車上的電燈被震動而失去它的光的時候，因為我害怕那些搭客們的注意。可是我們又自己覺得很驕傲的，我們不客氣的以全車中最尊貴的人自命。」這一段，實在是五四運動直後，將毅然和傳統戰鬥，而又怕敢毅然和傳統戰鬥，遂不得不復活其「纏綿悱惻之情」的青年們的真實的寫照。和「為藝術而藝術」的作品中的主角，或誇耀其頹唐，或衒鬻其才緒，是截然兩樣的。然而也可以複歸於平安。陸侃如在《卷施》再版後記裏說：「『淦』訓『沈』，取《莊子》『陸沈』之義。現在作者思想變遷，故再版時改署沅君。……只因作者秉性疏懶，故托我代說。」誠然，三年後的《春痕》，就只剩了散文的斷片了，更後便是關於文學史的研究。這使我又記起匈牙利的詩人彼兌菲（Petofi Sándor）題B. Sz夫人照像的詩來『听說你使你的男人很幸福，我希望不至於此，因為他是苦惱的夜鶯，而今沉默在幸福裏了。苛待他罷，使他因此常常唱出甜美的歌來。』　　我並不是說：苦惱是藝術的淵源，為了藝術，應該使作家們永久陷在苦惱裏。不過在彼兌菲的時候，這話是有些真實的；在十年前的中國，這話也有些真實的。三　　在北京這地方，——北京雖然是「五四運動」的策源地，但自從支持著《新青年》和《新潮》的人們，風流雲散以來，一九二○至二二年這三年間，倒顯著寂寞荒涼的古戰場的情景。《晨報副刊》，後來是《京報副刊》露出頭角來了，然而都不是怎麼注重文藝創作的刊物，它們在小說一方面，只紹介了有限的作家：蹇先艾，許欽文，王魯彥，黎錦明，黃鵬基，尚鉞，向培良。　　蹇先艾的作品是簡樸的，如他在小說集《朝霧》裏說—— 　　「……我已經是滿過二十歲的人了，從老遠的貴州跑到北京來，灰沙之中彷徨了也快七年，時間不能說不長，怎樣混過的，並自身都茫然不知。是這樣匆匆地一天一天的去了，童年的影子越發模糊消淡起來，像朝霧似的，嫋嫋的飄失，我所感到的只有空虛與寂寞。這幾個歲月，除近兩年信筆塗鴉的幾篇新詩和似是而非的小說之外，還做了什麼呢？每一回憶，終不免有點淒寥撞擊心頭。所以現在決然把這個小說集付印了，……藉以紀念從此闊別的可愛的童年。……若果不失赤子之心的人們肯毅然光顧，或者從中間也尋得出一點幼稚的風味來罷？……」　　誠然，雖然簡樸，或者如作者所自謙的「幼稚」，但很少文飾，也足夠寫出他心曲的哀愁。他所描寫的範圍是狹小的，幾個平常人，一些瑣屑事，但如《水葬》，卻對我們展示了「老遠的貴州」的鄉間習俗的冷酷，和出於這冷酷中的母性之愛的偉大，——貴州很遠，但大家的情境是一樣的。　　這時——一九二四年——偶然發表作品的還有裴文中和李健吾。前者大約並不是向來留心創作的人，那《戎馬聲中》，卻拉雜的記下了遊學的青年，為了炮火下的故鄉和父母而驚魂不定的實感。後者的《終條山的傳說》是絢爛了，雖在十年以後的今日，還可以看見那藏在用口碑織就的華服裏面的身體和靈魂。　　蹇先艾敘述過貴州，裴文中關心著榆關，凡在北京用筆寫出他的胸臆來的人們，無論他自稱為用主觀或客觀，其實往往是鄉土文學，從北京這方面說，則是僑寓文學的作者。但這又非如勃蘭兌斯（G. Brandes）所說的「僑民文學」，僑寓的只是作者自己，卻不是這作者所寫的文章，因此也只見隱現著鄉愁，很難有異域情調來開拓讀者的心胸，或者眩耀他的眼界。許軟文自名他的第一本短篇小說集為《故鄉》，也就是在不知不覺中，自招為鄉土文學的作者，不過在還未開手來寫鄉土文學之前，他卻已被故鄉所放逐，生活驅逐他到異地去了，他只好回憶「父親的花園」，而且是已不存在的花園，因為回憶故鄉的已不存在的事物，是比明明存在，而只有自己不能接近的事物較為舒適，也更能自慰的——「父親的花園最盛的幾年距今已有幾時，已難確切的計算。當時的盛況雖曾照下一像，如今掛在父親的房裏，無奈為時已久，那時鄉間的攝影又很幼稚，現已模胡莫辨了。掛在它旁邊的芳姊的遺像也已不大清楚，惟有父親題在像上的字句卻很明白：『性既執拗，遇複可憐，一朝痛割，我獨何堪！』　　「…………」　　「我想父親的花園就是能夠重行種起種種的花來，那時的盛況總是不能恢復的了，因為已經沒有了芳姊。」　　無可奈何的悲憤，是令人不得不捨棄的，然而作者仍不能捨棄，沒有法，就再尋得冷靜和詼諧來做悲憤的衣裳；裹起來了聊且當作「看破」。並且將這手段用到描寫種種人物，尤其是青年人物去。因為故意的冷靜，所以也刻深，而終不免帶著令人疑慮的嬉笑。「雖有忮心，不怨飄瓦」，冷靜要死靜；包著憤激的冷靜和詼諧，是被觀察和被描寫者所不樂受的，他們不承認他是一面無生命，無意見的鏡子。於是他也往往被排進諷刺文學作家裏面去，尤其是使女士們皺起了眉頭。　　這一種冷靜和詼諧，如果滋長起來，對於作者本身其實倒是危險的。他也能活潑的寫出民間生活來，如《石宕》，但可惜不多見。　　看王魯彥的一部分的作品的題材和筆致，似乎也是鄉土文學的作家，但那心情，和許欽文是極其兩樣的。許欽文所苦惱的是失去了地上的「父親的花園」，他所煩冤的卻是離開了天上的自由的樂土。他聽得「秋雨的訴苦」說——「地太小了，地太髒了，到處都黑暗，到處都討厭。　　人人只知道愛金錢，不知道愛自由，也不知道愛美。你們人類的中間沒有一點親愛，只有仇恨。你們人類，夜間像豬一般的甜甜蜜蜜的睡著，白天像狗一般的爭鬥著，撕打著…… 　　「這樣的世界，我看得慣嗎？我為什麼不應該哭呢？　　在野蠻的世界上，讓野獸們去生活著罷，但是我不，我們不……唔，我現在要離開這世界，到地底去了……」這和愛羅先珂（V. Eroshenko）的悲哀又仿佛相像的，然而又極其兩樣。那是地下的土撥鼠，欲愛人類而不得，這是太空的秋雨，要逃避人間而不能。他只好將心還給母親，才來做「人」，騙得母親的微笑。秋天的雨，無心的「人」，和人間社會是不會有情愫的。要說冷靜，這才真是冷靜；這才能夠和「托爾斯小」的無抵抗主義一同抹殺「牛克斯」的鬥爭說；和「達我文」的進化說一併嘲弄「克魯屁特金」的互助論；對專制不平，但又向自由冷笑。作者是往往想以詼諧之筆出之的，但也因為太冷靜了，就又往往化為冷話，失掉了人間的詼諧。　　然而「人」的心是究竟還不盡的，《柚子》一篇，雖然為湘中的作者所不滿，但在玩世的衣裳下，還閃露著地上的憤懣，在王魯彥的作品裏，我以為倒是最為熱烈的的了。我所說的這湘中的作家是黎錦明，他大約是自小就離開了故鄉的。在作品裏，很少鄉土氣息，但蓬勃著楚人的敏感和熱情。他一早就在《社交問題》裏，對易卜生一流的解放論者擲了斯忒林培黎（A. Strindberg）式的投槍；但也能精緻而明麗的說述兒時的「輕微的印象」。待到一九二六年，他存告不滿於自己了，他在《烈火》再版的自序上說——「在北京生活的人們，如其有靈魂，他們的靈魂恐怕未有不染遍了灰色罷，自然，《烈火》即在這情形中寫成，當我去年春時來到上海，我的心境完全變了，對於它，只有遺棄的一念。……」　　他判過去的生活為灰色，以早期的作品為童馬矣了。果然，在此後的《破壘集》中，的確很換了些披掛，有含譏的輕妙的小品，但尤其顯出好的故事作者的特色來：有時如中國的「磊砢山房主人的瑰奇；有時如波蘭的顯克微支（H. Sienkiewicz）的警拔，卻又不以失望收場，有聲有色，總能使讀者欣然終卷。但其失，則又即在立旨居陸離光怪的裝飾之中，時或永被沉埋，倘一顯現，便又見得鶻突了。　　《現代評論》比起日報的副刊來，比較的著重於文藝，但那些作者，也還是新潮社和創造社的老手居多。淩叔華的小說，卻發祥於這一種期刊的，她恰和馮沅君的大膽，敢言不同，大抵很謹慎的，適可而止的描寫了舊家庭中的婉順的女性。即使間有出軌之作，那是為了偶受著文酒之風的吹拂，終於也回復了她的故道了。這是好的，——使我們看見和馮沅君，黎錦明，川島，汪靜之所描寫的絕不相同的人物，也就是世態的一角，高門巨族的精魂。四　　一九二五年十月間，北京突然有莽原社出現，這其實不過是不滿於《京報副刊》編輯者的一群，另設《莽原》週刊，卻仍附《京報》發行，聊以快意的團體。奔走最力者為高長虹，中堅的小說作者也還是黃鵬基，尚鉞，向培良三個；而魯迅是被推為編輯的。但聲援的很不少，在小說方面，有文炳，沅君，霽野，靜農，小酩，青雨等。到十一月，《京報》要停止副刊以外的小幅了，便改為半月刊，由未名社出版，其時所紹介的新作品，是描寫著鄉下的沉滯的氛圍氣的魏金枝之作：《留下鎮上的黃昏》。　　但不久這莽原社內部衝突了，長虹一流，便在上海設立了狂飆社。所謂「狂飆運動」，那草案其實是早藏在長虹的衣袋裏面的，常要乘機而出，先就印過幾期週刊；那《宣言》，又曾在一九二五年三月間的《京報副刊》上發表，但尚未以「超人」自命，還帶著並不自滿的聲音——「黑沉沉的暗夜，一切都熟睡了，死一般的，沒有一點聲音，一件動作，闃寂無聊的長夜呵！　　「這樣的，幾百年幾百年的時期過去了，而晨光沒有來，黑夜沒有止息。　　「死一般的，一切的人們，都沉沉的睡著了。　　「於是有幾個人，從黑暗中醒來，便互相呼喚著：「——時候到了，期待已經夠了。　　「——是呵，我們要起來了。我們呼喚著，使一切不安於期待的人們也起來罷。　　「——若是晨光終於不來，那麼，也起來罷。我們將點起燈來，照耀我們幽暗的前途。　　「——軟弱是不行的，睡著希望是不行的。我們要作強者，打倒障礙或者被障礙壓倒。我們並不懼怯，也不躲避。　　「這樣呼喚著，雖然是微弱的罷，聽呵，從東方，從西方，從南方，從北方，隱隱的來了強大的應聲，比我們更要強大的應聲。　　「一滴水泉可以作江河之始流，一片樹葉之飄動可以兆暴風之將來，微小的起源可以生出偉大的結果。因為這個緣故，我們的週刊便叫作《狂飆》。」　　不過後來卻日見其自以為「超越」了。然而擬尼採樣的彼此都不能解的格言式的文章，終於使週刊難以存在，可記的也仍然只是小說方面的黃鵬基，尚鉞——其實是向培良一個作者而已。　　黃鵬基將他的短篇小說印成一本，稱為《荊棘》，而第二次和讀者相見的時候，已經改名「朋其」了。他是首先明白曉暢的主張文學不必如奶油，應該如刺，文學家不得頹喪，應該剛健的人；他在《刺的文學》（《莽原》週刊二十八期）裏，說明了「文學絕不是無聊的東西」，「文學家並不一定就是得天獨厚的特等民族」，「也不是成天哭泣的鮫人」。他說—— 　　「我以為中國現代的作品，應該是像一叢荊棘。因為在一片沙漠裏，憧憬的花都會慢慢地消滅的，社會生出荊棘來，他的葉是有刺的，他的莖是有刺的，以至於他的根也是有刺的。——請不要拿植物生理來反駁我——一篇作品的思想，的結構，的練句，的用字，都應該把我們常感覺到的刺的意味兒表現出來。真的文學家……應該先站起來，使我們不得不站起來。他應該充實自己的力，讓人們怎樣充實他自己的力，知道他自己的力，表現他自己的力。一篇作品的成功至少要使讀者一直讀下去，無暇辨文字的美惡，——惡劣的感覺，固然不好，就是美妙的感覺，也算失敗。——而要想因循，苟且而不得。怎樣抓著他的病的深處，就很利害地刺他一下。一般整飭的結構，平凡的字句，會使他跑到旁處去的，我們應該反對。　　「『沙漠裏遍生了荊棘，中國人就會過人的生活了！』這是我相信的。」　　朋其的作品的確和他的主張並不怎麼背馳，他用流利而詼諧的言語，暴露，描畫，諷刺著各式人物，尤其是智識者層。他或者裝著傻子，說出青年的思想來，或者化為渝腿，跑進闊佬們的家裏去。但也許因為力求生動，流利的緣故罷，抉剔就不能深，而且結末的特地裝置的滑稽，也往往毀損掉全篇的力量。諷刺文學是能死於自身的故意的戲笑的。不久他又「自招」（《荊棘》卷首）道：「寫出『刺的文學』四字，也不過因了每天對於霸王鞭的欣賞，和自己的『生也不辰』，未能十分領略花的意味兒，」那可大有徘徊之狀了。此後也沒有再看見他「刺的文學」。　　尚鉞的創作，也是意在譏刺，而且暴露，搏擊的，小說集《斧背》之名，便是自提的綱要。他創作的態度，比朋其嚴肅，取材也較為廣泛，時時描寫著風氣未開之處——河南信陽——的人民。可惜的是為才能所限，那斧背就太輕小了，使他為公和為私的打擊的效力，大抵失在由於器械不良，手段生澀的不中裏。　　向培良當發表他第一本小說集《飄渺的夢》時，一開首就說—— 　　「時間走過去的時候，我的心靈聽見輕微的足音，我把這個很拙笨地移到紙上去了，這就是我這本小冊子的來源罷！」　　的確，作者向我們敘述著他的心靈所聽到的時間的足音，有些是借了兒童時代的天真的愛和憎，有些是借著羈旅時候的寂寞的聞和見，然而他並不「拙笨」，卻也不矯揉造作，只如熟人相對，娓娓而談，使我們在不甚操心的傾聽中，感到一種生活的色相。但是，作者的內心是熱烈的，倘不熱烈，也就不能這麼平靜的娓娓而談了，所以他雖然間或休息於過去的「已經失去的童心」中，卻終於愛了現在的「在強有力的憎惡後面，發現更強有力的愛」的「虛無的反抗者」，向我們紹介了強有力的《我離開十字街頭》。下面這一段就是那不知名的反抗者所自述的憎惡——「為什麼我要跑出北京？這個我也說不出很多的道理。總而言之：我已經討厭了這古老的虛偽的大城。在這裏面游離了四年之後，我已經刻骨地討厭了這古老的虛偽的大城。在這裏面，我只看見請安，打拱，要皇帝，恭維執政——卑怯的奴才！卑劣，怯懦，狡猾，以及敏捷的逃躲，這都是奴才們的絕技！厭惡的深感在我口中，好似生的腥魚在我口中一般；我需要嘔吐，於是提著我的棍走了。」　　在這裏聽到了尼采聲，正是狂飆社的進軍的鼓角。尼采教人們準備著「超人」的出現，倘不出現，那準備便是空虛。但尼采卻自有其下場之法的：發狂和死。否則，就不免安於空虛，或者反抗這空虛，即使在孤獨中毫無「末人」的希求溫暖之心，也不過蔑視一切權威，收縮而為虛無主義者（Nihilist）。巴札羅夫（Bazarov）是相信科學的；他為醫術而死，一到所蔑視的並非科學的權威而是科學本身，那就成為沙寧（Sanin）之徒，只好以一無所信為名，無所不為為實了。但狂飆社卻似乎僅止於「虛無的反抗」，不久就散了隊，現在所遺留的，就只有向培良的這響亮的戰叫，說明著半綏惠略夫（Sheveriov）式的憎惡」的前途。未名社卻相反，主持者韋素園，是寧願作為無名的泥土，來栽植奇花和喬木的人，事業的中心，也多在外國文學的譯述。待到接辦《莽原》後，在小說方面，魏金枝之外，又有李霽野，以銳敏的感覺創作，有時深而細，真如數著每一片葉的葉脈，但因此就往往不能廣，這也是孤寂的發掘者所難以兩全的。臺靜農是先不想到寫小說，後不願意寫小說的人，但為了韋素園的獎勸，為了《莽原》的索稿，他挨到一九二六年，也只得動手了。《地之子》的後記裏自己說—— 　　「那時我開始寫了兩三篇，預備第二年用。素園看了，他很滿意我從民間取材；他遂勸我專在這一方面努力，並且舉了許多作家的例子。其實在我倒不大樂於走這一條路。人間的酸辛和悽楚，我耳邊所聽到的，目中所看見的，已經是不堪了；現在又將它用我的心血細細地寫出，能說這不是不幸的事麼？同時我又沒有生花的筆，能夠獻給我同時代的少男少女以偉大的歡欣。」　　此後還有《建塔者》。要在他的作品裏吸取「偉大的歡欣」，誠然是不容易的，但他卻貢獻了文藝；而且在爭寫著戀愛的悲歡，都會的明暗的那時候，能將鄉間的死生，泥土的氣息，移在紙上的，也沒有更多，更勤于這作者的了。五　　臨末，是關於選輯的幾句話——一，文學團體不是豆莢，包含在裏面的，始終都是豆。大約集成時本已各個不同，後來更各有種種的變化。在這裏，一九二六年後之作即不錄，此後的作者的作風和思想等，也不論。　　二，有些作者，是有自編的集子的，曾在期刊上發表過的初期的文章，集子裏有時卻不見，恐怕是自己不滿，刪去了。但我間或仍收在這裏面，因為我以為就是聖賢豪傑，也不必自慚他的童年；自慚，倒是一個錯誤。　　三，自編的集子裏的有些文章，和先前在期刊上發表的，字句往往有些不同，這當然是作者自己添削的。但這裏卻有時采了初稿，因為我覺得加了修飾之後，也未必一定比質樸的初稿好。　　以上兩點，是要請作者原諒的。　　四，十年中所出的各種期刊，真不知有多少，小說集當然也不少，但見聞有限，自不免有遺珠之憾。至於明明見了集子，卻取捨失當，那就即使並非偏心，也一定是缺少眼力，不想來勉強辯解了。	One Anyone who takes an interest in modern Chinese literature knows that New Youth was the journal that first advocated "literary reform" and later went a step further to call for "literary revolution." But when it first began publication in Shanghai in September 1915, it was entirely in classical Chinese. Su Manshu's (蘇曼殊) original fiction, and the translated fiction by Chen Gu (陳嘏) and Liu Bannong (劉半農), were all in classical Chinese. By the following year, when Hu Shi's (胡適) "Modest Proposals for Literary Reform" was published, only Hu Shi's own poetry, prose, and fiction were in the vernacular. Later, vernacular writers gradually increased in number, but because New Youth was at heart a journal of debate and discussion, creative works were never given great emphasis; what was comparatively flourishing was only vernacular poetry. As for drama and fiction, these also remained largely translations. The writer who published original short stories in it was Lu Xun (魯迅). From May 1918 onward, "A Madman's Diary," "Kong Yiji," "Medicine," and others appeared in succession, and these were considered to demonstrate the concrete achievements of the "literary revolution." Moreover, because of what was then regarded as "the depth of expression and the novelty of form," they considerably stirred the hearts of some young readers. Yet this stirring was actually a consequence of the longstanding neglect of introducing continental European literature. Around 1834, the Russian Gogol (N. Gogol) had already written his Diary of a Madman; around 1883, Nietzsche (Fr. Nietzsche) had already borrowed the mouth of Zarathustra to say: "You have made your way from worm to man, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now man is more of an ape than any ape." Moreover, the ending of "Medicine" clearly retained the Andreevian (L. Andreev) chill. But the later "Madman's Diary," intended to expose the evils of the clan system and Confucian ethics, was deeper and broader in its indignation than Gogol's, and less vague than Nietzsche's Superman. Although later works shed foreign influences and grew somewhat more polished in technique and somewhat more incisive in characterization — such as "Soap" and "Divorce" — they also lost some of their passion and were no longer so much noticed by readers. Apart from Lu Xun, New Youth did not nurture any other fiction writers of note. More of them appeared, rather, in New Tide. In the two years from its founding in January 1919 to its demise when the core members went abroad to study, fiction contributors included Wang Jingxi (汪敬熙), Luo Jialun (羅家倫), Yang Zhensheng (楊振聲), Yu Pingbo (俞平伯), Ouyang Yuqian (歐陽予倩), and Ye Shaojun (葉紹鈞). The technique was, naturally, immature, often retaining the methods and tones of old-style fiction; and the narratives were flat and straightforward, pouring out everything at once; or else overly contrived in their coincidences, heaping all manner of unbearable misfortune upon a single person at a single moment. Yet there was a common progressive tendency: not one of these writers of the period considered fiction to be a rarefied literature existing purely for art's sake and for nothing else. Each piece they wrote was written "with a purpose," using literature as an instrument for reforming society — though they had not yet established any ultimate goal. Yu Pingbo's "The Gardener" held that people should reject affectation and let things take their natural course. Luo Jialun's works complained of the suffering caused by lack of freedom in marriage — somewhat shallow and blunt, perhaps, but expressing exactly the shared sentiment of many young intellectuals of the time. The moment was also ripe for the introduction of Ibsen's (H. Ibsen) A Doll's House and Ghosts, though no one had yet thought of An Enemy of the People or The Pillars of Society. Yang Zhensheng was determined to depict the sufferings of the common people; Wang Jingxi even wore a smile while exposing the secrets of the "good student" and the calamities of the poor. But because they were, after all, intellectuals of the upper stratum, their pens inevitably oscillated between describing their own trivial personal affairs and the lives of the common people. Later, Ouyang Yuqian devoted himself to playwriting; Ye Shaojun went on to far greater development. Wang Jingxi also published creative works in the Contemporary Review, and by 1925 had made a self-selected collection entitled A Snowy Night. But he seems to have ultimately failed to become self-aware, or to have forgotten his earlier struggles, for he concluded that his own works had "no significance in terms of criticizing life." His preface states: "When I wrote these stories, I strove to faithfully describe a few types of life experience as I had seen them. I sought only fidelity in description, without the slightest admixture of critical attitude. Although a person's description of an event is inevitably influenced by his outlook on life, I always tried, to the extent possible, to maintain an objective attitude. "Because of this objective attitude, these short stories of mine are unlikely to have any significance in terms of criticizing life. I merely write out a few types of experience as I have seen them for the reader to see. What judgments readers may form upon reading these stories is not my concern." Yang Zhensheng's writing, however, developed further than "The Fisherman's Family," but stood in diametrical opposition to his former comrade-in-arms Wang Jingxi: he wanted "to be faithful to the subjective," to use artifice to manufacture ideal characters. And fearing that his own ideals were not sufficient, he consulted several friends and revised the work several times before completing the novella Jade Lady, whose preface reads: "If anyone asks whether Jade Lady is real, my answer is that no novelist ever tells the truth. Those who tell the truth are historians; those who tell lies are novelists. "Historians use memory; novelists use imagination. Historians adopt the scientific attitude, being faithful to the objective; novelists adopt the artistic attitude, being faithful to the subjective. In a word, the novelist, like the artist, wants to transform nature into art — that is, to use his ideals and will to remedy the deficiencies of nature." Having first decided that the sole method for "transforming nature into art" was "telling lies" — "those who tell lies are novelists" — he then followed this law, and moreover solicited wide opinion, to create Jade Lady. But the result was certain: nothing but a puppet, whose birth was also her death. We never again saw creative work from this author. Two Once the May Fourth Incident erupted, Peking University — the headquarters of this movement — gained great fame, but at the same time also encountered severe tribulations. In the end, the editorial center of New Youth had to return to Shanghai, and the leading figures of the New Tide group mostly went far off to Europe and America to study. The magazine New Tide concluded — despite grandly trumpeted advance notices — with a "Survey of Famous Works" that has never been published to this day; what was left for the domestic members was ten thousand copies of The Words and Deeds of Mr. Jiemin and seven thousand copies of Drops. Creative writing declined, and literature for life's sake naturally declined along with it. But Shanghai still had its group writing literature for life's sake, though a group writing literature for literature's sake had also risen. The one that should be mentioned here is the Misa Society. In its journal Musai, published in March 1923, its "Manifesto" ("Musai's Descent to the Mortal World") by Hu Shanyuan (胡山源) tells us: "We are the deities of art and literature; we do not know whence we were born, nor why we were born... All our actions follow only our Inspiration!" By the second issue, published in April, the first page clearly stated that this was "a monthly publication of creative literary works that has no purpose, no artistic viewpoint, does not discuss, does not criticize, and only publishes what is created according to Inspiration" — that is, the organ of a literary coterie above worldly concerns. But in reality, it unconsciously had an imaginary enemy. Chen Dezheng's (陳德征) "Editorial Postscript" said: "Recently, literary works have also become commercialized; those so-called literary researchers, so-called men of letters, all inevitably carry a certain tinge of the peddler! This is something we deeply detest and find deeply lamentable..." This was precisely a manifesto sharing the same nostril with the great army campaigning against those who "monopolize the literary arena." At that time, everyone who wished to set up his own banner always did so under the pretext of despising "vulgarity." All the works were indeed largely devoted to the pursuit of elegance, seeking to dance "in whirling, soaring grace" and to sing "in lilting, melodious turns," but the range of their perceptions was rather narrow. They could not help chewing over the petty joys and sorrows at their elbow, and moreover regarded these petty joys and sorrows as the whole world. The fiction writers who appeared in this journal were Hu Shanyuan, Tang Mingshi (唐鳴時), Zhao Jingyun (趙景沄), Fang Qiliu (方企留), and Cao Guixin (曹貴新); Qian Jiangchun (錢江春) and Fang Shixu (方時旭) can only be counted as sketch writers. The most outstanding among them was Hu Shanyuan, whose "Sleep" was a work that embodied the manifesto and overshadowed the entire group. But in "Under the Cherry Blossoms" (first issue), just as the excessive sleep on the one side, it revealed the pathological hypersensitivity on the other. "Inspiration" too would ultimately betray its purpose. Zhao Jingyun's "Amei," though simple and though seemingly unable to be "purposeless," powerfully depicted the tragic brevity of a servant girl's life — a life that even these sensitive writers had forgotten. The Shallow Grass Society, which originated in Shanghai in 1924, was in fact also a literary coterie writing "art for art's sake," but each issue of their quarterly displayed genuine effort: outwardly, in absorbing nourishment from foreign lands; inwardly, in excavating their own souls, seeking to discover the eyes and voice within themselves, to gaze upon this world and sing truth and beauty to the lonely. Han Junge (韓君格), Kong Xiangwo (孔襄我), Hu Xuruo (胡絮若), Gao Shihua (高世華), Lin Ruji (林如稷), Xu Dange (徐丹歌), Gu Sui (顧隨), Shazi (莎子), Yashi (亞士), Chen Xianghe (陳翔鶴), Chen Weimo (陳煒謨), Miss Zhuying (竹影女士) — all were workers in the field of fiction. Even Feng Zhi (馮至), who later became China's most outstanding lyric poet, had published his exquisitely melancholic masterpieces there. The following year, the center moved to Peking, some members seem to have drifted away, and the Shallow Grass quarterly was replaced by the slimmer Sunken Bell weekly. But the fighting spirit did not diminish in the least; the masthead of the first issue bore the resolute words of Gissing (G. Gissing): "And I want you all to testify... I will work, right up to the day of my death." But the mood of the awakened young intellectuals of that era was generally fervent yet desolate. Even when they found a glimmer of light, "the diameter being one, the circumference is three" — they saw all the more clearly the boundless darkness surrounding them. The nourishment absorbed from foreign lands was the fruit juice of the fin de siècle: what Wilde (Oscar Wilde), Nietzsche (Fr. Nietzsche), Baudelaire (Ch. Baudelaire), and Andreev (L. Andreev) had prepared. "Sink your own ship" — they still sought life in extremity; but much of the other work was "the spring is not my spring, the autumn is not my autumn": dark-haired, rosy-faced youth singing the heartrending songs of one who had endured a lifetime of sorrows yet refused to speak of them plainly. Even Feng Zhi's adornment of poetic sentiment and Shazi's resort to allegories of little grasses could not conceal this. All of this seemed to come mostly from writers in Sichuan, and from this one can infer how early Sichuan bore its suffering. But the writers in this group did not lose heart. Chen Weimo, in the "Proem" to his story collection By the Fireside, said: "But I do not want that; for me, life is just beginning, and there are many fierce beasts of fate over there, baring their fangs and claws, waiting for me. But this is nothing to fear. "Though one need not worship the sun, surely one need not be so cowardly as to hide even from the dark night? What, can a worn-out pen not write on torn paper? After some years, when I look back upon myself at this moment, even leaving others aside, perhaps it will be something worth cherishing — if there is a place worth remembering, one should remember it..." Naturally, this is still the desolate language of helpless self-consolation, but in practice, the Sunken Bell Society was truly the most tenacious, most honest, and most enduringly struggling literary group in China. It seemed as if it truly intended, as in Gissing's words, to work until the day of its death; like the caster of the "sunken bell," to kick out a great booming peal from the bottom of the water even in death. Yet they could not do it: they were alive, the times shifted and the world changed, and everything went wrong. They wanted to sing, but among their listeners some slept, some withered and died, some scattered — before their eyes remained only a vast, blank expanse, and so, amid the wind and dust, in grief and solitude, they set down their harps. Feng Wenbing (馮文炳), who later became known under the pen name "Fei Ming" (廢名), was also a writer who showed a glimpse of his talent in Shallow Grass, but had not yet revealed his particular strengths. Not until his 1925 collection The Story of the Bamboo Grove did we see works that, wearing serenity as their garment, could still, as the author put it, "distill from them my sorrow." Unfortunately, the author seems to have treasured his limited "sorrow" too dearly, and soon became even more unwilling to let it flash forth as before. To the straightforward reader, all that was visible was a deliberate lingering, a posture of gazing at and pitying one's own reflection. Feng Yuanjun (馮沅君) had a short story collection called Curling Tendrils — named after a grass "that dies only when its heart is pulled out." From 1923 on, she was in Peking but published under the pen name "Miss Gan" (淦女士) in the journals of the Creation Society in Shanghai. Among her works, "The Journey" is a celebrated piece that distills the essence of "Separation" and "After the Separation" (both also in Curling Tendrils). Though it leans somewhat toward excessive reasoning, it has not yet harmed its naturalness. The passage: "I very much wanted to hold his hand, but I didn't dare. I only dared to when the electric light on the train was occasionally jolted and lost its glow, because I feared the attention of the other passengers. But we also felt quite proud of ourselves, and without ceremony regarded ourselves as the most distinguished persons on the entire train." This passage is truly a faithful portrait of the young people who, in the immediate aftermath of the May Fourth Movement, were determined to fight tradition yet afraid to fight tradition resolutely, and therefore had no choice but to revive their "tender, lingering sentiments." It is utterly different from the protagonists of "art for art's sake" works, who either flaunt their decadence or peddle their neurotic sensitivities. Yet she too could return to tranquility. Lu Kanru (陸侃如), in the postscript to the second edition of Curling Tendrils, says: "'Gan' means 'to sink,' taking its sense from the 'sinking on land' in Zhuangzi. Now that the author's thought has changed, the second edition uses the name Yuanjun... The author's temperament being idle, she asked me to say this on her behalf." Indeed, three years later in Spring Traces, only fragments of prose remained, and after that came only research on literary history. This makes me think again of the Hungarian poet Petofi's (Petőfi Sándor) poem inscribed on the photograph of Mrs. B. Sz: "I hear you make your husband very happy. I hope it is not so, for he was a nightingale of sorrows, now fallen silent in happiness. Mistreat him, so that he may constantly sing sweet songs." I do not mean to say that suffering is the wellspring of art, or that for the sake of art, writers should be perpetually kept in suffering. But in Petofi's time, this statement had some truth; in China ten years ago, it also had some truth. Three In this place — Peking — though Peking was the birthplace of the May Fourth Movement, ever since the people who had sustained New Youth and New Tide scattered like clouds before the wind, the three years from 1920 to 1922 presented the aspect of a desolate, deserted old battlefield. The Morning Post Supplement, and later the Capital Post Supplement, came to the fore, but neither was a periodical that paid much attention to literary creation. In the field of fiction, they introduced only a limited number of writers: Jian Xianai (蹇先艾), Xu Qinwen (許欽文), Wang Luyan (王魯彥), Li Jinming (黎錦明), Huang Pengji (黃鵬基), Shang Yue (尚鉞), and Xiang Peiliang (向培良). Jian Xianai's works are plain and simple. As he says in his story collection Morning Mist: "...I am already over twenty. Having come all the way from faraway Guizhou to Peking, I have wandered in the dust and grit for nearly seven years — not a short time. How I muddled through, even I myself do not know. Day after day has passed so hastily, and the shadows of childhood grow ever more blurred and faint, drifting away like morning mist. All I feel is emptiness and loneliness. In these several years, apart from the few new poems and dubious stories I have scribbled in the past two years, what have I done? Every time I recall, I cannot help feeling a little desolation striking my heart. So I have now resolutely sent this story collection to press... as a memorial to the beloved childhood I am henceforth parting with... If those who have not lost their childlike heart are willing to look, perhaps they too can find in these pages a little of the flavor of naivete?..." Indeed, though simple — or, as the author modestly puts it, "naive" — with very little embellishment, it is enough to express the sorrow in his heart. The range he describes is narrow — a few ordinary people, some trifling events — but a story like "Water Burial" reveals to us the cruelty of rural customs in "faraway Guizhou," and the greatness of maternal love arising from within that cruelty. Guizhou is far away, but everyone's circumstances are the same. At this time — 1924 — there were also writers who published works occasionally: Pei Wenzhong (裴文中) and Li Jianwu (李健吾). The former was probably not someone who had always been attentive to creative writing. His "Amid the Sound of War Horses" was a disjointed record of the real feelings of a young student abroad, shaken to the core by the bombardment of his hometown and his parents' safety. The latter's "The Legend of Zhongtiao Mountain" is brilliant; even now, ten years later, one can still see the body and soul concealed within the splendid garment woven from oral tradition. Jian Xianai wrote about Guizhou; Pei Wenzhong was concerned about Yuguan. All those who took up the pen in Peking to write from the heart, regardless of whether they called their method subjective or objective, were in fact producing local-color literature — or, seen from Peking's perspective, sojourner literature. But this was not the "emigrant literature" that Brandes (G. Brandes) spoke of. It was only the authors themselves who were sojourning, not the literature they wrote. Therefore one could only glimpse homesickness flickering through it, and it was hard for any exotic atmosphere to broaden the reader's horizons or dazzle his eyes. Xu Qinwen named his first short story collection Homeland — thereby unconsciously confessing himself to be a local-color writer. But even before he began writing local-color literature, he had already been exiled by his homeland; life drove him to a foreign place, and he could only reminisce about "Father's Garden" — a garden that no longer existed. For to remember things from one's homeland that no longer exist is more comfortable and more consoling than remembering things that clearly exist but that one cannot approach. "The most flourishing years of Father's garden are now so long past that I can hardly calculate exactly. A photograph of its splendor in those days was once taken and now hangs in Father's room, but it was taken so long ago, and photography in the countryside was so primitive in those days, that it has become blurred beyond recognition. The portrait of Sister Fang hanging beside it is also no longer very clear, but the words Father inscribed on the picture are quite legible: 'Obstinate by nature, pitiable in fate; once parted by the knife of grief, how can I alone bear it!' "... "Even if Father's garden could once again be planted with all manner of flowers, the splendor of those days could never be restored, for Sister Fang is no more." The helpless grief that one cannot help but relinquish — yet the author still cannot relinquish it. Having no recourse, he finds coolness and humor to serve as garments for his grief, wrapping it up and passing it off as "seeing through it all." And he applies this method to the depiction of various characters, especially young ones. Because of the deliberate coolness, the characterizations cut deep, but inevitably carry a laugh that makes one uneasy. "Though one harbors resentment, one does not blame the falling tile" — coolness must become the stillness of death. Coolness and humor wrapping fury — this is something the observed and depicted do not enjoy receiving; they refuse to acknowledge him as a lifeless, opinionless mirror. Thus he too is often classified among satirical writers, and the ladies especially knit their brows. If this kind of coolness and humor were to grow unchecked, it would actually be dangerous for the author himself. He could also write vividly about the lives of common folk, as in "The Stone Quarry," but unfortunately such pieces were few. Looking at a portion of Wang Luyan's works — their subject matter and style — he too seems to be a local-color writer, but his temperament is utterly different from Xu Qinwen's. What pained Xu Qinwen was the loss of "Father's garden" here on earth; what tormented Wang Luyan was separation from the free paradise in heaven. He heard the "autumn rain's lament" say: "The earth is too small, the earth is too filthy, everywhere is darkness, everywhere is loathsome. "People only know how to love money, not freedom, nor beauty. Among you humans there is not a shred of affection, only hatred. You humans sleep as sweetly as pigs at night, and fight and tear at each other like dogs by day... "Such a world — can I bear to look at it? Why should I not weep? "In a savage world, let the beasts go on living, but not I, not we... Ah, I must now leave this world and go underground..." This resembles the grief of Eroshenko (V. Eroshenko), and yet is utterly different. The one is the underground mole, yearning to love humanity but unable to; the other is the autumn rain from the sky, wishing to escape the human world but unable to. He can only return his heart to his mother, and only then come to be a "person," coaxing a smile from his mother. The autumn rain, the heartless "person," and human society can have no bond between them. If one speaks of coolness, this is truly cool; this is what can, together with "Tolstoy's" doctrine of non-resistance, obliterate "Marx's" theory of class struggle; and together with "Darwin's" theory of evolution, mock "Kropotkin's" theory of mutual aid; protest against tyranny, yet also sneer at freedom. The author often tries to write with a humorous pen, but because it is too cool, the humor often turns into cold talk, losing the warmth of human humor. Yet the "human" heart is never truly exhausted. The story "Pomelo," though it displeased the writers from Hunan, beneath its worldly-wise garment still flashed an earthly indignation, and among Wang Luyan's works, I consider it the most fervent of all. The Hunanese writer I refer to is Li Jinming (黎錦明), who seems to have left his homeland from an early age. His works carry little local flavor, but brim with the sensitivity and passion of a man from Chu. Early on, in "The Social Problem," he hurled a Strindbergian (A. Strindberg) javelin at the Ibsenist school of emancipation theorists; but he could also describe the "light impressions" of childhood with delicacy and clarity. By 1926, he had grown dissatisfied with himself. In the preface to the second edition of Fierce Fire, he wrote: "People who live in Peking, if they have souls, can hardly have souls that are not dyed thoroughly gray. Naturally, Fierce Fire was written under these conditions. When I came to Shanghai last spring, my state of mind changed completely, and toward it I felt only the urge to discard it..." He judged his past life as gray and dismissed his early works as a young horse's folly. And indeed, in the subsequent Breaking Through the Ramparts, he had quite changed his armor: there were subtly mocking short pieces, but what especially showed his qualities as a fine storyteller was this: sometimes he had the fantastic brilliance of the Chinese "Master of the Leiluo Mountain Studio"; sometimes the alertness of the Pole Sienkiewicz (H. Sienkiewicz), yet without ending in despair — vivid and colorful, always able to make the reader finish the volume with pleasure. But his weakness was that the central meaning, buried amid the dazzling ornamentation, was sometimes permanently interred, and when it did surface, it seemed abrupt. The Contemporary Review, compared to the supplements of daily newspapers, paid comparatively more attention to literature, but its contributors were still mostly old hands from the New Tide Society and the Creation Society. Ling Shuhua's (淩叔華) fiction, however, originated in this type of periodical. She was just the opposite of Feng Yuanjun's boldness and outspokenness: generally very cautious, depicting with measured restraint the gentle, compliant women of old gentry families. Even when there were occasional departures from this path, they were due to the passing breeze of literary sociability, and she ultimately returned to her accustomed way. This is good — it shows us characters utterly different from those depicted by Feng Yuanjun, Li Jinming, Chuandao (川島), and Wang Jingzhi (汪靜之): a corner of the social scene, the soul of great houses and noble clans. Four In October 1925, the Mangyuan Society suddenly appeared in Peking. It was really nothing more than a group dissatisfied with the editor of the Capital Post Supplement, who set up the Mangyuan Weekly as a separate publication, still distributed as a supplement to the Capital Post, for the satisfaction of expressing themselves. The most active organizer was Gao Changhong (高長虹); the core fiction writers were still the same three — Huang Pengji, Shang Yue, and Xiang Peiliang — and Lu Xun was invited to serve as editor. But there were many allies: in the fiction category, Wenbing, Yuanjun, Jiye (霽野), Jingnong (靜農), Xiaoming (小酩), Qingyu (青雨), and others. By November, when the Capital Post decided to discontinue small supplements other than its main supplement, it was changed to a bimonthly, published by the Weiming Society. The newly introduced work at that time was Wei Jinzhi's (魏金枝) "Dusk at Liuxia Town," depicting the stagnant atmosphere of the countryside. But before long, the Mangyuan Society was riven by internal conflicts, and Changhong's faction established the Kuangbiao (Wild Storm) Society in Shanghai. The so-called "Kuangbiao Movement" was a plan that had actually long been tucked away in Changhong's pocket, always looking for an opportunity to emerge. He had already published several issues of a weekly; its "Manifesto" had been published in the Capital Post Supplement in March 1925, but at that time he had not yet proclaimed himself a "Superman" and still spoke with a voice that was not self-satisfied: "In the pitch-black darkness of night, everything is fast asleep, dead-like, without a single sound, a single movement — the lonely, interminable long night! "Like this, centuries upon centuries have passed, and still the dawn has not come, the night has not ceased. "Dead-like, all the people are sunk in deep sleep. "Then a few people awaken from the darkness and call to one another: '— The time has come; the waiting has been long enough. "'— Yes, we must rise. Let us call out, so that all who are uneasy in their waiting may also rise. "'— If the dawn never comes, then let us rise anyway. We shall light lamps to illuminate our dark road ahead. "'— Weakness will not do; sleeping on hope will not do. We must be strong, overthrow the obstacles or be crushed by them. We do not fear, nor do we hide. "'Calling out like this, even if our voices are feeble, listen — from the east, from the west, from the south, from the north, there come faintly the mighty answering echoes, mightier than our own. "'A trickle from a spring can be the beginning of a great river; the flutter of a single leaf can herald the coming storm; from a tiny beginning, great results can be born. For this reason, our weekly is called Wild Storm.'" But afterward he grew increasingly self-proclaimed in his "transcendence." Yet the Nietzsche-esque, mutually unintelligible, aphoristic essays eventually made the weekly impossible to sustain. What remained noteworthy in fiction was still only Huang Pengji and Shang Yue — in truth, only Xiang Peiliang alone. Huang Pengji published his short stories as a collection entitled Thorns, but by the time he met readers for the second time, he had already changed his name to "Pengqi" (朋其). He was the first to openly and clearly advocate that literature need not be like cream but should be like thorns, and that the man of letters must not be decadent but should be vigorous. In "Literature of Thorns" (Mangyuan Weekly, issue 28), he explained that "literature is by no means a frivolous thing," that "the man of letters is not necessarily a specially favored race," and that he is "not a weeping merman." He said: "I believe that modern Chinese works should be like a clump of thorns. For in a desert, longed-for flowers will slowly wither away. Society produces thorns: their leaves have thorns, their stems have thorns, down to their very roots — thorns. — Please do not refute me with plant physiology. — The thought, the structure, the sentences, the diction of a work should all express the prickly sensation that we constantly feel. A true man of letters... should first stand up himself, so that we cannot help but stand up too. He should build up his own strength, show people how to build up their own strength, know their own strength, express their own strength. A successful work should at least make the reader read on without pause, with no time to judge whether the writing is good or bad — for a bad sensation is naturally unwelcome, but even a delightful sensation means failure — and should make it impossible for anyone to be complacent or slipshod. It should seize upon the deep seat of his illness and give him a sharp prick. Orderly structure and commonplace diction will send him off elsewhere — that is what we should oppose. "'When thorns grow all over the desert, the Chinese will live human lives!' That is what I believe." Pengqi's works did indeed not greatly contradict his advocacy. He used fluent and humorous language to expose, depict, and satirize various types of people, especially the intellectual class. He would sometimes play the fool to voice the thoughts of youth, or sometimes turn into a delivery boy and run into the houses of the rich. But perhaps because he strove too hard for vividness and fluency, the probing could not go deep, and moreover the deliberately contrived comical endings often ruined the force of the entire piece. Satirical literature can die of its own deliberate jesting. Before long, he "confessed" (in the front matter of Thorns): "The four words 'Literature of Thorns' were written merely because of my daily appreciation of the cactus plant, and because, having been 'born in an inauspicious time,' I was unable to fully savor the flavor of flowers." That had quite the air of wavering. After that, we saw no more of his "literature of thorns." Shang Yue's creative work was also intended to mock and moreover to expose and attack. The title of his story collection, The Back of the Axe, was his own self-declared program. His creative attitude was more serious than Pengqi's, and his subject matter broader, often depicting the people of a place where modern ways had not yet penetrated — Xinyang (信陽) in Henan. Unfortunately, he was limited by his talent, and the back of the axe was too light and small, so that the effectiveness of his blows, whether in the public or private interest, was mostly lost through poor equipment and clumsy technique. When Xiang Peiliang published his first story collection Ethereal Dream, he opened with these words: "When time walks past, my soul hears its light footsteps. I have transferred these very clumsily onto paper, and that is the origin of this little book!" Indeed, the author relates to us the footsteps of time as heard by his soul: some borrowed from the innocent love and hatred of childhood, some from the loneliness of sojourning — what he saw and heard. And he is not at all "clumsy"; nor is he affected or contrived — he simply talks on and on, as if chatting with an old acquaintance, making us feel a certain texture of life as we listen without great effort. But the author's inner world is fervent; if it were not fervent, he could not talk so calmly and unhurriedly. So although he sometimes rests in the "already lost childlike heart" of the past, he ultimately loves the "nihilistic rebel" of the present who "behind the powerful hatred discovers an even more powerful love," and introduces us to the forceful "I Leave the Crossroads." The following passage is the nameless rebel's own account of his hatred: "Why did I want to leave Peking? I can't explain many reasons for it either. In short: I have grown sick of this old, hypocritical great city. After drifting about in it for four years, I have grown sick to the bone of this old, hypocritical great city. In it, I see nothing but bowing, scraping, clamoring for an emperor, flattering the warlord president — craven slaves! Baseness, cowardice, cunning, and nimble evasion — these are the slaves' virtuosic skills! The deep feeling of disgust is in my mouth like raw, rank fish; I need to vomit, and so I pick up my staff and leave." Here one hears the voice of Nietzsche — precisely the drumbeat and battle-horn of the Kuangbiao Society's advance. Nietzsche told men to prepare for the coming of the "Superman"; if the Superman does not appear, the preparation is empty. But Nietzsche had his own way of meeting his end: madness and death. Otherwise, one cannot but acquiesce to the emptiness, or else resist it. Even if in solitude one harbors none of the "last man's" craving for warmth, one merely scorns all authority and contracts into a nihilist. Bazarov believed in science; he died for medicine. But once what one scorns is not the authority of science but science itself, one becomes a disciple of Sanin, with nothing believed as one's name and nothing forbidden as one's practice. But the Kuangbiao Society seemed to stop at "nihilistic rebellion"; it soon dispersed, and what now remains is only Xiang Peiliang's resounding battle cry, indicating the future of a semi-Shevyriov-esque "hatred." The Weiming Society was just the opposite: its leader Wei Suyuan (韋素園) was a man willing to serve as nameless earth in which to plant rare flowers and tall trees. The center of the enterprise was mostly the translation and commentary of foreign literature. After taking over Mangyuan, in fiction, besides Wei Jinzhi, there was also Li Jiye (李霽野), who created with keen sensitivity, sometimes deep and fine, truly counting each vein on every leaf, but who therefore often could not go wide — a dilemma the solitary excavator can hardly avoid. Tai Jingnong (臺靜農) was someone who first did not think of writing fiction and later did not want to write fiction, but at Wei Suyuan's urging and Mangyuan's demand for manuscripts, he finally had to put pen to paper in 1926. In the afterword to Children of the Earth, he says: "At that time I began writing two or three pieces, preparing them for the following year. Suyuan read them and was very pleased that I drew my material from among the common people; he urged me to devote myself to this direction and cited many writers as examples. Actually, I was not very inclined to take this path. The bitterness and misery of the human world — what my ears have heard, what my eyes have seen, are already unbearable. Now to write it all out again in detail with my heart's blood — can one say this is not an unfortunate thing? At the same time, I lack a flower-blossoming pen capable of offering the young men and women of my generation great rejoicing." After that came The Tower Builders. To draw "great rejoicing" from his works is indeed not easy, but he did contribute to literature. And at a time when everyone was competing to write about the joys and sorrows of love and the light and shadow of the metropolis, there was no one more assiduous than this author in transferring to paper the life and death of the countryside, the smell of the earth. Five Finally, a few words about the principles of selection. First: a literary group is not a bean pod, in which the contents remain beans from beginning to end. By the time of their gathering, each member was already different, and afterward each underwent various further changes. In this anthology, works after 1926 are not included, and no discussion is offered of the later evolution of these writers' styles and thought. Second: some writers have their own self-edited collections, in which early works published in periodicals are sometimes missing — presumably deleted by the authors themselves out of dissatisfaction. But I have sometimes included them here nonetheless, for I believe that even sages and heroes need not be ashamed of their childhood; to be ashamed is itself a mistake. Third: some pieces in self-edited collections differ in wording from the versions originally published in periodicals — the result, of course, of the authors' own revisions. But here I have sometimes used the original drafts, because I feel that a revised version is not necessarily better than the plain, unadorned first draft. I beg the authors' forgiveness for the above two points. Fourth: the number of periodicals that appeared over those ten years is truly beyond counting, and story collections were naturally not few either. But one's knowledge and experience are limited, and the regret of overlooking gems is inevitable. As for cases where I clearly saw a collection but made poor selections — even if this was not partiality, it must be a lack of judgment, and I shall not attempt to make excuses.
這也並非自己的發見，是在內山書店裡聽著漫談的時候拾來的，據說：像日本人那樣的喜歡「結論」的民族，就是無論是聽議論，是讀書，如果得不到結論，心裡總不舒服的民族，在現在的世上，好像是頗為少有的，云。　　接收了這一個結論之後，就時時令人覺得很不錯。例如關於中國人，也就是這樣的。明治時代的支那研究的結論，似乎大抵受著英國的甚麼人做的《支那人氣質》的影響，但到近來，卻也有了面目一新的結論了。一個旅行者走進了下野的有錢的大官的書齋，看見有許多很貴的硯石，便說中國是「文雅的國度」；一個觀察者到上海來一下，買幾種猥褻的書和圖畫，再去尋尋奇怪的觀覽物事，便說中國是「色情的國度」。連江蘇和浙江方面，大吃竹筍的事，也算作色情心理的表現的一個證據。然而廣東和北京等處，因為竹少，所以並不怎麼吃竹筍。倘到窮文人的家裡或者寓裡去，不但無所謂書齋，連硯石也不過用著兩角錢一塊的傢伙。一看見這樣的事，先前的結論就通不過去了，所以觀察者也就有些窘，不得不另外摘出什麼適當的結論來。於是這一回，是說支那很難懂得，支那是「謎的國度」了。　　據我自己想：只要是地位，尤其是利害一不相同，則兩國之間不消說，就是同國的人們之間，也不容易互相瞭解的。　　例如罷，中國向西洋派遣過許多留學生，其中有一位先生，好像也並不怎樣喜歡研究西洋，於是提出了關於中國文學的什麼論文，使那邊的學者大吃一驚，得了博士的學位，回來了。然而因為在外國研究得太長久，忘記了中國的事情，回國之後，就只好來教授西洋文學。他一看見本國裡乞丐之多，非常詫異，慨歎道：他們為什麼不去研究學問，卻自甘墮落的呢？所以下等人實在是無可救藥的。　　不過這是極端的例子。倘使長久的生活於一地方，接觸著這地方的人民，尤其是接觸，感得了那精神，認真的想一想，那麼，對於那國度，恐怕也未必不能瞭解罷。　　著者是二十年以上，生活於中國，到各處去旅行，接觸了各階級的人們的，所以來寫這樣的漫文，我以為實在是適當的人物。事實勝於雄辯，這些漫文，不是的確放著一種異彩嗎？自己也常常去聽漫談，其實負有捧場的權利和義務的，但因為已是很久的「老朋友」了，所以也想添幾句壞話在這裡。其一，是有多說中國的優點的傾向，這是和我的意見相反的，不過著者那一面，也自有他的意見，所以沒有法子想。還有一點，是並非壞話也說不定的，就是讀起那漫文來，往往頗有令人覺得「原來如此」的處所，而這令人覺得「原來如此」的處所，歸根結蒂，也還是結論。幸而卷末沒有明記著「第幾章：結論」，所以仍不失為漫談，總算還好的。　　然而即使力說是漫談，著者的用心，還是在將中國的一部分的真相，紹介給日本的讀者的。但是，在現在，總依然是因了各種的讀者，那結果也不一樣罷。這是沒有法子的事。據我看來，日本和中國的人們之間，是一定會有互相瞭解的時候的。新近的報章上，雖然又在竭力的說著「親善」呀，「提攜」呀，到得明年，也不知道又將說些什麼話，但總而言之，現在卻不是這時候。　　倒不如看看漫文，還要有意思一點罷。	This is not a discovery of my own; I picked it up while listening to casual conversation at the Uchiyama Bookshop. According to what was said, a nation like the Japanese that so loves "conclusions" — a nation that, whether listening to arguments or reading books, always feels uneasy if it cannot arrive at a conclusion — is apparently quite rare in today's world. After absorbing this particular conclusion, one often finds it rather apt. Take the Chinese, for instance — it is just the same. The conclusions of Meiji-era China studies seem mostly to have been influenced by some Englishman's book on The Character of the Chinese People. But in recent times, there have been conclusions with an entirely new look. One traveler enters the study of a wealthy retired official, sees many expensive inkstones, and says China is "a land of refinement." One observer comes to Shanghai for a quick visit, buys a few obscene books and pictures, goes looking for a few curious spectacles, and says China is "a land of eroticism." Even the fact that in Jiangsu and Zhejiang people eat great quantities of bamboo shoots has been cited as evidence of the erotic mentality. But in Guangdong and Peking, because there is little bamboo, people do not eat much bamboo shoots at all. If you visit the home or lodging of a poor man of letters, not only is there no so-called study, but the inkstone in use is nothing but a two-jiao piece of goods. Once one sees such things, the former conclusions can no longer hold, and so the observer is somewhat embarrassed and must fish out some other appropriate conclusion. And so this time the verdict is that China is very hard to understand, that China is "a land of riddles." In my own view, as long as people's positions — and especially their interests — are different, not only between two countries, but even among people of the same country, mutual understanding is not easily achieved. Take this example: China has sent many students abroad to the West, and among them there was one gentleman who apparently did not much care for the study of Western subjects, so he submitted some thesis or other on Chinese literature, astonishing the scholars over there, was awarded a doctoral degree, and came home. But because he had studied abroad for too long and had forgotten about conditions in China, after returning he could only teach Western literature. When he saw the great number of beggars in his own country, he was most astonished and sighed: Why do they not go and pursue scholarship instead of sinking so low of their own accord? So the lower classes really are beyond redemption. But this is an extreme case. If one lives for a long time in a place, comes into contact with the people of that place, and especially absorbs their spirit, and thinks seriously about it, then one may perhaps not be incapable of understanding that country after all. The author has lived in China for more than twenty years, traveled to various places, and come into contact with people of all classes, so to write this kind of casual essay, I consider him quite the right person. Facts speak louder than rhetoric — do these casual essays not indeed emit a distinctive glow? I myself also often go to listen to the casual conversation, and am in fact charged with the right and duty of providing moral support. But since we have already been "old friends" for a very long time, I also want to add a few unkind words here. One, there is a tendency to overstate China's virtues, which runs counter to my own view; but the author, for his part, has his own opinions, so there is nothing to be done. The other point, which may or may not be unkind, is that when reading these casual essays, one quite often encounters passages that make one feel "so that's how it is" — and these passages that make one feel "so that's how it is," when you get to the bottom of it, are also conclusions. Fortunately, there is no explicit "Chapter So-and-So: Conclusion" printed at the end of the volume, so it can still pass for casual talk — which is just as well, all things considered. Yet even if one insists that this is casual talk, the author's intention is still to introduce a portion of China's true face to the Japanese reader. But at the present time, different readers will inevitably produce different results. There is nothing to be done about that. In my view, the day will certainly come when the peoples of Japan and China understand each other. Recently the newspapers have again been earnestly talking about "goodwill" this and "cooperation" that, and come next year, who knows what they will be saying. But in any case, that day is not now. Better to read some casual essays — that is at least a bit more interesting.
我有時候想到，忠厚老實的讀者或研究者，遇見有兩種人的文意，他是會吃冤枉苦頭的。一種，是古裡古怪的詩和尼采式的短句，以及幾年前的所謂未來派的作品。這些大概是用怪字面，生句子，沒意思的硬連起來的，還加上好幾行很長的點線。作者本來就是亂寫，自己也不知道什麼意思。但認真的讀者卻以為裡面有著深意，用心的來研究它，結果是到底莫名其妙，只好怪自己淺薄。假如你去請教作者本人罷，他一定不加解釋，只是鄙夷的對你笑一笑。這笑，也就愈見其深。　　還有一種，是作者原不過「尋開心」，說的時候本來不當真，說過也就忘記了。當然和先前的主張會衝突，當然在同一篇文章裡自己也會衝突。但是你應該知道作者原以為作文和吃飯不同，不必認真的。你若認真的看，只能怪自己傻。最近的例子就是悍膂先生的研究語堂先生為什麼會稱讚《野叟曝言》。不錯，這一部書是道學先生的悖慢淫毒心理的結晶，和「性靈」緣分淺得很，引了例子比較起來，當然會顯出這稱讚的出人意外。但其實，恐怕語堂先生之憎「方巾氣」，談「性靈」，講「瀟灑」，也不過對老實人「尋開心」而已，何嘗真知道「方巾氣」之類是怎麼一回事；也許簡直連他所稱讚的《野叟曝言》也並沒有怎麼看。所以用本書和他那別的主張來比較研究，是永久不會懂的。自然，兩面非常不同，這很清楚，但怎麼竟至於稱讚起來了呢，也還是一個「不可解」。我的意思是以為有些事情萬不要想得太深，想得太忠厚，太老實，我們只要知道語堂先生那時正在崇拜袁中郎，而袁中郎也曾有過稱讚《金瓶梅》的事實，就什麼駭異之意也沒有了。　　還有一個例子。如讀經，在廣東，聽說是從燕塘軍官學校提倡起來的；去年，就有官定的小學校用的《經訓讀本》出版，給五年級用的第一課，卻就是「孔子謂曾子曰：身體髮膚，受之父母，不敢毀傷，孝之始也。……」那麼，「為國捐軀」是「孝之終」麼？並不然，第三課還有「模範」，是樂正子春述曾子聞諸夫子之說雲：「天之所生，地之所養，無人為大。父母全而生之，子全而歸之，可謂孝矣。不虧其體，不辱其身，可謂全矣。故君子頃步而弗敢忘孝也。……」　　還有一個最近的例子，就在三月七日的《中華日報》上。那地方記的有「北平大學教授兼女子文理學院文史系主任李季谷氏」贊成《一十宣言》原則的談話，末尾道：「為復興民族之立場言，教育部應統令設法標榜岳武穆，文天祥，方孝孺等有氣節之名臣勇將，俾一般高官戎將有所法式雲」。　　凡這些，都是以不大十分研究為是的。如果想到「全而歸之」和將來的臨陣衝突，或者查查岳武穆們的事實，看究竟是怎樣的結果，「復興民族」了沒有，那你一定會被捉弄得發昏，其實也就是自尋煩惱。語堂先生在暨南大學講演道：「……做人要正正經經，不好走入邪道，……一走入邪道，……一定失業，……然而，作文，要幽默，和做人不同，要玩玩笑笑，尋開心，……」（據《芒種》本）這雖然聽去似乎有些奇特，但其實是很可以啟發人的神智的：這「玩玩笑笑，尋開心」，就是開開中國許多古怪現象的鎖的鑰匙。	I sometimes think that the honest, earnest reader or researcher is bound to suffer unjustly when confronting two particular types of writing. The first type consists of bizarre poems, Nietzschean aphorisms, and the so-called Futurist works of a few years ago. These are generally cobbled together from outlandish vocabulary and forced sentences, strung meaninglessly together, with several long rows of dots thrown in for good measure. The authors were just scribbling nonsense; they themselves had no idea what they meant. But the conscientious reader assumes there must be some profound significance within, and studies them earnestly, only to end up utterly baffled and blaming his own shallowness. If you were to consult the author himself, he would certainly offer no explanation, but merely smile at you with disdain. And that smile would only make him seem all the more profound. Then there is the second type, where the author was merely "seeking fun" -- he was never serious when he said it, and forgot about it once it was said. Naturally, this will contradict his previous positions; naturally, contradictions will appear within the same essay. But you should understand that the author considers writing to be different from eating -- it needn't be taken seriously. If you read him earnestly, you can only blame yourself for being a fool. The most recent example is Mr. Hanlu's investigation into why Mr. Yutang (语堂, i.e., Lin Yutang 林语堂) praised The Rustic's Words in the Sun (Ye sou pu yan). Indeed, that book is the crystallization of the hypocritical, lascivious, and poisonous mentality of the Neo-Confucian moralist, and has precious little to do with "spiritual expression." When one draws examples for comparison, the praise naturally seems astonishing. But in truth, I fear Mr. Yutang's loathing of "the priggish air of the square-capped scholar," his talk of "spiritual expression," his advocacy of "nonchalance" -- all this was nothing more than "seeking fun" at the expense of honest people. He never truly understood what "the priggish air" and such things were really about; perhaps he hadn't even properly read the very Ye sou pu yan that he praised. So if you try to study his praise by comparing it with his other positions, you will never understand it. Of course the two sides are utterly incompatible -- that much is clear -- but how he came to praise the book nonetheless remains "inexplicable." My point is that certain things should never be pondered too deeply, too earnestly, too honestly. We need only know that at the time Mr. Yutang was worshipping Yuan Zhonglang (袁中郎, i.e., Yuan Hongdao 袁宏道), and that Yuan Zhonglang himself had once praised The Golden Lotus (Jin Ping Mei), and then all astonishment vanishes. Here is another example. Take the matter of reading the Classics: in Guangdong, I hear it was first promoted by the Yantang Military Academy. Last year, an officially approved Reader of Classical Teachings for primary schools was published, and the very first lesson for fifth-graders ran: "Confucius said to Zengzi (曾子): 'Your body, hair, and skin -- all have been received from your parents. Dare not damage them. This is the beginning of filial piety...'" Then is "sacrificing one's life for the country" the "end of filial piety"? Not at all. The third lesson also has a "model," being Yue Zhengzi Chun's (乐正子春) account of what Zengzi heard from the Master: "Of all things Heaven produces and Earth nurtures, none is greater than man. When parents give you life whole and complete, and you return it whole and complete, that may be called filial piety. Not to diminish your body, not to disgrace your person -- that may be called wholeness. Therefore, the gentleman does not dare forget filial piety even for a single step..." And there is yet another, most recent example, from the Zhonghua Daily of March 7th. It records a statement by "Mr. Li Jigu (李季谷), Professor at Beiping University and concurrently Head of the Literature and History Department at the Women's College of Arts and Science," endorsing the principles of the Ten Declarations, concluding: "From the standpoint of reviving the nation, the Ministry of Education should uniformly order that Yue Wumu (岳武穆, i.e., Yue Fei 岳飞), Wen Tianxiang (文天祥), and Fang Xiaoru (方孝孺) -- loyal ministers and brave generals of great integrity -- be held up as exemplars, so that high officials and military commanders may have models to follow." In all these cases, the best course is not to investigate too carefully. If you ponder the contradiction between "returning your body whole and complete" and future battles, or if you look up the actual facts about the Yue Wumus of history to see what their outcomes really were, and whether they actually "revived the nation" -- you will certainly be driven to distraction. In truth, it amounts to inviting trouble upon yourself. Mr. Yutang said in a lecture at Jinan University: "...In conduct, one must be upright and proper, and not stray onto crooked paths... Once you stray onto a crooked path... you will certainly lose your job... However, in writing, one must be humorous -- it's different from conduct -- one should joke around, seek fun..." (according to the Mangzhong edition). Though this may sound somewhat peculiar, it is actually quite capable of enlightening one's understanding: this "joking around, seeking fun" is precisely the key that unlocks a great many of China's bizarre phenomena.
好像有人說過，去年是「翻譯年」；其實何嘗有什麼了不起的翻譯，不過又給翻譯暫時洗去了惡名卻是真的。　　可憐得很，還只譯了幾個短篇小說到中國來，創作家就出現了，說它是媒婆，而創作是處女。在男女交際自由的時候，誰還喜歡和媒婆周旋呢，當然沒落。後來是譯了一點文學理論到中國來，但「批評家」幽默家之流又出現了，說是「硬譯」，「死譯」，「好像看地圖」，幽默家還從他自己的腦子裡，造出可笑的例子來，使讀者們「開心」，學者和大師們的話是不會錯的，「開心」也總比正經省力，於是乎翻譯的臉上就被他們畫上了一條粉。　　但怎麼又來了「翻譯年」呢，在並無什麼了不起的翻譯的時候？不是誇大和開心，它本身就太輕飄飄，禁不起風吹雨打的緣故麼？　　於是有些人又記起了翻譯，試來譯幾篇。但這就又是「批評家」的材料了，其實，正名定分，他是應該叫作「嘮叨家」的，是創作家和批評家以外的一種，要說得好聽，也可以謂之「第三種」。他像後街的老虔婆一樣，並不大聲，卻在那裡嘮叨，說是莫非世界上的名著都譯完了嗎，你們只在譯別人已經譯過的，有的還譯過了七八次。　　記得中國先前，有過一種風氣，遇見外國——大抵是日本——有一部書出版，想來當為中國人所要看的，便往往有人在報上登出廣告來，說「已在開譯，請萬勿重譯為幸」。他看得譯書好像訂婚，自己首先套上約婚戒指了，別人便莫作非分之想。自然，譯本是未必一定出版的，倒是暗中解約的居多；不過別人卻也因此不敢譯，新婦就在閨中老掉。這種廣告，現在是久不看見了，但我們今年的嘮叨家，卻正繼承著這一派的正統。他看得翻譯好像結婚，有人譯過了，第二個便不該再來碰一下，否則，就仿佛引誘了有夫之婦似的，他要來嘮叨，當然羅，是維持風化。但在這嘮叨裡，他不也活活的畫出了自己的猥瑣的嘴臉了麼？　　前幾年，翻譯的失了一般讀者的信用，學者和大師們的曲說固然是原因之一，但在翻譯本身也有一個原因，就是常有胡亂動筆的譯本。不過要擊退這些亂譯，誣賴，開心，嘮叨，都沒有用處，唯一的好方法是又來一回復譯，還不行，就再來一回。譬如賽跑，至少總得有兩個人，如果不許有第二人入場，則先在的一個永遠是第一名，無論他怎樣蹩腳。所以譏笑複譯的，雖然表面上好像關心翻譯界，其實是在毒害翻譯界，比誣賴，開心的更有害，因為他更陰柔。　　而且複譯還不止是擊退亂譯而已，即使已有好譯本，複譯也還是必要的。曾有文言譯本的，現在當改譯白話，不必說了。即使先出的白話譯本已很可觀，但倘使後來的譯者自己覺得可以譯得更好，就不妨再來譯一遍，無須客氣，更不必管那些無聊的嘮叨。取舊譯的長處，再加上自己的新心得，這才會成功一種近于完全的定本。但因言語跟著時代的變化，將來還可以有新的複譯本的，七八次何足為奇，何況中國其實也並沒有譯過七八次的作品。如果已經有，中國的新文藝倒也許不至於现在似的沉滞了。	It seems someone said that last year was the "Year of Translation." In truth, there was nothing particularly remarkable about the translations produced, though it is true that translation was temporarily cleansed of its bad name. Pitifully enough, only a few short stories had been translated into Chinese before the creative writers appeared on the scene, proclaiming translation to be a matchmaker and original creation a virgin. In an age of free social intercourse between men and women, who would still care to deal with a matchmaker? Naturally, she was passe. Later, a bit of literary theory was translated into Chinese, but then the "critics" and humorists appeared, calling it "stiff translation," "dead translation," "like reading a map." The humorist even concocted laughable examples from his own brain to give his readers "a good time." The words of scholars and great masters can never be wrong, and "having a good time" is always less effort than being serious -- and so a streak of powder was painted across the face of translation. But how then did a "Year of Translation" arrive, at a time when there was nothing remarkable being translated? Was it not because the frivolous dismissals could not withstand wind and rain, being too flimsy in themselves? So some people remembered translation again and tried their hand at a few pieces. But this immediately became material for the "critics" -- or rather, properly speaking, they should be called "nags," a species distinct from both the creative writer and the critic, or, if one wishes to put it politely, a "third kind." Like the old procuress on the back street, they don't raise their voices much, but nag away there, saying: Can it be that all the world's masterpieces have already been translated? You people just keep translating things others have already translated -- some of them already translated seven or eight times! I recall that in China there was once a fashion: whenever a book was published abroad -- usually in Japan -- that seemed likely to be of interest to Chinese readers, someone would place an advertisement in the newspaper saying: "Translation already in progress; please refrain from retranslating." He treated translation like an engagement -- having first slipped on the engagement ring himself, others were to abandon all improper designs. Naturally, the translation was not necessarily ever published; more often than not, the engagement was secretly broken off. But others, thus intimidated, dared not translate it either, and the bride simply grew old in her boudoir. Such advertisements are no longer seen these days, but our present-day nags are the legitimate heirs of this very tradition. They regard translation as marriage: once someone has translated a work, no second person should touch it again. Otherwise, it would be as if one had seduced another man's wife, and they must come nagging -- in the name of upholding public morals, naturally. But in this nagging, have they not vividly drawn their own wretched, petty physiognomy for all to see? A few years ago, translation lost the trust of the general reader. The specious arguments of scholars and great masters were certainly one reason, but translation itself bore part of the blame -- the constant appearance of recklessly produced translations. Yet to drive out these careless translations, slander, frivolity, and nagging are all useless. The only good method is to produce another retranslation -- and if that won't do, yet another. It is like a race: at the very least there must be two runners. If no second runner is allowed on the track, then the first will forever be number one, no matter how lame he may be. Therefore, those who mock retranslation, though they may appear on the surface to be concerned for the world of translation, are in fact poisoning it -- more harmfully than the slanderers and the frivolous, because they are more insidiously soft. Moreover, retranslation is not merely about driving out bad translations. Even where a good translation already exists, retranslation remains necessary. Where there was once a classical Chinese version, it should now of course be retranslated into the vernacular -- that goes without saying. Even if an existing vernacular translation is already quite respectable, if a later translator feels he can do better, he should go right ahead and translate it again, without any false modesty, and still less need he heed that tiresome nagging. Taking the strengths of the old translation and adding one's own new insights -- only thus can something approaching a definitive edition be achieved. And because language changes with the times, there will be room for new retranslations in the future too. Seven or eight times -- what is so remarkable about that? -- especially since in China there are in fact no works that have been translated seven or eight times. If there were, China's new literature might not be as stagnant as it is today.
我們常不免有一種先入之見，看見諷刺作品，就覺得這不是文學上的正路，因為我們先就以為諷刺並不是美德。但我們走到交際場中去，就往往可以看見這樣的事實，是兩位胖胖的先生，彼此彎腰拱手，滿面油晃晃的正在開始他們的扳談—— 「貴姓？……」「敝姓錢。」「哦，久仰久仰！還沒有請教台甫……」「草字闊亭。」「高雅高雅。貴處是……？」「就是上海……」「哦哦，那好極了，這真是……」誰覺得奇怪呢？但若寫在小說裡，人們可就會另眼相看了，恐怕大概要被算作諷刺。有好些直寫事實的作者，就這樣的被蒙上了「諷刺家」——很難說是好是壞——的頭銜。例如在中國，則《金瓶梅》寫蔡御史的自謙和恭維西門慶道：「恐我不如安石之才，而君有王右軍之高致矣！」還有《儒林外史》寫范舉人因為守孝，連象牙筷也不肯用，但吃飯時，他卻「在燕窩碗裡揀了一個大蝦圓子送在嘴裡」，和這相似的情形是現在還可以遇見的；在外國，則如近來已被中國讀者所注意了的果戈理的作品，他那《外套》（韋素園譯，在《未名叢刊》中）裡的大小官吏，《鼻子》許遐譯，在《譯文》中）裡的紳士，醫生，閒人們之類的典型，是雖在中國的現在，也還可以遇見的。這分明是事實，而且是很廣泛的事實，但我們皆謂之諷刺。人大抵願意有名，活的時候做自傳，死了想有人分訃文，做行實，甚而至於還「宣付國史館立傳」。人也並不全不自知其醜，然而他不願意改正，只希望隨時消掉，不留痕跡，剩下的單是美點，如曾經施粥賑饑之類，卻不是全般。「高雅高雅」，他其實何嘗不知道有些肉麻，不過他又知道說過就完，「本傳」裡決不會有，於是也就放心的「高雅」下去。如果有人記了下來，不給它消滅，他可要不高興了。於是乎挖空心思的來一個反攻，說這些乃是「諷刺」，向作者抹一臉泥，來掩藏自己的真相。但我們也每不免來不及思索，跟著說，「這些乃是諷刺呀！」上當真可是不淺得很。同一例子的還有所謂「罵人」。假如你到四馬路去，看見雉妓在拖住人，倘大聲說：「野雞在拉客」，那就會被她罵你是「罵人」。罵人是惡德，於是你先就被判定在壞的一方面了；你壞，對方可就好。但事實呢，卻的確是「野雞在拉客」，不過只可心裡知道，說不得，在萬不得已時，也只能說「姑娘勒浪做生意」，恰如對於那些彎腰拱手之輩，做起文章來，是要改作「謙以待人，虛以接物」的。——這才不是罵人，這才不是諷刺。其實，現在的所謂諷刺作品，大抵倒是寫實。非寫實決不能成為所謂「諷刺」；非寫實的諷刺，即使能有這樣的東西，也不過是造謠和誣衊而已。三月十六日。	We are always prone to a certain preconception: upon encountering a satirical work, we feel that this is not the proper path of literature, because we have already assumed that satire is not a virtue. But if we venture into social gatherings, we can often witness scenes like this -- two portly gentlemen, bowing and clasping their hands to each other, their faces glistening with oil, as they begin their conversation: "Your honorable surname...?" "My humble surname is Qian." "Oh, what a great pleasure! I have long admired your name! And may I inquire as to your esteemed given name...?" "My informal name is Kuoting." "How elegant, how refined! And your honored native place...?" "Right here in Shanghai..." "Oh my, how splendid! This really is..." Who finds this strange? But if it were written in a novel, people would look at it with different eyes, and it would probably be classified as satire. Quite a few authors who simply recorded facts as they were have thus been saddled with the title of "satirist" -- whether that is good or bad is hard to say. In China, for example, The Golden Lotus (Jin Ping Mei) depicts Inspector Cai's self-deprecation and flattery of Ximen Qing (西门庆): "I fear I lack the talent of an Anshi (安石, i.e., Wang Anshi 王安石), while you, sir, possess the lofty refinement of Wang Youjun (王右军, i.e., Wang Xizhi 王羲之)!" And The Scholars (Rulin waishi) depicts how the successful candidate Fan (范举人), because he is in mourning, refuses even to use ivory chopsticks -- yet at mealtime, "from the bowl of bird's nest soup he fished out a large shrimp ball and popped it into his mouth." Situations similar to these can still be encountered today. In foreign literature, take for instance the works of Gogol (果戈理), which have recently come to the attention of Chinese readers: the petty and grand officials in his The Overcoat (translated by Wei Suyuan 韦素园, in the Unnamed Series), and the gentlemen, doctors, and idlers in his The Nose (translated by Xu Xia 许遐, in Translations) -- these types can still be encountered even in present-day China. This is plainly fact, and very widespread fact at that, yet we call it all satire. Most people wish to have a reputation: while alive they write autobiographies; after death they hope someone will compose an obituary, a biographical record, or even "submit it to the National History Bureau for the compilation of a biography." Nor are people entirely unaware of their own ugliness -- but they don't want to correct it; they merely hope it will fade away with time, leaving no trace, so that only the fine points remain, such as having once distributed congee to famine victims, rather than the complete picture. "How elegant, how refined" -- in truth, does he not know perfectly well it sounds somewhat nauseating? But he also knows that once said, it's over and done with -- it will never appear in his "official biography" -- so he goes right on being "elegant" with an easy conscience. If someone were to write it down and not let it disappear, he would be most displeased. And so he racks his brain for a counterattack, declaring that all this is "satire," smearing mud on the author's face to conceal his own true appearance. Yet we ourselves often follow suit without thinking, chiming in: "Oh yes, this is satire!" Truly, the deception goes quite deep. An analogous case is the so-called "insult." Suppose you walk down Sima Road and see a streetwalker tugging at a passerby. If you say aloud, "A streetwalker is soliciting clients," she will curse you for "insulting" her. Insult is a vice; thus you are immediately judged to be in the wrong, and since you are in the wrong, the other party must be in the right. But the fact remains that it was indeed "a streetwalker soliciting clients" -- only one may know it in one's heart but must not say it; in dire necessity, one can only say: "The young lady is doing business." Just as with those bowing-and-clasping gentlemen -- when put into writing, one must change it to "humble in dealing with others, modest in engaging with affairs." -- That is no insult. That is no satire. In truth, what are nowadays called satirical works are mostly realism. Without realism, there can be no so-called "satire"; non-realistic satire, even if such a thing could exist, would be nothing more than fabrication and slander. March 16th.
自從議論寫別字以至現在的提倡手頭字，其間的經過，恐怕也有一年多了，我記得自己並沒有說什麼話。這些事情，我是不反對的，但也不熱心，因為我以為方塊字本身就是一個死症，吃點人參，或者想一點什麼方法，固然也許可以拖延一下，然而到底是無可挽救的，所以一向就不大注意這回事。前幾天在《自由談》上看見陳友琴先生的《活字與死字》，才又記起了舊事來。他在那裡提到北大招考，投考生寫了誤字，「劉半農教授作打油詩去嘲弄他，固然不應該」，但我「曲為之辯，亦大可不必」。那投考生的誤字，是以「倡明」為「昌明」，劉教授的打油詩，是解「倡」為「娼妓」，我的雜感，是說「倡」不必一定作「娼妓」解，自信還未必是「曲」說；至於「大可不必」之評，那是極有意思的，一個人的言行，從別人看來，「大可不必」之點多得很，要不然，全國的人們就好像是一個了。我還沒有明目張膽的提倡過寫別字，假如我在做國文教員，學生寫了錯字，我是要給他改正的，但一面也知道這不過是治標之法。至於去年的指摘劉教授，卻和保護別字微有不同。（一）我以為既是學者或教授，年齡至少和學生差十年，不但飯菜多吃了萬來碗了，就是每天認一個字，也就要比學生多識三千六百個，比較的高明，是應該的，在考卷裡發見幾個錯字，「大可不必」飄飄然生優越之感，好像得了什麼寶貝一樣。況且（二）現在的學校，科目繁多，和先前專攻八股的私塾，大不相同了，縱使文字不及從前，正也毫不足怪，先前的不寫錯字的書生，他知道五洲的所在，原質的名目嗎？自然，如果精通科學，又擅文章，那也很不壞，但這不能含含胡胡，責之一般的學生，假使他要學的是工程，那麼，他只要能築堤造路，治河導淮就盡夠了，寫「昌明」為「倡明」，誤「留學」為「流學」，堤防決不會因此就倒塌的。如果說，別國的學生對於本國的文字，決不致鬧出這樣的大笑話，那自然可以歸罪於中國學生的偏偏不肯學，但也可以歸咎于先生的不善教，要不然，那就只能如我所說：方塊字本身就是一個死症。改白話以至提倡手頭字，其實也不過一點樟腦針，不能起死回生的，但這就又受著纏不清的障害，至今沒有完。還記得提倡白話的時候，保守者對於改革者的第一彈，是說改革者不識字，不通文，所以主張用白話。對於這些打著古文旗子的敵軍，是就用古書作「法寶」，這才打退的，以毒攻毒，反而證明了反對白話者自己的不識字，不通文。要不然，這古文旗子恐怕至今還不倒下。去年曹聚仁先生為別字辯護，戰法也是搬古書，弄得文人學士之自以為識得「正字」者，哭笑不得，因為那所謂「正字」就有許多是別字。這確是轟毀舊營壘的利器。現在已經不大有人來辯文的白不白——但「尋開心」者除外——字的別不別了，因為這會引到今文《尚書》，骨甲文字去，麻煩得很。這就是改革者的勝利——至於這改革的損益，自然又作別論。陳友琴先生的《死字和活字》，便是在這決戰之後，重整陣容的最穩的方法，他已經不想從根本上斤斤計較字的錯不錯，即別不別了。他只問字的活不活；不活，就算錯。他引了一段何仲英先生的《中國文字學大綱》來做自己的代表—— 「……古人用通借，也是寫別字，也是不該。不過積古相沿，一向通行，到如今沒有法子強人改正。假使個個字都能夠改正，是《易經》裡所說的‘爸父之蠱’。縱使不能，豈可在古人寫的別字以外再加許多別字呢？古人寫的別字，通行到如今，全國相同，所以還可以解得。今人若添寫許多別字，各處用各處的方音去寫，別省別縣的人，就不能懂得了，後來全國的文字，必定彼此不同，這不是一種大障礙嗎？……」這頭幾句，恕我老實的說罷，是有些可笑的。假如我們先不問有沒有法子強人改正，自己先來改正一部古書試試罷，第一個問題是拿什麼做「正字」，《說文》，金文，骨甲文，還是簡直用陳先生的所謂「活字」呢？縱使大家願意依，主張者自己先就沒法改，不能「爸父之蠱」。所以陳先生的代表的接著的主張是已經錯定了的，就一任他錯下去，但是錯不得添，以免將來破壞文字的統一。是非不談，專論利害，也並不算壞，但直白的說起來，卻只是維持現狀說而已。維持現狀說是任何時候都有的，贊成者也不會少，然而在任何時候都沒有效，因為在實際上決定做不到。假使古時候用此法，就沒有今之現狀，今用此法，也就沒有將來的現狀，直至遼遠的將來，一切都和太古無異。以文字論，則未有文字之時，就不會象形以造「文」，更不會孳乳而成「字」，篆決不解散而為隸，隸更不簡單化為現在之所謂「真書」。文化的改革如長江大河的流行，無法遏止，假使能夠遏止，那就成為死水，縱不乾涸，也必腐敗的。當然，在流行時，倘無弊害，豈不更是非常之好？然而在實際上，卻斷沒有這樣的事。回復故道的事是沒有的，一定有遷移；維持現狀的事也是沒有的，一定有改變。有百利而無一弊的事也是沒有的，只可權大小。況且我們的方塊字，古人寫了別字，今人也寫別字，可見要寫別字的病根，是在方塊字本身的，別字病將與方塊字本身並存，除了改革這方塊字之外，實在並沒有救濟的十全好方法。復古是難了，何先生也承認。不過現狀卻也維持不下去，因為我們現在一般讀書人之所謂「正字」，其實不過是前清取士的規定，一切指示，都在薄薄的三本所謂「翰苑分書」的《字學舉隅》中，但二十年來，在不聲不響中又有了一點改變。從古訖今，什麼都在改變，但必須在不聲不響中，倘一道破，就一定有窒礙，維持現狀說來了，復古說也來了。這些說頭自然也無效。但一時不失其為一種窒礙卻也是真的，它能夠使一部分的有志於改革者遲疑一下子，從招潮者變為乘潮者。我在這裡，要說的只是維持現狀說聽去好像很穩健，但實際上卻是行不通的，史實在不斷的證明著它只是一種「並無其事」：僅在這一些。三月二十一日。	From the time arguments about variant characters began until the present-day promotion of "handwritten characters," a period of perhaps over a year has elapsed, and I recall that I myself have said nothing on the subject. I am not opposed to these things, but neither am I enthusiastic, because I believe that the block character is itself a terminal disease -- taking a bit of ginseng, or devising some expedient, may perhaps postpone things for a while, but in the end nothing can save it. So I have never paid much attention to this matter. A few days ago I saw Mr. Chen Youqin's (陈友琴) "Living Characters and Dead Characters" in the Ziyou Tan (Free Talk column), and it reminded me of old affairs. He mentions that in the Peking University entrance examination, a candidate wrote a wrong character, and "Professor Liu Bannong (刘半农) composed a doggerel verse to mock him, which was certainly wrong," but that I "offered a tortured defense, which was equally unnecessary." The candidate's error was writing "chang ming" (倡明) for "chang ming" (昌明); Professor Liu's doggerel interpreted "chang" (倡) as "prostitute" (娼妓); my zawen argued that "chang" need not necessarily mean "prostitute" -- and I trust this was not a "tortured" argument. As for the judgment that it was "equally unnecessary," that is highly meaningful: from any outsider's perspective, there are a great many things in a person's words and deeds that are "equally unnecessary" -- otherwise all the people in the country would seem to be one and the same. I have never openly advocated writing variant characters. If I were a Chinese language teacher and a student wrote a wrong character, I would correct it -- while also knowing that this is merely treating the symptom. As for last year's criticism of Professor Liu, that was somewhat different from defending variant characters. (1) I believe that since one is a scholar or professor, at least ten years older than the students, having eaten not only ten thousand more bowls of rice but also, even at just one character per day, learned 3,600 more characters, it is only natural to be relatively more learned. To discover a few wrong characters in examination papers is "equally unnecessary" as a reason for floating on clouds of superiority, as if one had found some treasure. Moreover, (2) today's schools have numerous subjects, quite unlike the old private tutoring schools that focused solely on the eight-legged essay. Even if literacy is not as good as before, this is not the least bit surprising. The old scholars who never wrote wrong characters -- did they know the locations of the five continents, or the names of the elements? Of course, if one is proficient in science and also excels in literature, that is not bad at all -- but one cannot vaguely demand this of ordinary students. If what a student needs to learn is engineering, then as long as he can build dikes and roads, control rivers and manage the Huai -- that is quite sufficient. Writing "chang ming" (昌明) as "chang ming" (倡明), or mistaking "liu xue" (留学, study abroad) for "liu xue" (流学) -- the dikes will certainly not collapse on that account. If one argues that students in other countries would never make such laughable mistakes with their own language, then one can certainly blame Chinese students for being perversely unwilling to study; but one can equally blame the teachers for teaching poorly. Failing that, one can only conclude, as I have said: the block character is itself a terminal disease. The reform from classical to vernacular Chinese, up to and including the current promotion of handwritten characters, is really no more than a camphor injection -- it cannot raise the dead. Yet even this has been hampered by endless obstructions, and is still not finished. I recall that when the vernacular was first promoted, the first volley of the conservatives against the reformers was to say that the reformers were illiterate and unversed in the classics, and therefore advocated the vernacular. Against these enemies marching under the banner of classical Chinese, it was classical texts themselves that had to be deployed as the "magic weapon" -- and only thus were they beaten back. Fighting poison with poison, it was demonstrated instead that the opponents of the vernacular were themselves the illiterate and unversed ones. Without this, the banner of classical Chinese might never have come down to this day. Last year, Mr. Cao Juren (曹聚仁) defended variant characters, and his battle tactic was likewise to deploy classical texts, leaving the literati who fancied they knew all the "correct characters" unable to laugh or cry -- because many of those so-called "correct characters" were themselves variants. This was indeed a powerful weapon for demolishing the old fortifications. By now, hardly anyone comes forward to debate whether writing should be vernacular or not -- with the exception of those "seeking fun" -- or whether characters are variants or not, because this would lead back to the modern-script Book of Documents, the oracle bone inscriptions, and tremendous complications. This is the victory of the reformers -- though the gains and losses of the reform itself are naturally a separate discussion. Mr. Chen Youqin's "Dead Characters and Living Characters" is, after this decisive battle, the steadiest method of regrouping. He no longer tries to quibble from first principles about whether characters are wrong -- that is to say, whether they are variants -- or not. He only asks whether they are alive or not; if not alive, they count as wrong. He quotes a passage from Mr. He Zhongying's (何仲英) Outline of Chinese Philology as his representative argument: "...The ancients' use of loan characters was also the writing of variant characters, which was also wrong. But having accumulated through the ages and been in general circulation all along, there is now no way to compel people to correct them. If every character could be corrected, that would be what the Book of Changes calls 'correcting the father's errors.' Even if it cannot be done, should one pile yet more variant characters on top of those already written by the ancients? The variants written by the ancients, having circulated to the present, are uniform throughout the country, and so can still be understood. If modern people go on adding more variants, each place using its own local pronunciation to write them, people from other provinces and counties will not be able to understand them. Would this not be a great obstacle?..." The first few sentences, if I may be blunt, are somewhat laughable. If we first set aside the question of whether there is any way to compel correction and try correcting an ancient text ourselves, the first question is: what shall we take as the "correct character" -- the Shuowen, bronze inscriptions, oracle bone script, or simply Mr. Chen's so-called "living characters"? Even if everyone were willing to comply, the proponents themselves would have no way to make the corrections first -- they cannot "correct the father's errors." So the representative that Mr. Chen has chosen goes on to argue that what has already been fixed as wrong should be left to remain wrong, but no new errors should be added, lest the unity of the written language be destroyed in the future. Setting aside right and wrong and discussing only practical advantage -- this is not a bad approach, but stated plainly, it is nothing more than the "maintain the status quo" position. The "maintain the status quo" position exists at all times and never lacks supporters, yet at no time has it ever been effective, because in practice it is absolutely impossible. If this method had been applied in ancient times, the present status quo would not exist; if applied now, the future status quo will not exist either; and so on to the remotest future, everything remaining the same as in deepest antiquity. In terms of writing: before writing existed, there would have been no pictographs to create "wen" (文, patterns), still less any derivation into "zi" (字, characters); seal script would never have dissolved into clerical; clerical would never have been simplified into what is now called "regular script." Cultural reform flows like the Yangtze or the Yellow River -- it cannot be stopped. If it could be stopped, it would become stagnant water: even if it did not dry up, it would surely putrefy. Of course, if the flow could proceed without any harmful consequences, would that not be splendid? But in practice, such a thing simply never happens. There is no returning to the old course -- there must be shifts; nor can the status quo be maintained -- there must be changes. And nothing exists that has a hundred benefits and not one drawback -- one can only weigh the greater against the lesser. Moreover, our block characters: the ancients wrote variants, and people today write variants too -- which shows that the root cause of variant-writing lies in the block character itself. The disease of variant characters will coexist with the block character; apart from reforming the block character itself, there is really no perfect remedy at all. Restoration is difficult -- Mr. He admits as much. But the status quo cannot be maintained either, because what our present-day literate class calls "correct characters" is really nothing more than the standard set by the Qing dynasty civil service examinations. All the guidelines are contained in the thin, three-volume Zixue Juyu (字学举隅, A Guide to Character Studies) used in the Hanlin Academy -- but over the past twenty years, silent, unnoticed changes have already taken place. From antiquity to the present, everything has been changing, but it must happen silently and unnoticed. The moment it is pointed out, there will certainly be obstruction: the "maintain the status quo" argument arrives, and the "restoration" argument follows. These arguments are of course ineffective. But for the moment, they do constitute an obstruction -- that much is true. They can make some of those aspiring to reform hesitate for a moment, transforming them from tide-summoners into tide-riders. What I wish to say here is merely this: the "maintain the status quo" argument sounds very steady and prudent, but in practice it is unworkable. Historical facts continuously prove that it is nothing but a case of "no such thing" -- and that is all. March 21st.
愛倫堡（Ilia Ehrenburg）論法國的上流社會文學家之後，他說，此外也還有一些不同的人們：“教授們無聲無息地在他們的書房裡工作著，實驗Ｘ光線療法的醫生死在他們的職務上，奮身去救自己的夥伴的漁夫悄然沉沒在大洋裡面。……一方面是莊嚴的工作，另一方面卻是荒淫與無恥。” 這末兩句，真也好像說著現在的中國。然而中國是還有更其甚的呢。手頭沒有書，說不清見於那裡的了，也許是已經漢譯了的日本箭內亙氏的著作罷，他曾經一一記述了宋代的人民怎樣為蒙古人所淫殺，俘獲，踐踏和奴使。然而南宋的小朝廷卻仍舊向殘山剩水間的黎民施威，在殘山剩水間行樂；逃到那裡，氣焰和奢華就跟到那裡，頹靡和貪婪也跟到那裡。“若要官，殺人放火受招安；若要富，跟著行在賣酒醋。”這是當時的百姓提取了朝政的精華的結語。人民在欺騙和壓制之下，失了力量，啞了聲音，至多也不過有幾句民謠。“天下有道，則庶人不議。”就是秦始皇隋煬帝，他會自承無道麼？百姓就只好永遠箝口結舌，相率被殺，被奴。這情形一直繼續下來，誰也忘記了開口，但也許不能開口。即以前清末年而論，大事件不可謂不多了：鴉片戰爭，中法戰爭，中日戰爭，戊戌政變，義和拳變，八國聯軍，以至民元革命。然而我們沒有一部像樣的歷史的著作，更不必說文學作品了。“莫談國事”，是我們做小民的本分。我們的學者也曾說過：要征服中國，必須征服中國民族的心。其實，中國民族的心，有些是早給我們的聖君賢相武將幫閒之輩征服了的。近如東三省被占之後，聽說北平富戶，就不願意關外的難民來租房子，因為怕他們付不出房租。在南方呢，恐怕義軍的消息，未必能及鞭斃土匪，蒸骨驗屍，阮玲玉自殺，姚錦屏化男的能夠聳動大家的耳目罷？“一方面是莊嚴的工作，另一方面卻是荒淫與無恥。” 但是，不知道是人民進步了，還是時代太近，還未湮沒的緣故，我卻見過幾種說述關於東三省被占的事情的小說。這《八月的鄉村》，即是很好的一部，雖然有些近乎短篇的連續，結構和描寫人物的手段，也不能比法捷耶夫的《毀滅》，然而嚴肅，緊張，作者的心血和失去的天空，土地，受難的人民，以至失去的茂草，高粱，蟈蟈，蚊子，攪成一團，鮮紅的在讀者眼前展開，顯示著中國的一份和全部，現在和未來，死路與活路。凡有人心的讀者，是看得完的，而且有所得的。 “要征服中國民族，必須征服中國民族的心！”但這書卻於“心的征服”有礙。心的征服，先要中國人自己代辦。宋曾以道學替金元治心，明曾以党獄替滿清箝口。這書當然不容于滿洲帝國，但我看也因此當然不容于中華民國。這事情很快的就會得到實證。如果事實證明了我的推測並沒有錯，那也就證明了這是一部很好的書。好書為什麼倒會不容于中華民國呢？那當然，上面已經說過幾回了—— “一方面是莊嚴的工作，另一方面卻是荒淫與無恥！” 這不像序。但我知道，作者和讀者是決不和我計較這些的。一九三五年三月二十八日之夜，魯迅讀畢記。	After discussing the upper-class literary figures of France, Ehrenburg (Ilia Ehrenburg 爱伦堡) says that there are also some different kinds of people: "Professors work silently in their studies; doctors experimenting with X-ray therapy die at their posts; fishermen who rush to save their comrades sink quietly into the ocean... On one side, solemn work; on the other, debauchery and shamelessness." These last two sentences truly seem to describe present-day China as well. And yet China has something even worse. I don't have the book at hand and cannot say precisely where I saw it -- perhaps it is in the already Chinese-translated work of the Japanese scholar Yanai Watari (箭内亙) -- but he once recorded in detail how the people of the Song dynasty were ravished, slaughtered, captured, trampled, and enslaved by the Mongols. Yet the petty court of the Southern Song continued to lord it over the common people among the remnant mountains and leftover waters, and to revel among those remnant mountains and leftover waters. Wherever they fled, their arrogance and extravagance followed; wherever they fled, their decadence and greed followed. "If you want an official post, murder and arson will get you amnesty and a commission; if you want wealth, follow the imperial cortege and sell wine and vinegar." This was the common people's distillation of the essence of governance at that time. Under deception and oppression, the people lost their strength and their voices. At most they had a few folk songs. "When the Way prevails under Heaven, the common people do not criticize." Even Qin Shihuang (秦始皇) or Emperor Yang of the Sui (隋炀帝) -- would they have admitted to ruling without the Way? And so the common people could only keep their mouths shut and their tongues still forever, being led one after another to slaughter and slavery. This state of affairs has continued without interruption; everyone has forgotten how to open their mouths -- or perhaps they cannot open them. Take just the final years of the Qing dynasty: there was no shortage of great events -- the Opium War, the Sino-French War, the Sino-Japanese War, the Reform of 1898, the Boxer Uprising, the Eight-Nation Allied Forces, down to the Revolution of 1911. And yet we have not a single decent historical work, to say nothing of literary works. "Don't discuss national affairs" -- that is our duty as humble subjects. Our own scholars have also said: "To conquer China, one must first conquer the hearts of the Chinese people." In fact, the hearts of the Chinese people were long ago conquered -- by our own sage rulers, worthy ministers, military heroes, and literary hangers-on. Take a recent example: after the Three Eastern Provinces were occupied, I hear that the wealthy households of Beiping were unwilling to rent rooms to refugees from beyond the pass, for fear they could not pay the rent. And in the south? I'm afraid the news of the righteous resistance forces can hardly rival the sensational appeal of a bandit being flogged to death, a skeleton being exhumed for forensic examination, Ruan Lingyu's (阮玲玉) suicide, or Yao Jinping (姚锦屏) disguising herself as a man in capturing the public's eyes and ears. "On one side, solemn work; on the other, debauchery and shamelessness." But -- whether it is because the people have progressed, or because the events are too recent and have not yet been buried -- I have actually seen several novels recounting the occupation of the Three Eastern Provinces. This Village in August (八月的乡村) is a very fine one among them. Though it is somewhat like a series of short stories in structure, and its technique of depicting characters cannot compare with Fadeyev's (法捷耶夫) The Rout, nevertheless it is serious and tense. The author's heart's blood, the lost skies and land, the suffering people, down to the lost wild grasses, sorghum, crickets, and mosquitoes -- all are churned together, spread out bright red before the reader's eyes, displaying a part and the whole of China, the present and the future, the road to death and the road to life. Any reader with a human heart can read it through, and will gain something from it. "To conquer the Chinese people, one must first conquer the hearts of the Chinese people!" But this book works against "the conquest of the heart." The conquest of the heart first requires the Chinese people themselves to carry it out on their behalf. The Song dynasty once used Neo-Confucian orthodoxy to pacify hearts on behalf of the Jin and Yuan; the Ming dynasty once used literary inquisitions to silence mouths on behalf of the Manchu Qing. This book will naturally be banned by the Manchurian Empire, but I also think it will therefore naturally be banned by the Republic of China. This prediction will very soon be verified by the facts. If the facts prove that my prediction is not wrong, then they will also prove that this is a very good book. Why should a good book not be tolerated by the Republic of China? The reason, of course, has already been stated several times above -- "On one side, solemn work; on the other, debauchery and shamelessness!" This does not read like a preface. But I know that neither the author nor the reader will take me to task for that. Night of March 28th, 1935. Lu Xun, written upon finishing the book.
我覺得中國有時是極愛平等的國度。有什麼稍稍顯得特出，就有人拿了長刀來削平它。以人而論，孫桂雲是賽跑的好手，一過上海，不知怎的就萎靡不振，待到到得日本，不能跑了；阮玲玉算是比較的有成績的明星，但「人言可畏」，到底非一口氣吃下三瓶安眠藥片不可。自然，也有例外，是捧了起來。但這捧了起來，卻不過為了接著摔得粉碎。大約還有人記得「美人魚」罷，簡直捧得令觀者發生肉麻之感，連看見姓名也會覺得有些滑稽。契訶夫說過：「被昏蛋所稱讚，不如戰死在他手裡。」真是傷心而且悟道之言。但中國又是極愛中庸的國度，所以極端的昏蛋是沒有的，他不和你來戰，所以決不會爽爽快快的戰死，如果受不住，只好自己吃安眠藥片。在所謂文壇上當然也不會有什麼兩樣：翻譯較多的時候，就有人來削翻譯，說它害了創作；近一兩年，作短文的較多了，就又有人來削「雜文」，說這是作者的墮落的表現，因為既非詩歌小說，又非戲劇，所以不入文藝之林，他還一片婆心，勸人學學托爾斯泰，做《戰爭與和平》似的偉大的創作去。這一流論客，在禮儀上，別人當然不該說他是「昏蛋」的。批評家嗎？他謙虛得很，自己不承認。攻擊雜文的文字雖然也只能說是雜文，但他又決不是雜文作家，因為他不相信自己也相率而墮落。如果恭維他為詩歌小說戲劇之類的偉大的創作者，那麼，恭維者之為「昏蛋」也無疑了。歸根結底，不是東西而已。不是東西之談也要算是「人言」，這就使弱者覺得倒是安眠藥片較為可愛的緣故。不過這並非戰死。問是有人要問的：給誰害死的呢？種種議論的結果，兇手有三位：曰，萬惡的社會；曰，本人自己；曰，安眠藥片。完了。我們試去查一通美國的「文學概論」或中國什麼大學的講義，的確，總不能發見一種叫作Tsawen的東西。這真要使有志于成為偉大的文學家的青年，見雜文而心灰意懶：原來這並不是爬進高尚的文學樓臺去的梯子。托爾斯泰將要動筆時，是否查了美國的「文學概論」或中國什麼大學的講義之後，明白了小說是文學的正宗，這才決心來做《戰爭與和平》似的偉大的創作的呢？我不知道。但我知道中國的這幾年的雜文作者，他的作文，卻沒有一個想到「文學概論」的規定，或者希圖文學史上的位置的，他以為非這樣寫不可，他就這樣寫，因為他只知道這樣的寫起來，于大家有益。農夫耕田，泥匠打牆，他只為了米麥可吃，房屋可住，自己也因此有益之事，得一點不虧心的糊口之資，歷史上有沒有「鄉下人列傳」或「泥水匠列傳」，他向來就並沒有想到。如果他只想著成什麼所謂氣候，他就先進大學，再出外洋，三做教授或大官，四變居士或隱逸去了。歷史上很尊隱逸，《居士傳》不是還有專書嗎，多少上算呀，噫！但是，雜文這東西，我卻恐怕要侵入高尚的文學樓臺去的。小說和戲曲，中國向來是看作邪宗的，但一經西洋的「文學概論」引為正宗，我們也就奉之為寶貝，《紅樓夢》《西廂記》之類，在文學史上竟和《詩經》《離騷》並列了。雜文中之一體的隨筆，因為有人說它近於英國的Essay，有些人也就頓首再拜，不敢輕薄。寓言和演說，好像是卑微的東西，但伊索和契開羅，不是坐在希臘羅馬文學史上嗎？雜文發展起來，倘不趕緊削，大約也未必沒有擾亂文苑的危險。以古例今，很可能的，真不是一個好消息。但這一段話，我是和不是東西之流開開玩笑的，要使他爬耳搔腮，熱剌剌的覺得他的世界有些灰色。前進的雜文作者，倒決不計算著這些。其實，近一兩年來，雜文集的出版，數量並不及詩歌，更其趕不上小說，慨歎於雜文的氾濫，還是一種胡說八道。只是作雜文的人比先前多幾個，卻是真的，雖然多幾個，在四萬萬人口裡面，算得什麼，卻就要誰來疾首蹙額？中國也真有一班人在恐怕中國有一點生氣；用比喻說：此之謂「虎倀」。這本集子的作者先前有一本《不驚人集》，我只見過一篇自序；書呢，不知道那裡去了。這一回我希望一定能夠出版，也給中國的著作界豐富一點。我不管這本書能否入于文藝之林，但我要背出一首詩來比一比：「夫子何為者？棲棲一代中。地猶鄹氏邑，宅接魯王宮。歎鳳嗟身否，傷麟怨道窮。今看兩楹奠：猶與夢時同。」這是《唐詩三百首》裡的第一首，是「文學概論」詩歌門裡的所謂「詩」。但和我們不相干，那裡能夠及得這些雜文的和現在切貼，而且生動，潑剌，有益，而且也能移人情。能移人情，對不起得很，就不免要攪亂你們的文苑，至少，是將不是東西之流的唾向雜文的許多唾沫，一腳就踏得無蹤無影了，只剩下一張滿是油汗兼雪花膏的嘴臉。這嘴臉當然還可以嘮叨，說那一首「夫子何為者」並非好詩，並且時代也過去了。但是，文學正宗的招牌呢？「文藝的永久性」呢？我是愛讀雜文的一個人，而且知道愛讀雜文還不只我一個，因為它「言之有物」。我還更樂觀於雜文的開展，日見其斑斕。第一是使中國的著作界熱鬧，活潑；第二是使不是東西之流縮頭；第三是使所謂「為藝術而藝術」的作品，在相形之下，立刻顯出不死不活相。我所以極高興為這本集子作序，並且借此發表意見，願我們的雜文作家，勿為虎倀所迷，以為「人言可畏」，用最末的稿費買安眠藥片去。一九三五年三月三十一日，魯迅記於上海之卓面書齋。	I feel that China is sometimes a country exceedingly fond of equality. Whenever something protrudes ever so slightly, someone arrives with a long knife to shave it flat. Take people: Sun Guiyun (孙桂云) was a fine runner, but upon arriving in Shanghai, she somehow wilted; by the time she reached Japan, she could no longer run. Ruan Lingyu (阮玲玉) was a comparatively accomplished film star, but "the words of others are fearful," and in the end she had no choice but to swallow three bottles of sleeping pills in one gulp. Of course, there are exceptions -- those who are raised up. But this raising up is merely for the sake of the subsequent smashing to pieces. Some may still remember the "Mermaid" -- she was pumped up to such a degree that onlookers felt physically nauseated; even seeing her name would produce a certain sense of the absurd. Chekhov (契诃夫) once said: "To be praised by idiots is worse than being slain by them in battle." Truly a heartbroken and enlightening remark. But China is also a country exceedingly fond of the golden mean, so there are no extreme idiots -- they won't engage you in battle, so you can never have the satisfaction of a clean death in combat. If you can't bear it, you can only take sleeping pills yourself. In the so-called literary world, of course, things are no different. When translations were relatively numerous, people arrived to shave down translation, saying it harmed original creation. In the past year or two, short essays have become more common, and now people arrive to shave down "zawen," calling it a sign of the author's degradation -- since it is neither poetry nor fiction nor drama, it does not enter the forest of literature. With a heart full of solicitude, they advise people to study Tolstoy and produce great works like War and Peace. This type of commentator -- in politeness, of course, one should not call him an "idiot." A critic? He is too modest and will not accept the title. Though the essays attacking zawen are themselves nothing but zawen, he is decidedly not a zawen writer, for he does not believe that he, too, has descended into degradation. If one were to flatter him as a great creator of poetry, fiction, and drama, then the flatterer would undoubtedly be the "idiot." In the final analysis, he is simply a nothing. Yet the talk of a nothing also counts as "people's words," and this is why the weak feel that sleeping pills are relatively more lovable. But this is not death in battle. The question will be asked: Killed by whom? After much discussion, three culprits emerge: one, wicked society; two, the person herself; three, the sleeping pills. The end. Let us try looking through an American "Introduction to Literature" or the lecture notes of some Chinese university. Indeed, one can never find a thing called "Tsawen." This is truly enough to make any young person aspiring to become a great literary figure lose heart at the sight of zawen: so this is not the ladder for climbing into the lofty tower of literature after all. Before Tolstoy took up his pen, did he consult an American "Introduction to Literature" or the lecture notes of some Chinese university, and upon learning that the novel was the orthodox form of literature, did he then resolve to produce a great work like War and Peace? I don't know. But I do know that the zawen writers of these past few years in China -- not one of them, when writing, ever thought of the prescriptions of some "Introduction to Literature," or hoped for a place in literary history. They wrote because they felt they had to write this way, because they knew that writing this way was beneficial to everyone. Farmers plow fields, bricklayers build walls -- they do it only for rice and wheat to eat and houses to live in, and thereby, through this beneficial work, earn a little bread money with a clear conscience. Whether there exists in history a "Biographies of Country Folk" or a "Biographies of Bricklayers" is something they have never given a thought to. If one were to think only of becoming some sort of literary climate, one would first enter university, then go abroad, third become a professor or high official, and fourth transform into a Buddhist layman or recluse. History has great esteem for recluses -- is there not even a special book called Lives of Lay Buddhists? How much more profitable that is! Alas! And yet, this thing called zawen -- I rather fear it will intrude into the lofty tower of literature after all. Fiction and drama were always considered heterodox in China, but once Western "Introductions to Literature" enshrined them as orthodox, we too came to treasure them; Dream of the Red Chamber and The Western Wing came to stand alongside the Book of Songs and the Li Sao in literary history. The familiar essay, one species of zawen, has been compared by some to the English "Essay," and certain people now bow reverently before it, not daring to treat it lightly. Fables and speeches may seem lowly things, but are not Aesop and Cicero enthroned in the literary histories of Greece and Rome? If zawen is allowed to develop unchecked -- if it is not shaved down in time -- it may well pose a threat to the literary garden. Judging by ancient precedent, this is quite likely -- truly not good news. But this passage is my little joke at the expense of the nothing-people, meant to make them scratch their ears and squirm, to make them feel their world is turning a trifle gray. Progressive zawen writers, for their part, never reckon with such things. In truth, over the past year or two, the number of zawen collections published has not matched that of poetry, and falls even further behind fiction. To lament the "flood" of zawen is simply talking nonsense. It is true that there are a few more zawen writers than before, but a few more among four hundred million people -- what does it amount to? Yet someone must knit his brow and gnash his teeth over it? There is indeed a class of people in China who are terrified that China might show a spark of life. To use a metaphor: such people are "tiger-ghosts" -- the specters of those devoured by tigers, who then help the tiger hunt for new prey. The author of this collection previously had a book called Not Meant to Startle; I have seen only its preface, and the book itself -- who knows where it went. This time I hope it will certainly be published, and add something to China's literary world. I do not concern myself with whether this book can enter the "forest of literature," but I want to recite a poem for comparison: "What was the Master doing? / Restlessly wandering through his age. / The land was still the fief of Zou, / The house still bordered the palace of Lu's king. / He mourned the phoenix, sighed at his thwarted fate; / He grieved the unicorn, lamented the Way's end. / Now behold the offerings at the two pillars -- / Still the same as in his dream." This is the very first poem in the Three Hundred Tang Poems, the kind of thing that "Introductions to Literature" classify as "poetry" under the poetry section. But it has nothing to do with us. How can it compare with these zawen pieces in their closeness to the present moment, their vividness, their liveliness, their usefulness -- and their power to move the human heart? And the power to move the human heart -- I'm very sorry -- inevitably encroaches upon your literary garden. At the very least, it tramples into nothingness the spittle that the nothing-people have spat at zawen, leaving behind only a face smeared with a mixture of oily sweat and vanishing cream. That face can of course continue to nag, saying that the poem "What Was the Master Doing" is not a good poem, and besides, its era has passed. But what about the signboard of literary orthodoxy? What about "the eternal nature of literature"? I am one who loves reading zawen, and I know I am not the only one who does, because it "speaks of substance." I am even more optimistic about the development of zawen, which grows more splendid by the day. First, it enlivens and invigorates China's literary world. Second, it makes the nothing-people shrink their heads. Third, it causes so-called "art for art's sake" works to appear, by comparison, neither alive nor dead. That is why I am exceedingly glad to write this preface for this collection, and to take this opportunity to express my views. May our zawen writers not be led astray by the tiger-ghosts into thinking that "the words of others are fearful," and spend their last manuscript fees on sleeping pills. March 31st, 1935. Recorded by Lu Xun at the Desk-Top Study in Shanghai.
中國的成語祇有「人生識字憂患始」，這一句是我翻造的。孩子們常常給我好敎訓，其一是學話。他們學話的時候，沒有敎師，沒有語法敎科書，沒有字典，祇是不斷的聽取，記住，分析，比較，終於懂得每個詞的意義，到得兩三歲，普通的簡單的話就大槪能夠懂，而且能夠說了，也不大有錯誤。小孩子往往喜歡聽人談天，更喜歡陪客，那大目的，固然在於一同吃點心，但也爲了愛熱鬧，尤其是在硏究別人的言語，看有甚麼對於自己有關係——能懂，該問，或可取的。我們先前的學古文也用同樣的方法，敎師並不講解，祇要你死讀，自己去記住，分析，比較去。弄得好，是終於能夠有些懂，並且竟也可以寫出幾句來的，然而到底弄不通的也多得很。自以爲通，別人也以爲通了，但一看底細，還是並不怎麼通，連明人小品都點不斷的，又何嚐少有？人們學話，從高等華人以至下等華人，祇要不是聾子或啞子，學不會的是幾乎沒有的，一到學文，就不同了，學會的恐怕不過極少數，就是所謂學會了的人們之中，請恕我坦白的再來重複的說一句罷，大約仍然糊糊塗塗的還是很不少。這自然是古文作怪。因爲我們雖然拚命的讀古文，但時間究竟是有限的，不像說話，整天的可以聽見；而且所讀的書，也許是『莊子』和『文選』呀，『東萊博議』呀，『古文觀止』呀，從周朝人的文章，一直讀到明朝人的文章，非常駁雜，腦子給古今各種馬隊踐踏了一通之後，弄得亂七八遭，但蹄蹟當然是有些存留的，這就是所謂「有所得」。這一種「有所得」當然不會淸淸楚楚，大槪是似懂非懂的居多，所以自以爲通文了，其實卻沒有通，自以爲識字了，其實也沒有識。自己本是糊塗的，寫起文章來自然也糊塗，讀者看起文章來，自然也不會倒明白。然而無論怎樣的糊塗文作者，聽他講話，卻大抵清楚，不至於令人聽不懂的——除了故意大顯本領的講演之外。因此我想，這「糊塗」的來源，是在識字和讀書。例如我自己，是常常會用些書本子上的詞匯的。雖然並非甚麼冷僻字，或者連讀者也並不覺得是冷僻字。然而假如有一位精細的讀者，請了我去，交給我一枝鉛筆和一張紙，說道，「您老的文章裏，說過這山是『崚嶒』的，那山是『巉巖』的，那究竟是怎麼一副樣子呀？您不會畫畫兒也不要緊，就鉤出一點輪廓來給我看看罷。請，請，請……」這時我就會腋下出汗，恨無地洞可鑽。因爲我實在連自己也不知道「崚嶒」和「巉巖」究竟是甚麼樣子，這形容詞，是從舊書上鈔來的，向來就並沒有弄明白，一經切實的考查，就糟了。此外如「幽婉」，「玲瓏」，「蹣跚」，「囁嚅」……之類，還多得很。說是白話文應該「明白如話」，已經要算唱厭了的老調了，但其實，現在的許多白話文卻連「明白如話」也沒有做到。倘要明白，我以爲第一是在作者先把似識非識的字放棄，從活人的嘴上，採取有生命的詞彙，搬到紙上來；也就是學學孩子，祇說些自己的確能懂的話。至於舊語的復活，方言的普遍，那自然也是必要的，但一須選擇，二須有字典以確定所含的意義，這是另一問題，在這裏不說它了。四月二日。	In Chinese there is only the saying "A life of sorrow begins with learning to read" — this line is one I coined myself. Children often teach me good lessons, one of which concerns learning to speak. When they learn to speak, they have no teacher, no grammar textbook, no dictionary — they simply listen ceaselessly, remember, analyze, compare, and eventually understand the meaning of every word. By the age of two or three, they can generally understand and speak ordinary simple language, and make very few mistakes. Small children often like to listen to adults chatting and especially love to accompany guests — the main objective being, of course, to eat some snacks together, but also for the love of excitement, and above all to study other people's speech, to see whether anything bears upon themselves — things they can understand, should ask about, or might adopt. Our earlier study of classical Chinese used the same method: the teacher offered no explanation; you were simply required to read by rote, memorizing, analyzing, and comparing on your own. If things went well, you could eventually understand something and even manage to write a few sentences; yet those who never got the hang of it were also very numerous. Those who thought they had mastered it, and whom others also considered to have mastered it — but who, upon close examination, had not really mastered it at all, who could not even punctuate a Ming essay properly — were they ever in short supply? When people learn to speak, from the highest Chinese to the lowest, as long as they are neither deaf nor mute, those who fail to learn are virtually nonexistent. But the moment it comes to learning written language, things are different — those who truly learn it are probably only a tiny minority. And among those who are considered to have learned it — forgive me for being blunt and repeating myself — those who are still muddled through and through are, I suspect, still very many. This is naturally the fault of classical Chinese. For although we read classical Chinese desperately, our time is ultimately limited — not like speech, which we can hear all day long. Moreover, the books we read may be the Zhuangzi and the Wenxuan, the Donglai Boyi, the Guwen Guanzhi — from the writings of the Zhou dynasty all the way to those of the Ming, extraordinarily mixed up. After the brain has been trampled through by cavalry from every era, ancient and modern, it becomes a complete mess — though naturally some hoofprints do remain, and this is what is called "having gained something." This kind of "gain" is naturally never clear and distinct; most of it is probably half-understood at best. So one thinks one has mastered literature, when in fact one has not; thinks one has learned to read, when in fact one has not. Being muddled oneself, one naturally writes muddled prose; and readers, reading muddled prose, naturally will not be enlightened. Yet however muddled the writer, listen to him speak and it is generally clear — not to the point where one cannot understand him — except of course for those lectures deliberately designed to show off one's talents. For this reason I think the source of this "muddle" lies in learning characters and reading books. Take myself, for example — I constantly use vocabulary from books. Although the words are not particularly obscure, and perhaps the reader does not find them obscure either. Yet suppose there were a meticulous reader who invited me over, handed me a pencil and a sheet of paper, and said: "In your writing, sir, you said this mountain was 'lingceng' and that mountain was 'chanyan' — what exactly do those look like? It doesn't matter if you can't draw; just sketch me a rough outline, will you? Please, please, please..." At that point I would break out in a sweat under my arms and wish for a hole in the ground to crawl into. Because in truth I myself do not know what "lingceng" and "chanyan" actually look like. These adjectives were copied from old books; I never understood them clearly, and once put to a concrete test, I am done for. Beyond these, there are words like "youwan," "linglong," "panshan," "niru"... and many more. To say that vernacular writing should be "clear as speech" is already a tiresome old tune, but in truth many of today's vernacular writings have not even achieved "clarity as speech." If we want clarity, I think the first thing is for the writer to abandon those words that seem familiar but are not really known, to take living vocabulary from the mouths of living people and bring it onto the page — in other words, to learn from children and only say things one genuinely understands. As for the revival of archaic terms and the popularization of dialectal expressions, these are naturally also necessary, but first one must select, and second one must have dictionaries to determine the precise meanings — that is another question, which I shall not discuss here. April 2.
老是說著同樣的一句話是要厭的。在所謂文壇上，前年嚷過一回「文人無行」，去年是鬧了一通「京派和海派」，今年又出了新口號，叫作「文人相輕」。　　對於這風氣，口號家很憤恨，他的「真理哭了」，於是大聲疾呼，投一切「文人」以輕蔑。「輕蔑」，他是最憎惡的，但因為他們「相輕」，損傷了他理想中的一道同風的天下，害得他自己也只好施行輕蔑術了。自然，這是「即以其人之道，還治其人之身」，是古聖人的良法，但「相輕」的惡弊，可真也不容易除根。　　我們如果到《文選》裡去找詞彙的時候，大概是可以遇著「文人相輕」這四個字的，拾來用用，似乎也還有些漂亮。然而，曹聚仁先生已經在《自由談》（四月九日至十一日）上指明，曹丕之所謂「文人相輕」者，是「文非一體，鮮能備善，是以各以所長，相輕所短」，凡所指摘，僅限於製作的範圍。一切別的攻擊形體，籍貫，誣賴，造謠，以至施蟄存先生式的「他自己也是這樣的呀」，或魏金枝先生式的「他的親戚也和我一樣了呀」之類，都不在內。倘把這些都作為曹丕所說的「文人相輕」，是混淆黑白，真理雖然大哭，倒增加了文壇的黑暗的。　　我們如果到《莊子》裡去找詞彙，大概又可以遇著兩句寶貝的教訓：「彼亦一是非，此亦一是非」，記住了來作危急之際的護身符，似乎也不失為漂亮。然而這是只可暫時口說，難以永遠實行的。喜歡引用這種格言的人，那精神的相距之遠，更甚于叭兒之與老聃，這裡不必說它了。就是莊生自己，不也在《天下篇》裡，曆舉了別人的缺失，以他的「無是非」輕了一切「有所是非」的言行嗎？要不然，一部《莊子》，只要「今天天氣哈哈哈……」七個字就寫完了。　　但我們現在所處的並非漢魏之際，也不必恰如那時的文人，一定要「各以所長，相輕所短」。凡批評家的對於文人，或文人們的互相評論，各各「指其所短，揚其所長」固可，即「掩其所短，稱其所長」亦無不可。然而那一面一定得有「所長」，這一面一定得有明確的是非，有熱烈的好惡。假使被今年新出的「文人相輕」這一個模模胡胡的惡名所嚇昏，對於充風流的富兒，裝古雅的惡少，銷淫書的癟三，無不「彼亦一是非，此亦一是非」，一律拱手低眉，不敢說或不屑說，那麼，這是怎樣的批評家或文人呢？——他先就非被「輕」不可的！	It grows tiresome to keep hearing the same old phrase. In the so-called literary world, the year before last there was an uproar about "literary men without virtue," last year a commotion about "the Beijing school versus the Shanghai school," and this year a new slogan has emerged: "literary men belittling each other." Regarding this tendency, the slogan-monger is deeply indignant: his "truth has wept," and so he raises a great hue and cry, casting contempt upon all "literary men." "Contempt" is what he most abhors — but because they "belittle each other," damaging his ideal of a world united in one wind and one way, he has no choice but to deploy the art of contempt himself. Naturally, this is "using a man's own method to give him a taste of his own medicine," the excellent stratagem of the ancient sages — but the evil habit of "mutual belittlement" is truly not easy to root out. If we go rummaging for vocabulary in the Wenxuan, we can probably come across the four characters "literary men belittle each other," and picking them up for use seems rather elegant. However, Mr. Cao Juren (曹聚仁) has already pointed out in Ziyou Tan (April 9-11) that what Cao Pi (曹丕) meant by "literary men belittle each other" was "literature is not of one form, and few excel in all; therefore each, relying on his own strengths, belittles the other's weaknesses" — the criticisms referred to being confined entirely to the realm of literary craft. All other attacks upon physical appearance, native place, slander, rumor-mongering, and even Mr. Shi Zhecun's (施蟄存) style of "he himself does the same thing, you know" or Mr. Wei Jinzhi's (魏金枝) style of "his relatives are just like me, you know" — none of these were included. If one lumps all of this together as Cao Pi's "literary men belittling each other," one is confounding black and white; truth may weep loudly, but one only adds to the darkness of the literary world. If we go rummaging for vocabulary in the Zhuangzi, we can probably find another two gems of instruction: "That side also has its rights and wrongs; this side also has its rights and wrongs." Memorize these to use as a protective talisman in moments of crisis, and it seems not inelegant either. Yet this can only be said temporarily; it cannot be practiced forever. Those who like to quote such maxims are, in spirit, even more distant than a lapdog is from Laozi — I need not elaborate here. Even Zhuangzi himself — did he not, in the "Tianxia" chapter, enumerate others' failings and use his "absence of right and wrong" to belittle all who "had their rights and wrongs"? If not, the entire Zhuangzi could have been written in seven characters: "The weather today, ha ha ha..." But our present age is not the era between the Han and Wei, and we need not conform exactly to the literary men of that time, who invariably "relied on their own strengths to belittle one another's weaknesses." For a critic judging a writer, or for writers evaluating one another, it is perfectly fine for each to "point out the other's weaknesses and commend his strengths," and equally permissible to "conceal his weaknesses and praise his strengths." Yet on the one side there must genuinely be "strengths," and on the other there must be clear rights and wrongs, passionate likes and dislikes. If, cowed into a stupor by this year's new vague epithet of "literary men belittling each other," one treats the parvenu playing the man of refinement, the young thug affecting classical elegance, the wretch hawking pornography — all with "that side also has its rights and wrongs, this side also has its rights and wrongs," uniformly bowing with clasped hands and downcast eyes, not daring to speak or disdaining to speak — then what kind of critic or man of letters is this? He himself deserves to be "belittled" first!
去年春天，京派大師曾經大大的奚落了一頓海派小丑，海派小丑也曾經小小的回敬了几手，但不多久，就完了。文灘上的風波，總是容易起，容易完，倘使不容易完，也真的不便當。我也曾經略略的趕了一下熱鬧，在許多唇槍舌劍中，以為那時我發表的所說，倒也不算怎麼分析錯了的。其中有這樣的一段—— 　　「……北京是明清的帝都，上海乃各國之租界，帝都多官，租界多商，所以文人之在京者近官，沒海者近商，近官者在使官得名，近商者在使商獲利，而自己亦賴以糊口。要而言之：不過『京派』是官的幫閒，『海派』則是商的幫忙而已。……而官之鄙商，固亦中國舊習，就更使『海派』在『京派』眼中跌落了。……」但到得今年春末，不過一整年帶點零，就使我省悟了先前所說的並不圓滿。目前的事實，是證明著京派已經自己貶損，或是把海派在自己眼睛裡抬高，不但現身說法，演述了派別並不專與地域相關，而且實踐了「因為愛他，所以恨他」的妙語。當初的京海之爭，看作「龍虎鬥」固然是錯誤，就是認為有一條官商之界也不免欠明白。因為現在已經清清楚楚，到底搬出一碗不過黃鱔田雞，炒在一起的蘇式菜——「京海雜燴」來了。　　實例，自然是瑣屑的，而且自然也不會有重大的例子。舉一點罷。一，是選印明人小品的大權，分給海派來了；以前上海固然也有選印明人小品的人，但也可以說是冒牌的，這回卻有了真正老京派的題簽，所以的確是正統的衣缽。二，是有些新出的刊物，真正老京派打頭，真正小海派煞尾了；以前固然也有京派開路的期刊，但那是半京半海派所主持的東西，和純粹海派自說是自掏腰包來辦的出產品頗有區別的。要而言之：今兒和前兒已不一樣，京海兩派中的一路，做成一碗了。　　到這裡要附帶一點聲明：我是故意不舉出那新出刊物的名目來的。先前，曾經有人用過「某」字，什麼緣故我不知道。但後來該刊的一個作者在該刊上說，他有一位「熟悉商情」的朋友，以為這是因為不替它來作廣告。這真是聰明的好朋友，不愧為「熟悉商情」。由此啟發，子細一想，他的話實在千真萬確：被稱讚固然可以代廣告，被罵也可以代廣告，張揚了榮是廣告，張揚了辱又何嘗非廣告。例如罷，甲乙決鬥，甲贏，乙死了，人們固然要看殺人的兇手，但也一樣的要看那不中用的死屍，如果用蘆席圍起來，兩個銅板看一下，准可以發一點小財的。我這回的不說出這刊物的名目來，主意卻正在不替它作廣告，我有時很不講陰德，簡直要妨礙別人的借死屍斂錢。然而，請老實的看官不要立刻責備我刻薄。　　他們那裡肯放過這機會，他們自己會敲了鑼來承認的。　　聲明太長了一點了。言歸正傳。我要說的是直到現在，由事實證明，我才明白了去年京派的奚落海派，原來根柢上並不是奚落，倒是路遠迢迢的送來的秋波。　　文豪，究竟是有真實本領的，法郎士做過一本《泰綺思》，中國已有兩種譯本了，其中就透露著這樣的消息。他說有一個高僧在沙漠中修行，忽然想到亞歷山大府的名妓泰綺思，是一個貽害世道人心的人物，他要感化她出家，救她本身，救被惑的青年們，也給自己積無量功德。事情還算順手，泰綺思竟出家了，他恨恨的毀壞了她在俗時候的衣飾。但是，奇怪得很，這位高僧回到自己的獨房裡繼續修行時，卻再也靜不下來了，見妖怪，見裸體的女人。他急遁，遠行，然而仍然沒有效。他自己是知道因為其實愛上了泰綺思，所以神魂顛倒了的，但一群愚民，卻還是硬要當他聖僧，到處跟著他祈求，禮拜，拜得他「啞子吃黃連」——有苦說不出。他終於決計自白，跑回泰綺思那裡去，叫道「我愛你！」然而泰綺思這時已經離死期不遠，自說看見了天國，不久就斷氣了。　　不過京海之爭的目前的結局，卻和這一本書的不同，上海的泰綺思並沒有死，她也張開兩條臂膊，叫道「來口虐！」於是——團圓了。　　《泰綺思》的構想，很多是應用弗洛伊特的精神分析學說的，倘有嚴正的批評家，以為算不得「究竟是有真實本領」，我也不想來爭辯。但我覺得自己卻真如那本書裡所寫的愚民一樣，在沒有聽到「我愛你」和「來口虐」之前，總以為奚落單是奚落，鄙薄單是鄙薄，連現在已經出了氣的弗洛伊特學說也想不到。　　到這裡又要附帶一點聲明：我舉出《泰綺思》來，不過取其事蹟，並非處心積慮，要用妓女來比海派的文人。這種小說中的人物，是不妨隨意改換的，即改作隱士，俠客，高人，公主，大少，小老闆之類，都無不可。況且泰綺思其實也何可厚非。她在俗時是潑剌的活，出家後就刻苦的修，比起我們的有些所謂「文人」，剛到中年，就自歎道「我是心灰意懶了」的死樣活氣來，實在更其像人樣。我也可以自白一句：我寧可向潑剌的妓女立正，卻不願意和死樣活氣的文人打棚。　　至於為什麼去年北京送秋波，今年上海叫「來口虐」了呢？說起來，可又是事前的推測，對不對很難定了。我想：也許是因為幫閒幫忙，近來都有些「不景氣」，所以只好兩界合辦，把斷磚，舊襪，皮袍，洋服，巧克力，梅什兒……之類，湊在一處，重行開張，算是新公司，想借此來新一下主顧們的耳目罷。	Last spring, the grand masters of the Beijing school gave the petty clowns of the Shanghai school a thorough drubbing, and the Shanghai petty clowns responded with a few modest counterblows — but before long, it was all over. Storms on the literary beach are always quick to rise and quick to subside; if they were not quick to subside, things would become truly inconvenient. I too had briefly joined the excitement, and amid all the verbal sparring, I thought what I had published at the time was not so very wrongly analyzed. There was this passage in it: "...Beijing was the imperial capital of the Ming and Qing; Shanghai is the concession of various nations. Imperial capitals have many officials; concessions have many merchants. Therefore literary men in Beijing are close to officials, and those submerged in Shanghai are close to merchants. Those close to officials help officials gain fame; those close to merchants help merchants gain profit — and sustain themselves thereby. In short: the 'Beijing school' is nothing but the idler of officials, and the 'Shanghai school' merely the helper of merchants.... And officials' contempt for merchants, being an old Chinese habit, only made the 'Shanghai school' fall further in the eyes of the 'Beijing school'...." But by late spring of this year, barely a full year plus a little extra, I was made to realize that what I had said previously was not quite complete. The present facts prove that the Beijing school has itself depreciated, or has elevated the Shanghai school in its own eyes — not only demonstrating in person that literary factions are not exclusively tied to geography, but also putting into practice the wonderful saying "because I love him, therefore I hate him." The original Beijing-Shanghai conflict, while wrong to regard as a "dragon-tiger battle," was also not quite right even if one saw it as having a clear line between officialdom and commerce. For now it has become perfectly clear: in the end, what has been served up is nothing but a Suzhou-style dish of yellow eel and frogs fried together — a "Beijing-Shanghai hodgepodge." Examples are naturally trivial, and naturally there will be no momentous ones either. Let me cite a few. First, the supreme authority of selecting and printing Ming essays has been delegated to the Shanghai school. Previously, Shanghai did have people who selected and printed Ming essays, but they could be called counterfeit; this time, however, there is the genuine signature of a true old Beijing-school master, making it indisputably the orthodox mantle. Second, in some newly launched publications, genuine old Beijing-school figures take the lead and genuine little Shanghai-school figures bring up the rear. Previously there were periodicals led by Beijing-school figures too, but those were run by semi-Beijing, semi-Shanghai types — quite different from the products that the pure Shanghai school claimed to finance out of its own pocket. In short: today is not the same as yesterday; one current within the Beijing and Shanghai schools has been cooked into a single dish. Here I must append a small declaration: I am deliberately not naming the publication in question. Previously, someone had used the character "certain" for it, for what reason I do not know. But later, one of its contributors wrote in that very publication that he had a friend "well-versed in commercial matters" who believed this was because one didn't want to give it free advertising. What a clever friend — truly worthy of being "well-versed in commercial matters." Inspired by this, upon careful reflection, his words are absolutely right: being praised serves as advertising; being cursed also serves as advertising; broadcasting glory is advertising; broadcasting shame — is that not advertising too? For example: if A and B duel, A wins, B dies — people naturally want to see the killer, but they equally want to see the useless corpse. If you surround it with reed mats and charge two coppers for a look, you can certainly make a small fortune. My not naming this publication this time is precisely intended not to advertise for it; I am sometimes quite devoid of secret virtue and would straightforwardly obstruct others from profiting off a corpse. But I ask honest readers not to immediately reproach me for being heartless. They would never let such an opportunity pass — they will beat the gong and come forward to claim it themselves. The declaration has grown a bit long. To return to the main point. What I want to say is that only now, proved by the facts, have I understood that the Beijing school's drubbing of the Shanghai school last year was not, at bottom, a drubbing at all — it was amorous glances sent from far, far away. The great writers truly do possess genuine skill. Anatole France wrote a novel called Thaïs — two Chinese translations already exist — and in it just such a message is revealed. He tells of a monk practicing austerities in the desert who suddenly thinks of the famous courtesan Thaïs of Alexandria, who is, he decides, a figure harmful to public morals. He resolves to convert her to monastic life — to save her person, to save the young men she has beguiled, and to accumulate infinite merit for himself. Things go rather smoothly: Thaïs actually enters monastic life, and he hatefully destroys her worldly garments and ornaments. But — strange to say — when this monk returns to his cell to continue his austerities, he can no longer calm himself. He sees demons; he sees naked women. He flees, travels far, but it is still no use. He himself knows it is because he has actually fallen in love with Thaïs and lost his mind, but a crowd of foolish commoners still insist on treating him as a holy monk, following him everywhere with prayers and prostrations, prostrating until he is like "a mute eating bitter herbs" — suffering he cannot express. He finally resolves to confess, runs back to Thaïs, and cries: "I love you!" But by this time Thaïs is not far from death; she says she has seen the Kingdom of Heaven, and soon breathes her last. However, the present outcome of the Beijing-Shanghai conflict is different from this novel: Shanghai's Thaïs has not died. She too opens her arms wide and cries: "Come, kiss me!" And so — they are reunited. The conception of Thaïs draws heavily on Freud's psychoanalytic theory. If a stern critic considers this insufficient to qualify as "truly possessing genuine skill," I have no wish to argue. But I feel I was truly like one of the foolish commoners described in that book — before hearing "I love you" and "Come, kiss me," I always thought drubbing was merely drubbing and contempt was merely contempt, and could not even think of Freudian theory, which has by now already had its day. Here I must append another small declaration: in citing Thaïs, I am merely borrowing the events; it is not a deliberate scheme to use a courtesan as a metaphor for Shanghai-school literary men. Characters in such novels can be freely substituted — change her to a hermit, a knight-errant, a lofty personage, a princess, a young master, a small shopkeeper — any will do. Besides, what reproach does Thaïs really deserve? When she was worldly, she lived with gusto; after taking vows, she practiced austerities rigorously. Compared to some of our so-called "men of letters" who, barely at middle age, sigh "I am utterly disheartened" in that half-dead manner — she is actually more like a human being. I may as well confess: I would rather stand at attention before a spirited courtesan than hobnob with half-dead literary men. As for why Beijing was sending amorous glances last year and Shanghai is crying "Come, kiss me!" this year — well, this is again a speculation made before the event, and it's hard to say if it's correct. My guess: perhaps it's because both idling and helping have been rather "in a slump" recently, so they have no choice but to set up a joint operation, pooling broken bricks, old socks, fur coats, Western suits, chocolates, dried fruits, and the like, reopening under a new company name, hoping thereby to refresh their patrons' eyes and ears.
君以一九三○年三月至滬，出納圖書，既勤且謹，兼修繪事，斐然有成。中遭艱巨，篤行靡改，扶危濟急，公私兩全。越三三年七月，因病歸國休養，方期再造，展其英才，而藥石無靈，終以不起，年僅二十有八。嗚呼，昊天難測，蕙荃早摧，曄曄青春，永門必玄壤，忝居友列，銜哀記焉。一九三五年四月二十二日，會稽魯迅撰。	The gentleman arrived in Shanghai in March 1930 and managed the circulation of books with both diligence and care, while also pursuing the study of painting, in which he achieved notable accomplishment. Though he encountered severe hardships midway, he remained steadfast in his conduct, aiding the endangered and relieving the urgent, serving both public and private interests. In July of the twenty-second year, he returned to his homeland to recuperate from illness. Just as one hoped for his recovery and the full display of his talents, medicine proved powerless, and he passed away at the age of only twenty-eight. Alas! Heaven's ways are unfathomable; the fragrant orchid is cut down in its prime. His radiant youth is forever consigned to the dark earth. Having had the honor of counting myself among his friends, I record this with grief. Written on April 22, 1935, by Lu Xun of Kuaiji.
「薏米杏仁蓮心粥！」「玫瑰白糖倫教糕！」「蝦肉餛飩麵！」「五香茶葉蛋！」這是四五年前，閘北一帶弄堂內外叫賣零食的聲音，假使當時記錄了下來，從早到夜，恐怕總可以有二三十樣。居民似乎也真會化零錢，吃零食，時時給他們一點生意，因為叫聲也時時中止，可見是在招呼主顧了。而且那些口號也真漂亮，不知道他是從「晚明文選」或「晚明小品」裡找過詞匯的呢，還是怎麼的，實在使我似的初到上海的鄉下人，一聽到就有饞涎欲滴之概，「薏米杏仁」而又「蓮心粥」，這是新鮮到連先前的夢裡也沒有想到的。但對於靠筆墨為生的人們，卻有一點害處，假使你還沒有練到「心如古井」，就可以被鬧得整天整夜寫不出什麼東西來。現在是大不相同了。馬路邊上的小飯店，正午傍晚，先前為長衫朋友所佔領的，近來已經大抵是「寄沉痛於幽閒」；老主顧呢，坐到黃包車夫的老巢的粗點心店裡面去了。至於車夫，那自然只好退到馬路邊沿餓肚子，或者幸而還能夠咬侉餅。弄堂裡的叫賣聲，說也奇怪，竟也和古代判若天淵，賣零食的當然還有，但不過是橄欖或餛飩，卻很少遇見那些「香豔肉感」的「藝術」的玩意了。嚷嚷呢，自然仍舊是嚷嚷的，只要上海市民存在一日，嚷嚷是大約決不會停止的。然而現在卻切實了不少：麻油，豆腐，潤發的刨花，曬衣的竹竿；方法也有改進，或者一個人賣襪，獨自作歌讚歎著襪的牢靠。或者兩個人共同賣布，交互唱歌頌揚著布的便宜。但大概是一直唱著進來，直達弄底，又一直唱著回去，走出弄外，停下來做交易的時候，是很少的。偶然也有高雅的貨色：果物和花。不過這是並不打算賣給中國人的，所以他用洋話：「Ringo，Banana，Appulu-u，Appulu-u-u！」「Hana呀Hana-a-a！Ha-a-na-a-a！」也不大有洋人買。間或有算命的瞎子，化緣的和尚進弄來，幾乎是專攻娘姨們的，倒還是他們比較的有生意，有時算一命，有時賣掉一張黃紙的鬼畫符。但到今年，好像生意也清淡了，於是前天竟出現了大佈置的化緣。先只聽得一片鼓鈸和鐵索聲，我正想做「超現實主義」的語錄體詩，這麼一來，詩思被鬧跑了，尋聲看去，原來是一個和尚用鐵鉤鉤在前胸的皮上，鉤柄系有一丈多長的鐵索，在地上拖著走進弄裡來，別的兩個和尚打著鼓和鈸。但是，那些娘姨們，卻都把門一關，躲得一個也不見了。這位苦行的高僧，竟連一個銅子也拖不去。事後，我探了探她們的意見，那回答是：「看這樣子，兩角錢是打發不走的。」獨唱，對唱，大佈置，苦肉計，在上海都已經賺不到大錢，一面固然足征洋場上的「人心澆薄」，但一面也可見只好去「復興農村」了，唔。四月二十三日。	"Coix seed, almond, and lotus heart congee!" "Rose-flavored white sugar Lunjiao cake!" "Shrimp wonton noodles!" "Five-spice tea eggs!" These were the cries of snack vendors in the lanes of Zhabei four or five years ago. Had one recorded them at the time, from morning to night, there would probably have been twenty or thirty varieties. The residents apparently were indeed willing to spend their small change on snacks, giving the vendors a bit of business from time to time, for the cries would also pause from time to time — evidently the vendor was attending to a customer. And those slogans were truly beautiful; I don't know whether he had gone to the "Late Ming Selections" or the "Late Ming Essays" for his vocabulary, or what, but they truly made a country bumpkin like me who had just arrived in Shanghai feel his mouth watering the moment he heard them. "Coix seed and almond" plus "lotus heart congee" — this was something so fresh that even in my former dreams I had never imagined it. But for those who make their living by the pen, there was a certain drawback: if you had not yet trained yourself to have "a heart still as an ancient well," you could be pestered the entire day and night into writing nothing at all. Now things are vastly different. The small restaurants along the roads, which at noon and evening had previously been occupied by gentlemen in long gowns, have recently become mostly "burying deep sorrow in idle leisure." And the former patrons? They have moved into the coarse snack shops that are the stronghold of rickshaw pullers. As for the rickshaw pullers themselves, they naturally can only retreat to the roadside to go hungry, or, if lucky, still manage to gnaw on a flatbread. The vendors' cries in the lanes — strange to say — have also become a world apart from the old days. Snack sellers still exist, of course, but it is only olives or wontons; one seldom encounters those "sensually fragrant" "artistic" delicacies anymore. Shouting? Naturally there is still shouting; as long as Shanghai citizens exist for a single day, shouting will certainly never cease. Yet nowadays it has become considerably more practical: sesame oil, tofu, wood shavings for hair treatment, bamboo poles for drying clothes. Methods have also improved: sometimes one man selling socks sings alone, praising the durability of his socks; sometimes two men sell cloth together, alternately singing hymns to the cheapness of their fabric. But generally they sing their way straight in, all the way to the end of the lane, and then sing their way straight back out — the occasions when they actually stop to make a transaction are very few. Occasionally there is also a more refined commodity: fruit and flowers. But these are not intended for sale to Chinese people, so the vendor uses foreign words: "Ringo, Banana, Appulu-u, Appulu-u-u!" "Hana ya Hana-a-a! Ha-a-na-a-a!" Not many foreigners buy either. From time to time, a fortune-telling blind man or an alms-begging monk enters the lane, attacking almost exclusively the amahs. They actually have comparatively better business; sometimes they read a fortune, sometimes they sell a yellow-paper charm. But this year even their trade seems to have slackened, and so the day before yesterday there appeared a grand production of alms-begging. First one heard only a burst of drums, cymbals, and iron chains. I was just thinking of composing a "surrealist" aphoristic poem, and this racket chased my poetic thoughts away. Following the sound, I found it was a monk who had hooked iron hooks into the skin of his chest, with iron chains about ten feet long attached to the hooks, dragging on the ground as he walked into the lane, while two other monks beat drums and cymbals. But those amahs had all shut their doors and hidden away — not a single one was to be seen. This ascetic monk could not drag away even a single copper coin. Afterward, I probed their opinions. The answer was: "Looking at that getup, two jiao wouldn't be enough to get rid of him." Solo singing, duet singing, grand productions, the trick of self-inflicted suffering — in Shanghai none of them can earn big money anymore. On the one hand, this sufficiently testifies to the "heartlessness" of the foreign concessions; but on the other hand, it also shows that one might as well go "revitalize the countryside" — hmm. April 23.
凡是有志於創作的青年，第一個想到的問題，大概總是「應該怎樣寫？」現在市場上陳列著的「小說作法」，「小說法程」之類，就是專掏這類青年的腰包的。然而，好像沒有效，從「小說作法」學出來的作者，我們至今還沒有聽到過。有些青年是設法去問已經出名的作者，那些答案，還很少見有什麼發表，但結果是不難推想而知的：不得要領。這也難怪，因為創作是並沒有什麼秘訣，能夠交頭接耳，一句話就傳授給別一個的，倘不然，只要有這秘訣，就真可以登廣告，收學費，開一個三天包成文豪學校了。以中國之大，或者也許會有罷，但是，這其實是騙子。在不難推想而知的種種答案中，大概總該有一個是「多看大作家的作品」。這恐怕也很不能滿文學青年的意，因為太寬泛，茫無邊際——然而倒是切實的。凡是已有定評的大作家，他的作品，全部就說明著「應該怎樣寫」。只是讀者很不容易看出，也就不能領悟。因為在學習者一方面，是必須知道了「不應該那麼寫」，這才會明白原來「應該這麼寫」的。這「不應該那麼寫」，如何知道呢？惠列賽耶夫的《果戈理研究》第六章裡，答覆著這問題——「應該這麼寫，必須從大作家們的完成了的作品去領會。那麼，不應該那麼寫這一面，恐怕最好是從那同一作品的未定稿本去學習了。在這裡，簡直好像藝術家在對我們用實物教授。恰如他指著每一行，直接對我們這樣說——‘你看——哪，這是應該刪去的。這要縮短，這要改作，因為不自然了。在這裡，還得加些渲染，使形象更加顯豁些。’」這確是極有益處的學習法，而我們中國卻偏偏缺少這樣的教材。近幾年來，石印的手稿是有一些了，但大抵是學者的著述或日記。也許是因為向來崇尚「一揮而就」，「文不加點」的緣故罷，又大抵是全本乾乾淨淨，看不出苦心刪改的痕跡來。取材於外國呢，則即使精通文字，也無法搜羅名作的初版以至改定版的各種本子的。讀書人家的子弟熟悉筆墨，木匠的孩子會玩斧鑿，兵家兒早識刀槍，沒有這樣的環境和遺產，是中國的文學青年的先天的不幸。在沒奈何中，想了一個補救法：新聞上的記事，拙劣的小說，那事件，是也有可以寫成一部文藝作品的，不過那記事，那小說，卻並非文藝——這就是「不應該這樣寫」的標本。只是和「應該那樣寫」，卻無從比較了。四月二十三日。	For any young person with aspirations toward creative writing, the first question that comes to mind is probably always: "How should one write?" The "Fiction Writing Methods" and "Fiction Courses" currently displayed in the marketplace are designed precisely to pick the pockets of such young people. Yet they seem to have no effect; we have still not heard of any author who emerged from a "Fiction Writing Method." Some young people try to ask already famous authors; their answers have rarely been published, but the result is not hard to guess: nothing of substance. This is hardly surprising, because there is no secret formula for creative writing that can be whispered ear to ear and transmitted in a single sentence. If there were, one could truly advertise, charge tuition, and open a "Three-Day Guaranteed Literary Genius School." In a country as large as China, such a thing might perhaps exist — but in truth, it would be a swindle. Among the not-hard-to-guess answers, there is probably always one that says: "Read more works by great authors." This probably cannot satisfy the literary youth either, being too broad and boundless — yet it is actually sound advice. Any great author whose reputation is established: his works, taken as a whole, demonstrate "how one should write." But the reader cannot easily see this, and so cannot grasp it. For on the learner's side, one must first know "how one should NOT write" — only then can one understand "so THIS is how one should write." How does one come to know this "should not write that way"? In chapter six of Veresayev's Gogol Studies, this question is answered: "How one should write must be grasped from the completed works of great authors. Then, how one should NOT write — for that, the best thing is probably to learn from the drafts of those same works. Here, it is almost as if the artist is giving us object lessons. It is as though he points at each line and says directly to us: 'Look here — this is what should be deleted. This needs to be shortened. This must be rewritten because it has become unnatural. Here, some additional coloring is needed to make the image more vivid.'" This is indeed an extremely beneficial method of study, yet in China we happen to lack precisely such teaching materials. In recent years, there have been some lithographic reproductions of manuscripts, but they are mostly scholarly treatises or diaries. Perhaps because of the longstanding admiration for "dashing off in a single stroke" and "writing without a single correction," most of the reproduced manuscripts are completely clean — one cannot see any traces of painstaking revision. To draw from foreign sources — even if one were perfectly proficient in the language — there would be no way to collect the various editions of famous works from first printing to final revision. Children of scholarly families are familiar with brush and ink; the carpenter's son knows how to play with ax and chisel; the soldier's child early learns sword and spear. Without such an environment and inheritance — this is the innate misfortune of China's literary youth. In desperation, I have thought of a compensating method: news reports and clumsy novels — the events in them could perhaps have been written into a work of literary art, but the report itself, the novel itself, is not literature — this is a specimen of "how one should NOT write." The only trouble is that there is no corresponding "how one SHOULD write" for comparison. April 23.
新近的上海的報紙，報告著因為日本的湯島，孔子的聖廟落成了，湖南省主席何鍵將軍就寄贈了一幅向來珍藏的孔子的畫像。老實說，中國的一般的人民，關於孔子是怎樣的相貌，倒幾乎是毫無所知的。自古以來，雖然每一縣一定有聖廟，即文廟，但那裡面大抵並沒有聖像。凡是繪畫，或者雕塑應該崇敬的人物時，一般是以大於常人為原則的，但一到最應崇敬的人物，例如孔夫子那樣的聖人，卻好像連形象也成為褻瀆，反不如沒有的好。這也不是沒有道理的。孔夫子沒有留下照相來，自然不能明白真正的相貌，文獻中雖然偶有記載，但是胡說白道也說不定。若是從新雕塑的話，則除了任憑雕塑者的空想而外，毫無辦法，更加放心不下。於是儒者們也終於只好採取「全部，或全無」的勃蘭特式的態度了。然而倘是畫像，卻也會間或遇見的。我曾經見過三次：一次是《孔子家語》裡的插畫；一次是梁啟超氏亡命日本時，作為橫濱出版的《清議報》上的卷頭畫，從日本倒輸入中國來的；還有一次是刻在漢朝墓石上的孔子見老子的畫像。說起從這些圖畫上所得的孔夫子的模樣的印象來，則這位先生是一位很瘦的老頭子，身穿大袖口的長袍子，腰帶上插著一把劍，或者腋下挾著一枝杖，然而從來不笑，非常威風凜凜的。假使在他的旁邊侍坐，那就一定得把腰骨挺的筆直，經過兩三點鐘，就骨節酸痛，倘是平常人，大約總不免急於逃走的了。後來我曾到山東旅行。在為道路的不平所苦的時候，忽然想到了我們的孔夫子。一想起那具有儼然道貌的聖人，先前便是坐著簡陋的車子，顛顛簸簸，在這些地方奔忙的事來，頗有滑稽之感。這種感想，自然是不好的，要而言之，頗近於不敬，倘是孔子之徒，恐怕是決不應該發生的。但在那時候，懷著我似的不規矩的心情的青年，可是多得很。我出世的時候是清朝的末年，孔夫子已經有了「大成至聖文宣王」這一個闊得可怕的頭銜，不消說，正是聖道支配了全國的時代。政府對於讀書的人們，使讀一定的書，即四書和五經；使遵守一定的注釋；使寫一定的文章，即所謂「八股文」；並且使發一定的議論。然而這些千篇一律的儒者們，倘是四方的大地，那是很知道的，但一到圓形的地球，卻什麼也不知道，於是和四書上並無記載的法蘭西和英吉利打仗而失敗了。不知道為了覺得與其拜著孔夫子而死，倒不如保存自己們之為得計呢，還是為了什麼，總而言之，這回是拚命尊孔的政府和官僚先就動搖起來，用官帑大翻起洋鬼子的書籍來了。屬于科學上的古典之作的，則有侯失勒的《談天》，雷俠兒的《地學淺釋》，代那的《金石識別》，到現在也還作為那時的遺物，間或躺在舊書鋪子裡。然而一定有反動。清末之所謂儒者的結晶，也是代表的大學士徐桐氏出現了。他不但連算學也斥為洋鬼子的學問；他雖然承認世界上有法蘭西和英吉利這些國度，但西班牙和葡萄牙的存在，是決不相信的，他主張這是法國和英國常常來討利益，連自己也不好意思了，所以隨便胡謅出來的國名。他又是一九○○年的有名的義和團的幕後的發動者，也是指揮者。但是義和團完全失敗，徐桐氏也自殺了。政府就又以為外國的政治法律和學問技術頗有可取之處了。我的渴望到日本去留學，也就在那時候。達了目的，入學的地方，是嘉納先生所設立的東京的弘文學院；在這裡，三澤力太郎先生教我水是養氣和輕氣所合成，山內繁雄先生教我貝殼裡的什麼地方其名為「外套」。這是有一天的事情。學監大久保先生集合起大家來，說：因為你們都是孔子之徒，今天到御茶之水的孔廟裡去行禮罷！我大吃了一驚。現在還記得那時心裡想，正因為絕望於孔夫子和他的之徒，所以到日本來的，然而又是拜麼？一時覺得很奇怪。而且發生這樣感覺的，我想決不止我一個人。但是，孔夫子在本國的不遇，也並不是始於二十世紀的。孟子批評他為「聖之時者也」，倘翻成現代語，除了「摩登聖人」實在也沒有別的法。為他自己計，這固然是沒有危險的尊號，但也不是十分值得歡迎的頭銜。不過在實際上，卻也許並不這樣子。孔夫子的做定了「摩登聖人」是死了以後的事，活著的時候卻是頗吃苦頭的。跑來跑去，雖然曾經貴為魯國的警視總監，而又立刻下野，失業了；並且為權臣所輕蔑，為野人所嘲弄，甚至於為暴民所包圍，餓扁了肚子。弟子雖然收了三千名，中用的卻只有七十二，然而真可以相信的又只有一個人。有一天，孔夫子憤慨道：「道不行，乘桴浮於海，從我者，其由與？」從這消極的打算上，就可以窺見那消息。然而連這一位由，後來也因為和敵人戰鬥，被擊斷了冠纓，但真不愧為由呀，到這時候也還不忘記從夫子聽來的教訓，說道「君子死，冠不免」，一面系著冠纓，一面被人砍成肉醬了。連唯一可信的弟子也已經失掉，孔子自然是非常悲痛的，據說他一聽到這信息，就吩咐去倒掉廚房裡的肉醬云。孔夫子到死了以後，我以為可以說是運氣比較的好一點。因為他不會嚕蘇了，種種的權勢者便用種種的白粉給他來化妝，一直抬到嚇人的高度。但比起後來輸入的釋迦牟尼來，卻實在可憐得很。誠然，每一縣固然都有聖廟即文廟，可是一副寂寞的冷落的樣子，一般的庶民，是決不去參拜的，要去，則是佛寺，或者是神廟。若向老百姓們問孔夫子是什麼人，他們自然回答是聖人，然而這不過是權勢者的留聲機。他們也敬惜字紙，然而這是因為倘不敬惜字紙，會遭雷殛的迷信的緣故；南京的夫子廟固然是熱鬧的地方，然而這是因為另有各種玩耍和茶店的緣故。雖說孔子作《春秋》而亂臣賊子懼，然而現在的人們，卻幾乎誰也不知道一個筆伐了的亂臣賊子的名字。說到亂臣賊子，大概以為是曹操，但那並非聖人所教，卻是寫了小說和劇本的無名作家所教的。總而言之，孔夫子之在中國，是權勢者們捧起來的，是那些權勢者或想做權勢者們的聖人，和一般的民眾並無什麼關係。然而對於聖廟，那些權勢者也不過一時的熱心。因為尊孔的時候已經懷著別樣的目的，所以目的一達，這器具就無用，如果不達呢，那可更加無用了。在三四十年以前，凡有企圖獲得權勢的人，就是希望做官的人，都是讀「四書」和「五經」，做「八股」，別一些人就將這些書籍和文章，統名之為「敲門磚」。這就是說，文官考試一及第，這些東西也就同時被忘卻，恰如敲門時所用的磚頭一樣，門一開，這磚頭也就被拋掉了。孔子這人，其實是自從死了以後，也總是當著「敲門磚」的差使的。一看最近的例子，就更加明白。從二十世紀的開始以來，孔夫子的運氣是很壞的，但到袁世凱時代，卻又被從新記得，不但恢復了祭典，還新做了古怪的祭服，使奉祀的人們穿起來。跟著這事而出現的便是帝制。然而那一道門終於沒有敲開，袁氏在門外死掉了。余剩的是北洋軍閥，當覺得漸近末路時，也用它來敲過另外的幸福之門。盤據著江蘇和浙江，在路上隨便砍殺百姓的孫傳芳將軍，一面復興了投壺之禮；鑽進山東，連自己也數不清金錢和兵丁和姨太太的數目了的張宗昌將軍，則重刻了《十三經》，而且把聖道看作可以由肉體關係來傳染的花柳病一樣的東西，拿一個孔子後裔的誰來做了自己的女婿。然而幸福之門，卻仍然對誰也沒有開。這三個人，都把孔夫子當作磚頭用，但是時代不同了，所以都明明白白的失敗了。豈但自己失敗而已呢，還帶累孔子也更加陷入了悲境。他們都是連字也不大認識的人物，然而偏要大談什麼《十三經》之類，所以使人們覺得滑稽；言行也太不一致了，就更加令人討厭。既已厭惡和尚，恨及袈裟，而孔夫子之被利用為或一目的的器具，也從新看得格外清楚起來，於是要打倒他的欲望，也就越加旺盛。所以把孔子裝飾得十分尊嚴時，就一定有找他缺點的論文和作品出現。即使是孔夫子，缺點總也有的，在平時誰也不理會，因為聖人也是人，本是可以原諒的。然而如果聖人之徒出來胡說一通，以為聖人是這樣，是那樣，所以你也非這樣不可的話，人們可就禁不住要笑起來了。五六年前，曾經因為公演了《子見南子》這劇本，引起過問題，在那個劇本裡，有孔夫子登場，以聖人而論，固然不免略有欠穩重和呆頭呆腦的地方，然而作為一個人，倒是可愛的好人物。但是聖裔們非常憤慨，把問題一直鬧到官廳裡去了。因為公演的地點，恰巧是孔夫子的故鄉，在那地方，聖裔們繁殖得非常多，成著使釋迦牟尼和蘇格拉第都自愧弗如的特權階級。然而，那也許又正是使那裡的非聖裔的青年們，不禁特地要演《子見南子》的原因罷。中國的一般的民眾，尤其是所謂愚民，雖稱孔子為聖人，卻不覺得他是聖人；對於他，是恭謹的，卻不親密。但我想，能像中國的愚民那樣，懂得孔夫子的，恐怕世界上是再也沒有的了。不錯，孔夫子曾經計劃過出色的治國的方法，但那都是為了治民眾者，即權勢者設想的方法，為民眾本身的，卻一點也沒有。這就是「禮不下庶人」。成為權勢者們的聖人，終於變了「敲門磚」，實在也叫不得冤枉。和民眾並無關係，是不能說的，但倘說毫無親密之處，我以為怕要算是非常客氣的說法了。不去親近那毫不親密的聖人，正是當然的事，什麼時候都可以，試去穿了破衣，赤著腳，走上大成殿去看看罷，恐怕會像誤進上海的上等影戲院或者頭等電車一樣，立刻要受斥逐的。誰都知道這是大人老爺們的物事，雖是「愚民」，卻還沒有愚到這步田地的。四月二十九日。	Recently, the Shanghai newspapers have reported that because the Yushima Confucius Temple in Japan has been completed, General He Jian (何鍵), the Provincial Chairman of Hunan, has presented as a gift a portrait of Confucius that he had long treasured. To speak frankly, the ordinary Chinese people know almost nothing about what Confucius actually looked like. Since ancient times, although every county has invariably had its Temple of the Sage, that is to say, a Confucian temple, these have for the most part contained no image of the Sage. As a general rule, when painting or sculpting a figure who ought to be revered, the principle is to make him larger than an ordinary person; but when it comes to the most supremely revered figure of all — a sage like Confucius — it seems as though even creating an image would constitute a desecration, and it is better to have none at all. This is not without its logic. Confucius left behind no photograph, so naturally his true appearance cannot be ascertained. Although there are occasional descriptions in the literary records, these may well be pure nonsense. And if one were to create a new sculpture, one would have no recourse except to rely entirely on the sculptor's fancy, which would be even more disquieting. Thus the Confucianists ultimately had no choice but to adopt a Brandtian attitude of "all or nothing." And yet, painted portraits do turn up from time to time. I myself have seen three: once, an illustration in the Kongzi Jiayu; once, a frontispiece imported back into China from Japan, published in the Qingyi Bao when Liang Qichao (梁啟超) was in exile in Yokohama; and once, a stone carving from a Han dynasty tomb depicting Confucius's meeting with Laozi (老子). To speak of the impression of Confucius's appearance gleaned from these pictures: the gentleman was a very thin old man, wearing a long robe with wide sleeves, with a sword thrust through his sash or a staff tucked under his arm, and he never smiled — a figure of tremendous, awe-inspiring dignity. If one were to sit respectfully beside him, one would certainly have to hold one's spine ramrod straight, and after two or three hours one's joints would ache so painfully that any ordinary person would most likely be desperate to flee. Later, I once traveled through Shandong. While suffering from the roughness of the roads, I suddenly thought of our Confucius. When I recalled that this sage of such stern and imposing countenance had formerly bounced and jolted over these very roads in a crude carriage, rushing about on his business, I found this rather comical. Such a thought is, naturally, not a good one — in short, it verges on irreverence — and if one were a disciple of Confucius, it is the sort of thought that should certainly never arise. But in those days, young people harboring irreverent sentiments like mine were exceedingly numerous. I was born at the end of the Qing dynasty, when Confucius had already acquired the terrifyingly grandiose title of "Supreme Sage, Accomplished and Illustrious King of Culture" (大成至聖文宣王). Needless to say, it was an age when the Way of the Sage dominated the entire nation. The government compelled those who pursued learning to read a fixed set of books — the Four Books and the Five Classics; to follow fixed commentaries; to write a fixed kind of essay — the so-called "eight-legged essay"; and to express fixed opinions. Yet these stereotypical Confucianists, while thoroughly familiar with the four-cornered earth, knew absolutely nothing about the round globe, and so they went to war with France and England — nations not recorded in the Four Books — and were defeated. Whether it was because they decided that rather than die worshipping Confucius it would be more expedient to preserve themselves, or for some other reason, in any case this time it was the fanatically Confucius-venerating government and bureaucrats who were first shaken. They began using public funds to translate in great quantities the books of the foreign devils. Among the classical works of science were Herschel's Outlines of Astronomy, Lyell's Principles of Geology, and Dana's Manual of Mineralogy — which even now can occasionally be found lying in secondhand bookshops as relics of that era. But there was bound to be a reaction. The crystallization, the representative figure, of the late-Qing Confucianists appeared in the person of Grand Secretary Xu Tong (徐桐). He not only denounced even mathematics as the learning of foreign devils; although he acknowledged the existence of France and England in the world, he absolutely refused to believe in the existence of Spain and Portugal, maintaining that these were names France and England had fabricated on a whim because they kept coming to demand concessions and were embarrassed about it themselves. He was also the behind-the-scenes instigator and director of the notorious Boxer movement of 1900. But the Boxers were utterly defeated, and Xu Tong committed suicide. The government then once again concluded that foreign political systems, laws, learning, and technology had something to recommend them after all. My own burning desire to go study in Japan dated from that period. Having achieved my goal, I enrolled at the Kobun Institute in Tokyo, established by Mr. Kano (嘉納). There, Mr. Misawa Rikitaro (三澤力太郎) taught me that water is composed of oxygen and hydrogen, and Mr. Yamauchi Shigeo (山內繁雄) taught me that a certain part inside a seashell is called a "mantle." Then one day, the school inspector Mr. Okubo (大久保) assembled everyone and announced: "Since you are all disciples of Confucius, let us go today to pay our respects at the Confucian temple in Ochanomizu!" I was thunderstruck. I still remember thinking at the time: It was precisely because I had despaired of Confucius and his disciples that I came to Japan — and yet here I am expected to worship him again? For a moment I found this very strange. And I am sure I was far from the only one who felt this way. But Confucius's lack of recognition in his own country did not begin in the twentieth century. Mencius (孟子) praised him as "the sage who was in accord with the times," but if one were to translate this into modern language, there is really no other way to put it than "the fashionable sage." For his own sake, this was admittedly a harmless honorific, but it was not an especially welcome title either. In practice, however, things may not have been quite so simple. Confucius was posthumously established as a "fashionable sage"; while he was alive, he endured considerable hardship. He ran about hither and thither, and although he once rose to the eminence of Police Commissioner of the state of Lu, he was immediately forced from office and became unemployed. He was treated with contempt by powerful ministers, mocked by rustics, and even besieged by mobs until his stomach was flat with hunger. Although he enrolled three thousand disciples, only seventy-two proved useful, and of these, only one could truly be trusted. One day, Confucius burst out in indignation: "If my Way does not prevail, I shall get upon a raft and float out to sea. The one who would follow me would surely be You (由)!" From this negative plan, one can already glimpse the situation. Yet even this one — You — later died in battle against enemies. His cap-strings were cut through, but true to form, even at that moment he did not forget the instruction he had received from the Master: "A gentleman dies with his cap on." While retying his cap-strings, he was hacked to mincemeat. Having lost even his sole trustworthy disciple, Confucius was naturally grief-stricken beyond measure. It is said that upon hearing the news, he immediately ordered the mincemeat in the kitchen thrown away. After his death, Confucius's fortunes improved somewhat, I believe. Since he could no longer prattle on, various holders of power applied various shades of white powder to his face, hoisting him to terrifying heights. But compared with Shakyamuni (釋迦牟尼), who was imported later, he was truly pitiable. To be sure, every county had its Temple of the Sage — its Confucian temple — but they all had a lonely, desolate air about them. Ordinary commoners never went there to worship; if they went anywhere, it was to Buddhist monasteries or spirit temples. If you asked the common people who Confucius was, they would of course reply that he was a sage, but this was merely a gramophone record left by those in power. They also showed reverence for written characters and scraps of paper with writing on them, but this was due to the superstition that failure to show such reverence would bring a lightning strike. The Confucius Temple in Nanjing is indeed a bustling place, but that is because of all the various amusements and teahouses there. Although it is said that Confucius composed the Spring and Autumn Annals and that rebellious ministers and traitorous sons trembled, nowadays almost no one can name a single rebellious minister or traitorous son whom the sage denounced with his brush. When it comes to rebellious ministers and traitorous sons, people generally think of Cao Cao (曹操), but they learned this not from the sage's teachings but from the nameless writers of novels and plays. In sum, the Confucius of China was propped up by those in power. He was the sage of those who held power or aspired to hold it, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the ordinary people. Yet even toward the Temple of the Sage, these power-holders showed only a temporary enthusiasm. Since they were already harboring ulterior motives when they venerated Confucius, once their goal was achieved, the instrument became useless; and if the goal was not achieved, it was even more useless. Three or four decades ago, anyone who aspired to gain power — that is to say, anyone who hoped to become an official — read the Four Books and Five Classics and wrote eight-legged essays. Others collectively dubbed these books and essays "door-knocking bricks." This meant that once the civil service examination was passed, these things were simultaneously forgotten, just like the brick used to knock on a door: once the door opens, the brick is tossed aside. This man Confucius has, in truth, been employed as a "door-knocking brick" ever since his death. A glance at the most recent examples makes this even clearer. From the beginning of the twentieth century, Confucius's luck was very bad. But in the era of Yuan Shikai (袁世凱), he was suddenly remembered again: not only were the sacrificial rites restored, but bizarre new sacrificial vestments were created for the officiants to wear. What followed on the heels of this was the attempt to establish a monarchy. But that particular door was never knocked open, and Yuan died outside it. Next came the Beiyang warlords, who, sensing their end approaching, also used Confucius to knock on another door to happiness. General Sun Chuanfang (孫傳芳), who occupied Jiangsu and Zhejiang and casually slaughtered civilians along the roads, simultaneously revived the rite of pitch-pot; General Zhang Zongchang (張宗昌), who had burrowed into Shandong and could no longer keep count of his own money, soldiers, or concubines, reprinted the Thirteen Classics and, treating the Way of the Sage as something that could be transmitted through physical relations like a venereal disease, took one of Confucius's descendants as a son-in-law. Yet the door to happiness still did not open for any of them. All three of these men used Confucius as a brick, but the times had changed, and so they all failed conspicuously. And it was not merely that they themselves failed — they dragged Confucius further into his wretched predicament along with them. They were all men who could barely read, yet insisted on holding forth about the Thirteen Classics and such things, which made people find them ridiculous. Their words and deeds were so utterly inconsistent that they inspired even greater revulsion. Once one has come to loathe the monks, one's hatred extends to the cassock; and the way Confucius had been exploited as a tool for one purpose or another now became glaringly apparent, so that the desire to topple him grew ever more vigorous. Thus, whenever Confucius was decked out in full solemnity, essays and works exposing his shortcomings were sure to appear. Even Confucius, after all, had his shortcomings; in ordinary times no one pays them any attention, because a sage is also a man, and allowances can be made. But when the sage's disciples come out and babble that the sage was this and that, and therefore you must be this and that too, people cannot help but burst out laughing. Five or six years ago, there was a controversy stirred up by the public performance of the play Confucius Meets Nanzi. In that play, Confucius appeared on stage, and as a sage, he was admittedly a bit lacking in gravitas and somewhat wooden, but as a human being, he was a lovable, good-natured character. The sage's descendants, however, were outraged and took the matter all the way to the government offices. The performance happened to take place in Confucius's hometown, where the sage's descendants had multiplied so prolifically that they constituted a privileged class that would make Shakyamuni and Socrates (蘇格拉第) blush with shame. But perhaps that was precisely the reason the non-descendant young people of that place felt compelled to stage Confucius Meets Nanzi in the first place. The ordinary Chinese people, and especially the so-called ignorant masses, call Confucius a sage without actually regarding him as one. They are respectful toward him, but not intimate. Yet I believe that no one in the world understands Confucius quite the way China's ignorant masses do. It is true that Confucius devised splendid methods of governance, but these were all methods conceived for the benefit of those who govern the people — that is, for those in power. For the people themselves, he devised nothing at all. This is the meaning of "Ritual does not extend down to the common people." That the sage of the power-holders should ultimately have been reduced to a "door-knocking brick" — this, one truly cannot call unjust. One cannot say he has no connection with the common people, but if one says there is not the slightest intimacy between them, I believe that would be putting it very politely indeed. To refrain from approaching a sage with whom one feels no intimacy is only natural. Try this at any time you like: put on tattered clothes, go barefoot, and walk into the Hall of Great Accomplishment — you will probably be expelled as quickly as if you had blundered into a first-class Shanghai cinema or a first-class tramcar. Everyone knows these things belong to the great lords and gentlemen. The "ignorant masses," ignorant though they may be, have not yet sunk to that level of ignorance. April 29.
這試題很難解答。　　因為唐代傳奇，是至今還有標本可見的，但現在之所謂六朝小說，我們所依據的只是從《新唐書藝文志》以至清《四庫書目》的判定，有許多種，在六朝當時，卻並不視為小說。例如《漢武故事》，《西京雜記》，《搜神記》，《續齊諧記》等，直至劉癲的《唐書經籍志》，還屬於史部起居注和雜傳類裡的。那時還相信神仙和鬼神，並不以為虛造，所以所記雖有仙凡和幽明之殊，卻都是史的一類。　　況且從晉到隋的書目，現在一種也不存在了，我們已無從知道那時所視為小說的是什麼，有怎樣的形式和內容。現存的惟一最早的目錄只有《隋書經籍志》，修者自謂「遠覽馬史班書，近觀王阮志錄」，也許尚存王儉《今書七志》，阮孝緒《七錄》的痕跡罷，但所錄小說二十五種中，現存的卻只有《燕丹子》和劉義慶撰《世說》合劉孝標注兩種了。此外，則《郭子》，《笑林》，殷芸《小說》，《水飾》，及當時以為隋代已亡的《青史子》，《語林》等，還能在唐宋類書裡遇見一點遺文。　　單從上述這些材料來看，武斷的說起來，則六朝人小說，是沒有記敘神仙或鬼怪的，所寫的幾乎都是人事；文筆是簡潔的；材料是笑柄，談資；但好像很排斥虛構，例如《世說新語》說裴啟《語林》記謝安語不實，謝安一說，這書即大損聲價云云，就是。　　唐代傳奇文可就大兩樣了：神仙人鬼妖物，都可以隨便驅使；文筆是精細，曲折的，至於被崇尚簡古者所詬病；所敘的事，也大抵具有首尾和波瀾，不止一點斷片的談柄；而且作者往往故意顯示著這事蹟的虛構，以見他想像的才能了。　　但六朝人也並非不能想像和描寫，不過他不用於小說，這類文章，那時也不謂之小說。例如阮籍的《大人先生傳》，陶潛的《桃花源記》，其實倒和後來的唐代傳奇文相近；就是嵇康的《聖賢高士傳贊》（今僅有輯本），葛洪的《神仙傳》，也可以看作唐人傳奇文的祖師的。李公佐作《南柯太守傳》，李肇為之贊，這就是嵇康的《高士傳》法；陳鴻《長恨傳》置白居易的長歌之前，元稹的《鸎鸎傳》既錄《會真詩》，又舉李公垂《鸎鸎歌》之名作結，也令人不能不想到《桃花源記》。　　至於他們之所以著作，那是無論六朝或唐人，都是有所為的。《隋書經籍志》抄《漢書藝文志》說，以著錄小說，比之「詢於芻蕘」，就是以為雖然小說，也有所為的明證。不過在實際上，這有所為的範圍卻縮小了。晉人尚清談，講標格，常以寥寥數言，立致通顯，所以那時的小說，多是記載畸行雋語的《世說》一類，其實是借口舌取名位的入門書。唐以詩文取士，但也看社會上的名聲，所以士子入京應試，也須豫先干謁名公，呈獻詩文，冀其稱譽，這詩文叫作「行卷」。詩文既濫，人不欲觀，有的就用傳奇文，來希圖一新耳目，獲得特效了，於是那時的傳奇文，也就和「敲門磚」很有關係。但自然，只被風氣所推，無所為而作者，卻也並非沒有的。	This is a very difficult question to answer. The reason is that Tang dynasty chuanqi tales are something of which specimens can still be seen today, but what we now call "Six Dynasties fiction" — our basis for this classification rests merely on the judgments found in sources from the Bibliographic Treatise of the New Tang History down to the Siku Catalogue of the Qing dynasty. Many of the works so classified were not regarded as fiction at all during the Six Dynasties themselves. For example, the Hanwu Gushi, the Xijing Zaji, the Soushen Ji, and the Xu Qixie Ji were still classified under the categories of Imperial Diaries and Miscellaneous Biographies in the History Section as late as Liu Xu's (劉癲) Bibliographic Treatise of the Old Tang History. People at that time still believed in immortals and ghosts, and did not consider these accounts fabricated; thus, although the records encompassed both the mortal and the supernatural, both the living and the dead, they were all regarded as a branch of history. Moreover, the bibliographic catalogues from the Jin through to the Sui dynasties have all been lost — not a single one survives — so we have no way of knowing what was classified as fiction in those times, nor what forms and content such works possessed. The sole surviving earliest catalogue is the Bibliographic Treatise of the Sui History, whose compilers claimed to have "surveyed afar the histories of Sima and Ban, and examined nearby the catalogues of Wang and Ruan." Perhaps it still preserves traces of Wang Jian's (王儉) Jinshu Qizhi and Ruan Xiaoxu's (阮孝緒) Qilu, but of the twenty-five works of fiction recorded therein, only the Yan Dan Zi and the Shishuo by Liu Yiqing (劉義慶) together with Liu Xiaobiao's (劉孝標) commentary survive. Beyond these, the Guozi, the Xiaolin, Yin Yun's (殷芸) Xiaoshuo, the Shuishi, and works that were already considered lost in the Sui period — such as the Qingshi Zi and the Yulin — can still be found in fragments preserved in Tang and Song dynasty encyclopedias. Judging solely from the materials described above, and speaking with deliberate boldness, one may say that Six Dynasties fiction did not record tales of immortals or ghosts; what it described was almost entirely human affairs. The style was concise. The material consisted of jokes and anecdotes. But there seems to have been a strong aversion to fabrication — for instance, the Shishuo Xinyu records that Pei Qi's (裴啟) Yulin contained inaccurate quotations of Xie An's (謝安) words, and that once Xie An pointed this out, the book's reputation suffered greatly. Tang dynasty chuanqi tales were an altogether different matter. Immortals, humans, ghosts, and supernatural creatures could all be deployed at will. The style was elaborate and intricate, to the point of drawing censure from those who prized simplicity and archaism. The events narrated generally had a beginning and an end, with twists and turns — not merely fragmentary anecdotes. And the authors often deliberately showcased the fictitious nature of their narratives, in order to demonstrate their imaginative powers. Yet it was not that Six Dynasties writers lacked imagination or descriptive ability — they simply did not employ these in fiction, and such writings were not called fiction at the time. For example, Ruan Ji's (阮籍) Biography of Master Great Man and Tao Qian's (陶潛) Peach Blossom Spring are actually quite close to later Tang chuanqi tales. Even Ji Kang's (嵇康) Eulogies of Sages and Lofty Gentlemen (of which only a reconstructed edition survives) and Ge Hong's (葛洪) Biographies of Immortals may be regarded as ancestors of Tang chuanqi. When Li Gongzuo (李公佐) wrote the Tale of the Governor of Nanke, Li Zhao (李肇) composed an encomium for it — this follows the method of Ji Kang's Lofty Gentlemen. Chen Hong's (陳鴻) Tale of Eternal Sorrow was placed before Bai Juyi's (白居易) long poem; Yuan Zhen's (元稹) Tale of Yingying both includes the Poem of the True Encounter and cites Li Gongchui's (李公垂) Song of Yingying by name as a conclusion — all of which cannot but remind one of the Peach Blossom Spring. As for the purposes behind their compositions, both Six Dynasties and Tang writers had their motivations. The Bibliographic Treatise of the Sui History quotes the Bibliographic Treatise of the Han History in saying that the recording of fiction is comparable to "consulting the woodcutters and grass-gatherers" — which is clear proof that even fiction was considered purposeful. In practice, however, the scope of this purposefulness narrowed. During the Jin dynasty, people esteemed pure conversation and valued personal style; a few well-chosen words could often bring instant renown. Thus the fiction of that era consisted largely of works like the Shishuo that recorded eccentric conduct and brilliant remarks — in reality, these were primers for gaining rank and reputation through verbal wit. In the Tang, poets and prose writers were selected through examination, but social reputation also counted; therefore scholars traveling to the capital for the examinations had to call upon eminent personages beforehand and present samples of their poetry and prose, hoping for commendation. These samples were called "presentation scrolls." When poetry and prose became too commonplace and readers lost interest, some turned to chuanqi tales in the hope of catching the eye and achieving a special effect. Thus the chuanqi tales of that era were also closely related to "door-knocking bricks." But naturally, there were also those who wrote purely carried along by the prevailing fashion, without ulterior motives.
「人言可畏」是電影明星阮玲玉自殺之後，發見於她的遺書中的話。這哄動一時的事件，經過了一通空論，已經漸漸冷落了，只要《玲玉香消記》一停演，就如去年的艾霞自殺事件一樣，完全煙消火滅。她們的死，不過像在無邊的人海裡添了幾粒鹽，雖然使扯淡的嘴巴們覺得有些味道，但不久也還是淡，淡，淡。　　這句話，開初是也曾惹起一點小風波的。有評論者，說是使她自殺之咎，可見也在日報記事對於她的訴訟事件的張揚；不久就有一位記者公開的反駁，以為現在的報紙的地位，輿論的威信，可憐極了，那裡還有絲毫主宰誰的運命的力量，況且那些記載，大抵采自經官的事實，絕非捏造的謠言，舊報具在，可以複按。所以阮玲玉的死，和新聞記者是毫無關係的。　　這都可以算是真實話。然而——也不儘然。　　現在的報章之不能像個報章，是真的；評論的不能逞心而談，失了威力，也是真的，明眼人決不會過分的責備新聞記者。但是，新聞的威力其實是並未全盤墜地的，它對甲無損，對乙卻會有傷；對強者它是弱者，但對更弱者它卻還是強者，所以有時雖然吞聲忍氣，有時仍可以耀武揚威。於是阮玲玉之流，就成了發揚餘威的好材料了，因為她頗有名，卻無力。小市民總愛聽人們的醜聞，尤其是有些熟識的人的醜聞。上海的街頭巷尾的老虔婆，一知道近鄰的阿二嫂家有野男人出入，津津樂道，但如果對她講甘肅的誰在偷漢，新疆的誰在再嫁，她就不要聽了。阮玲玉正在現身銀幕，是一個大家認識的人，因此她更是給報章湊熱鬧的好材料，至少也可以增加一點銷場。讀者看了這些，有的想：「我雖然沒有阮玲玉那麼漂亮，卻比她正經」；有的想：「我雖然不及阮玲玉的有本領，卻比她出身高」；連自殺了之後，也還可以給人想：「我雖然沒有阮玲玉的技藝，卻比她有勇氣，因為我沒有自殺」。化幾個銅元就發見了自己的優勝，那當然是很上算的。但靠演藝為生的人，一遇到公眾發生了上述的前兩種的感想，她就夠走到末路了。所以我們且不要高談什麼連自己也並不了然的社會組織或意志強弱的濫調，先來設身處地的想一想罷，那麼，大概就會知道阮玲玉的以為「人言可畏」，是真的，或人的以為她的自殺，和新聞記事有關，也是真的。　　但新聞記者的辯解，以為記載大抵采自經官的事實，卻也是真的。上海的有些介乎大報和小報之間的報章，那社會新聞，幾乎大半是官司已經吃到公安局或工部局去了的案件。但有一點壞習氣，是偏要加上些描寫，對於女性，尤喜歡加上些描寫；這種案件，是不會有名公巨卿在內的，因此也更不妨加上些描寫。案中的男人的年紀和相貌，是大抵寫得老實的，一遇到女人，可就要發揮才藻了，不是「徐娘半老，風韻猶存」，就是「豆蔻年華，玲瓏可愛」。一個女孩兒跑掉了，自奔或被誘還不可知，才子就斷定道，「小姑獨宿，不慣無郎」，你怎麼知道？一個村婦再醮了兩回，原是窮鄉僻壤的常事，一到才子的筆下，就又賜以大字的題目道，「奇淫不減武則天」，這程度你又怎麼知道？這些輕薄句子，加之村姑，大約是並無什麼影響的，她不識字，她的關係人也未必看報。但對於一個智識者，尤其是對於一個出到社會上了的女性，卻足夠使她受傷，更不必說故意張揚，特別渲染的文字了。然而中國的習慣，這些句子是搖筆即來，不假思索的，這時不但不會想到這也是玩弄著女性，並且也不會想到自己乃是人民的喉舌。但是，無論你怎麼描寫，在強者是毫不要緊的，只消一封信，就會有正誤或道歉接著登出來，不過無拳無勇如阮玲玉，可就正做了吃苦的材料了，她被額外的畫上一臉花，沒法洗刷。叫她奮鬥嗎？她沒有機關報，怎麼奮鬥；有冤無頭，有怨無主，和誰奮鬥呢？我們又可以設身處地的想一想，那麼，大概就又知她的以為「人言可畏」，是真的，或人的以為她的自殺，和新聞記事有關，也是真的。　　然而，先前已經說過，現在的報章的失了力量，卻也是真的，不過我以為還沒有到達如記者先生所自謙，竟至一錢不值，毫無責任的時候。因為它對於更弱者如阮玲玉一流人，也還有左右她命運的若干力量的，這也就是說，它還能為惡，自然也還能為善。「有聞必錄」或「並無能力」的話，都不是向上的負責的記者所該採用的口頭禪，因為在實際上，並不如此，——它是有選擇的，有作用的。　　至於阮玲玉的自殺，我並不想為她辯護。我是不贊成自殺，自己也不豫備自殺的。但我的不豫備自殺，不是不屑，卻因為不能。凡有誰自殺了，現在是總要受一通強毅的評論家的呵斥，阮玲玉當然也不在例外。然而我想，自殺其實是不很容易，決沒有我們不豫備自殺的人們所渺視的那麼輕而易舉的。倘有誰以為容易麼，那麼，你倒試試看！　　自然，能試的勇者恐怕也多得很，不過他不屑，因為他有對於社會的偉大的任務。那不消說，更加是好極了，但我希望大家都有一本筆記簿，寫下所盡的偉大的任務來，到得有了曾孫的時候，拿出來算一算，看看怎麼樣。	“Gossip is a fearful thing” — these were words found in the suicide note of film star Ruan Lingyu (阮玲玉) after she killed herself. This sensational affair, after a round of empty talk, has gradually cooled down; once the film The Fragrant Death of Lingyu stops playing, it will be exactly like last year's suicide of Ai Xia (艾霞) — vanished completely without a trace. Their deaths were no more than a few grains of salt tossed into the boundless sea of humanity: although they gave the gossiping mouths something to savor for a while, before long everything was bland, bland, bland once more. This phrase initially stirred up a small tempest of its own. One critic argued that part of the blame for driving her to suicide could be attributed to the way the daily newspapers had trumpeted the details of her lawsuits. But soon a journalist came forward with a public rebuttal, arguing that the present standing of newspapers and the authority of public opinion were too pitifully diminished to possess even the slightest power to determine anyone's fate; moreover, those reports were for the most part based on facts that had already gone through official channels, and were by no means fabricated rumors — the old newspapers were still there and could be consulted. Therefore, Ruan Lingyu's death had nothing whatsoever to do with journalists. Both of these can be considered truthful statements. And yet — not entirely so. It is true that present-day newspapers cannot function as proper newspapers should; it is true that commentary cannot be freely spoken, and has lost its force; no clear-sighted person would excessively blame journalists. But the power of the press has not, in fact, collapsed entirely. Against Party A it may be impotent, but against Party B it can still inflict harm; against the strong it is weak, but against the still weaker it remains strong. So while it must sometimes swallow its pride in silence, at other times it can still swagger and bully. Thus someone like Ruan Lingyu became excellent material for the exercise of this residual power, because she was quite famous but quite powerless. The petty urbanite loves to hear about people's scandals, especially the scandals of people they somewhat know. When the old matchmaker-gossip on a Shanghai lane corner learns that the neighborhood's Second Sister-in-law has a man sneaking in and out, she relishes the tale; but if you tell her about someone in Gansu committing adultery or someone in Xinjiang remarrying, she doesn't want to hear it. Ruan Lingyu appeared on the silver screen regularly; she was someone everyone recognized. This made her even better material for the newspapers' entertainment — at the very least, it could boost circulation a bit. Some readers, seeing these reports, would think: "I may not be as beautiful as Ruan Lingyu, but I'm more virtuous than she is." Others would think: "I may not be as talented as Ruan Lingyu, but my family background is higher than hers." Even after her suicide, people could still think: "I may not have Ruan Lingyu's artistry, but I have more courage than she does, because I haven't killed myself." To discover one's own superiority for the price of a few coppers — that is certainly a good bargain. But for someone who makes a living through performance, the moment the public develops the first two of these sentiments, she is already headed for ruin. So let us not pontificate with highfalutin platitudes about social structures or strength of will that we ourselves do not fully understand; let us first try to put ourselves in her place — and then we will probably understand that Ruan Lingyu's belief that "gossip is a fearful thing" was real, and that the belief that her suicide was connected to news reporting was also real. But the journalists' defense — that the reports were mostly based on facts that had passed through official channels — this too is real. Certain Shanghai newspapers that fall somewhere between major and minor papers fill their social news columns almost entirely with cases that have already reached the Public Security Bureau or the Municipal Council. But there is one bad habit: they insist on adding embellishments, and they particularly love to embellish their descriptions of women. These cases never involve prominent dignitaries, which makes it all the more permissible to add embellishments. The age and appearance of men in the cases are generally described honestly enough, but the moment a woman appears, the writer unleashes his literary flair: if not "a fading beauty, still possessed of charm," then "in the bloom of youth, dainty and adorable." A girl has run away — whether she eloped or was abducted is still unknown — yet the wit pronounces: "The maiden sleeps alone, unaccustomed to being without a lover." How would you know? A village woman has remarried twice — a common enough occurrence in remote rural areas — but under the wit's brush, she is awarded a headline in bold type: "Her extraordinary licentiousness rivals that of Empress Wu Zetian (武則天)." And this degree of licentiousness — how would you know? These flippant phrases, when applied to a village woman, probably have no effect — she cannot read, and her associates may not read newspapers either. But for an educated woman, especially one who has entered public life, such phrases are enough to wound her, not to mention the deliberately publicized and specially embellished articles. Yet in China's custom, such phrases flow from the brush without a second thought. At such moments, the writer not only fails to consider that this too is a form of toying with women, but also fails to consider that he is supposed to be the mouthpiece of the people. However, no matter how you embellish your descriptions, for the powerful it is of no consequence whatsoever — a single letter will suffice for a correction or apology to appear. But for someone without power or influence like Ruan Lingyu, she becomes precisely the material that suffers: her face has been painted over with extra designs, and she has no way to wash them off. You say she should fight? She has no press organ — how is she to fight? With grievances but no target, with wrongs but no defendant — against whom is she to fight? Let us once again try to put ourselves in her place — and then we will probably understand again that her belief that "gossip is a fearful thing" was real, and that the belief that her suicide was connected to news reporting was also real. Yet, as I said before, it is also true that present-day newspapers have lost their power. However, I believe it has not yet reached the degree of worthlessness and complete irresponsibility that the journalist gentleman so modestly claims. For against the still weaker, such as Ruan Lingyu and her kind, the press still possesses a certain power to affect their fate — which is to say, it is still capable of doing evil, and naturally also still capable of doing good. The phrases "we print everything we hear" and "we possess no power" are not slogans that any upwardly aspiring, responsible journalist ought to adopt, because in reality things are not so — the press is selective, and it has effects. As for Ruan Lingyu's suicide, I have no intention of defending her. I am opposed to suicide, and I am not preparing to kill myself either. But my not preparing to kill myself is not because I disdain to — it is because I cannot. Nowadays, anyone who commits suicide is invariably subjected to a round of censure from stalwart critics, and Ruan Lingyu is of course no exception. Yet I think that suicide is in fact not so easy — by no means as light and effortless as we who are not preparing to commit suicide contemptuously imagine. If anyone thinks it easy, then — go ahead and try! Naturally, there are probably plenty of brave souls capable of trying, but they disdain to do so because they have great tasks to perform for society. That goes without saying — all the better. But I hope everyone will keep a little notebook and write down all the great tasks they have performed, and when they have great-grandchildren, pull it out and do the accounts, and see how things stand.
今年的所謂“文人相輕”，不但是混淆黑白的口號，掩護著文壇的昏暗，也在給有一些人“掛著羊頭賣狗肉”的。　　真的“各以所長，相輕所短”的能有多少呢！我們在近凡年所遇見的，有的是“以其所短，輕人所短”。例如白話文中，有些是該屈難讀的，確是一種“短”，於是有人提了小品或語錄，向這一點昂然進攻了，但不久就露出尾巴來，暴露了他連對於自己所提倡的文章，也常常點著破句，“短”得很。有的卻簡直是“以其所短，輕人所長”了。例如輕蔑“雜文”的人，不但他所用的也是“雜文”，而他的“雜文”，比起他所輕蔑的別的“雜文”來，還拙劣到不能相提並論。那些高談闊論，不過是契訶夫（A. Chekhov）所指出的登了不識羞的頂顛，傲視著一切，被輕者是無福和他們比較的，更從什麼地方“相”起？現在謂之“相”，其實是給他們一揚，靠了這“相”，也是“文人”了。然而，“所長”呢？　　況且現在文壇上的糾紛，其實也並不是為了文筆的短長。文學的修養，決不能使人變成木石，所以文人還是人，既然還是人，他心裡就仍然有是非，有愛憎；但又因為是文人，他的是非就愈分明，愛憎也愈熱烈。從聖賢一直敬到騙子屠夫，從美人香草一直受到麻瘋病菌的文人，在這世界上是找不到的，遇見所是和所愛的，他就擁抱，遇見所非和所憎的，他就反撥。如果第三者不以為然了，可以指出他所非的其實是“是”，他所憎的其實該愛來，單用了籠統的“文人相輕”這一句空話，是不能抹殺的，世間還沒有這種便宜事。一有文人，就有糾紛，但到後來，誰是誰非，孰存孰亡，都無不明明白白。因為還有一些讀者，他的是非愛憎，是比和事老的評論家還要清楚的。　　然而，又有人來恐嚇了。他說，你不怕麼？古之嵇康，在柳樹下打鐵，鐘會來看他，他不客氣，問道：“何所聞而來，何所見而去？”於是得罪了鐘文人，後來被他在司馬懿面前搬是非，送命了。所以你無論遇見誰，應該趕緊打拱作揖，讓坐獻茶，連稱“久仰久仰”才是。這自然也許未必全無好處，但做文人做到這地步，不是很有些近乎婊子了麼？況且這位恐嚇家的舉例，其實也是不對的，嵇康的送命，並非為了他是傲慢的文人，大半倒因為他是曹家的女婿，即使鐘會不去搬是非，也總有人去搬是非的，所謂“重賞之下，必有勇夫”者是也。　　不過我在這裡，並非主張文人應該傲慢，或不妨傲慢，只是說，文人不應該隨和；而且文人也不會隨和，會隨和的，只有和事老。但這不隨和，卻又並非回避，只是唱著所是，頌著所愛，而不管所非和所憎；他得像熱烈地主張著所是一樣，熱烈地攻擊著所非，像熱烈地擁抱著所愛一樣，更熱烈地擁抱著所憎——恰如赫爾庫來斯（Hercules）的緊抱了巨人安太烏斯（Antaeus）一樣，因為要折斷他的肋骨。	This year's so-called "mutual contempt among literati" is not merely a slogan that confounds black and white, providing cover for the darkness of the literary world — it is also being used by certain people to "hang up a sheep's head while selling dog meat." How many genuine cases are there of people "each despising in the other what they themselves lack"? What we have encountered in recent years are instances of "using one's own weaknesses to despise the weaknesses of others." For example, in vernacular writing, some passages are indeed stiff and hard to read — that is admittedly a "weakness." So someone comes forward brandishing the xiaoping essay or the recorded-sayings style, charging headlong at this one point. But before long, the tail is exposed: it turns out he himself often misplaces his punctuation even in the very genre he advocates — he is quite "weak" indeed. Others go even further, straightforwardly "using their own weaknesses to despise the strengths of others." For example, those who look down on the zawen essay not only write in zawen form themselves, but their zawen, compared with the zawen they despise, is so wretched it does not even bear comparison. Their lofty pronouncements are nothing but what Chekhov (A. Chekhov) identified as having climbed to the pinnacle of shamelessness, gazing down upon all from on high. Those whom they despise have no hope of being compared with them — so whence comes this "mutual" business? To call it "mutual" now is in fact to flatter them; thanks to this "mutual," they too become "literati." But where, pray tell, are their "strengths"? Moreover, the real disputes in the literary world today are not actually about the strengths and weaknesses of literary style. Literary cultivation cannot turn a person into wood or stone, so a writer is still a human being. Since he is still a human being, he still has a sense of right and wrong, of love and hatred in his heart. And because he is a writer, his sense of right and wrong is all the sharper, his love and hatred all the more intense. A writer who reveres with equal devotion from sages all the way down to swindlers and butchers, who embraces with equal affection from beautiful women and fragrant grasses all the way down to the leprosy bacillus — such a writer cannot be found in this world. When he encounters what he considers right and what he loves, he embraces it; when he encounters what he considers wrong and what he detests, he strikes back. If a third party disagrees, he can point out that what the writer condemned is actually "right," that what he detested actually deserves to be loved — but he cannot use the single vague phrase "mutual contempt among literati" to dismiss everything. The world does not offer such easy bargains. Wherever there are writers, there will be disputes; but in the end, who was right and who was wrong, who survived and who perished, always becomes perfectly clear. For there are still some readers, and their sense of right and wrong, of love and hatred, is clearer than that of the peacemaking critics. And yet, someone comes along with threats. He says: Are you not afraid? In ancient times, Ji Kang (嵇康) was forging iron under a willow tree when Zhong Hui (鍾會) came to visit him. Ji Kang was discourteous and asked: "What did you hear that made you come? What did you see that makes you go?" This offended the literatus Zhong, who later slandered him before Sima Yi (司馬懿), and Ji Kang lost his life. Therefore, whenever you meet anyone, you should immediately bow and scrape, offer a seat and serve tea, and repeatedly exclaim "What an honor, what an honor!" This may admittedly not be entirely without its benefits, but to be a writer reduced to this — is that not rather like being a prostitute? Besides, this threatener's example is actually wrong. Ji Kang's death was not because he was an arrogant writer; it was largely because he was a son-in-law of the Cao family. Even if Zhong Hui had not slandered him, someone else would surely have done so — as the saying goes, "Where there is a rich enough reward, there will always be brave men." However, what I am arguing here is not that writers ought to be arrogant, or that there is no harm in their being arrogant. I am simply saying that writers should not be complaisant. And furthermore, writers cannot be complaisant — those who can be complaisant are merely peacemakers. But this refusal to be complaisant does not mean avoidance; it is not a matter of singing what one affirms and praising what one loves while ignoring what one opposes and what one detests. The writer must attack what he opposes as passionately as he affirms what he supports; he must embrace what he detests even more passionately than he embraces what he loves — just as Heracles (Hercules) clasped the giant Antaeus (Antaeus) tight, because he needed to break his ribs.
木刻的圖畫，原是中國早先就有的東西。唐末的佛像，紙牌，以至後來的小說繡像，啟蒙小圖，我們至今還能夠看見實物。而且由此明白：它本來就是大眾的，也就是「俗」的。明人曾用之於詩箋，近乎雅了，然而歸結是有文人學士在它全體上用大筆一揮，證明了這其實不過是踐踏。　　近五年來驟然興起的木刻，雖然不能說和古文化無關，但決不是葬中枯骨，換了新裝，它乃是作者和社會大眾的內心的一致的要求，所以僅有若干青年們的一副鐵筆和幾塊木板，便能發展得如此蓬蓬勃勃。它所表現的是藝術學徒的熱誠，因此也常常是現代社會的魂魄。實績具在，說它「雅」，固然是不可的，但指為「俗」，卻又斷乎不能。這之前，有木刻了，卻未曾有過這境界。　　這就是所以為新興木刻的緣故，也是所以為大眾所支持的原因。血脈相通，當然不會被漠視的。所以木刻不但淆亂了雅俗之辨而已，實在還有更光明，更偉大的事業在它的前面。　　曾被看作高尚的風景和靜物畫，在新的木刻上是減少了，然而看起出品來，這二者反顯著較優的成績。因為中國舊畫，兩者最多，耳濡目染，不覺見其久經攝取的所長了，而現在最需要的，也是作者最著力的人物和故事畫，卻仍然不免有些遜色，平常的器具和形態，也間有不合實際的。由這事實，一面固足見古文化之裨助著後來，也束縛著後來，但一面也可見入「俗」之不易了。　　這選集，是聚全國出品的精粹的第一本。但這是開始，不是成功，是幾個前哨的進行，願此後更有無盡的旌旗蔽空的大隊。	Woodcut pictures were originally something China already possessed in earlier times. Late Tang Buddhist images, playing cards, and later the illustrated frontispieces of novels and primers for children — we can still see actual specimens of all of these today. And from them we can understand that woodcut art was from the beginning a popular art, which is to say, a "vulgar" one. During the Ming dynasty, it was used for poetry stationery, which brought it close to the realm of the "elegant"; but in the end, what happened was that a literatus-scholar took his large brush and swept it across the entire surface — proving that this was in fact no more than an act of trampling. The woodcut art that has suddenly risen in the last five years, although it cannot be said to have no connection with ancient culture, is by no means a case of exhuming bones from a tomb and dressing them in new clothes. It is a unanimous demand arising from the inner hearts of artists and the broad masses of society alike. This is why a few young people armed with nothing more than iron styluses and wooden boards have been able to develop it with such vigorous vitality. What it expresses is the passionate sincerity of art students, and for this reason it is also often the very soul of modern society. Its concrete achievements are plain to see: to call it "elegant" would certainly be wrong, but to dismiss it as "vulgar" is absolutely impossible. Before this, woodcuts existed — but never on this plane. This is why it is called the new woodcut movement, and this is why it has won the support of the masses. Where blood flows through the same veins, it will naturally not be ignored. The woodcut is therefore not merely something that has blurred the distinction between the elegant and the vulgar; in truth, there is an even brighter and greater enterprise awaiting it in the future. Landscape and still-life pictures, once regarded as lofty, have diminished in the new woodcut art; yet when one examines the output, it is precisely these two genres that display relatively superior results. This is because old Chinese painting was most abundant in these two genres, and through long familiarity — seeing and hearing them constantly — one unconsciously absorbs their accumulated strengths. Meanwhile, the figure and narrative pictures that are most needed today, and to which artists devote the greatest effort, still inevitably fall somewhat short, and even ordinary utensils and forms occasionally lack verisimilitude. From this fact, one can see on the one hand that ancient culture aids what comes after, yet also shackles it; on the other hand, one can also see how difficult it is to truly enter the "vulgar." This anthology is the first volume gathering the finest output from across the entire nation. But this is a beginning, not an accomplishment; it is the advance of a few scouts. May there follow an endless grand army with banners filling the sky.
二十年來，中國已經有了一些作家，多少作品，而且至今還沒有完結，所以有個「文壇」，是毫無可疑的。不過搬出去開博覽會，卻還得顧慮一下。　　因為文字的難，學校的少，我們的作家裡面，恐怕未必有村姑變成的才女，牧童化出的文豪。古時候聽說有過一面看牛牧羊，一面讀經，終於成了學者的人的，但現在恐怕未必有。——我說了兩回「恐怕未必」，倘真有例外的天才，尚希鑒原為幸。要之，凡有弄弄筆墨的人們，他先前總有一點憑藉：不是祖遺的正在少下去的錢，就是父積的還在多起來的錢。要不然，他就無緣讀書識字。現在雖然有了識字運動，我也不相信能夠由此運出作家來。所以這文壇，從陰暗這方面看起來，暫時大約還要被兩大類子弟，就是「破落戶」和「暴發戶」所佔據。　　已非暴發，又未破落的，自然也頗有出些著作的人，但這並非第三種，不近於甲，即近於乙的，至於掏腰包印書，仗奩資出版者，那是文壇上的捐班，更不在本論範圍之內。所以要說專仗筆墨的作者，首先還得求之於破落戶中。他先世也許暴發過，但現在是文雅勝於算盤，家景大不如意了，然而又因此看見世態的炎涼，人生的苦樂，於是真的有些撫今追昔，「纏綿悱惻」起來。一歎天時不良，二歎地理可惡，三歎自己無能。但這無能又並非真無能，乃是自己不屑有能，所以這無能的高尚，倒遠在有能之上。你們劍拔弩張，汗流浹背，到底做成了些什麼呢？惟我的頹唐相，是「十年一覺揚州夢」惟我的破衣上，是「襟上杭州舊酒痕」，連懶態和污漬，也都有歷史的甚深意義的。可惜俗人不懂得，於是他們的傑作上，就大抵放射著一種特別的神彩，是：「顧影自憐」。暴發戶作家的作品，表面上和破落戶的並無不同。因為他意在用墨水洗去銅臭，這才爬上一向為破落戶所主宰的文壇來，以自附于「風雅之林」，又並不想另樹一幟，因此也決不標新立異。但仔細一看，卻是屬於別一本戶口冊上的；他究竟顯得淺薄，而且裝腔，學樣。房裡會有斷句的諸子，看不懂；案頭也會有石印的駢文，讀不斷。也會嚷「襟上杭州舊酒痕」呀，但一面又怕別人疑心他穿破衣，總得設法表示他所穿的乃是筆挺的洋服或簇新的綢衫；也會說「十年一覺揚州夢」的，但其實倒是並不揮霍的好品行，因為暴發戶之于金錢，覺得比懶態和污漬更有歷史的甚深的意義。破落戶的頹唐，是掉下來的悲聲，暴發戶的做作的頹唐，卻是「爬上去」的手段。所以那些作品，即使摹擬到和破落戶的傑作幾乎相同，但一定還差一塵：他其實並不「顧影自憐」，倒在「沾沾自喜」。　　這「沾沾自喜」的神情，從破落戶的眼睛看來，就是所謂「小家子相」，也就是所謂「俗」。風雅的定律，一個人離開「本色」，是就要「俗」的。不識字人不算俗，他要掉文，又掉不對，就俗；富家兒郎也不算俗，他要做詩，又做不好，就俗了。這在文壇上，向來為破落戶所鄙棄。　　然而破落戶到了破落不堪的時候，這兩戶卻有時可以交融起來的。如果誰有在找「詞彙」的《文選》，大可以查一查，我記得裡面就有一篇彈文，所彈的乃是一個敗落的世家，把女兒嫁給了暴發而冒充世家的滿家子：這就足見兩戶的怎樣反撥，也怎樣的聯合了。文壇上自然也有這現象；但在作品上的影響，卻不過使暴發戶增添一些得意之色，破落戶則對於「俗」變為謙和，向別方面大談其風雅而已：並不怎麼大。　　暴發戶爬上文壇，固然未能免俗，歷時既久，一面持籌握算，一面誦詩讀書，數代以後，就雅起來，待到藏書日多，藏錢日少的時候，便有做真的破落戶文學的資格了。然而時勢的飛速的變化，有時能不給他這許多修養的工夫，於是暴發不久，破落隨之，既「沾沾自喜」，也「顧影自憐」，但卻又失去了「沾沽自喜」的確信，可又還沒有配得「顧影自憐」的風姿，僅存無聊，連古之所謂雅俗也說不上了。向來無定名，我姑且名之為「破落暴發戶」罷。這一戶，此後是恐怕要多起來的。但還要有變化：向積極方面走，是惡少；向消極方面走，是癟三。　　使中國的文學有起色的人，在這三戶之外。	Over the past twenty years, China has produced a number of writers and a body of works — and since the process has not yet come to an end, the existence of a "literary world" is beyond question. Whether it is ready to be taken abroad and displayed at an exposition, however, requires some deliberation. Because of the difficulty of the written language and the scarcity of schools, I am afraid our writers are unlikely to include any village girl transformed into a talented woman, or any cowherd boy metamorphosed into a literary giant. In ancient times, it is said, there were people who read the classics while tending cattle or herding sheep, and eventually became scholars — but this is probably no longer the case today. I have said "probably not" twice now; if there happen to be exceptional geniuses, I beg their kind indulgence. In any case, everyone who dabbles in writing has had some prior advantage: either ancestral money that is gradually dwindling, or paternal money that is still accumulating. Without this, one would have no opportunity to learn to read and write. Although there is now a literacy campaign, I do not believe it can produce writers. So this literary world, viewed from its darker side, will for the time being probably continue to be occupied by two great categories of offspring: the "bankrupt gentry" and the "nouveau riche." Those who are neither newly rich nor yet bankrupt naturally also produce some writings, but these are not a third type — they lean either toward the one or toward the other. As for those who pay out of their own pockets to print books, relying on dowry funds to publish — they are the literary world's purchasers of honorary rank and fall outside the scope of this discussion. So if we want to speak of writers who rely solely on their pens, we must first look among the bankrupt gentry. Their forebears may once have struck it rich, but now refinement has triumphed over the abacus, and the family's circumstances have greatly deteriorated. Yet precisely because of this, they have seen the fickleness of the world and the joys and sorrows of human life, and they truly begin to brood on the past and sigh over the present — "tenderly and plaintively," as it were. First they lament the unkindness of the times; second they lament the hostility of their surroundings; third they lament their own incapacity. But this incapacity is not real incapacity — it is rather that they disdain to be capable, so that this lofty incapacity towers far above mere capability. You with your swords drawn and bows strung, sweating from every pore — what have you actually accomplished? Only my air of decadence is "an awakening after ten years' dream in Yangzhou"; only the stains on my worn-out robe are "old wine stains from Hangzhou on my lapel" — even my languid attitude and my dirt carry the profoundest historical significance. It is a pity that the vulgar do not understand this, and so the masterworks of these writers generally radiate a special luster, which is: "gazing at one's own shadow in self-pity." The works of nouveau riche writers appear superficially no different from those of the bankrupt gentry. For their intention is to wash away the stink of money with ink, and it is precisely for this that they have clambered up onto a literary stage hitherto monopolized by the bankrupt gentry, in order to attach themselves to the "groves of refinement." They have no desire to plant a separate banner, and therefore never make bold innovations. But on closer inspection, they belong to a different census register. They are, after all, obviously shallow, and they posture and imitate. Their rooms may contain punctuated editions of the ancient philosophers that they cannot read; their desks may hold lithographic collections of parallel prose that they cannot parse. They too will cry "old wine stains from Hangzhou on my lapel!" — but at the same time they are afraid someone might suspect them of wearing ragged clothes, so they must somehow indicate that what they actually wear is a crisply pressed Western suit or a brand-new silk gown. They too will say "an awakening after ten years' dream in Yangzhou" — but in truth they have the perfectly good character of never squandering, for the nouveau riche regard money as having a profounder historical significance than languid attitudes or dirt stains. The decadence of the bankrupt gentry is the mournful sound of falling; the affected decadence of the nouveau riche, however, is a means of "climbing up." Thus, even when their works imitate the masterpieces of the bankrupt gentry to the point of near-identity, there remains an irreducible difference: they do not in fact "gaze at their own shadow in self-pity" — rather, they are "smugly self-satisfied." This air of "smug self-satisfaction," as seen through the eyes of the bankrupt gentry, is what is called a "petty-bourgeois manner" — in other words, what is called "vulgar." According to the laws of elegance, the moment a person departs from his "true colors," he becomes "vulgar." An illiterate person is not considered vulgar; but if he tries to show off his learning and gets it wrong, that is vulgar. The son of a wealthy house is not considered vulgar either; but if he tries to write poetry and writes it badly, that is vulgar. In the literary world, this has always been despised by the bankrupt gentry. Yet when the bankrupt gentry have become bankrupt beyond all remedy, these two households can sometimes merge. If anyone has a copy of the Wen Xuan — that treasury from which people go looking for "vocabulary" — they might do well to look it up. If I remember correctly, it contains an impeachment memorial whose target is a ruined aristocratic family that married off a daughter to a nouveau riche house masquerading as old nobility. From this, one can see how the two households repelled each other, and yet also how they united. The literary world naturally exhibits the same phenomenon; but as for the effect on their works, it merely gives the nouveau riche an added air of complacency while the bankrupt gentry become more tolerant toward "vulgarity" and go off to hold forth on elegance in other directions — nothing very significant. When the nouveau riche climb onto the literary stage, they cannot, of course, avoid being vulgar. But as time passes, and they divide their days between handling the abacus and reading poetry and books, after several generations they become refined. And when their libraries grow while their coffers shrink, they finally possess the qualifications to produce genuine bankrupt-gentry literature. Yet the swift changes of the times sometimes do not grant them this leisure for cultivation. Thus, no sooner have they struck it rich than bankruptcy follows — they are simultaneously "smugly self-satisfied" and "gazing at their own shadow in self-pity." But they have lost the conviction of their smug self-satisfaction, and have not yet acquired the grace proper to gazing at one's shadow in self-pity. All that remains is ennui; one can no longer speak even of the old-fashioned categories of elegant and vulgar. This type has hitherto had no established name; I shall tentatively christen it the "bankrupt nouveau riche." This household, I am afraid, is going to become more numerous in the future. But further changes will come: those who move in a positive direction become hooligans; those who move in a negative direction become deadbeats. The person who will give Chinese literature a new lease on life lies outside these three households.
「幫閒文學」曾經算是一個惡毒的貶辭，——但其實是誤解的。《詩經》是後來的一部經，但春秋時代，其中的有幾篇就用之於侑酒；屈原是「楚辭」的開山老祖，而他的《離騷》，卻只是不得幫忙的不平。到得宋玉，就現有的作品看起來，他已經毫無不平，是一位純粹的清客了。然而《詩經》是經，也是偉大的文學作品；屈原宋玉，在文學史上還是重要的作家。為什麼呢？——就因為他究竟有文采。中國的開國的雄主，是把「幫忙」和「幫閒」分開來的，前者參與國家大事，作為重臣，後者卻不過叫他獻詩作賦，「俳優蓄之」，只在弄臣之例。不滿於後者的待遇的是司馬相如，他常常稱病，不到武帝面前去獻殷勤，卻暗暗的作了關於封禪的文章，藏在家裡，以見他也有計畫大典——幫忙的本領，可惜等到大家知道的時候，他已經「壽終正寢」了。然而雖然並未實際上參與封禪的大典，司馬相如在文學史上也還是很重要的作家。為什麼呢？就因為他究竟有文采。但到文雅的庸主時，「幫忙」和「幫閒」的可就混起來了，所謂國家的柱石，也常是柔媚的詞臣，我們在南朝的幾個末代時，可以找出這實例。然而主雖然「庸」，卻不「陋」，所以那些幫閒者，文采卻究竟還有的，他們的作品，有些也至今不滅。誰說「幫閒文學」是一個惡毒的貶辭呢？就是權門的清客，他也得會下幾盤棋，寫一筆字，畫畫兒，識古董，懂得些猜拳行令，打趣插科，這才能不失其為清客。也就是說，清客，還要有清客的本領的，雖然是有骨氣者所不屑為，卻又非搭空架者所能企及。例如李漁的《一家言》，袁枚的《隨園詩話》，就不是每個幫閒都做得出來的。必須有幫閒之志，又有幫閒之才，這才是真正的幫閒。如果有其志而無其才，亂點古書，重抄笑話，吹拍名士，拉扯趣聞，而居然不顧臉皮，大擺架子，反自以為得意，——自然也還有人以為有趣，——但按其實，卻不過「扯淡」而已。幫閒的盛世是幫忙，到末代就只剩了這扯淡。六月六日。	"Hangers-on literature" was once considered a vicious term of abuse — but in truth this rests on a misunderstanding. The Book of Songs became a canonical scripture in later ages, yet in the Spring and Autumn period several of its poems were already used to accompany wine-drinking. Qu Yuan (屈原) was the founding patriarch of the "Songs of Chu," yet his Li Sao was nothing more than the indignation of one denied the chance to serve. By the time we reach Song Yu (宋玉), judging from the works that survive, he had shed all indignation entirely and become a pure retainer. And yet the Book of Songs is a classic — and a great work of literature; Qu Yuan and Song Yu remain important figures in literary history. Why? — Because they genuinely possessed literary talent. China's founding dynastic heroes drew a distinction between "helping out" and "hanging around." Those in the former category participated in affairs of state as important ministers; the latter were merely ordered to compose poems and rhapsodies and kept as entertainers — "maintained like jesters" — ranked among the buffoons. One who resented this treatment was Sima Xiangru (司馬相如): he frequently pleaded illness and refused to appear before Emperor Wu to curry favor, yet secretly composed essays on the Feng and Shan sacrifices and hid them at home, to demonstrate that he, too, possessed the ability to plan grand ceremonies — that is, to truly "help out." Unfortunately, by the time everyone learned of this, he had already "died peacefully in his bed." Nevertheless, though he never actually participated in the Feng and Shan rites, Sima Xiangru remains a very important writer in literary history. Why? Because he genuinely possessed literary talent. But under the reign of refined yet mediocre rulers, "helping out" and "hanging around" became confused with each other, and those called pillars of the state were often nothing but fawning courtier-poets. We can find ample examples of this in the final dynasties of the Southern Dynasties. Yet though the ruler was "mediocre," he was not "vulgar," and so those hangers-on still genuinely possessed literary talent, and some of their works endure to this day. Who says "hangers-on literature" is a vicious term of abuse? Even a retainer in the mansion of the powerful must know how to play a few games of chess, write a decent hand, paint a little, appraise antiques, understand drinking games and finger-guessing, crack jokes and play the fool — only then can he maintain his status as a retainer. Which is to say: a retainer must still possess a retainer's abilities. Though men of backbone would scorn the role, it is equally beyond the reach of those who are merely empty poseurs. For example, Li Yu's (李漁) Casual Expressions of Idle Feeling or Yuan Mei's (袁枚) Random Notes on Poetry from the Sui Garden — these are not works that just any hanger-on could produce. One must possess both the aspiration of a hanger-on and the talent of a hanger-on: only then is one a true hanger-on. If one has the aspiration but lacks the talent — randomly annotating old books, copying out recycled jokes, flattering celebrities, dragging in bits of gossip — and yet has the shamelessness to put on grand airs and considers it all rather splendid — naturally there will still be some who find it amusing — but in substance, it is nothing more than "rubbish." The golden age of hangers-on is helping out; by the dynasty's end, all that remains is this rubbish. June 6.
聽到了拙著《中國小說史略》的日本譯《支那小說史》已經到了出版的機運，非常之高興，但因此又感到自己的衰退了。回憶起來，大約四五年前罷，增田涉君幾乎每天到寓齋來商量這一本書，有時也縱談當時文壇的情形，很為愉快。那時候，我是還有這樣的餘暇，而且也有再加研究的野心的。但光陰如駛，近來卻連一妻一子，也將為累，至於收集書籍之類，更成為身外的長物了。改訂《小說史略》的機緣，恐怕也未必有。所以恰如準備輟筆的老人，見了自己的全集的印成而高興一樣，我也因而高興的罷。然而，積習好像也還是難忘的。關於小說史的事情，有時也還加以注意，說起較大的事來，則有今年已成故人的馬廉教授，于去年翻印了「清平山堂」殘本，使宋人話本的材料更加豐富；鄭振鐸教授又證明了《西遊記》中的《西遊記》是吳承恩《西遊記》的摘錄，而並非祖本，這是可以訂正拙著第十六篇的所說的，那精確的論文，就收錄在《痀僂集》裡。還有一件，是《金瓶梅詞話》被發見於北平，為通行至今的同書的祖本，文章雖比現行本粗率，對話卻全用山東的方言所寫，確切的證明了這決非江蘇人王世貞所作的書。但我卻並不改訂，目睹其不完不備，置之不問，而只對於日本譯的出版，自在高興了。但願什麼時候，還有補這懶惰之過的時機。這一本書，不消說，是一本有著寂寞的運命的書。然而增田君排除困難，加以翻譯，賽棱社主三上於菟吉氏不顧利害，給它出版，這是和將這寂寞的書帶到書齋裡去的讀者諸君，我都真心感謝的。一九三五年六月九日燈下，魯迅。	Hearing that the Japanese translation of my modest work A Brief History of Chinese Fiction — rendered as Shina shōsetsu shi — has reached the point of publication fills me with great pleasure. Yet it also makes me feel my own decline. Looking back, it must have been about four or five years ago: Mr. Masuda Wataru (増田涉) came to my study almost daily to discuss this book, and sometimes we would talk freely about the state of the literary world, which was most enjoyable. In those days I still had such leisure, and the ambition to pursue further research as well. But time flies like a galloping horse: recently even one wife and one child have begun to weigh upon me, and as for collecting books and the like, these have become nothing but superfluous possessions. The occasion to revise the Brief History will probably never come. So, just as an old man preparing to lay down his pen rejoices at seeing his collected works in print, I too rejoice for this same reason. And yet old habits, it seems, are hard to forget. Matters concerning the history of fiction still occasionally catch my attention. To speak of something relatively significant: Professor Ma Lian (馬廉), who this year has become a man of the past, reprinted last year the surviving fragments of the Qingpingshantang edition, enriching the materials on Song dynasty storytellers' prompt-books. Professor Zheng Zhenduo (鄭振鐸) further demonstrated that the Journey to the West contained within the Journey to the West anthology is an abridgment of Wu Cheng'en's (吳承恩) Journey to the West, and not its prototype — a finding that can correct what I wrote in Chapter Sixteen of my modest work. His precise essay is collected in the volume Goulou ji. There is yet another matter: the discovery in Beiping of the Jin Ping Mei cihua, the prototype of the same work in circulation to this day. Though its prose is cruder than the current edition, the dialogue is written entirely in Shandong dialect, conclusively proving that this was decidedly not a book written by Wang Shizhen (王世貞) of Jiangsu. Yet I have not revised anything. I gaze upon its incompleteness and inadequacy, leave it be, and simply take pleasure in the publication of the Japanese translation. I only hope that someday there will still be an opportunity to make up for this laziness. This book, needless to say, is one fated to a lonely existence. Yet Mr. Masuda overcame difficulties to translate it, and Mr. Mikami Otokich (三上於菟吉), proprietor of Sairen-sha, published it regardless of profit or loss — for this, and for the readers who will carry this lonely book into their studies, I offer my heartfelt thanks. June 9, 1935, by lamplight. Lu Xun.
一極平常的豫想，也往往會給實驗打破。我向來總以為翻譯比創作容易，因為至少是無須構想。但到真的一譯，就會遇著難關，譬如一個名詞或動詞，寫不出，創作時候可以回避，翻譯上卻不成，也還得想，一直弄到頭昏眼花，好像在腦子裡面摸一個急於要開箱子的鑰匙，卻沒有。嚴又陵說，「一名之立，旬月躊躕」，是他的經驗之談，的的確確的。新近就因為豫想的不對，自己找了一個苦吃。《世界文庫》的編者要我譯果戈理的《死魂靈》，沒有細想，一口答應了。這書我不過曾經草草的看過一遍，覺得寫法平直，沒有現代作品的希奇古怪，那時的人們還在蠟燭光下跳舞，可見也不會有什麼摩登名詞，為中國所未有，非譯者來閉門生造不可的。我最怕新花樣的名詞，譬如電燈，其實也不算新花樣了，一個電燈的另件，我叫得出六樣：花線，燈泡，燈罩，沙袋，撲落，開關。但這是上海話，那後三個，在別處怕就行不通。《一天的工作》裡有一篇短篇，講到鐵廠，後來有一位在北方鐵廠裡的讀者給我一封信，說其中的機件名目，沒有一個能夠使他知道實物是什麼的。嗚呼，——這裡只好嗚呼了——其實這些名目，大半乃是十九世紀末我在江南學習挖礦時，得之老師的傳授。不知是古今異時，還是南北異地之故呢，隔膜了。在青年文學家靠它修養的《莊子》和《文選》或者明人小品裡，也找不出那些名目來。沒有法子。「三十六著，走為上著」，最沒有弊病的是莫如不沾手。可恨我還太自大，竟又小覷了《死魂靈》，以為這倒不算什麼，擔當回來，真的又要翻譯了。於是「苦」字上頭。仔細一讀，不錯，寫法的確不過平鋪直敘，但到處是刺，有的明白，有的卻隱藏，要感得到；雖然重譯，也得竭力保存它的鋒頭。裡面確沒有電燈和汽車，然而十九世紀上半期的菜單，賭具，服裝，也都是陌生傢伙。這就勢必至於字典不離手，冷汗不離身，一面也自然只好怪自己語學程度的不夠格。但這一杯偶然自大了一下的罰酒是應該喝幹的：硬著頭皮譯下去。到得煩厭，疲倦了的時候，就隨便拉本新出的雜誌來翻翻，算是休息。這是我的老脾氣，休息之中，也略含幸災樂禍之意，其意若曰：這回是輪到我舒舒服服的來看你們在鬧什麼花樣了。好像華蓋運還沒有交完，仍舊不得舒服。拉到手的是《文學》四卷六號，一翻開來，卷頭就有一幅紅印的大廣告，其中說是下一號裡，要有我的散文了，題目叫作「未定」。往回一想，編輯先生的確曾經給我一封信，叫我寄一點文章，但我最怕的正是所謂做文章，不答。文章而至於要做，其苦可知。不答者，即答曰不做之意。不料一面又登出廣告來了，情同綁票，令我為難。但同時又想到這也許還是自己錯，我曾經發表過，我的文章，不是湧出，乃是擠出來的。他大約正抓住了這弱點，在用擠出法；而且我遇見編輯先生們時，也間或覺得他們有想擠之狀，令人寒心。先前如果說：「我的文章，是擠也擠不出來的」，那恐怕要安全得多了，我佩服陀思妥也夫斯基的少談自己，以及有些文豪們的專講別人。但是，積習還未盡除，稿費又究竟可以換米，寫一點也還不算什麼「冤沉海底」。筆，是有點古怪的，它有編輯先生一樣的「擠」的本領。袖手坐著，想打盹，筆一在手，面前放一張稿子紙，就往往會莫名其妙的寫出些什麼來。自然，要好，可不見得。二還是翻譯《死魂靈》的事情。躲在書房裡，是只有這類事情的。動筆之前，就先得解決一個問題：竭力使它歸化，還是儘量保存洋氣呢？日本文的譯者上田進君，是主張用前一法的。他以為諷刺傳品的翻譯，第一當求其易懂，愈易懂，效力也愈廣大。所以他的譯文，有時就化一句為數句，很近於解釋。我的意見卻兩樣的。只求易懂，不如創作，或者改作，將事改為中國事，人也化為中國人。如果還是翻譯，那麼，首先的目的，就在博覽外國的作品，不但移情，也要益智，至少是知道何地何時，有這等事，和旅行外國，是很相像的：它必須有異國情調，就是所謂洋氣。其實世界上也不會有完全歸化的譯文，倘有，就是貌合神離，從嚴辨別起來，它算不得翻譯。凡是翻譯，必須兼顧著兩面，一當然力求其易解，一則保存著原作的丰姿，但這保存，卻又常常和易懂相矛盾：看不慣了。不過它原是洋鬼子，當然誰也看不慣，為比較的順眼起見，只能改換他的衣裳，卻不該削低他的鼻子，剜掉他的眼睛。我是不主張削鼻剜眼的，所以有些地方，仍然寧可譯得不順口。只是文句的組織，無須科學理論似的精密了，就隨隨便便，但副詞的「地」字，卻還是使用的，因為我覺得現在看慣了這字的讀者已經很不少。然而「幸乎不幸乎」，我竟因此發見我的新職業了：做西崽。還是當作休息的翻雜誌，這回是在《人間世》二十八期上遇見了林語堂先生的大文，摘錄會損精神，還是抄一段——「……今人一味仿效西洋，自稱摩登，甚至不問中國文法，必欲仿效英文，分『歷史地』為形容詞，『歷史地的』為狀詞，以模仿英文之historic-al-ly，拖一西洋辮子，然則『快來』何不因『快』字是狀詞而改為『快地的來』？此類把戲，只是洋場孽少怪相，談文學雖不足，當西崽頗有才。此種流風，其弊在奴，救之之道，在於思。」（《今文八弊》中）其實是「地」字之類的採用，並非一定從高等華人所擅長的英文而來的。「英文」「英文」，一笑一笑。況且看上文的反問語氣，似乎「一味仿效西洋」的「今人」，實際上也並不將「快來」改為「快地的來」，這僅是作者的虛構，所以助成其名文，殆即所謂「保得自身為主，則圓通自在，大暢無比」之例了。不過不切實，倘是「自稱摩登」的「今人」所說，就是「其弊在浮」。倘使我至今還住在故鄉，看了這一段文章，是懂得，相信的。我們那裡只有幾個洋教堂，裡面想必各有幾位西崽，然而很難得遇見。要研究西崽，只能用自己做標本，雖不過「頗」，也夠合用了。又是「幸乎不幸乎」，後來竟到了上海，上海住著許多洋人，因此有著許多西崽，因此也給了我許多相見的機會；不但相見，我還得了和他們中的幾位談天的光榮。不錯，他們懂洋話，所懂的大抵是「英文」，「英文」，然而這是他們的吃飯傢伙，專用於服事洋東家的，他們決不將洋辮子拖進中國話裡來，自然更沒有搗亂中國文法的意思，有時也用幾個音譯字，如「那摩溫」，「土司」之類，但這也是向來用慣的話，並非標新立異，來表示自己的摩登的。他們倒是國粹家，一有餘閒，拉皮胡，唱《探母》；上工穿制服，下工換華裝，間或請假出遊，有錢的就是緞鞋綢衫子。不過要戴草帽，眼鏡也不用玳瑁邊的老樣式，倘用華洋的「門戶之見」看起來，這兩樣卻不免是缺點。又倘使我要另找職業，能說英文，我可真的肯去做西崽的，因為我以為用工作換錢，西崽和華僕在人格上也並無高下，正如用勞力在外資工廠或華資工廠換得工資，或用學費在外國大學或中國大學取得資格，都沒有卑賤和清高之分一樣。西崽之可厭不在他的職業，而在他的「西崽相」。這裡之所謂「相」，非說相貌，乃是「誠於中而形於外」的，包括著「形式」和「內容」而言。這「相」，是覺得洋人勢力，高於群華人，自己懂洋話，近洋人，所以也高於群華人；但自己又系出黃帝，有古文明，深通華情，勝洋鬼子，所以也勝於勢力高於群華人的洋人，因此也更勝於還在洋人之下的群華人。租界上的中國巡捕，也常常有這一種「相」。倚徙華洋之間，往來主奴之界，這就是現在洋場上的「西崽相」。但又並不是騎牆，因為他是流動的，較為「圓通自在」，所以也自得其樂，除非你掃了他的興頭。三由前所說，「西崽相」就該和他的職業有關了，但又不全和職業相關，一部份卻來自未有西崽以前的傳統。所以這一種相，有時是連清高的士大夫也不能免的。「事大」，歷史上有過的，「自大」，事實上也常有的；「事大」和「自大」，雖然不相容，但因「事大」而「自大」，卻又為實際上所常見——他足以傲視一切連「事大」也不配的人們。有人佩服得五體投地的《野叟曝言》中，那「居一人之下，在眾人之上」的文素臣，就是這標本。他是崇華，抑夷，其實卻是「滿崽」；古之「滿崽」，正猶今之「西崽」也。所以雖是我們讀書人，自以為勝西崽遠甚，而洗伐未淨，說話一多，也常常會露出尾巴來的。再抄一段名文在這裡——「……其在文學，今日紹介波蘭詩人，明日紹介捷克文豪，而對於已經聞名之英美法德文人，反厭為陳腐，不欲深察，求一究竟。此與婦女新裝求入時一樣，總是媚字一字不是，自歎女兒身，事人以顏色，其苦不堪言。此種流風，其弊在浮，救之之道，在於學。」（《今文八弊》中）但是，這種「新裝」的開始，想起來卻長久了，「紹介波蘭詩人」，還在三十年前，始於我的《摩羅詩力說》。那時滿清宰華，漢民受制，中國境遇，頗類波蘭，讀其詩歌，即易於心心相印，不但無事大之意，也不存獻媚之心。後來上海的《小說月報》，還曾為弱小民族作品出過專號，這種風氣，現在是衰歇了，即偶有存者，也不過一脈的餘波。但生長於民國的幸福的青年，是不知道的，至於附勢奴才，拜金崽子，當然更不會知道。但即使現在紹介波蘭詩人，捷克文豪，怎麼便是「媚」呢？他們就沒有「已經聞名」的文人嗎？況且「已經聞名」，是誰聞其「名」，又何從而「聞」的呢？誠然，「英美法德」，在中國有宣教師，在中國現有或曾有租界，幾處有駐軍，幾處有軍艦，商人多，用西崽也多，至於使一般人僅知有「大英」，「花旗」，「法蘭西」和「茄門」，而不知世界上還有波蘭和捷克。但世界文學史，是用了文學的眼睛看，而不用勢利眼睛看的，所以文學無須用金錢和槍炮作掩護，波蘭捷克，雖然未曾加入八國聯軍來打過北京，那文學卻在，不過有一些人，並未「已經聞名」而已。外國的文人，要在中國聞名，靠作品似乎是不夠的，他反要得到輕薄。所以一樣的沒有打過中國的國度的文學，如希臘的史詩，印度的寓言，亞剌伯的《天方夜談》，西班牙的《堂•吉訶德》，縱使在別國「已經聞名」，不下於「英美法德文人」的作品，在中國卻被忘記了，他們或則國度已滅，或則無能，再也用不著「媚」字。對於這情形，我看可以先把上章所引的林語堂先生的訓詞移到這裡來的—— 「此種流風，其弊在奴，救之之道，在於思。」不過後兩句不合用，既然「奴」了，「思」亦何益，思來思去，不過「奴」得巧妙一點而已。中國寧可有未「思」的西崽，將來的文學倒較為有望。但「已經聞名的英美法德文人」，在中國卻確是不遇的。中國的立學校來學這四國語，為時已久，開初雖不過意在養成使館的譯員，但後來卻展開，盛大了。學德語盛於清末的改革軍操，學法語盛於民國的「勤工儉學」。學英語最早，一為了商務，二為了海軍，而學英語的人數也最多，為學英語而作的教科書和參考書也最多，由英語起家的學士文人也不少。然而海軍不過將軍艦送人，紹介「已經聞名」的司各德，迭更斯，狄福，斯惠夫德……的，竟是只知漢文的林紓，連紹介最大的「已經聞名」的莎士比亞的幾篇劇本的，也有待于並不專攻英文的田漢。這緣故，可真是非「在於思」則不可了。然而現在又到了「今日紹介波蘭詩人，明日紹介捷克文豪」的危機，弱國文人，將聞名于中國，英美法德的文風，竟還不能和他們的財力武力，深入現在的文林，「狗逐尾巴」者既沒有恒心，志在高山的又不屑動手，但見山林映以電燈，語錄夾些洋話，「對於已經聞名之英美法德文人」，真不知要待何人，至何時，這才來「求一究竟」。那些文人的作品，當然也是好極了的，然甲則曰不佞望洋而興歎，乙則曰汝輩何不潛心而探求。舊笑話云：昔有孝子，遇其父病，聞股肉可療，而自怕痛，執刀出門，執途人臂，悍然割之，途人驚拒，孝子謂曰，割股療父，乃是大孝，汝竟驚拒，豈是人哉！是好比方；林先生云：「說法雖乖，功效實同」，是好辯解。六月十日。	I The most commonplace expectations are often shattered by experience. I had always supposed that translation was easier than original composition, since at the very least one need not invent. But the moment one actually begins to translate, one runs into brick walls: for instance, a noun or a verb that refuses to come out — in original composition one can dodge it, but in translation there is no such escape; one must keep thinking until one's head spins and eyes blur, as if rummaging through one's brain for a key urgently needed to open a trunk, yet finding nothing. Yan Fu (嚴又陵) said, "To establish a single term may require months of deliberation" — that was his hard-won experience, and it is perfectly true. Recently, precisely because of such mistaken expectations, I went and invited trouble upon myself. The editor of the World Library asked me to translate Gogol's Dead Souls, and without thinking it through, I agreed at once. I had only skimmed through the book once, finding the writing straightforward, lacking the bizarre tricks of modern works; the characters still danced by candlelight, so there would hardly be any modish terms — nonexistent in Chinese — that the translator would have to coin behind closed doors. What I fear most are newfangled terms. Take the electric lamp, for example — not so newfangled anymore — yet I can name six component parts: the cord, the bulb, the shade, the sand-bag, the plug, and the switch. But these are Shanghai dialect; the last three would probably be unintelligible elsewhere. In One Day's Work there was a short story about an iron foundry, and later a reader working in a northern iron foundry wrote me a letter saying that not a single one of the machine-part names in the story enabled him to picture the actual objects. Alas — here I can only sigh — in truth, most of those terms were what I had learned from my instructors in the late nineteenth century while studying mining in Jiangnan. Whether the gap is between eras or between north and south, I do not know, but a gulf it is. Nor can one find those terms in the Zhuangzi, the Wenxuan, or the Ming dynasty belles-lettres that young literary men rely upon for cultivation. There is no way out. "Of the thirty-six stratagems, flight is the best" — the least troublesome course is not to touch the thing at all. Curse my overconfidence: I went and underestimated Dead Souls, took it on, and then truly had to translate. And so "suffering" began. A careful reading confirmed that the writing was indeed nothing but straightforward narration — but there were barbs everywhere, some obvious, some hidden, requiring one to sense them; even in a retranslation, one must strive to preserve their sharpness. True, there were no electric lamps or automobiles, but the menus, gambling implements, and costumes of the early nineteenth century were all unfamiliar objects. This meant the dictionary could not leave one's hand, and cold sweat could not leave one's body, while naturally one could only blame one's own inadequate language skills. But this cup of penalty wine, earned by a momentary bout of overconfidence, must be drained: grit one's teeth and translate on. When boredom and fatigue set in, I would casually pick up whatever new magazine lay at hand and flip through it as a break. This is an old habit of mine; in my rest there is also a hint of Schadenfreude, the gist being: now it is my turn to sit comfortably and watch what tricks you lot are up to. It seems my streak of bad luck was not yet over, and comfort was still denied me. The magazine I grabbed was Literature, Volume 4, Number 6. The moment I opened it, right at the front was a large advertisement printed in red ink, announcing that the next issue would feature a prose piece by me, with the title listed as "To Be Determined." Thinking back, the editor had indeed sent me a letter asking me to contribute something, but what I dread most is precisely this business of "writing essays." I did not reply. When writing becomes something one must "do," the pain is self-evident. My silence was meant to say: I will not write. To my surprise, they had simultaneously placed the advertisement — a situation akin to a kidnapping, putting me in an awkward position. Yet at the same time I reflected that perhaps the fault was still my own: I had once publicly stated that my essays are not gushed forth but squeezed out. He had apparently seized upon this weakness and was applying the squeezing method. Moreover, when I met editors in person, I occasionally sensed in them a look of wanting to squeeze, which chilled the heart. If only I had said before, "My essays cannot be squeezed out even by squeezing," I would probably be much safer now. I admire Dostoevsky's habit of saying little about himself, and certain literary giants' practice of talking exclusively about others. But then, old habits die hard, and manuscript fees can after all be exchanged for rice, so writing a little is hardly what you'd call "an injustice sunk to the bottom of the sea." The pen is a curious thing: it possesses the same "squeezing" ability as editors. Sit with folded arms, feeling drowsy, but the moment pen is in hand and a sheet of manuscript paper lies before you, one somehow produces something or other, inexplicably. Whether it is any good, of course, is another matter. II Back to the business of translating Dead Souls. Shut away in one's study, these are the only matters one has to deal with. Before putting pen to paper, one must first settle a question: should one strive to domesticate the text, or preserve as much of its foreign flavor as possible? The Japanese translator, Mr. Ueda Susumu (上田進), advocates the former method. He considers that in translating satirical works, the first priority is intelligibility: the more easily understood, the greater the effect. Consequently his translation sometimes expands one sentence into several, verging on paraphrase. My view is different. If one seeks only intelligibility, one might as well write an original work, or an adaptation — transposing the events to China and turning the characters into Chinese people. If it remains a translation, then the primary purpose is to broaden one's acquaintance with foreign works: not only to engage the emotions but also to enrich the mind — at the very least, to know that in such-and-such a place and time, such things existed. It is much like traveling abroad: there must be an exotic atmosphere — what is called "foreign flavor." In truth, a fully domesticated translation cannot exist in this world; if it did, it would be a case of surface similarity masking spiritual divergence, and by strict standards it would not count as translation at all. All translation must attend to both sides: on the one hand, naturally striving for intelligibility; on the other, preserving the original's distinctive character. Yet this preservation often conflicts with ease of understanding: it looks unfamiliar. But the original is a foreign devil, so naturally no one finds it familiar. For the sake of making it somewhat easier on the eyes, one may change its clothes, but one should not file down its nose or gouge out its eyes. I am against filing noses and gouging eyes, so in some places I would still rather translate in a way that does not read smoothly. Only in the organization of sentences — there is no need for the precision of scientific prose — I am casual enough; but the adverbial particle "de" (地) I still use, because I believe there are already quite a few readers accustomed to seeing this character. Yet, "for better or for worse," I thereby discovered my new vocation: serving as a foreign-house boy. Still flipping through magazines as a break, this time I encountered in The Human World, Issue 28, a grand essay by Mr. Lin Yutang (林語堂). To excerpt would expend too much mental energy, so let me just copy out a passage — "...People today blindly imitate the West, calling themselves modern; they even disregard Chinese grammar, insisting on imitating English by splitting 'historical' into an adjective 'lìshǐ-de' and an adverb 'lìshǐ-de-de' to mimic the English historic-al-ly — dragging a Western pigtail behind them. In that case, why not change 'kuài lái' (come quickly), since 'kuài' is an adverb, to 'kuài-de-de lái'? Such antics are merely the grotesque posturing of Westernized dandies of the foreign concessions — not good enough for discussing literature, but quite talented enough to serve as foreign-house boys. The vice of this fashion lies in slavishness; the remedy lies in thinking." (From "Eight Faults of Contemporary Writing") In truth, the adoption of particles like "de" does not necessarily derive from English, in which the Higher Chinese excel. "English," "English" — ha, ha. Besides, judging from the rhetorical question above, it seems the "people today" who "blindly imitate the West" do not in practice change "kuài lái" to "kuài-de-de lái" at all. This is merely the author's fabrication, thereby perfecting his famous essay — an instance, presumably, of "preserving oneself as master, and thereby achieving effortless and boundless fluency." But it lacks substance: if "people today" who "call themselves modern" were to say it, then "the vice would lie in frivolity." If I were still living in my hometown and read this passage, I would understand and believe it. Where I come from there were only a few Western churches, inside which there were presumably a few foreign-house boys each, yet one could rarely encounter them. To study foreign-house boys, one could only use oneself as a specimen — though merely "quite" adequate, it would do. Once more "for better or for worse," I later ended up in Shanghai. Shanghai is full of foreigners, and therefore full of foreign-house boys, and therefore gave me ample opportunity to meet them — and not merely meet them: I even had the honor of conversing with several. Indeed, they know foreign languages, mostly "English," "English"; but this is their rice-bowl, used exclusively to serve their foreign masters. They would never drag a Western pigtail into Chinese speech, and naturally have no intention of disrupting Chinese grammar. They do occasionally use a few transliterated words, like "that-much-warm" (foreman) or "toast" — but these are words long in common use, not novelties flaunted to demonstrate their modernity. They are, in fact, cultural conservatives: at the first moment of leisure, they pull out the erhu and sing excerpts from Peking opera. On duty they wear uniforms; off duty they change into Chinese dress. When they take a day off and go out, the well-off wear satin shoes and silk gowns. Only they do wear straw hats, and their spectacles are not of the old tortoiseshell-rimmed style — if viewed through the "sectarian" lens of Chinese versus Western, these two points might be considered shortcomings. And if I were to seek another occupation and could speak English, I would genuinely be willing to serve as a foreign-house boy, for I believe that exchanging labor for wages involves no difference in human dignity between a foreign-house boy and a Chinese servant — just as earning wages through labor in a foreign-owned factory or a Chinese-owned factory, or obtaining qualifications by paying tuition at a foreign university or a Chinese university, involves no distinction between the base and the lofty. What makes a foreign-house boy objectionable is not his occupation but his "foreign-house-boy manner." By "manner" I do not mean physiognomy; it is something "sincere within and manifest without," encompassing both "form" and "content." This "manner" consists in feeling that the power of foreigners is above that of the mass of Chinese, and that since one speaks their language and is close to them, one is therefore also above the mass of Chinese — yet at the same time, being a descendant of the Yellow Emperor with an ancient civilization, deeply versed in Chinese ways and superior to foreign devils, one is therefore also superior to the foreigners who stand above the mass of Chinese, and consequently even more superior to the mass of Chinese who remain beneath the foreigners. Chinese constables in the concessions often display precisely this kind of "manner." Hovering between Chinese and foreign, shuttling between master and slave — this is the "foreign-house-boy manner" of today's treaty ports. Yet it is not fence-sitting, for he is fluid, rather more "effortlessly at ease," and so takes pleasure in himself — unless you spoil his fun. III From what has been said above, the "foreign-house-boy manner" ought to be connected with his occupation, yet it is not entirely so — part of it comes from a tradition predating the existence of foreign-house boys. Thus this manner is sometimes unavoidable even for the lofty scholar-officials. "Serving the great" — this has happened in history. "Self-aggrandizement" — this happens constantly in practice. "Serving the great" and "self-aggrandizement" are incompatible, yet "self-aggrandizement" through "serving the great" is extremely common in reality — for it enables one to look down upon all those who are not even fit to "serve the great." In the novel Yesou puyan, which some admire to the point of prostration, the character Wen Suchen (文素臣) — "one man beneath, above all others" — is precisely this specimen. He reveres China and disdains the barbarians, yet in truth he is a "Manchu-house boy." The "Manchu-house boy" of old is the exact counterpart of today's "foreign-house boy." So even we scholars, who consider ourselves far superior to foreign-house boys, have not been fully cleansed of this taint, and when we talk too much, we often let our tails show. Let me copy another passage of famous prose here — "...In literature, today they introduce a Polish poet, tomorrow they introduce a Czech literary master, yet toward the already famous writers of England, America, France, and Germany, they feel disdain, considering them stale, unwilling to examine them thoroughly and get to the bottom of them. This is the same as women seeking the latest fashions in new dresses — it all comes down to the word 'flattery,' sighing at being born female, serving others with one's looks, the bitterness beyond words. The vice of this fashion lies in frivolity; the remedy lies in learning." (From "Eight Faults of Contemporary Writing") But the beginning of this "new fashion," if one thinks back, goes a long way: "introducing a Polish poet" started thirty years ago, beginning with my Moluoshi li shuo (On the Power of Mara Poetry). At that time the Manchu court ruled over China, and the Han people were subjugated; China's situation rather resembled Poland's. Reading their poetry, one readily felt a kindred spirit — there was no intention of "serving the great," nor any thought of "flattery." Later, the Shanghai Fiction Monthly even devoted a special issue to the works of small and weak nations. This tendency has now waned; if any trace remains, it is but a fading ripple. But the fortunate young, born in the Republic, know nothing of this; as for servile lackeys and gold-worshipping toadies, they naturally know even less. Yet even if one were introducing Polish poets or Czech literary masters today, how would that constitute "flattery"? Do those countries not have "already famous" writers? And besides, "already famous" — famous to whom, and how did they come to be known? Indeed, England, America, France, and Germany have missionaries in China, have or have had concessions, have garrisons in several places, warships in several more, many merchants, and employ many foreign-house boys — enough to make ordinary people know only of "Great Britain," "the Star-Spangled Banner," "France," and "Germany," while remaining ignorant that there also exist Poland and Czechoslovakia. But the history of world literature is viewed with literary eyes, not with the eyes of power and profit, so literature needs no cover of money and guns. Though Poland and Czechoslovakia never joined the Eight-Nation Alliance to attack Beijing, their literature exists all the same — only certain people have not yet "become famous," that is all. It seems that for a foreign writer to become famous in China, his works alone are not enough; he needs, rather, to be treated with contempt. Thus the literatures of nations equally innocent of having attacked China — such as the Greek epic, Indian fables, the Arabian Nights, the Spanish Don Quixote — even though "already famous" abroad and no less distinguished than the works of "English, American, French, and German writers" — are forgotten in China. Their nations are either extinct or impotent, and there is no longer any use for the word "flattery." To this situation, I believe one may first transplant here the dictum of Mr. Lin Yutang cited in the previous chapter — "The vice of this fashion lies in slavishness; the remedy lies in thinking." But the last two clauses are inapplicable: once one is a "slave," what good is "thinking"? Think all you like, you will only manage to be a somewhat more artful slave. China would do better to have unthinking foreign-house boys; the future of literature would then be rather more promising. But the "already famous writers of England, America, France, and Germany" are indeed neglected in China. China has long established schools to teach these four nations' languages. Initially the purpose was merely to train embassy interpreters, but later the enterprise expanded and flourished. German studies boomed during the late Qing military reforms; French studies boomed during the Republic's "Diligent Work, Frugal Study" movement. English was studied earliest, partly for commerce, partly for the navy, and the number of English learners is the greatest, the textbooks and reference works for English the most numerous, and the scholars and literati who made their careers through English not a few. Yet the navy merely ended up handing its warships over to others, and the one who introduced the "already famous" Scott, Dickens, Defoe, Swift... was none other than Lin Shu (林紓), who knew only classical Chinese. Even the introduction of several plays by the greatest and most "already famous" Shakespeare fell to Tian Han (田漢), who was by no means a specialist in English. The reason for this truly demands "thinking." Yet now we have arrived once more at the crisis of "today introducing a Polish poet, tomorrow introducing a Czech literary master." Writers of weak nations are about to become famous in China, while the literary influence of England, America, France, and Germany still cannot match their financial and military penetration of the present literary forest. Those who "chase their own tails" lack perseverance; those whose ambitions aim at lofty mountains disdain to lift a finger. All one sees is mountain forests illuminated by electric lamps, classical quotations laced with foreign phrases, and as for the "already famous writers of England, America, France, and Germany" — one truly does not know who, and until when, will finally "get to the bottom of them." The works of those writers are naturally superb, yet A says: "I gaze across the ocean and can only sigh," while B says: "Why don't you immerse yourselves and explore!" There is an old joke: once upon a time a filial son, whose father fell ill, heard that flesh cut from one's own thigh could heal the sick. But fearing pain himself, he took a knife, went outside, seized a passerby by the arm, and began hacking boldly at it. The passerby recoiled in alarm, whereupon the filial son declared: "Cutting one's thigh to cure one's father is the greatest filial piety! How dare you refuse — are you even human?" That is an apt analogy. Mr. Lin says: "Though the reasoning is awry, the effect is the same" — and that is a fine excuse. June 10.
《太白》二卷七期上有一篇南山先生的《保守文言的第三道策》，他舉出：第一道是說「要做白話由於文言做不通」，第二道是說「要白話做好，先須文言弄通」。十年之後，才來了太炎先生的第三道，「他以為你們說文言難，白話更難。理由是現在的口頭語，有許多是古語，非深通小學就不知道現在口頭語的某音，就是古代的某音，不知道就是古代的某字，就要寫錯。……」太炎先生的話是極不錯的。現在的口頭語，並非一朝一夕，從天而降的語言，裡面當然有許多是古語，既有古語，當然會有許多曾見於古書，如果做白話的人，要每字都到《說文解字》裡去找本字，那的確比做任用借字的文言要難到不知多少倍。然而自從提倡白話以來，主張者卻沒有一個以為寫白話的主旨，是在從「小學」裡尋出本字來的，我們就用約定俗成的借字。誠然，如太炎先生說：「乍見熟人而相寒暄曰『好呀』，『呀』即『乎』字；應人之稱曰『是唉』，『唉』即『也』字。」但我們即使知道了這兩字，也不用「好乎」或「是也」，還是用「好呀」或「是唉」。因為白話是寫給現代的人們看，並非寫給商周秦漢的鬼看的，起古人於地下，看了不懂，我們也毫不畏縮。所以太炎先生的第三道策，其實是文不對題的。這緣故，是因為先生把他所專長的小學，用得範圍太廣了。我們的知識很有限，誰都願意聽聽名人的指點，但這時就來了一個問題：聽博識家的話好，還是聽專門家的話好呢？解答似乎很容易：都好。自然都好；但我由曆聽了兩家的種種指點以後，卻覺得必須有相當的警戒。因為是：博識家的話多淺，專門家的話多悖的。博識家的話多淺，意義自明，惟專門家的話多悖的事，還得加一點申說。他們的悖，未必悖在講述他們的專門，是悖在倚專家之名，來論他所專門以外的事。社會上崇敬名人，於是以為名人的話就是名言，卻忘記了他之所以得名是那一種學問或事業。名人被崇奉所誘惑，也忘記了自己之所以得名是那一種學問或事業，漸以為一切無不勝人，無所不談，於是乎就悖起來了。其實，專門家除了他的專長之外，許多見識是往往不及博識家或常識者的。太炎先生是革命的先覺，小學的大師，倘談文獻，講《說文》，當然娓娓可聽，但一到攻擊現在的白話，便牛頭不對馬嘴，即其一例。還有江亢虎博士，是先前以講社會主義出名的名人，他的社會主義到底怎麼樣呢，我不知道。只是今年忘其所以，談到小學，說「『德』之古字為『悳』，從『直』從『心』，『直』即直覺之意」，卻真不知道悖到那裡去了，他竟連那上半並不是曲直的直字這一點都不明白。這種解釋，卻須聽太炎先生了。不過在社會上，大概總以為名人的話就是名言，既是名人，也就無所不通，無所不曉。所以譯一本歐洲史，就請英國話說得漂亮的名人校閱，編一本經濟學，又乞古文做得好的名人題簽；學界的名人紹介醫生，說他「術擅岐黃」，商界的名人稱讚畫家，說他「精研六法」。……這也是一種現在的通病。德國的細胞病理學家維爾曉（Virchow），是醫學界的泰斗，舉國皆知的名人，在醫學史上的位置，是極為重要的，然而他不相信進化論，他那被教徒所利用的幾回講演，據赫克爾（Haeckel）說，很給了大眾不少壞影響。因為他學問很深，名甚大，於是自視甚高，以為他所不解的，此後也無人能解，又不深研進化論，便一口歸功於上帝了。現在中國屢經紹介的法國昆蟲學大家法布耳（Fabre），也頗有這傾向。他的著作還有兩種缺點：一是嗤笑解剖學家，二是用人類道德於昆蟲界。但倘無解剖，就不能有他那樣精到的觀察，因為觀察的基礎，也還是解剖學；農學者根據對於人類的利害，分昆蟲為益蟲和害蟲，是有理可說的，但憑了當時的人類的道德和法律，定昆蟲為善蟲或壞蟲，卻是多餘了。有些嚴正的科學者，對於法布耳的有微詞，實也並非無故。但倘若對這兩點先加警戒，那麼，他的大著作《昆蟲記》十卷，讀起來也還是一部很有趣，也很有益的書。不過名人的流毒，在中國卻較為利害，這還是科舉的餘波。那時候，儒生在私塾裡揣摩高頭講章，和天下國家何涉，但一登第，真是「一舉成名天下知」，他可以修史，可以衡文，可以臨民，可以治河；到清朝之末，更可以辦學校，開煤礦，練新軍，造戰艦，條陳新政，出洋考察了。成績如何呢，不待我多說。這病根至今還沒有除，一成名人，便有「滿天飛」之概。我想，自此以後，我們是應該將「名人的話」和「名言」分開來的，名人的話並不都是名言；許多名言，倒出自田夫野老之口。這也就是說，我們應該分別名人之所以名，是由於那一門，而對於他的專門以外的縱談，卻加以警戒。蘇州的學子是聰明的，他們請太炎先生講國學，卻不請他講簿記學或步兵操典，——可惜人們卻又不肯想得更細一點了。我很自歉這回時時涉及了太炎先生。但「智者千慮，必有一失」，這大約也無傷於先生的「日月之明」的。至於我的所說，可是我想，「愚者千慮，必有一得」，蓋亦「懸諸日月而不刊」之論也。七月一日。	In Taibai, Volume 2, Issue 7, there is an article by Mr. Nanshan (南山) entitled "The Third Stratagem for Preserving Classical Chinese." He enumerates: the first stratagem was to say, "Those who want to write in the vernacular only do so because they cannot manage classical Chinese"; the second was to say, "To write good vernacular, one must first master classical Chinese." Ten years later came Mr. Zhang Taiyan's (太炎) third stratagem: "He maintained that if you say classical Chinese is difficult, then the vernacular is even more difficult. His reasoning was that many words in present-day spoken language are ancient words; without a deep mastery of philology, one cannot know that a certain sound in today's spoken language is actually a certain sound from antiquity, or that it is actually a certain ancient character — and if one does not know this, one will write the wrong character..." Mr. Zhang Taiyan's argument is perfectly correct. Present-day spoken language did not descend from heaven overnight; it naturally contains many ancient words, and since there are ancient words, many will naturally have appeared in ancient texts. If the writer of vernacular must trace every character back to its original form in the Shuowen jiezi, then it is indeed incomparably more difficult than writing classical Chinese with its freely borrowed characters. However, since the promotion of the vernacular began, not a single advocate has maintained that the purpose of writing in the vernacular is to dig out the original characters from philology — we simply use the conventional borrowed characters established by common usage. To be sure, as Mr. Zhang Taiyan says: "When one casually meets an acquaintance and exchanges greetings, saying 'Hǎo ya,' the 'ya' is actually the character 'hū' (乎); when responding to someone's address, saying 'Shì āi,' the 'āi' is actually the character 'yě' (也)." But even knowing these two characters, we would not use "hǎo hū" or "shì yě," but would still write "hǎo ya" or "shì āi." For the vernacular is written for people of the present to read, not for the ghosts of the Shang, Zhou, Qin, and Han dynasties to peruse. If we raised the ancients from the dead and they could not understand it, we would not be in the least dismayed. Therefore Mr. Zhang Taiyan's third stratagem is in fact beside the point. The reason is that he applied his specialty — philology — too broadly. Our knowledge is limited, and we all wish to hear the guidance of eminent men. But here arises a question: is it better to listen to the polymath, or to the specialist? The answer seems easy: both. Naturally, both are good. But after long experience of listening to the various pronouncements of both types, I have come to feel that considerable caution is necessary. For: the polymath's words are often shallow, and the specialist's words are often perverse. That the polymath's words are often shallow is self-evident. But the perversity of the specialist requires some explanation. Their perversity does not necessarily lie in expounding their specialty; it lies in leveraging the prestige of their expertise to pronounce upon matters outside it. Society reveres famous people, and so assumes that a famous person's words are famous sayings, forgetting that the field in which he earned his fame is a particular discipline or endeavor. The famous person, seduced by this reverence, also forgets that his fame was earned in a particular discipline or endeavor, and gradually comes to believe himself superior in all things, holding forth on everything — and that is when he becomes perverse. In truth, outside his specialty, the specialist's judgment is often inferior to that of the polymath or even the man of common sense. Mr. Zhang Taiyan was a revolutionary forerunner and a great master of philology; were he to discuss classical texts and explicate the Shuowen, one would naturally listen with rapt attention. But the moment he attacks the modern vernacular, it is as if an ox's head were joined to a horse's mouth — a prime example. Then there is Dr. Jiang Kanghu (江亢虎), formerly a famous figure for lecturing on socialism. What his socialism actually amounted to, I do not know. Only this year, forgetting himself, he ventured into philology and declared: "The ancient form of the character 'virtue' (德) is '悳,' composed of 'straight' (直) and 'heart' (心), where 'straight' means 'intuition.'" Yet he did not even realize that the upper component is not the character for straight-versus-crooked — truly, one does not know where such perversity leads. For this kind of interpretation, one would have to defer to Mr. Zhang Taiyan. However, in society at large, people generally assume that a famous person's words are famous sayings, and that being famous, he is omniscient and omnipotent. Thus when a history of Europe needs translating, one invites a celebrity whose spoken English is elegant to review it; when an economics textbook needs compiling, one begs a celebrity skilled in classical prose to inscribe the title. Celebrities in academia recommend doctors, saying he "excels in the art of Qi Bo and the Yellow Emperor"; celebrities in business praise painters, saying he "has deeply studied the Six Methods."... This is a prevalent malady of our times. The German cellular pathologist Virchow was a titan of medicine, a celebrity known throughout the nation, and held an extremely important position in the history of medicine — yet he did not believe in the theory of evolution, and according to Haeckel (赫克爾), his several lectures exploited by religious partisans had quite a bad influence on the public. Because his learning was profound and his fame great, he regarded himself so highly that he believed what he could not understand, no one would ever understand — and without deeply studying the theory of evolution, he attributed everything to God in one fell swoop. The French entomologist Fabre (法布耳), frequently introduced in China today, likewise has something of this tendency. His writings have two further deficiencies: first, he mocks anatomists; second, he applies human morality to the insect world. Yet without anatomy, one could not achieve his kind of precise observation, for the basis of observation is still anatomy. Agronomists may reasonably classify insects as beneficial or harmful according to their effects on humanity, but to judge insects as "good" or "bad" by the moral and legal standards of the day is superfluous. Some rigorous scientists have had reservations about Fabre, and not without cause. But if one is forewarned about these two points, then his great work, the ten-volume Souvenirs Entomologiques, remains a very interesting and instructive book. However, the harm done by famous people is rather more severe in China, owing to the lingering influence of the imperial examination system. In those days, a Confucian scholar poring over annotated examination essays in his private school had nothing whatever to do with the affairs of the nation — yet once he passed the examination, he truly "became famous throughout the realm in a single stroke." He could compile histories, judge literary compositions, govern the people, manage river conservancy; by the late Qing, he could even establish schools, open coal mines, train modern armies, build warships, memorialize new policies, and go abroad on inspection tours. What were the results? I need not elaborate. This pathology persists to this day; once someone becomes a celebrity, he gives the impression of "flying across the sky." I think that from now on we should separate "the words of famous people" from "famous sayings." The words of famous people are not all famous sayings; many famous sayings, on the contrary, come from the mouths of farmers and rustics. Which is to say: we should distinguish the field in which a famous person is famous, and treat his pontifications on matters outside his specialty with caution. The students of Suzhou were clever: they invited Mr. Zhang Taiyan to lecture on national studies, but did not invite him to lecture on bookkeeping or infantry drill manuals — what a pity that people are unwilling to think a little more carefully. I feel rather apologetic that throughout this piece I have kept touching upon Mr. Zhang Taiyan. But "even the wise man, in a thousand deliberations, will make one error" — and I trust this does no harm to his "brilliance as of sun and moon." As for what I have said, I venture to think that "even the fool, in a thousand deliberations, will hit upon one truth" — and perhaps it too is "a judgment that may be set beside the sun and moon and will not be effaced." July 1.
「靠天吃飯說」是我們中國的國寶。清朝中葉就有《靠天吃飯圖》的碑，民國初年，狀元陸潤庠先生也畫過一張：一個大「天」字，末一筆的尖端有一位老頭子靠著，捧了碗在吃飯。這圖曾經石印，信天派或嗜奇派，也許還有收藏的。而大家也確是實行著這學說，和圖不同者，只是沒有碗捧而已。這學說總算存在著一半。前一月，我們曾經聽到過嚷著「旱象已成」，現在是梅雨天，連雨了十幾日，是每年必有的常事，又並無颶風暴雨，卻又到處發現水災了。植樹節所種的幾株樹，也不足以挽回天意。「五日一風，十日一雨」的唐虞之世，去今已遠，靠天而竟至於不能吃飯，大約為信天派所不及料的罷。到底還是做給俗人讀的《幼學瓊林》聰明，曰：「輕清者上浮而為天」，「輕清」而又「上浮」，怎麼一個「靠」法。古時候的真話，到現在就有些變成謊話。大約是西洋人說的罷，世界上窮人有份的，只有日光空氣和水。這在現在的上海就不適用，賣心賣力的被一天關到夜，他就曬不著日光，吸不到好空氣；裝不起自來水的，也喝不到乾淨水。報上往往說：「近來天時不正，疾病盛行」，這豈只是「天時不正」之故，「天何言哉」，它默默地被冤枉了。但是，「天」下去就要做不了「人」，沙漠中的居民為了一塘水，爭奪起來比我們這裡的才子爭奪愛人還激烈，他們要拚命，決不肯做一首「阿呀詩」就了事。洋大人斯坦因博士，不是從甘肅敦煌的沙裡掘去了許多古董麼？那地方原是繁盛之區，靠天的結果，卻被天風吹了沙埋沒了。為製造將來的古董起見，靠天確也是一種好方法，但為活人計，卻是不大值得的。一到這裡，就不免要說征服自然了，但現在談不到，「帶住」可也。七月一日。	The doctrine of "relying on Heaven to eat" is one of our Chinese national treasures. In the mid-Qing dynasty there was already a stele inscribed with the "Picture of Relying on Heaven to Eat." In the early years of the Republic, the zhuangyuan Lu Runxiang (陸潤庠) also drew one: a large character for "Heaven" (天), with an old man leaning against the tip of the final stroke, holding a bowl and eating. This picture was once lithographed, and those of the "trust-in-Heaven school" or the "curiosity school" may still have copies in their collections. And indeed, everyone is putting this doctrine into practice; the only difference from the picture is that there is no bowl to hold. The doctrine, at any rate, survives in half measure. A month ago we heard cries of "drought has taken hold." Now it is the plum-rain season; it has rained continuously for over ten days — a perfectly ordinary annual occurrence, with neither hurricanes nor torrential downpours — and yet floods have appeared everywhere. The few trees planted on Arbor Day are not enough to reverse the will of Heaven. The age of Yao and Shun, when "wind came every five days and rain every ten," is long past. That relying on Heaven should actually result in not being able to eat — this is probably something the trust-in-Heaven school never anticipated. In the end, it is the Youxue qionglin, written for common folk, that is the cleverer book: "That which is light and pure floats upward and becomes Heaven." "Light and pure" and furthermore "floating upward" — how exactly does one "lean" against that? Truths spoken in ancient times have by now partly turned into lies. It was probably a Westerner who said it: the only things in this world to which the poor have a share are sunlight, air, and water. This does not apply to present-day Shanghai: those who sell their hearts and their strength, locked up from dawn to night, cannot bask in sunlight or breathe good air. Those who cannot afford running water cannot drink clean water either. The newspapers often say: "The weather has been irregular lately, and diseases are rampant" — but is this truly due only to "irregular weather"? "What does Heaven say?" It is silently being blamed for what it never did. But once "Heaven" lets you down, you cannot go on being a "person." The inhabitants of deserts fight over a single pool of water with a ferocity that surpasses even the intensity with which our local literary talents fight over their beloveds: they fight to the death, and would never settle the matter by composing an "Ah alas" poem. Did not the great Western scholar Sir Aurel Stein excavate a great many antiquities from the sands of Dunhuang in Gansu? That region was once a flourishing land; the result of relying on Heaven was that the wind of Heaven blew sand and buried it. For the purpose of manufacturing future antiquities, relying on Heaven is indeed a fine method — but for the sake of the living, it is hardly worthwhile. At this point one cannot avoid speaking of conquering nature — but for now that is beyond our reach. "Rein it in" will have to do. July 1.
果戈理（Nikolai Gogol）的名字，漸為中國讀者所認識了，他的名著《死魂靈》的譯本，也已經發表了第一部的一半。那譯文雖然不能令人滿意，但總算借此知道了從第二至六章，一共寫了五個地主的典型，諷刺固多，實則除一個老太婆和吝嗇鬼潑留希金外，都各有可愛之處。至於寫到農奴，卻沒有一點可取了，連他們誠心來幫紳士們的忙，也不但無益，反而有害。果戈理自己就是地主。　　然而當時的紳士們很不滿意，一定的照例的反擊，是說書中的典型，多是果戈理自己，而且他也並不知道大俄羅斯地主的情形。這是說得通的，作者是烏克蘭人，而看他的家信，有時也簡直和書中的地主的意見相類似。然而即使他並不知道大俄羅斯的地主的情形罷，那創作出來的腳色，可真是生動極了，直到現在，縱使時代不同，國度不同，也還使我們像是遇見了有些熟識的人物。諷刺的本領，在這裡不及談，單說那獨特之處，尤其是在用平常事，平常話，深刻的顯出當時地主的無聊生活。例如第四章裡的羅士特來夫，是地方惡少式的地主，趕熱鬧，愛賭博，撒大謊，要恭維，——但挨打也不要緊。他在酒店裡遇到乞乞科夫，誇示自己的好小狗，勒令乞乞科夫摸過狗耳朵之後，還要摸鼻子——「乞乞科夫要和羅士特來夫表示好意，便摸了一下那狗的耳朵。『是的，會成功一匹好狗的。』他加添著說。　　「『再摸摸它那冰冷的鼻頭，拿手來呀！』因為要不使他掃興，乞乞科夫就又一碰那鼻子，於是說道：『不是平常的鼻子！』」　　這種莽撞而沾沾自喜的主人，和深通世故的客人的圓滑的應酬，是我們現在還隨時可以遇見的，有些人簡直以此為一世的交際術。「不是平常的鼻子」，是怎樣的鼻子呢？說不明的，但聽者只要這樣也就足夠了。後來又同到羅士特來夫的莊園去，曆覽他所有的田產和東西——「還去看克理米亞的母狗，已經瞎了眼，據羅士特來夫說，是就要倒斃的。兩年以前，卻還是一條很好的母狗。大家也來察看這母狗，看起來，它也確乎瞎了眼。」　　這時羅士特來夫並沒有說謊，他表揚著瞎了眼的母狗，看起來，也確是瞎了眼的母狗。這和大家有什麼關係呢，然而世界上有一些人，卻確是嚷鬧，表揚，誇示著這一類事，又竭力證實著這一類事，算是忙人和誠實人，在過了他的整一世。　　這些極平常的，或者簡直近於沒有事情的悲劇，正如無聲的言語一樣，非由詩人畫出它的形象來，是很不容易覺察的。然而人們滅亡于英雄的特別的悲劇者少，消磨於極平常的，或者簡直近於沒有事情的悲劇者卻多。　　聽說果戈理的那些所謂「含淚的微笑」，在他本土，現在是已經無用了，來替代它的有了健康的笑。但在別地方，也依然有用，因為其中還藏著許多活人的影子。況且健康的笑，在被笑的一方面是悲哀的，所以果戈理的「含淚的微笑」，倘傳到了和作者地位不同的讀者的臉上，也就成為健康：這是《死魂靈》的偉大處，也正是作者的悲哀處。	The name of Gogol (果戈理, Nikolai Gogol) is gradually becoming known to Chinese readers, and the translation of his masterpiece Dead Souls has already published the first half of Part One. Though the translation cannot be called satisfactory, at least through it we now know that from Chapter Two through Chapter Six, five types of landowners are depicted. There is much satire, of course, yet aside from one old woman and the miser Plyushkin (潑留希金), each has his lovable qualities. As for the portrayal of the serfs, however, there is nothing commendable about them at all; even when they sincerely try to help the gentlemen, the result is not merely useless but positively harmful. Gogol himself was a landowner. Yet the gentlemen of his day were very displeased, and their inevitable, customary counterattack was to claim that the types in the book were mostly Gogol himself, and furthermore that he did not understand the circumstances of Great Russian landowners. This is a plausible charge: the author was Ukrainian, and looking at his family letters, his views sometimes closely resemble those of the landowners in his book. Yet even if he truly did not understand the circumstances of Great Russian landowners, the characters he created are so extraordinarily vivid that even now, though the era is different and the country is different, we still feel as though we have met certain familiar figures. His gifts of satire cannot be discussed here for lack of space; let me speak only of one distinctive quality: his particular skill lies in using the most ordinary events and the most ordinary words to reveal, with devastating depth, the vacuous lives of the landowners of his time. Take, for example, Nozdryov (羅士特來夫) in Chapter Four: a local-bully type of landowner — a man who chases excitement, loves gambling, tells outrageous lies, demands flattery — yet can take a beating without minding. He runs into Chichikov (乞乞科夫) at an inn, boasts of his fine puppy, forces Chichikov to feel the dog's ears, and then demands that he feel the nose too — "Chichikov, wishing to show Nozdryov goodwill, gave the dog's ear a pat. 'Yes, it will make a good dog,' he added. "'Now feel its cold nose — go on, take your hand!' Not wanting to spoil his mood, Chichikov gave the nose a touch and said: 'An uncommon nose!'" This kind of boorish, self-satisfied host and the worldly-wise guest's smooth accommodations — we can still encounter them at any moment. Some people make precisely this their lifelong art of social intercourse. "An uncommon nose" — but what kind of nose is it, exactly? One cannot say; yet for the listener, that is quite enough. Later they go to Nozdryov's estate and tour all his properties and possessions — "They also went to see the Crimean bitch, which was already blind; according to Nozdryov, she was on the verge of dropping dead. Two years earlier, however, she had been a very fine bitch. Everyone duly inspected the bitch, and indeed she appeared to be blind." Here Nozdryov is not lying; he is extolling a blind bitch, and upon inspection she does indeed appear to be a blind bitch. What has this to do with anyone? Yet there are people in this world who do precisely this — clamoring, extolling, showing off things of this sort, and striving mightily to prove things of this sort, counting themselves busy and honest men, as they pass their entire lives. These utterly ordinary tragedies — or tragedies in which almost nothing happens — are, like soundless speech, very difficult to perceive unless a poet draws them into visible form. Yet few people perish from the special tragedies of heroes; far more are worn away by utterly ordinary tragedies, or tragedies in which almost nothing happens. I am told that Gogol's so-called "laughter through tears," in his homeland, has now become useless — healthy laughter has come to replace it. But elsewhere it remains useful, for within it there still lurk the shadows of many living people. Moreover, healthy laughter is, from the perspective of those being laughed at, a source of grief. Thus if Gogol's "laughter through tears" should pass from the author's face to the faces of readers whose position differs from his, it becomes healthy laughter — and this is the greatness of Dead Souls, and also the sorrow of its author.
《芒種》第八期上有一篇魏金枝先生的《分明的是非和熱烈的好惡》，是為以前的《文學論壇》上的《再論「文人相輕」》而發的。他先給了原則上的幾乎全體的贊成，說，「人應有分明的是非，和熱烈的好惡，這是不錯的，文人應更有分明的是非，和熱烈的好惡，這也是不錯的。」中間雖說「凡人在落難時節……能與猿鶴為伍，自然最好，否則與鹿豕為伍，也是好的。即到千萬沒有辦法的時候，至於躺在破廟角裡，而與麻瘋病菌為伍，倘然我的體力，尚能為自然的抗禦，因而不至毀滅以死，也比被實際上也做著騙子屠夫的所誘殺臠割，較為心願。」看起來好像有些微辭，但其實說的是他的憎惡騙子屠夫，遠在猿鶴以至麻瘋病菌之上，和《論壇》上所說的「從聖賢一直敬到騙子屠夫，從美人香草一直愛到麻風病菌的文人，在這世界上是找不到的」的話，也並不兩樣。至於說：「平心而論，彼一是非，此一是非，原非確論。」最在近來的莊子道友中，簡直是鶴立雞群似的卓見了。然而魏先生的大論的主旨，並不專在這一些，他要申明的是：是非難定，於是愛憎就為難。因為「譬如有一種人，……在他自己的心目之中，已先無是非之分。……於是其所謂‘是’，不免似是而實非了。」但「至於非中之是，它的是處，正勝過於似是之非，因為其猶講交友之道，而無門閥之分」的。到這地步，我們的文人就只好吞吞吐吐，假揩眼淚了。「似是之非」其實就是「非」，倘使已經看穿，不是只要給以熱烈的憎惡就成了嗎？然而「天下的事情，並沒有這麼簡單」，又不得不愛護「非中之是」，何況還有「似非而是」和「是中之非」，取其大，略其細的方法，於是就不適用了。天下何嘗有黑暗，據物理學說，地球上的無論如何的黑暗中，不是總有Ｘ分之一的光的嗎？看起書來，據理就該看見Ｘ分之一的字的，——我們不能論明暗。這並非刻薄的比喻，魏先生卻正走到「無是非」的結論的。他終於說：「總之，文人相輕，不外乎文的長短，道的是非，文既無長短可言，道又無是非之分，則空談是非，何補於事！已而已而，手無寸鐵的人呵！」人無全德，道無大成，剛說過「非中之是」，勝過「似是之非」，怎麼立刻又變成「文既無長短可言，道又無是非之分」了呢？文人的鐵，就是文章，魏先生正在大做散文，力施搏擊，怎麼同時又說是「手無寸鐵」了呢？這可見要抬舉「非中之是」，卻又不肯明說，事實上是怎樣的難，所以即使在那大文上列舉了許多對手的「排擠」，「大言」，「賣友」的惡諡，而且那大文正可通行無阻，卻還是覺得「手無寸鐵」，歸根結蒂，掉進「無是非」說的深坑裡，和自己以為「原非確論」的「彼亦一是非，此亦一是非」說成了「朋友」 ——這裡不說「門閥」 ——了。況且，「文既無長短可言，道又無是非之分」，魏先生的文章，就他自己的結論而言，就先沒有動筆的必要。不過要說結果，這無須動筆的動筆，卻還是有戰鬥的功效的，中國的有些文人一向謙虛，所以有時簡直會自己先躺在地上，說道，「倘然要講是非，也該去怪追奔逐北的好漢，我等小民，不任其咎。」明明是加入論戰中的了，卻又立刻肩出一面「小民」的旗來，推得乾乾淨淨，連肋骨在那裡也找不到了。論「文人相輕」竟會到這地步，這真是叫作到了末路！七月十五日。	In issue eight of Mangzhong, there is an essay by Mr. Wei Jinzhi entitled "Clear-Cut Right and Wrong and Fervent Likes and Dislikes," written in response to a previous "On 'Literati Mutually Disparaging Each Other'" from Wenxue Luntan. He begins by giving his near-total agreement in principle, saying: "People should have clear-cut right and wrong and fervent likes and dislikes — this is correct. Literati should have even clearer right and wrong and more fervent likes and dislikes — this too is correct." In between, he says: "When a man is down on his luck... if he can keep company with apes and cranes, that is naturally best; failing that, to keep company with deer and swine is also fine. Even when there is absolutely no other way out, and one must lie in the corner of a ruined temple keeping company with leprosy bacteria — provided my body still has the strength for natural resistance and I am not thereby destroyed unto death — even that is more to my liking than being lured to slaughter and carved up by those who in practice act as swindlers and butchers." At first glance this seems to contain some veiled criticism, but in fact he is saying that his hatred of swindlers and butchers far exceeds his aversion to apes and cranes or even leprosy bacteria — which is no different from what the Luntan piece said: "A literatus who reveres everyone from sages all the way down to swindlers and butchers, who loves everything from beauties and fragrant grasses all the way down to leprosy bacteria — such a creature cannot be found in this world." As for his remark that "speaking impartially, 'that was one standard of right and wrong, this is another' is hardly a sound argument" — well, among the recent disciples of Zhuangzi, this practically stands out like a crane among chickens, a truly remarkable insight. Yet the main thrust of Mr. Wei's grand essay does not lie exclusively in these matters. What he wishes to make clear is this: right and wrong are hard to determine, and therefore likes and dislikes become problematic. For "suppose there is a certain type of person... who in his own heart already draws no distinction between right and wrong... then what he calls 'right' inevitably appears right but is actually wrong." However, "the rightness within the wrong, in its rightness, surpasses the wrong within the apparent right, because it still upholds the way of friendship, without the distinctions of pedigree." Once we reach this point, our literati can only hem and haw, making a show of wiping away tears. "The apparently right that is actually wrong" is simply "wrong" — and once you've seen through it, shouldn't you simply bestow upon it your fervent hatred and be done with it? Yet "things in this world are not that simple" — one must also cherish "the rightness within the wrong," not to mention "the apparently wrong that is actually right" and "the wrongness within the right." The method of taking the large and overlooking the small thus becomes inapplicable. When has there ever been darkness in this world? According to physics, no matter how dark it is on earth, isn't there always one X-th of light? By this logic, when reading a book one ought to see one X-th of the characters — and so we cannot discuss light and dark at all. This is no cruel metaphor — Mr. Wei is indeed heading straight toward the conclusion of "no right or wrong." He ultimately says: "In short, literati disparaging each other comes down to nothing more than the relative merits of writing and the rights and wrongs of the Way. Since writing has no relative merits to speak of, and the Way has no rights and wrongs to distinguish, what good does empty talk about right and wrong do? Enough, enough, you men without an inch of iron!" No man is without flaw, no Way is perfectly realized — having just said that "the rightness within the wrong" surpasses "the apparently right that is actually wrong," how can he instantly turn around and declare that "writing has no relative merits to speak of, and the Way has no rights and wrongs to distinguish"? A literatus's iron is his writing — Mr. Wei is himself producing essays on a grand scale, striking blows with all his might — how can he simultaneously claim to be "without an inch of iron"? This shows how difficult it is when one wants to elevate "the rightness within the wrong" but refuses to say so plainly. And so even though that grand essay enumerates a great many of the opponent's evil epithets — "excluding," "boasting," "betraying friends" — and even though that grand essay circulates entirely without obstruction, he still feels "without an inch of iron." In the final analysis, he tumbles into the deep pit of the "no right or wrong" doctrine, and he and the "that is one standard of right and wrong, this is another" theory — which he himself considered "hardly a sound argument" — have become "friends." One does not say "pedigree" here. Moreover, "since writing has no relative merits to speak of, and the Way has no rights and wrongs to distinguish," then by Mr. Wei's own conclusion, there was no need for him to have taken up his pen in the first place. Nevertheless, if we speak of results, this unnecessary taking up of the pen still achieves a combative effect. Some of our Chinese literati have always been modest, so much so that at times they simply lie down on the ground first and say: "If you want to talk about right and wrong, go blame the valiant heroes who pursue the fleeing and chase the defeated — we small folk cannot bear the blame." They have clearly joined the battle, yet instantly they hoist a flag reading "small folk," wiping themselves clean of everything, until you cannot even find where their ribs are. That debating "literati disparaging each other" should come to this — this truly is what you call reaching the end of the road! July 15.
前一回沒有提到，魏金枝先生的大文《分明的是非和熱烈的好惡》裡，還有一點很有意思的文章。他以為現在「往往有些具著兩張面孔的人」，重甲而輕乙；他自然不至於主張文人應該對誰都打拱作揖，連稱久仰久仰的，只因為乙君原是大可欽敬的作者。所以甲乙兩位，「此時此際，要談是非，就得易地而處」，甲說你的甲話，乙呢，就覺得「非中之是，……正勝過於似是之非，因為其猶講交友之道，而無門閥之分」，把「門閥」留給甲君，自去另找講交道的「朋友」，即使沒有，竟「與麻瘋病菌為伍，……也比被實際上也做著騙子屠夫的所誘殺臠割，較為心願」了。這擁護「文人相輕」的情境，是悲壯的，但也正證明瞭現在一般之所謂「文人相輕」，至少，是魏先生所擁護的「文人相輕」，並不是因為「文」，倒是為了「交道」。朋友乃五常之一名，交道是人間的美德，當然也好得很。不過騙子有屏風，屠夫有幫手，在他們自己之間，卻也叫作「朋友」的。「必也正名乎」，好名目當然也好得很。只可惜美名未必一定包著美德。「翻手為雲覆手雨，紛紛輕薄何須數，君不見管鮑貧時交，此道今人棄如土！」這是李太白先生罷，就早已「感慨系之矣」，更何況現在這洋場——古名「彝場」——的上海。最近的《大晚報》的副刊上就有一篇文章在通知我們要在上海交朋友，說話先須漂亮，這才不至於吃虧，見面第一句，是「格位（或‘迪個’）朋友貴姓？」此時此際，這「朋友」兩字中還未含有任何利害，但說下去，就要一步緊一步的顯出愛憎和取捨，即決定共同玩花樣，還是用作「阿木林」之分來了。「朋友，以義合者也。」古人確曾說過的，然而又有古人說：「義，利也。」嗚呼！如果在冷路上走走，有時會遇見幾個人蹲在地上賭錢，莊家只是輸，押的只是贏，然而他們其實是莊家的一夥，就是所謂「屏風」——也就是他們自己之所謂「朋友」——目的是在引得蠢才眼熱，也來出手，然後掏空他的腰包。如果你站下來，他們又覺得你並非蠢才，只因為好奇，未必來上當，就會說：「朋友，管自己走，沒有什麼好看。」這是一種朋友，不妨害騙局的朋友。荒場上又有變戲法的，石塊變白鴿，壇子裝小孩，本領大抵不很高強，明眼人本極容易看破，於是他們就時時拱手大叫道：「在家靠父母，出家靠朋友！」這並非在要求撒錢，是請托你不要說破。這又是一種朋友，是不戳穿戲法的朋友。把這些識時務的朋友穩住了，他才可以掏呆朋友的腰包；或者手執花槍，來趕走不知趣的走近去窺探底細的傻子，惡狠狠的啐一口道：「……瞎你的眼睛！」孩子的遭遇可是還要危險。現在有許多文章裡，不是常在很親熱的叫著「小朋友，小朋友」嗎？這是因為要請他做未來的主人公，把一切擔子都擱在他肩上了；至少，也得去買兒童畫報，雜志，文庫之類，據說否則就要落伍。已成年的作家們所占領的文壇上，當然不至於有這麼彰明較著的可笑事，但地方究竟是上海，一面大叫朋友，一面卻要他悄悄的納錢五塊，買得「自己的園地」，才有發表作品的權利的「交道」，可也不見得就不會出現的。八月十三日。	In the previous installment I neglected to mention that Mr. Wei Jinzhi's grand essay, "Clear-Cut Right and Wrong and Fervent Likes and Dislikes," contains another quite interesting passage. He believes that nowadays "there are often people with two faces" who esteem Party A while despising Party B. He would naturally not go so far as to advocate that a literatus should bow and scrape to everyone, greeting all with endless "What an honor, what an honor" — it is only because Party B happens to be a truly admirable author. Therefore, for both A and B, "at this time and in this situation, if one wishes to discuss right and wrong, one must put oneself in the other's shoes." A speaks his A-ish words; B, for his part, concludes that "the rightness within the wrong... surpasses the wrong within the apparent right, because it still upholds the way of friendship, without the distinctions of pedigree" — leaving "pedigree" to Mr. A and going off to find his own friends who uphold the way of fellowship. And should he find none, he would rather "keep company with leprosy bacteria... than be lured to slaughter and carved up by those who in practice act as swindlers and butchers." This defense of "literati disparaging each other" is heroically tragic, but it also proves that what is currently called "literati disparaging each other" in general — or at least the "literati disparaging each other" that Mr. Wei defends — is not really on account of "literature" at all, but rather on account of "fellowship." Friendship is one of the Five Cardinal Relationships, and fellowship is a fine human virtue — all very well and good, naturally. However, swindlers have screens, and butchers have henchmen, and among themselves they too call one another "friends." "Let names be rectified!" — fine titles are certainly very fine. The only pity is that fine names do not necessarily contain fine virtues. "Turning the hand, now cloud, now rain / Those fickle, faithless types — who can count them? / My Lord, recall the friendship of Guan and Bao in their days of poverty / This way of friendship, people now discard like dirt!" That was Li Taibai, was it not? He was already "moved to deep sighs" long ago — how much more so now, in this foreign settlement — in the ancient name "barbarian marketplace" — of Shanghai. Just recently, a piece in the supplement of the Da Wan Bao informed us that to make friends in Shanghai, one must first speak prettily, so as not to suffer losses. The very first sentence upon meeting is: "My friend, what is your honorable surname?" At this moment, the word "friend" does not yet contain any implications of interest. But as the conversation continues, things tighten step by step, revealing likes and dislikes, choices and rejections — that is, the determination of whether to collaborate on tricks together, or whether to use the other as a dupe. "Friends are those who come together through righteousness" — the ancients certainly did say this. Yet another ancient said: "Righteousness is profit." Alas! If you stroll along the back streets, you may sometimes come upon several men squatting on the ground gambling. The banker does nothing but lose; the bettors do nothing but win — yet in fact they are all the banker's gang, his so-called "screens" — which is to say, what they themselves call "friends." The aim is to make some fool's eyes burn with envy so that he too will place his bets, whereupon they empty his pockets. If you stop to watch and they suspect you are no fool — merely curious and unlikely to be taken in — they will say: "Friend, just keep walking, nothing to see here." That is one kind of friend: a friend who does not interfere with the swindle. On waste ground you also find conjurors — turning stones into white doves, stuffing children into jars — their skills are generally not very impressive, and anyone with sharp eyes can see through them easily. And so they constantly clasp their hands and cry out: "At home one depends on parents; abroad one depends on friends!" This is not a request for money to be tossed their way — it is a plea for you not to expose the trick. That is yet another kind of friend: a friend who does not puncture the illusion. Once these tactful friends are secured, the conjuror can then fleece his gullible friends; or else, brandishing a painted spear, chase away the uncooperative fellow who presses too close to inspect the workings, spitting viciously: "...Blind, are you!" Children, however, face even greater danger. In many articles nowadays, doesn't one constantly hear the affectionate call of "little friends, little friends"? This is because they want to cast the child as the protagonist of the future, loading every burden onto his small shoulders. At the very least, he must go buy children's pictorials, magazines, book series, and so forth — for otherwise, we are told, he will fall behind the times. On the literary scene occupied by established adult writers, of course nothing quite so blatantly absurd occurs. But the locale is, after all, Shanghai — and a "fellowship" in which one loudly proclaims friendship on one side while on the other quietly demands five dollars in exchange for "a garden of one's own" and the right to publish one's work — well, such a thing is not so unlikely to appear. August 13.
「文人相輕」是局外人或假充局外人的話。如果自己是這局面中人之一，那就是非被輕則是輕人，他決不用這對等的「相」字。但到無可奈何的時候，卻也可以拿這四個字來遮掩一下。這遮掩是逃路，然而也仍然是戰術，所以這口訣還被有一些人所寶愛。不過這是後來的話。在先，當然是「輕」。「輕」之術很不少。粗糙的說：大略有三種。一種是自卑，自己先躺在垃圾裡，然後來拖敵人，就是「我是畜生，但是我叫你爹爹，你既是畜生的爹爹，可見你也是畜生了」的法子。這形容自然未免過火一點，然而較文雅的現象，文壇上卻並不怎麼少見的。埋伏之法，是甲乙兩人的作品，思想和技術，分明不同，甚而至於相反的，某乙卻偏要設法表明，說惟獨自己的作品乃是某甲的嫡派；補救之法，是某乙的缺點倘被某甲所指摘，他就說這些事情正是某甲所具備，而且自己也正從某甲那裡學了來的。此外，已經把別人評得一錢不值了，臨末卻又很謙虛的聲明自己並非批評家，凡有所說，也許全等於放屁之類，也屬於這一派。一種是最正式的，就是自高，一面把不利於自己的批評，統統謂之「漫罵」，一面又竭力宣揚自己的好處，准備跨過別人。但這方法比較的麻煩，因為除「辟謠」之外，自吹自擂是究竟不很雅觀的，所以做這些文章時，自己得另用一個筆名，或者邀一些「講交道」的「朋友」來互助。不過弄得不好，那些「朋友」就會變成保駕的打手或抬駕的轎夫，而使那「朋友」會變成這一類人物的，則這禦駕一定不過是有些手勢的花花公子，抬來抬去，終於脫不了原形，一年半載之後，花花之上也再添不上什麼花頭去，而且打手轎夫，要而言之，也究竟要工食，倘非腰包飽滿，是沒法維持的。如果能用死轎夫，如袁中郎或「晚明二十家」之流來抬，再請一位活名人喝道，自然較為輕而易舉，但看過去的成績和效驗，可也並不見佳。還有一種是自己連名字也並不拋頭露面，只用匿名或由「朋友」給敵人以「批評」——要時髦些，就可以說是「批判」。尤其要緊的是給與一個名稱，像一般的「諢名」一樣。因為讀者大眾的對于某一作者，是未必和「批評」或「批判」者同仇敵慨的，一篇文章，縱使題目用頭號字印成，他們也不大起勁，現在制出一個簡括的諢名，就可以比較的不容易忘記了。在近十年來的中國文壇上，這法術，用是也常用的，但效果卻很小。法術原是極利害，極致命的法術。果戈理誇俄國人之善於給別人起名號——或者也是自誇——說是名號一出，就是你跑到天涯海角，它也要跟著你走，怎麼擺也擺不脫。這正如傳神的寫意畫，並不細畫須眉，並不寫上名字，不過寥寥幾筆，而神情畢肖，只要見過被畫者的人，一看就知道這是誰；誇張了這人的特長——不論優點或弱點，卻更知道這是誰。可惜我們中國人並不怎樣擅長這本領。起源，是古的。從漢末到六朝之所謂「品題」，如「關東觥觥郭子橫」，「五經紛綸井大春」，就是這法術，但說的是優點居多。梁山泊上一百另八條好漢都有諢名，也是這一類，不過著眼多在形體，如「花和尚魯智深」和「青面獸楊志」，或者才能，如「浪裡白跳張順」和「鼓上蚤時遷」等，並不能提挈這人的全般。直到後來的訟師，寫狀之際，還常常給被告加上一個諢名，以見他原是流氓地痞一類，然而不久也就拆穿西洋鏡，即使毫無才能的師爺，也知道這是不足注意的了。現在的所謂文人，除了改用幾個新名詞之外，也並無進步，所以那些「批判」，結果還大抵是徒勞。這失敗之處，是在不切帖。批評一個人，得到結論，加以簡括的名稱，雖只寥寥數字，卻很要明確的判斷力和表現的才能的。必須切帖，這才和被批判者不相離，這才會跟了他跑到天涯海角。現在卻大抵只是漫然的抓了一時之所謂惡名，摔了過去：或「封建餘孽」，或「布爾喬亞」，或「破鑼」，或「無政府主義者」，或「利己主義者」……等等；而且怕一個不夠致命，又連用些什麼「無政府主義封建餘孽」或「布爾喬亞破鑼利己主義者」；怕一人說沒有力，約朋友各給他一個；怕說一回還太少，一年內連給他幾個：時時改換，個個不同。這舉棋不定，就因為觀察不精，因而品題也不確，所以即使用盡死勁，流完大汗，寫了出去，也還是和對方不相干，就是用漿糊粘在他身上，不久也就脫落了。汽車夫發怒，便罵洋車夫阿四一聲「豬玀」，頑皮孩子高興，也會在賣炒白果阿五的背上畫一個烏龜，雖然也許博得市儈們的一笑，但他們是決不因此就得「豬玀阿四」或「烏龜阿五」的諢名的。此理易明：因為不切帖。五四時代的所謂「桐城謬種」和「選學妖孽」，是指做「載飛載鳴」的文章和抱住《文選》尋字彙的人們的，而某一種人確也是這一流，形容愜當，所以這名目的流傳也較為永久。除此之外，恐怕也沒有什麼還留在大家的記憶裡了。到現在，和這八個字可以匹敵的，或者只好推「洋場惡少」和「革命小販」了罷。前一聯出於古之「京」，後一聯出於今之「海」。創作難，就是給人起一個稱號或諢名也不易。假使有誰能起顛撲不破的諢名的罷，那麼，他如作評論，一定也是嚴肅正確的批評家，倘弄創作，一定也是深刻博大的作者。所以，連稱號或諢名起得不得法，也還是因為這班「朋友」的不「文」。——「再亮些！」八月十四日。	"Literati disparaging each other" is the talk of outsiders, or of those who pretend to be outsiders. If one is oneself a party to the affair, then one is either being disparaged or doing the disparaging — one would never use the symmetrical word "each other." But when driven to desperation, one may also seize upon these four characters as a veil. This veil is an escape route, yet it remains a tactic all the same — which is why this formula is still treasured by some. But that is a later matter. First, of course, comes the "disparaging." The arts of "disparaging" are quite numerous. Speaking roughly, there are approximately three kinds. The first is self-abasement: one lies down in the rubbish heap first, then drags the enemy in — the method of "I am a beast, but I call you Daddy; since you are a beast's daddy, it follows that you too are a beast." This description is naturally a bit extreme, but the more refined version of the phenomenon is by no means rare on the literary scene. The method of ambush works like this: the works, thought, and technique of A and B are plainly different, even diametrically opposed, yet B insists on finding ways to demonstrate that his works alone are the legitimate school of A. The method of remediation works like this: when B's shortcomings are pointed out by A, B declares that these very faults are things A himself possesses, and that he, B, learned them precisely from A. Additionally, there is the type who, after having pronounced someone else utterly worthless, appends a modest disclaimer at the end, stating that he himself is no critic and that everything he has said may well be tantamount to flatulence — this too belongs to the same school. The second is the most formal kind: self-elevation. On one side, all criticism unfavorable to oneself is uniformly labeled "abuse"; on the other, one exerts every effort to publicize one's own merits, preparing to step over others. But this method is comparatively troublesome, for aside from "refuting rumors," blowing one's own trumpet is, after all, not very elegant. And so when composing such pieces, one must use a different pen name, or invite some "friends" who uphold the way of fellowship to assist one another. If things go badly, however, those "friends" turn into bodyguard-thugs or sedan-chair-carrying lackeys. And what turns those "friends" into such creatures is invariably that the personage being borne aloft is merely a foppish dandy with a few gestures — no matter how much carrying goes on, the original form is eventually exposed. After a year or eighteen months, no more flourishes can be added to the foppery, and moreover, thugs and lackeys, when all is said and done, need wages and food — one cannot maintain them without a full purse. If one could employ dead sedan-bearers — the likes of Yuan Zhonglang or the "Twenty Masters of the Late Ming" — for the carrying, and invite one living celebrity to clear the road ahead with a shout, that would naturally be easier. But judging from past results and efficacy, this has not proven particularly successful either. Then there is a third kind, in which one does not even show one's name in public, but merely uses anonymity or has "friends" deliver "criticism" to the enemy — if one wants to be fashionable, one can call it "critique." What is especially crucial is to bestow a label — a nickname, as it were, like common monikers. For the reading public does not necessarily share the same hostility toward a given author as the "critic" or "critiquer" does. A single essay, even if its title is printed in the largest typeface, does not much excite them. But manufacture a pithy nickname, and it becomes comparatively harder to forget. On the Chinese literary scene of the past decade, this sorcery has indeed been employed often enough, but its effects have been meager. The sorcery is, in principle, an exceedingly potent, exceedingly deadly sorcery. Gogol boasted — or perhaps it was also self-congratulation — of the Russian genius for bestowing nicknames on people: once the nickname is out, even if you flee to the ends of the earth, it will follow you; no matter how you try, you cannot shake it off. This is like a capturing portrait done in the freehand style: the eyebrows and whiskers are not meticulously painted, no name is inscribed, just a few spare strokes — yet the spirit and expression are perfectly caught. Anyone who has met the subject recognizes at a glance who it is; exaggerate the person's distinctive feature — whether a strength or a weakness — and the recognition becomes even more certain. Unfortunately, we Chinese are not particularly adept at this skill. Its origins are ancient. The so-called "characterizations" from the late Han through the Six Dynasties — such as "the magnificent Guo Ziheng of the East of the Pass" and "the erudite Jing Dachun of the Five Classics" — were this very sorcery, though they mostly spoke of virtues. The one hundred and eight heroes of Liangshan Marsh all had nicknames too — of the same kind — though most focused on physical form, such as "The Flowery Monk Lu Zhishen" and "The Blue-Faced Beast Yang Zhi," or on skills, such as "The White Streak in the Waves Zhang Shun" and "The Flea on the Drum Shi Qian" — none of which captured the whole of the person. Right up to the later litigation masters, who when drafting complaints would commonly give the defendant a nickname to show that he was a ruffian and local rogue — yet this too was soon exposed for what it was, and even the most talentless clerk knew it was not worth paying attention to. Today's so-called literati, apart from swapping in a few new terms, have made no progress either, and so those "critiques" mostly end in futility. The failure lies in the lack of aptness. To criticize a person, reach a conclusion, and encapsulate it in a brief label — though it may be only a few characters — requires clear judgment and expressive talent. It must be apt: only then will it cling to the person criticized, only then will it follow him to the ends of the earth. But nowadays, people mostly just grab whatever is currently considered a term of opprobrium and fling it over: now "feudal remnant," now "bourgeois," now "cracked gong," now "anarchist," now "egoist"... and so forth. And fearing one alone is not lethal enough, they string them together — "anarchist feudal remnant" or "bourgeois cracked-gong egoist." Fearing that one person's word lacks force, they enlist friends to contribute one each. Fearing one mention is too few, they add several within the same year — constantly changing, each one different. This indecision stems from imprecise observation, which leads to inaccurate characterization, so that even if one expends every ounce of strength and sweats through one's clothes, what is written has nothing to do with the target. Even if you glue it to him with paste, it will soon peel off. A chauffeur, in a rage, calls rickshaw-puller Asi "pig" — a mischievous child, for fun, draws a turtle on the back of roasted-ginkgo vendor Awu — though this may win a laugh from philistines, neither will thereby acquire the nickname "Pig Asi" or "Turtle Awu." The reason is easily understood: because the label is not apt. The phrases "absurd offspring of the Tongcheng school" and "monstrous spawn of the anthology tradition" from the May Fourth era referred to those who wrote essays in the style of "now soaring, now singing" and those who clung to the Wenxuan as a dictionary. And a certain type of person was indeed of that ilk — the description was fitting, which is why these labels have endured comparatively long. Beyond these, I fear nothing else remains in everyone's memory. To the present day, the only labels that might rival those eight characters are perhaps "foreign-settlement ruffians" and "revolutionary hucksters." The former couplet originated in the old-style "capital"; the latter couplet in the modern-style "sea." Creation is difficult; even giving someone a title or nickname is no easy task. If there were someone who could coin indestructible nicknames, then as a critic he would certainly be a serious and accurate one, and as a creative writer, he would certainly be a profound and capacious author. And so, even the inability to coin proper titles or nicknames is ultimately because this band of "friends" is not sufficiently "literary." — "More light!" August 14.
Ｍ君寄給我一封剪下來的報章。這是近十來年常有的事情，有時是雜志。閒暇時翻檢一下，其中大概有一點和我相關的文章，甚至於還有「生腦膜炎」之類的惡消息。這時候，我就得預備大約一塊多錢的郵票，來寄信回答陸續函問的人們。至於寄報的人呢，大約有兩類：一是朋友，意思不過說，這刊物上的東西，有些和你相關；二，可就難說了，猜想起來，也許正是作者或編者，「你看，咱們在罵你了！」用的是《三國志演義》上的「三氣周瑜」或「罵死王朗」的法子。不過後一種近來少一些了，因為我的戰術是暫時擱起，並不給以反應，使他們諸公的刊物很少有因我而蓬蓬勃勃之望，到後來卻也許會去撥一撥誰的下巴：這於他們諸公是很不利的。Ｍ君是屬於第一類的；剪報是天津《益世報》的《文學副刊》。其中有一篇張露薇先生做的《略論中國文壇》，下有一行小注道：「偷懶，奴性，而忘掉了藝術」。只要看這題目，就知道作者是一位勇敢而記住藝術的批評家了。看起文章來，真的，痛快得很。我以為介紹別人的作品，刪節實在是極可惜的，倘有妙文，大家都應該設法流傳，萬不可聽其泯滅。不過紙墨也須顧及，所以只摘錄了第二段，就是「永遠是日本人的追隨者的作家」在這裡，也萬不能再少，因為我實在捨不得了—— 我並不想因此來研究「奴隸性是最『意識正確』的東西」，「主觀是對於事物的選擇，客觀才是對於事物的方法」這些難問題；我只要說，誠如張露薇先生所言，就是在文藝上，我們中國也的確太落後。法國有紀律和巴爾扎克，蘇聯有高爾基，我們沒有；日本叫喊起來了，我們才跟著叫喊，這也許真是「追隨」而且「永遠」，也就是「奴隸性」，而且是「最『意識正確』的東西」。但是，並不「追隨」的叫喊其實是也有一些的，林語堂先生說過：「……其在文學，今日紹介波蘭詩人，明日紹介捷克文豪，而對於已經聞名之英美法德文人，反厭為陳腐，不欲深察，求一究竟。……此種流風，其弊在浮，救之之道，在於學。」（《人間世》二十八期《今文八弊》中）南北兩公，眼睛都有些斜視，只看了一面，各罵了一面，獨跳猶可，並排跳舞起來，那「勇敢」就未免化為有趣了。不過林先生主張「求一究竟」，張先生要求「直接瞭解」，這「實事求是」之心，兩位是大抵一致的，不過張先生比較的悲觀，因為他是「豫言」家，斷定了「在一千年以內，絕不會見到那些紹介紀德，巴爾扎克的人們會給中國的讀者譯出一兩本紀德，巴爾扎克的重要著作來，全集更不必說」的緣故。照這「豫言」看起來，「直接瞭解」的張露薇先生自己，當然是一定不譯的了；別人呢，我還想存疑，但可惜我活不到一千年，決沒有目睹的希望。豫言頗有點難。說得近一些，容易露破綻。還記得我們的批評家成仿吾先生手掄雙斧，從《創造》的大旗下，一躍而出的時候，曾經說，他不屑看流行的作品，要從冷落堆裡提出作家來。這是好的，雖然勃蘭兌斯曾從冷落中提出過伊孛生和尼采，但我們似乎也難以斥他為追隨或奴性。不大好的是他的這一張支票，到十多年後的現在還沒有兌現。說得遠一些罷，又容易成笑柄。江浙人相信風水，富翁往往豫先尋葬地；鄉下人知道一個故事：有風水先生給人尋好了墳穴，起誓道：「您百年之後，安葬下去，如果到第三代不發，請打我的嘴巴！」然而他的期限，比張露薇先生的期限還要少到約十分之九的樣子。然而講已往的瑣事也不易。張露薇先生說慶祝高爾基四十年創作的時候，「中國也有魯迅，丁玲一般人發了慶祝的電文，……然而那一群簽名者中有幾個讀過高爾基的十分之一的作品？」這質問是極不錯的。我只得招供：讀得很少，而且連高爾基十分之一的作品究竟是幾本也不知道。不過高爾基的全集，卻連他本國也還未出全，所以其實也無從計算。至於祝電，我以為打一個是應該的，似乎也並非中國人的恥辱，或者便失了人性，然而我實在卻並沒有發，也沒有在任何電報底稿上簽名。這也並非怕有「奴性」，只因沒有人來邀，自己也想不到，過去了。發不妨，不發也不要緊，我想，發，高爾基大約不至於說我是「日本人的追隨者的作家」，不發，也未必說我是「張露薇的追隨者的作家」的。但對於綏拉菲摩維支的祝賀日，我卻發過一個祝電，因為我校印過中譯的《鐵流》。這是在情理之中的，但也較難於想到，還不如測定為對于高爾基發電的容易。當然，隨便說說也不要緊，然而，「中國的知識階級就是如此淺薄，做應聲蟲有餘，做一個忠實的，不苟且的，有理性的文學創作者和研究者便不成了」的話，對於有一些人卻大概是真的了。張露薇先生自然也是知識階級，他在同階級中發見了這許多奴隸，拿鞭子來抽，我是瞭解他的心情的。但他和他所謂的奴隸們，也只隔了一張紙。如果有誰看過菲洲的黑奴工頭，傲然的拿鞭子亂抽著做苦工的黑奴的電影的，拿來和這《略論中國文壇》的大文一比較，便會禁不住會心之笑。那一個和一群，有這麼相近，卻又有這麼不同，這一張紙真隔得利害：分清了奴隸和奴才。我在這裡，自以為總算又鉤下了一種新的偉大人物——一九三五年度文藝「豫言」家——的嘴臉的輪廓了。八月十六日。	Mr. M sent me a clipping from a newspaper. This has been a common occurrence over the past decade or so, sometimes with magazines as well. When I have some leisure time and leaf through them, there is usually something in there related to me, sometimes even wicked tidings like "has contracted meningitis." At such times, I must prepare approximately a dollar's worth of postage stamps to answer the steady stream of inquiring letters. As for the person who sends the clipping, there are roughly two types: the first is a friend, whose meaning is simply to say, this publication has something that concerns you. The second is harder to say — but I'd guess it is likely the author or editor himself: "Look, we're attacking you!" — employing the Romance of the Three Kingdoms technique of "Provoking Zhou Yu Three Times" or "Cursing Wang Lang to Death." But this second type has diminished lately, because my strategy is to set it aside for the time being and offer no response, depriving these gentlemen's publications of any hope of flourishing on my account. Later, however, I may go and tweak someone's chin — which is very much not in their interest. Mr. M belongs to the first type. The clipping is from the Yishi Bao's Literary Supplement in Tianjin. It contains an essay by Mr. Zhang Luwei entitled "A Brief Discussion of the Chinese Literary Scene," with a subtitle: "Laziness, slavishness, and forgetting art." One glance at the title tells you the author is a brave critic who remembers art. Reading the essay — truly, how exhilarating. I think that when introducing someone else's work, to abridge it would be a great pity; if there is fine writing, everyone should do their part to spread it, and it must never be allowed to perish. But paper and ink must also be considered, so I have excerpted only the second section, the one about "the writers who are forever the followers of the Japanese" — and truly, not one word more can be spared, for I cannot bear to leave any of it out: I have no intention of using this as a springboard for examining the difficult propositions that "slavishness is the most 'ideologically correct' of things" or that "subjectivity is the selection of things, while objectivity is only the method of dealing with things." I only wish to say that, just as Mr. Zhang Luwei states, in literature too, we Chinese are indeed far too backward. France has Gide and Balzac; the Soviet Union has Gorky — we have no one. Japan raises a cry, and we follow suit — this is perhaps indeed "following" and "forever" so, which is to say "slavishness" and "the most 'ideologically correct' of things." However, cries that are not "following" do in fact exist. Mr. Lin Yutang has said: "... In literature, today one introduces a Polish poet, tomorrow a Czech literary giant, while the already famous writers of England, America, France, and Germany are scorned as stale, and one does not wish to investigate deeply or pursue the matter to the end... The vice of this trend lies in superficiality; the remedy lies in learning." (Renjianshi, Issue 28, "Eight Maladies of Contemporary Writing.") The two gentlemen, North and South, both have somewhat squinting eyes — each looks at only one side and berates only one side. To dance solo is still passable; but if they were to dance side by side, their "bravery" would inevitably become rather amusing. Still, Mr. Lin advocates "pursuing the matter to the end," and Mr. Zhang demands "direct understanding" — this spirit of "seeking truth from facts" is largely shared by both. It is only that Mr. Zhang is comparatively more pessimistic, for he is a "prophet," having decreed that "within a thousand years, we will absolutely never see those people who introduce Gide and Balzac produce one or two translations of important works by Gide or Balzac for Chinese readers — to say nothing of complete works." Given this "prophecy," Mr. Zhang Luwei himself, the master of "direct understanding," will naturally do no translating. As for others — I should like to reserve judgment, but alas, I shall not live a thousand years and have no hope of witnessing the outcome. Prophecy is rather difficult. Set the deadline too near, and the cracks show easily. I recall that when our critic Mr. Cheng Fangwu burst forth from beneath the great banner of Creation, double axes whirling, he once declared that he disdained to read fashionable works and would instead pluck authors from the rubbish heap of obscurity. This was fine, and though Brandes had once plucked Ibsen and Nietzsche from obscurity, we can hardly accuse Cheng of "following" or "slavishness." What was less fine is that his promissory note remains uncashed over a decade later. Set the deadline too far, and it easily becomes a laughingstock. In Jiangsu and Zhejiang, people believe in fengshui; rich men often seek out burial plots in advance. In the countryside, they know a story: a fengshui master, having found the right grave site for a client, swore: "After you pass on, a hundred years hence, if your line has not prospered by the third generation, you may slap me across the mouth!" Yet his deadline was about nine-tenths shorter than Mr. Zhang Luwei's. But talking about past trivia is also no easy matter. Mr. Zhang Luwei says that when Gorky's fortieth anniversary of literary work was being celebrated, "China too had Lu Xun, Ding Ling, and their like sending congratulatory telegrams... But how many of that group of signatories had read even a tenth of Gorky's works?" This challenge is perfectly sound. I can only confess: I have read very little, and I do not even know how many volumes constitute a tenth of Gorky's oeuvre. However, even in his own country Gorky's complete works have not yet all been published, so in fact there is no way to calculate. As for the telegram — I believe sending one was only right, and it hardly seems a disgrace to the Chinese nation, nor a dereliction of human nature. Yet in fact I did not send one, nor did I sign any telegram draft. This is not because I feared the taint of "slavishness," but simply because no one invited me, and it did not occur to me, and so the moment passed. To send it would have been fine; not to send it doesn't matter either, I think. Had I sent one, Gorky would hardly have called me "a writer who forever follows the Japanese"; not having sent one, he would hardly have called me "a writer who follows Zhang Luwei." But for the celebration of Serafimovich, I did send a congratulatory telegram, because I had proofread and published the Chinese translation of The Iron Flood. This is perfectly natural, though perhaps harder to guess — not as easy to deduce as sending a telegram for Gorky. Of course, one can say whatever one likes, but as for the assertion that "China's intelligentsia is this shallow — capable of being echo-worms, but incapable of being faithful, conscientious, rational literary creators and researchers" — well, about some people, that is probably quite true. Mr. Zhang Luwei is naturally himself a member of the intelligentsia. Having discovered so many slaves among his fellow class members, he takes a whip to them — I understand his feelings. But between him and his so-called slaves there is only a sheet of paper. If anyone has seen the film of an African slave overseer proudly lashing the black slaves doing hard labor, and compares it with Mr. Zhang Luwei's grand essay "A Brief Discussion of the Chinese Literary Scene," one cannot suppress a knowing smile. The one and the many are so alike, yet so different — that sheet of paper makes a formidable barrier: it separates the slave from the lackey. Here, I flatter myself to have sketched the outline of yet another new species of great personage — the literary "prophet" of 1935. August 16.
國貨也提倡得長久了，雖然上海的國貨公司並不發達，「國貨城」也早已關了城門，接著就將城牆撤去，日報上卻還常見關於國貨的專刊。那上面，受勸和挨罵的主角，照例也還是學生，兒童和婦女。前幾天看見一篇關於筆墨的文章，中學生之流，很受了一頓訓斥，說他們十分之九，是用鋼筆和墨水的，這就使中國的筆墨沒有出路。自然，倒並不說這一類人就是什麼奸，但至少，恰如摩登婦女的愛用外國脂粉和香水似的，應負「入超」的若干的責任。這話也並不錯的。不過我想，洋筆墨的用不用，要看我們的閒不閒。我自己是先在私塾裡用毛筆，後在學校裡用鋼筆，後來回到鄉下又用毛筆的人，卻以為假如我們能夠悠悠然，洋洋焉，拂硯伸紙，磨墨揮毫的話，那麼，羊毫和松煙當然也很不壞。不過事情要做得快，字要寫得多，可就不成功了，這就是說，它敵不過鋼筆和墨水。譬如在學校裡抄講義罷，即使改用墨盒，省去臨時磨墨之煩，但不久，墨汁也會把毛筆膠住，寫不開了，你還得帶洗筆的水池，終於弄到在小小的桌子上，擺開「文房四寶」。況且毛筆尖觸紙的多少，就是字的粗細，是全靠手腕作主的，因此也容易疲勞，越寫越慢。閒人不要緊，一忙，就覺得無論如何，總是墨水和鋼筆便當了。青年裡面，當然也不免有洋服上掛一枝萬年筆，做做裝飾的人，但這究竟是少數，使用者的多，原因還是在便當。便於使用的器具的力量，是決非勸諭，譏刺，痛罵之類的空言所能制止的。假如不信，你倒去勸那些坐汽車的人，在北方改用騾車，在南方改用綠呢大轎試試看。如果說這提議是笑話，那麼，勸學生改用毛筆呢？現在的青年，已經成了「廟頭鼓」，誰都不妨敲打了。一面有繁重的學科，古書的提倡，一面卻又有教育家喟然興歎，說他們成績壞，不看報紙，昧於世界的大勢。但是，連筆墨也乞靈於外國，那當然是不行的。這一點，卻要推前清的官僚聰明，他們在上海立過製造局，想造比筆墨更緊要的器械——雖然為了「積重難返」，終於也造不出什麼東西來。歐洲人也聰明，金雞那原是斐洲的植物，因為去偷種子，還死了幾個人，但竟偷到手，在自己這裡種起來了，使我們現在如果發了瘧疾，可以很便當的大吃金雞那霜丸，而且還有「糖衣」，連不愛服藥的嬌小姐們也吃得甜蜜蜜。製造墨水和鋼筆的法子，弄弄到手，是沒有偷金雞那子那麼危險的。所以與其勸人莫用墨水和鋼筆，倒不如自己來造墨水和鋼筆；但必須造得好，切莫「掛羊頭賣狗肉」。要不然，這一番工夫就又是一個白費。但我相信，凡有毛筆擁護論者大約也不免以我的提議為空談：因為這事情不容易。這也是事實；所以典當業只好呈請禁止奇裝異服，以免時價早晚不同，筆墨業也只好主張吮墨舐毫，以免國粹漸就淪喪。改造自己，總比禁止別人來得難。然而這辦法卻是沒有好結果的，不是無效，就是使一部份青年又變成舊式的斯文人。八月二十三日。	The promotion of domestic goods has been going on for quite a long time now. Though Shanghai's National Products Company has not exactly prospered, and "National Products City" long ago closed its gates — soon followed by the tearing down of its walls — the daily newspapers still regularly feature special supplements on national products. In these, the principal targets of exhortation and scolding are, as always, students, children, and women. A few days ago I came across an article about brushes and ink. Middle-school students and their ilk received a thorough scolding: nine out of ten of them, it seems, use steel pens and ink — which is the reason Chinese brushes and ink have no market. Naturally, nobody went so far as to call such people traitors, but at the very least they are — much like modern women who prefer foreign cosmetics and perfume — to be held responsible for some portion of the trade deficit. This argument is not incorrect. However, I think whether one uses foreign pens and ink depends on whether one is at leisure. I myself first used the brush in a private school, then the steel pen in a modern school, then the brush again when I returned to the countryside — and yet I believe that if we could sit at ease, serene and unhurried, smoothing the inkstone, unrolling the paper, grinding the ink, and wielding the brush, then a goat-hair brush and pine-soot ink would certainly do very well. But when things must be done quickly and much must be written, it simply does not work — which is to say, the brush cannot compete with the steel pen and ink. Take copying lecture notes in school: even if one switches to a ready-made ink box, sparing the trouble of grinding ink on the spot, it is not long before the ink gums up the brush tip and the brush will not write properly. Then one must bring along a water basin for washing the brush, and before one knows it, the whole "Four Treasures of the Study" are deployed across one's little desk. Moreover, the amount of brush tip that touches the paper — that is, the thickness of the strokes — is entirely controlled by the wrist, which is therefore quick to tire; the more one writes, the slower one gets. For the idle, this matters little; but the moment one is busy, ink and steel pen are simply more convenient, no matter what. Among young people, there are of course some who hang a fountain pen on their Western suit as a decoration, but these are ultimately a minority. The real reason most people use them is convenience. The power of a tool that is convenient to use can never be stopped by mere words — whether those words be exhortation, mockery, or furious abuse. If you don't believe it, try persuading the automobile riders to switch to mule carts in the North, or to grand palanquins with green felt covers in the South. If that proposal is a joke, then what about urging students to switch back to the brush? Today's youth have become "temple drums" — anyone may beat on them at will. On one side there are heavy course loads and the promotion of classical texts; on the other, educationists sigh with exasperation, complaining that the students' performance is poor, that they don't read newspapers, that they are ignorant of the world situation. But then, it will not do to depend on foreign countries even for our pens and ink. On this point, one must credit the officials of the former Qing dynasty with greater intelligence: they established a Manufacturing Bureau in Shanghai to produce things more important than mere pens and ink — though, due to "the weight of accumulated custom," they ultimately could not produce much of anything, either. The Europeans were clever too. Quinine was originally an African plant; people died trying to steal the seeds, but they stole them nonetheless and grew the plant on their own soil, so that today, should we develop malaria, we can conveniently swallow quinine pills to our heart's content — and they even come sugar-coated, so that even squeamish young ladies can eat them sweetly. To obtain the methods for manufacturing ink and steel pens is not nearly so dangerous as stealing quinine seeds. Therefore, rather than urging people not to use ink and steel pens, it would be better to manufacture them oneself — but they must be well made, and one must not "hang out a sheep's head while selling dog meat." Otherwise, the whole effort will be yet another waste. But I believe that anyone who champions the brush will probably also dismiss my proposal as idle talk — because the thing is not easy. That too is a fact. And so the pawnshop trade can only petition to ban exotic fashions, lest prices fluctuate from morning to night; and the brush-and-ink trade can only advocate sucking brushes and licking ink, lest the national essence gradually perish. To reform oneself is always harder than to prohibit others. And yet this method leads to no good result — it is either ineffective, or it turns a portion of the youth back into old-style pedants. August 23.
就在這幾天的上海報紙上，有一條廣告，題目是四個一寸見方的大字—— 「看救命去！」如果只看題目，恐怕會猜想到這是展覽著外科醫生對重病人施行大手術，或對淹死的人用人工呼吸，救助觸礁船上的人員，挖掘崩壞的礦穴裡面的工人的。但其實並不是。還是照例的「籌賑水災遊藝大會」，看陳皮梅沈一呆的獨腳戲，月光歌舞團的歌舞之類。誠如廣告所說，「化洋五角，救人一命，……一舉兩得，何樂不為」，錢是要拿去救命的，不過所「看」的卻其實還是遊藝，並不是「救命」。有人說中國是「文字國」，有些像，卻還不充足，中國倒該說是最不看重文字的「文字遊戲國」，一切總愛玩些實際以上花樣，把字和詞的界說，鬧得一團糟，弄到暫時非把「解放」解作「孥戮」，「跳舞」解作「救命」不可。搗一場小亂子，就是偉人，編一本教科書，就是學者，造幾條文壇消息，就是作家。於是比較自愛的人，一聽到這些冠冕堂皇的名目就駭怕了，竭力逃避。逃名，其實是愛名的，逃的是這一團糟的名，不願意醬在那裡面。天津《大公報》的副刊《小公園》，近來是標榜了重文不重名的。這見識很確當。不過也偶有「老作家」的作品，那當然為了作品好，不是為了名。然而八月十六日那一張上，卻發表了很有意思的「許多前輩作家附在來稿後面的叮囑」：「把我這文章放在平日，我願意那樣，我驕傲那樣。我和熟人的名字並列得厭倦了，我願著擠在虎生生的新人群裡，因為許多時候他們的東西來得還更新鮮。」這些「前輩作家」們好像都撒了一點謊。「熟」，是不至於招致「厭倦」的。我們一離乳就吃飯或面，直到現在，可謂熟極了，卻還沒有厭倦。這一點叮囑，如果不是編輯先生玩的雙簧的花樣，也不是前輩作家玩的借此「返老還童」的花樣，那麼，這所證明的是：所謂「前輩作家」也者，有一批是盜名的，因此使別一批羞與為伍，覺得和「熟人的名字並列得厭倦」，決計逃走了。從此以後，他們只要「擠在虎生生的新人群裡」就舒舒服服，還是作品也就「來得還更新鮮」了呢，現在很難測定。逃名，固然也不能說是豁達，但有去就，有愛憎，究竟總不失為潔身自好之士。《小公園》裡，已經有人在現身說法了，而上海灘上，卻依然有人在「掏腰包」，造消息，或自稱「言行一致」，或大呼「冤哉枉也」，或拖明朝死屍搭台，或請現存古人喝道，或自收自己的大名入辭典中，定為「中國作家」，或自編自己的作品入畫集裡，名曰「現代傑作」——忙忙碌碌，鬼鬼祟祟，煞是好看。作家一排一排的坐著，將來使人笑，使人怕，還是使人「厭倦」呢？——現在也很難測定。但若據「前車之鑒」，則「後之視今，亦猶今之視昔」，大約也還不免於「悲夫」的了！八月二十三日。	Just these past few days, in the Shanghai newspapers, there appeared an advertisement with a title in four characters an inch square: "Go Watch Someone Being Saved!" If one looked only at the title, one might imagine it showed a surgeon performing a major operation on a critically ill patient, or someone applying artificial respiration to a drowned person, or a rescue of passengers from a ship that had struck a reef, or the excavation of miners from a collapsed shaft. But in fact it was nothing of the sort. It was the usual "Flood Relief Charity Gala" — watching Chen Pimei and Shen Yidai perform comic monologues, the Moonlight Song and Dance Troupe sing and dance, and the like. As the advertisement honestly states: "For fifty cents, save a life... two gains for the price of one — why wouldn't you?" The money is indeed going to save lives; but what one actually "watches" is still entertainment, not "someone being saved." Some say China is a "nation of words." There is some truth in this, yet it is not quite sufficient. China should rather be called the "nation of word games" — a nation that takes words least seriously of all. Everything is dressed up with extra flourishes beyond its substance, and the definitions of characters and terms are thrown into such confusion that for the time being one has no choice but to construe "liberation" as "arrest and execution," and "dancing" as "life-saving." Stir up a little disturbance and you are a great man; compile a textbook and you are a scholar; fabricate a few items of literary gossip and you are a writer. And so the more self-respecting among us, upon hearing these magnificent titles, recoil in fright and flee with all their might. To flee fame is, in truth, to love fame — what they flee is this muddled fame, this refusal to be pickled in that mess. The supplement Xiao Gongyuan in the Tianjin Dagong Bao has recently proclaimed that it values writing over fame. This view is quite correct. Yet it also occasionally publishes works by "veteran writers" — that, naturally, is on account of the work's quality, not the name. However, on the issue of August 16, it published a most interesting "admonition that many senior writers appended to their submissions": "If you were to place my essay on an ordinary day, I would wish it so; I am proud to have it so. I have grown weary of seeing my name listed alongside those of acquaintances. I would rather be squeezed into the midst of a lively crowd of newcomers, because much of the time their things are even fresher." These "senior writers" seem to have told a small fib. "Familiar" is not something that should breed "weariness." We have been eating rice or noodles from the day we were weaned, right up to now — about as familiar as it gets — yet we have not grown weary of it. If this little admonition is not a double-act staged by the editor, nor a dodge by the senior writers to play at "rejuvenation," then what it proves is this: among those who call themselves "senior writers," there is a batch of name-thieves, and this has so embarrassed another batch that they feel "weary of seeing their names listed alongside those of acquaintances" and have decided to make their escape. From now on, will they feel perfectly comfortable simply by "squeezing in among the lively crowd of newcomers"? Or will their work also "become even fresher"? It is hard to say at this point. To flee fame may not, admittedly, be called broad-minded, but to have standards, to have likes and dislikes — that, at least, never fails to qualify one as a person of integrity who keeps himself clean. In Xiao Gongyuan, someone is already preaching by personal example. Meanwhile, on the Shanghai waterfront, there are still those who are busy "emptying pockets," fabricating news, or proclaiming themselves "consistent in word and deed," or crying "What an injustice!" — or dragging out corpses from the Ming dynasty to build a stage, or inviting living antiquities to clear the way with a shout, or inserting their own grand names into dictionaries under the entry "Chinese writer," or editing their own works into art albums under the label "modern masterpieces" — bustling about, furtive and sneaky, making quite a spectacle. The writers sit row upon row. Will they make future generations laugh, tremble, or simply "grow weary"? That too is hard to say at this point. But if we go by "the lesson of the preceding carriage," then "those who come after will look upon the present just as we look upon the past" — and in the end, "alas" will probably still be the word. August 23.
今年文壇上的戰術，有幾手是恢復了五六年前的太陽社式，年紀大又成為一種罪狀了，叫作「倚老賣老」。其實呢，罪是並不在「老」，而在於「賣」的，假使他在叉麻醬，念彌陀，一字不寫，就決不會惹青年作家的口誅筆伐。如果這推測並不錯，文壇上可又要增添各樣的罪人了，因為現在的作家，有幾位總不免在他的「作品」之外，附送一點特產的贈品。有的賣富，說賣稿的文人的作品，都是要不得的；有人指出了他的詩思不過在太太的奩資中，就有幫閒的來說這人是因為得不到這樣的太太，恰如狐狸的吃不到葡萄，所以只好說葡萄酸。有的賣窮，或賣病，說他的作品是挨餓三天，吐血十口，這才做出來的，所以與眾不同。有的賣窮和富，說這刊物是因為受了文閥文僚的排擠，自掏腰包，忍痛印出來的，所以又與眾不同。有的賣孝，說自己做這樣的文章，是因為怕父親將來吃苦的緣故，那可更了不得，價值簡直和李密的《陳情表》不相上下了。有的就是銜煙斗，穿洋服，唉聲歎氣，顧影自憐，老是記著自己的韶年玉貌的少年哥兒，這裡和「賣老」相對，姑且叫他「賣俏」罷。不過中國的社會上，「賣老」的真也特別多。女人會穿針，有什麼希奇呢，一到一百多歲，就可以開大會，穿給大家看，順便還捐錢了。說中國人「起碼要學狗」，倘是小學生的作文，是會遭先生的板子的，但大了幾十年，新聞上就大登特登，還用方體字標題道：「皤然一老蒞故都，吳稚暉語妙天下」；勸人解囊賑災的文章，並不少見，而文中自述年紀曰：「余年九十六歲矣」者，卻只有馬相伯先生。但普通都不謂之「賣」，另有極好的稱呼，叫作「有價值」。「老作家」的「老」字，就是一宗罪案，這法律在文壇上已經好幾年了，不過或者指為落伍，或者說是把持，……總沒有指出明白的壞處。這回才由上海的青年作家揭發了要點，是在「賣」他的「老」。那就不足慮了，很容易掃蕩。中國各業，多老牌子，文壇卻並不然，創作了幾年，就或者做官，或者改業，或者教書，或者捲逃，或者經商，或者造反，或者送命……不見了。「老」在那裡的原已寥寥無幾，真有些像耆英會裡的一百多歲的老太婆，居然會活到現在，連「民之父母」也覺得希奇古怪。而且她還會穿針，就尤其希奇古怪，使街頭巷尾弄得鬧嚷嚷。然而呀了，這其實是為了奉旨旌表的緣故，如果一個十六七歲的漂亮姑娘登臺穿起針來，看的人也決不會少的。誰有「賣老」的嗎？一遇到少的俏的就倒。不過中國的文壇雖然幼稚，昏暗，卻還沒有這麼簡單；讀者雖說被「養成一種『看熱鬧』的情趣」，但有辨別力的也不少，而且還在多起來。所以專門「賣老」，是不行的，因為文壇究竟不是養老堂，又所以專門「賣俏」，也不行的，因為文壇究竟也不是妓院。二賣俱非，由非見是，混沌之輩，以為兩傷。九月十二日。	This year's literary tactics have in some respects revived the Sun Society style of five or six years ago. Being old has once again become a criminal offense, now termed "trading on one's seniority." In truth, however, the crime lies not in being "old" but in the "trading." If the man in question were shuffling mahjong tiles and chanting Amitabha, never writing a word, he would certainly never provoke the denunciations of young writers. If this reasoning is sound, then the literary world is about to be overrun with all manner of criminals, for nowadays quite a few writers cannot help appending, alongside their "works," a complimentary sample of their particular specialty. Some trade on their wealth, declaring that the works of writers who sell manuscripts are worthless; when someone points out that a certain poet's inspiration derives entirely from his wife's dowry, sycophants rush to say the critic is merely a fox who cannot reach the grapes and so calls them sour. Some trade on their poverty, or their illness, claiming their work was produced after three days of fasting and ten mouthfuls of coughed-up blood, and is therefore extraordinary. Some trade on both poverty and wealth simultaneously, saying their journal was published at their own expense, enduring great pain, because they were squeezed out by literary despots and bureaucrats, and is therefore likewise extraordinary. Some trade on their filial piety, saying they write such articles for fear their fathers will suffer hardship in the future — now that is truly remarkable, a piece practically on par with Li Mi's "Memorial of Sentiment." And then there is the type who holds a pipe, wears Western clothes, sighs and groans, admires his own shadow with self-pity, forever remembering the fair complexion and jade beauty of his youth — this young gentleman, in contrast to "peddling age," we may as well call "peddling charm." Yet in Chinese society, those who genuinely "peddle their age" are especially numerous. What is so remarkable about a woman who can thread a needle? But when she reaches a hundred and some years old, a grand assembly can be convened for her to demonstrate her threading before an audience, and donations are collected on the side. To say that Chinese people "should at least learn from dogs" — if that appeared in a primary school composition, the teacher would take the ruler to the student — but when the speaker is a few decades older, the newspapers splash it across their pages, complete with bold-type headlines reading: "White-haired Elder Graces the Former Capital; Wu Zhihui's Words Delight All Under Heaven." As for articles exhorting people to open their purses for famine relief, there are plenty enough, but one in which the author states his age as "ninety-six years old" — that is Ma Xiangbo and Ma Xiangbo alone. Yet ordinarily none of this is called "peddling"; it has a far more dignified name: "having value." That the word "old" in "old writer" should constitute a criminal charge — this statute has been on the literary books for quite some years now. At various times it has been characterized as "falling behind the times" or "monopolizing positions"... but no one has ever clearly stated what harm it does. Only now have Shanghai's young writers finally uncovered the crux of the matter: the crime lies in "peddling" one's "age." Well then, there is nothing to worry about — it is easily swept away. In every trade in China, there are plenty of old brand names, but the literary world is not like that. After a few years of writing, people either take up government posts, or change careers, or go into teaching, or abscond with funds, or go into business, or join rebellions, or lose their lives... and vanish. Those who remain "old" on the scene are already pitifully few, rather like the centenarian old woman at the Gathering of Elders — the fact that she has actually survived to the present day strikes even the "father and mother of the people" as astonishing. And that she can still thread a needle makes it doubly astonishing, setting the streets abuzz. And yet — ah — this is actually because of an imperial commendation, and if a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen were to mount the stage and thread needles, the audience would be no smaller. Who truly needs to "peddle their age"? The moment someone younger and more charming appears, the old peddler collapses. Yet although China's literary world is immature and murky, it is not quite so simple as all that. And although readers are said to have been "trained to enjoy watching spectacles," there are not a few who possess discernment, and their numbers are growing. Therefore, exclusively "peddling age" will not work, since the literary world is, after all, not an old folks' home. And by the same token, exclusively "peddling charm" will not work either, since the literary world is, after all, not a brothel. Both forms of peddling being wrong, from wrong we perceive right; the muddleheaded, however, see only mutual destruction. September 12.
所謂文人，輕個不完，弄得別一些作者搖頭歎氣了，以為作踐了文苑。這自然也說得通。陶淵明先生「采菊東籬下」，心境必須清幽閒適，他這才能夠「悠然見南山」，如果籬中籬外，有人大嚷大跳，大罵大打，南山是在的，他卻「悠然」不得，只好「愕然見南山」了。現在和晉宋之交有些不同，連「象牙之塔」也已經搬到街頭來，似乎頗有「不隔」之意，然而也還得有幽閒，要不然，即無以寄其沉痛，文壇減色，嚷嚷之罪大矣。於是相輕的文人們的處境，就也更加艱難起來，連街頭也不再是擾攘的地方了，真是途窮道盡。然而如果還要相輕又怎麼樣呢？前清有成例，知縣老爺出巡，路遇兩人相打，不問青紅皂白，誰是誰非，各打屁股五百完事。不相輕的文人們縱有「肅靜」「回避」牌，卻無小板子，打是自然不至於的，他還是用「筆伐」，說兩面都不是好東西。這裡有一段炯之先生的《談談上海的刊物》為例—— 「說到這種爭鬥，使我們記起《太白》，《文學》，《論語》，《人間世》幾年來的爭鬥成績。這成績就是凡罵人的與被罵的一古腦兒變成醜角，等於木偶戲的互相揪打或以頭互碰，除了讀者養成一種『看熱鬧』的情趣以外，別無所有。把讀者養成歡喜看『戲』不歡喜看『書』的習氣，『文壇消息』的多少，成為刊物銷路多少的主要原因。爭鬥的延長，無結果的延長，實在可說是中國讀者的大不幸。我們是不是還有什麼方法可以使這種『私罵』占篇幅少一些？一個時代的代表作，結起賬來若只是這些精巧的對罵，這文壇，未免太可憐了。」（天津《大公報》的《小公園》，八月十八日。）「這種鬥爭」，炯之先生還自有一個界說：「即是向異己者用一種瑣碎方法，加以無憐憫，不節制的辱罵。（一個術語，便是『鬥爭』。）」云。於是乎這位炯之先生便以憐憫之心，節制之筆，定兩造為醜角，覺文壇之可憐了，雖然「我們記起《太白》，《文學》，《論語》，《人間世》幾年來」，似乎不但並不以「『文壇消息』的多少，成為刊物銷路多少的主要原因」，而且簡直不登什麼「文壇消息」。不過「罵」是有的；只「看熱鬧」的讀者，大約一定也有的。試看路上兩人相打，他們何嘗沒有是非曲直之分，但旁觀者往往只覺得有趣；就是綁出法場去，也是不問罪狀，單看熱鬧的居多。由這情形，推而廣之以至於文壇，真令人有不如逆來順受，唾面自亁之感。到這裡來一個「然而」罷，轉過來是旁觀者或讀者，其實又並不全如炯之先生所擬定的混沌，有些是自有各人自己的判斷的。所以昔者古典主義者和羅曼主義者相罵，甚而至於相打，他們並不都成為醜角；左拉遭了劇烈的文字和圖畫的嘲罵，終於不成為醜角；連生前身敗名裂的王爾德，現在也不算是醜角。自然，他們有作品。但中國也有的。中國的作品「可憐」得很，誠然，但這不只是文壇可憐，也是時代可憐，而且這可憐中，連「看熱鬧」的讀者和論客都在內。凡有可憐的作品，正是代表了可憐的時代。昔之名人說「恕」字訣——但他們說，對於不知恕道的人，是不恕的；——今之名人說「忍」字訣，春天的論客以「文人相輕」混淆黑白，秋天的論客以「凡罵人的與被罵的一古腦兒變成丑角」抹殺是非。冷冰冰陰森森的平安的古塚中，怎麼會有生人氣？「我們是不是還有什麼方法可以使這種『私罵』占篇幅少一些？」——炯之先生問。有是有的。縱使名之曰「私罵」，但大約決不會件件都是一面等於二加二，一面等於一加三，在「私」之中，有的較近於「公」，在「罵」之中，有的較合於「理」的，居然來加評論的人，就該放棄了「看熱鬧的情趣」，加以分析，明白的說出你究以為那一面較「是」，那一面較「非」來。至於文人，則不但要以熱烈的憎，向「異己」者進攻，還得以熱烈的憎，向「死的說教者」抗戰。在現在這「可憐」的時代，能殺才能生，能憎才能愛，能生與愛，才能文。彼兌飛說得好：九月十二日。	The so-called "men of letters," endlessly belittling one another, have driven certain other writers to shake their heads and sigh, lamenting that the literary garden has been disgraced. This is a perfectly valid point. When Master Tao Yuanming "plucked chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge," his state of mind had to be tranquil and leisurely — only then could he "serenely behold the Southern Mountain." But if inside and outside the hedge people were shouting, leaping, cursing, and brawling, the Southern Mountain would still be there, yet he could no longer behold it "serenely" — he would have to behold it "in alarm." Things today are somewhat different from the transition between the Jin and Song dynasties: even the "ivory tower" has been moved to the street, seemingly with quite a taste for "immediacy," and yet one still needs leisure — otherwise, there is no vessel for one's profound sorrow, the literary world loses its luster, and the crime of the quarrelers is great indeed. Thus the lot of these mutually disdainful men of letters grows ever more precarious, for even the street is no longer a place for hubbub, and they have truly reached the end of the road. But what if they insist on continuing to disdain one another? In the former Qing dynasty there was established precedent: when the county magistrate went on his rounds and encountered two men fighting, he did not ask who was right and who was wrong, but had each given five hundred strokes on the buttocks and called it settled. The non-disdaining men of letters may possess their "Silence" and "Make Way" placards, but they lack the paddle; flogging is naturally out of the question, so they resort to "written attacks," declaring both sides to be bad lots. Let me quote a passage from Mr. Jiongzhi's "On Shanghai's Periodicals" as an example: "Speaking of this kind of struggle calls to mind the achievements of several years of combat between Taibai, Wenxue, Lunyu, and Renjianshi. The achievement has been that everyone who attacked and everyone who was attacked has without exception turned into a clown, like puppets pulling each other's hair or bashing heads together, producing nothing besides cultivating in readers a taste for 'watching spectacles.' Training readers to prefer watching 'shows' over reading 'books,' the amount of 'literary scene gossip' has become the chief determinant of a periodical's sales. The prolongation of this struggle, its prolongation without result, can truly be called a great misfortune for Chinese readers. Is there not some way we can reduce the space occupied by this 'private mudslinging'? If, when we tally up a generation's representative works, all we find is this sort of exquisite mutual abuse, then the literary world is simply too pathetic." (From "Little Park" in the Tianjin Dagongbao, August 18.) Mr. Jiongzhi also supplies his own definition of "this kind of struggle": "That is, using trivial methods against those who disagree with oneself, subjecting them to merciless, unrestrained abuse. (In the jargon, this is called 'struggle'.)" And so this Mr. Jiongzhi, with his compassionate heart and restrained pen, pronounces both parties clowns and finds the literary world pathetic. Although "we recall Taibai, Wenxue, Lunyu, and Renjianshi over several years" suggests that he not only refrains from treating "the amount of 'literary scene gossip' as the chief determinant of a periodical's sales," but practically publishes no "literary scene gossip" at all. Yet "abuse" there certainly is; and readers who merely "watch the spectacle" no doubt exist. Consider: when two men fight in the street, is there no right and wrong between them? Yet bystanders often find it merely amusing. Even when a prisoner is led to the execution ground, most onlookers ignore the charges and simply watch the spectacle. Extending this situation to the literary world, one is truly tempted to submit meekly, to let the spittle dry on one's face. But let us insert a "however" here and turn to the other side: the bystanders and readers are not all as muddleheaded as Mr. Jiongzhi would have them. Some have their own judgments. Thus when classicists and romantics abused each other in the past, and even came to blows, they did not all become clowns. When Zola was subjected to savage literary and pictorial mockery, he did not in the end become a clown. Even Oscar Wilde, whose reputation was destroyed in his lifetime, is not now regarded as a clown. Naturally, they had works. But so does China. China's works are, to be sure, "pathetically" few, but this is not merely the literary world's pathos — it is the pathos of the age, and within this pathos, even the "spectacle-watching" readers and commentators are included. Wherever there are pathetic works, they faithfully represent a pathetic age. The sages of old preached the maxim of "forgiveness" — but they said that for those who know nothing of forgiveness, there is no forgiveness. The celebrities of today preach the maxim of "forbearance." In spring, commentators invoke "literati despising one another" to confuse black and white; in autumn, commentators proclaim "everyone who attacked and everyone who was attacked has turned into a clown" to obliterate the distinction between right and wrong. In the icy, gloomy peace of an ancient tomb, how could there be the breath of the living? "Is there not some way we can reduce the space occupied by this 'private mudslinging'?" — asks Mr. Jiongzhi. There is. Even if we call it "private mudslinging," surely not every case amounts to one side equaling two plus two and the other equaling one plus three. Among the "private," some tend toward the "public"; among the "mudslinging," some partake more of "reason." Anyone presuming to pass judgment ought to abandon his "taste for watching spectacles," analyze the matter, and state plainly which side he considers more "right" and which more "wrong." As for the man of letters, he must not only attack his "adversaries" with burning hatred, but also wage war with burning hatred against the "dead sermonizers." In this "pathetic" age of ours, only those who can kill can also give life; only those who can hate can also love; and only those who can give life and love can create literature. Thveydieu put it well: September 12.
到了關於陀思妥夫斯基，不能不說一兩句話的時候了。說什麼呢？他太偉大了，而自己卻沒有很細心的讀過他的作品。回想起來，在年青時候，讀了偉大的文學者的作品，雖然敬服那作者，然而總不能愛的，一共有兩個人。一個是但丁，那《神曲》的《煉獄》裡，就有我所愛的異端在；有些鬼魂還在把很重的石頭，推上峻峭的岩壁去。這是極吃力的工作，但一鬆手，可就立刻壓爛了自己。不知怎地，自己也好像很是疲乏了。於是我就在這地方停住，沒有能夠走到天國去。還有一個，就是陀思妥夫斯基。一讀他二十四歲時所作的《窮人》，就已經吃驚於他那暮年似的孤寂。到後來，他竟作為罪孽深重的罪人，同時也是殘酷的拷問官而出現了。他把小說中的男男女女，放在萬難忍受的境遇裡，來試煉它們，不但剝去了表面的潔白，拷問出藏在底下的罪惡，而且還要拷問出藏在那罪惡之下的真正的潔白來。而且還不肯爽利的處死，竭力要放它們活得長久。而這陀思妥夫斯基，則仿佛就在和罪人一同苦惱，和拷問官一同高興著似的。這決不是平常人做得到的事情，總而言之，就因為偉大的緣故。但我自己，卻常常想廢書不觀。醫學者往往用病態來解釋陀思妥夫斯基的作品。這倫勃羅梭式的說明，在現今的大多數的國度裡，恐怕實在也非常便利，能得一般人們的贊許的。但是，即使他是神經病者，也是俄國專制時代的神經病者，倘若誰身受了和他相類的重壓，那麼，愈身受，也就會愈懂得他那夾著誇張的真實，熱到發冷的熱情，快要破裂的忍從，於是愛他起來的罷。不過作為中國的讀者的我，卻還不能熟悉陀思妥夫斯基式的忍從——對於橫逆之來的真正的忍從。在中國，沒有俄國的基督。在中國，君臨的是「禮」，不是神。百分之百的忍從，在未嫁就死了定婚的丈夫，堅苦的一直硬活到八十歲的所謂節婦身上，也許偶然可以發見罷，但在一般的人們，卻沒有。忍從的形式，是有的，然而陀思妥夫斯基式的掘下去，我以為恐怕也還是虛偽。因為壓迫者指為被壓迫者的不德之一的這虛偽，對於同類，是惡，而對於壓迫者，卻是道德的。但是，陀思妥夫斯基式的忍從，終於也並不只成了說教或抗議就完結。因為這是當不住的忍從，太偉大的忍從的緣故。人們也只好帶著罪業，一直闖進但丁的天國，在這裡這才大家合唱著，再來修練天人的功德了。只有中庸的人，固然並無墮入地獄的危險，但也恐怕進不了天國的罷。十一月二十日。	The time has come when I can no longer avoid saying a word or two about Dostoevsky. But what is there to say? He is too great, and I myself have never read his works with sufficient care. Looking back, in my youth, when I read the works of truly great writers, there were two whom I admired but could never bring myself to love. One was Dante. In the Purgatorio of his Divine Comedy, some of the heretics I love were there; certain spirits were still pushing enormous boulders up sheer cliffs. It was work of the most exhausting kind, yet the moment one relaxed one's grip, one would be crushed to pulp. Somehow, I too felt profoundly weary. And so I stopped there and never managed to reach Paradise. The other was Dostoevsky. Upon reading Poor Folk, written when he was only twenty-four, I was already startled by that solitude so like that of an old man in his twilight years. Later, he appeared as a sinner weighed down by the gravest sins, and simultaneously as a merciless inquisitor. He placed the men and women of his novels in circumstances of unbearable torment, testing them, not only stripping away their surface whiteness to extract the evil hidden beneath, but going further still to extract the true whiteness hidden beneath that evil. And he refused to dispatch them cleanly, striving instead to keep them alive as long as possible. And this Dostoevsky seemed to suffer alongside the sinners and to rejoice alongside the inquisitor. This is decidedly not something an ordinary person could accomplish. In a word, it was because of his greatness. Yet I myself often felt the urge to put down the book and read no more. Medical men have frequently used pathology to explain Dostoevsky's works. This Lombrosian mode of explanation is no doubt very convenient in most countries today, and likely to win general approval. But even if he were a neurotic, he was a neurotic of Russian autocratic times. If anyone were subjected to a burden comparable to his, then the more one bore, the more one would understand his truth laced with exaggeration, his passion so intense it turns cold, his endurance on the verge of shattering — and one would come to love him. However, as a Chinese reader, I cannot yet familiarize myself with Dostoevskian endurance — true endurance in the face of outrage. In China, there is no Russian Christ. In China, what presides is "ritual propriety," not God. Absolute, one-hundred-percent endurance might perhaps occasionally be found in the so-called "virtuous widow" who, her betrothed having died before the wedding, perseveres in bitter chastity all the way to eighty — but not among ordinary people. The forms of endurance exist, to be sure, yet if one digs down in the Dostoevskian manner, I fear one will find only hypocrisy. This hypocrisy, which oppressors identify as one of the moral failings of the oppressed, is indeed a vice when directed at one's own kind, but when directed at the oppressor, it becomes a virtue. Nevertheless, Dostoevskian endurance does not merely end in sermonizing or protest. For this is an endurance that cannot hold, an endurance too immense. People have no choice but to carry their sins with them and barge straight into Dante's Paradise, where at last they join in chorus to cultivate heavenly virtue. Only the mediocre, who face no danger of falling into Hell, are also, I fear, unlikely to enter Paradise. November 20.
日記或書信，是向來有些讀者的。先前是在看朝章國故，麗句清詞，如何抑揚，怎樣請托，於是害得名人連寫日記和信也不敢隨隨便便。晉人寫信，已經得聲明「匆匆不暇草書」，今人作日記，竟日日要防傳鈔，來不及出版。王爾德的自述，至今還有一部分未曾公開，羅曼羅蘭的日記，約在死後十年才可發表，這在我們中國恐怕辦不到。不過現在的讀文人的非文學作品，大約目的已經有些和古之人不同，是比較的歐化了的：遠之，在鉤稽文壇的故實，近之，在探索作者的生平。而後者似乎要居多數。因為一個人的言行，總有一部分願意別人知道，或者不妨給別人知道，但有一部分卻不然。然而一個人的脾氣，又偏愛知道別人不肯給人知道的一部分，於是尺牘就有了出路。這並非等於窺探門縫，意在發人的陰私，實在是因為要知道這人的全般，就是從不經意處，看出這人——社會的一分子的真實。就是在「文學概論」上有了名目的創作上，作者本來也掩不住自己，無論寫的是什麼，這個人總還是這個人，不過加了些藻飾，有了些排場，仿佛穿上了制服。寫信固然比較的隨便，然而做作慣了的，仍不免帶些慣性，別人以為他這回是赤條條的上場了罷，他其實還是穿著肉色緊身小衫褲，甚至於用了平常決不應用的奶罩。話雖如此，比起峨冠博帶的時候來，這一回可究竟較近於真實。所以從作家的日記或尺牘上，往往能得到比看他的作品更其明晰的意見，也就是他自己的簡潔的注釋。不過也不能十分當真。有些作者，是連賬簿也用心機的，叔本華記賬就用梵文，不願意別人明白。另境先生的編這部書，我想是為了顯示文人的全貌的，好在用心之古奧如叔本華先生者，中國還未必有。只是我的做序，可不比寫信，總不免用些做序的拳經：這是要請編者讀者，大家心照的。一九三五年十一月二十五夜，魯迅記於上海閘北之且介亭。	Diaries and letters have always had their readers. In the past, people read them for court records and affairs of state, for elegant phrases and pure diction, to study the art of entreaty and solicitation — with the result that even famous men dared not write their diaries and letters too casually. The Jin dynasty literati already felt compelled to note in their letters, "Written in such haste that I had no time for cursive script." Today's diarists must guard against pirated copies every single day, scarcely able to keep ahead of publication. Part of Oscar Wilde's confessional writings remains unpublished to this day; Romain Rolland's diaries were not to be released until ten years after his death. In our China, I'm afraid this would be quite impossible. However, the purpose of reading a literary man's non-literary writings has probably shifted somewhat from the ancients' motives, becoming rather more Europeanized. On the one hand, it serves to trace the historical facts of the literary world; on the other, to probe the author's life — and the latter seems to predominate. For there is always a part of a person's words and deeds that he wishes others to know, or at least does not mind their knowing; but another part is not so. Yet human nature has a perverse fondness for knowing precisely what others are unwilling to reveal. Thus personal letters find their market. This is not equivalent to peeping through keyholes with the intent of exposing people's secrets; it is because, in order to know the whole person, one observes him in his unguarded moments to discover the truth of this person — this member of society. Even in creative works that have earned their proper place in "literary theory," the author cannot really conceal himself. No matter what he writes about, this person is still this person, only with some ornamentation added and some pageantry arranged — as if he had put on a uniform. Letter-writing is admittedly more casual, yet someone accustomed to affectation will inevitably carry some residual habits; others may think he has stepped onto the stage stark naked this time, but he is actually still wearing flesh-colored undergarments, perhaps even employing a brassiere he would never normally use. That said, compared to when he dons the tall cap and broad sash, this time he is decidedly closer to the truth. This is why one can often derive from a writer's diary or letters a clearer understanding than from reading his works — essentially his own concise self-commentary. Though one must not take it entirely at face value either. Some writers exercise cunning even in their account books; Schopenhauer kept his accounts in Sanskrit, unwilling to let others understand. Mr. Lingjing's compilation of this book, I believe, was intended to display the full countenance of men of letters. Fortunately, someone whose ingenuity is as arcane as Schopenhauer's may not yet exist in China. Only my writing of this preface is not quite like writing a letter — there is inevitably some employment of preface-writing formulas: this I ask the editor and readers alike to kindly bear in mind. November 25, 1935, night. Recorded by Lu Xun at the Semi-Concession Studio in Zhabei, Shanghai.
自從「小品文」這一個名目流行以來，看看書店廣告，連信劄，論文，都排在小品文裡了，這自然只是生意經，不足為據。一般的意見，第一是在篇幅短。但篇幅短并不是小品文的特征。一條幾何定理不過數十字，一部《老子》只有五千言，都不能說是小品。這該像佛經的小乘似的，先看內容，然後講篇福。講小道理，或沒道理，而又不是長篇的，才可謂之小品。至於有骨力的文章，恐不如謂之「短文」，短當然不及長，寥寥幾句，也說不盡森羅萬象，然而它並不「小」。《史記》裡的《伯夷列傳》和《屈原賈誼列傳》除去了引用的騷賦，其實也不過是小品，只因為他是「太史公」之作，又常見，所以沒有人來選出，翻印。由晉至唐，也很有幾個作家；宋文我不知道，但「江湖派」詩，卻確是我所謂的小品。現在大家所提倡的，是明清，據說「抒寫性靈」是它的特色。那時有一些人，確也只能夠抒寫性靈的，風氣和環境，加上作者的出身和生活，也只能有這樣的意思，寫這樣的文章。雖說抒寫性靈，其實後來仍落了窠臼，不過是「賦得性靈」，照例寫出那麼一套來。當然也有人豫感到危難，後來是身歷了危難的，所以小品文中，有時也夾著感憤，但在文字獄時，都被銷毀，劈板了，於是我們所見，就只剩了「天馬行空」似的超然的性靈。這經過清朝檢選的「性靈」，到得現在，卻剛剛相宜，有明末的灑脫，無清初的所謂「悖謬」，有國時是高人，沒國時還不失為逸士。逸士也得有資格，首先即在「超然」，「士」所以超庸奴，「逸」所以超責任：現在的特重明清小品，其實是大有理由，毫不足怪的。不過「高人兼逸士夢」恐怕也不長久。近一年來，就露了大破綻，自以為高一點的，已經滿紙空言，甚而至於胡說八道，下流的卻成為打諢，和猥鄙丑角，並無不同，主意只在挖公子哥兒們的跳舞之資，和舞女們爭生意，可憐之狀，已經下於五四運動前後的鴛鴦蝴蝶派數等了。為了這小品文的盛行，今年就又有翻印所謂「珍本」的事。有些論者，也以為可慮。我卻覺得這是並非無用的。原本價貴，大抵無力購買，現在只用了一元或數角，就可以看見現代名人的祖師，以及先前的性靈，怎樣疊床架屋，現在的性靈，怎樣看人學樣，啃過一堆牛骨頭，即使是牛骨頭，不也有了識見，可以不再被生炒牛角尖騙去了嗎？不過「珍本」並不就是「善本」，有些是正因為它無聊，沒有人要看，這才日就滅亡，少下去；因為少，所以「珍」起來。就是舊書店裡必討大價的所謂「禁書」，也並非都是慷慨激昂，令人奮起的作品，清初，單為了作者也會禁，往往和內容簡直不相干。這一層，卻要讀者有選擇的眼光，也希望識者給相當的指點的。十二月二日。	Ever since the term "familiar essay" came into vogue, a glance at the bookshop advertisements shows that even letters and treatises have been lumped in under the heading of "familiar essay." This is naturally just business strategy and not to be taken as authoritative. The general opinion is, first and foremost, that the pieces are short. But brevity is not the distinguishing feature of the familiar essay. A geometrical theorem may be only a few dozen characters long; the entire Dao De Jing contains only five thousand words — neither can be called a familiar essay. It should be like the Hinayana of Buddhist scripture: first examine the content, then consider the length. Treating small ideas, or no ideas at all, and not at great length — that may be termed a familiar essay. As for writings with backbone and force, it would be better to call them simply "short essays." Short is naturally not as good as long, and a few meager lines cannot encompass the myriad phenomena of the world, yet such writing is not "minor." The "Biography of Bo Yi" and the "Biography of Qu Yuan and Jia Yi" in the Records of the Grand Historian, once one removes the quoted verse, are actually no more than familiar essays; but because they are the work of the Grand Historian, and commonly seen, no one has thought to extract and reprint them. From the Jin through the Tang, there were quite a few such writers. Song prose I do not know, but the poetry of the "Rivers and Lakes" school was certainly what I would call familiar essays. What is now being promoted is the Ming and Qing variety, whose special quality is said to be "expressing one's innate sensibility." At that time some writers could indeed do nothing but express their innate sensibility — the prevailing atmosphere, the environment, combined with the author's origins and mode of living, allowed only for such thoughts and such writings. Though they claimed to express innate sensibility, in time they too fell into a rut, merely "composing on the assigned theme of sensibility," turning out the same old formulae. Naturally, some felt the premonition of catastrophe and later experienced it firsthand, so that among the familiar essays one sometimes finds indignation mixed in. But during the literary inquisition, all such writings were destroyed and their printing blocks split apart. Thus what we see today is nothing but the "Pegasus soaring through the heavens" sort of transcendent sensibility. This "sensibility" that passed through the Qing dynasty's censorship is, as it happens, perfectly suited to the present day. It has the insouciance of the late Ming without the so-called "sedition" of the early Qing. When there is a state, one is a lofty personage; when the state is gone, one is at least a refined recluse. But even the recluse must have qualifications: above all, "transcendence" — the "scholar" transcends the common herd, and the "recluse" transcends responsibility. That special emphasis is now placed on Ming and Qing familiar essays has in fact very good reason and is not in the least surprising. Yet the dream of being "both a lofty personage and a refined recluse" will probably not last long. In the past year, great flaws have already been exposed. Those who consider themselves somewhat lofty are already producing pages full of empty verbiage, and even talking utter nonsense. The baser sort have descended to buffoonery, indistinguishable from vulgar, contemptible clowns, their sole aim being to relieve the young dandies of their dancing money and compete with the dance-hall girls for business — a pitiful state already several grades below the Mandarin Duck and Butterfly School of the May Fourth period. Because of the vogue for the familiar essay, this year has also seen the reprinting of so-called "rare editions." Some critics consider this alarming. I, however, think it is not without its uses. The originals are expensive and generally beyond people's means; now, for just one yuan or a few jiao, one can see the forebears of today's celebrities, and observe how the earlier sensibility piled storey upon storey, and how the present sensibility merely imitates what it sees. Having chewed through a pile of beef bones — even if they are beef bones — one gains the discernment to no longer be taken in by stir-fried horn tips, does one not? Yet a "rare edition" is not necessarily a "good edition." Some books are rare precisely because they are so tedious that no one wants to read them, and so they gradually dwindle and become few; because they are few, they become "rare." Even the so-called "banned books" that command high prices in old bookshops are not all stirring, rousing works. In the early Qing, books were banned simply on account of their author; often the content had nothing whatever to do with it. On this point, readers need a discriminating eye, and one hopes that knowledgeable persons will provide appropriate guidance. December 2.
六記得Ｔ君曾經對我談起過：我的《集外集》出版之後，施蟄存先生曾在什麼刊物上有過批評，以為這本書不值得付印，最好是選一下。我至今沒有看到那刊物；但從施先生的推崇《文選》和手定《晚明二十家小品》的功業，以及自標「言行一致」的美德推測起來，這也正像他的話。好在我現在並不要研究他的言行，用不著多管這些事。《集外集》的不值得付印，無論誰說，都是對的。其實豈只這一本書，將來重開四庫館時，恐怕我的一切譯作，全在排除之列；雖是現在，天津圖書館的目錄上，在《吶喊》和《彷徨》之下，就注著一個「銷」字，「銷」者，銷毀之謂也；梁實秋教授充當什麼圖書館主任時，聽說也曾將我的許多譯作驅逐出境。但從一般的情形而論，目前的出版界，卻實在並不十分謹嚴，所以印了我的一本《集外集》，似乎也算不得怎麼特別糟蹋了紙墨。至於選本，我倒以為是弊多利少的，記得前年就寫過一篇《選本》，說明著自己的意見，後來就收在《集外集》中。自然，如果隨便玩玩，那是什麼選本都可以的，《文選》好，《古文觀止》也可以。不過倘要研究文學或某一作家，所謂「知人論世」，那麼，足以應用的選本就很難得。選本所顯示的，往往並非作者的特色，倒是選者的眼光。眼光愈銳利，見識愈深廣，選本固然愈準確，但可惜的是大抵眼光如豆，抹殺了作者真相的居多，這才是一個「文人浩劫」。例如蔡邕，選家大抵只取他的碑文，使讀者僅覺得他是典重文章的作手，必須看見《蔡中郎集》裡的《述行賦》（也見於《續古文苑》），那些「窮工巧於台榭兮，民露處而寢濕，委嘉穀於禽獸兮，下糠秕而無粒」（手頭無書，也許記錯，容後訂正）的句子，才明白他並非單單的老學究，也是一個有血性的人，明白那時的情形，明白他確有取死之道。又如被選家錄取了《歸去來辭》和《桃花源記》，被論客贊賞著「采菊東籬下，悠然見南山」的陶潛先生，在後人的心目中，實在飄逸得太久了，但在全集裡，他卻有時很摩登，「願在絲而為履，附素足以周旋，悲行止之有節，空委棄於床前」，竟想搖身一變，化為「阿呀呀，我的愛人呀」的鞋子，雖然後來自說因為「止於禮義」，未能進攻到底，但那些胡思亂想的自白，究竟是大膽的。就是詩，除論客所佩服的「悠然見南山」之外，也還有「精衛銜微木，將以填滄海，形天舞干戚，猛志固常在」之類的「金剛怒目」式，在證明著他並非整天整夜的飄飄然。這「猛志固常在」和「悠然見南山」的是一個人，倘有取捨，即非全人，再加抑揚，更離真實。譬如勇士，也戰鬥，也休息，也飲食，自然也性交，如果只取他末一點，畫起像來，掛在妓院裡，尊為性交大師，那當然也不能說是毫無根據的，然而，豈不冤哉！我每見近人的稱引陶淵明，往往不禁為古人惋惜。這也是關於取用文學遺產的問題，潦倒而至於昏聵的人，凡是好的，他總歸得不到。前幾天，看見《時事新報》的《青光》上，引過林語堂先生的話，原文拋掉了，大意是說：老莊是上流，潑婦罵街之類是下流，他都要看，只有中流，剽上竊下，最無足觀。如果我所記憶的並不錯，那麼，這真不但宣告了宋人語錄，明人小品，下至《論語》，《人間世》，《宇宙風》這些「中流」作品的死刑，也透徹的表白了其人的毫無自信。不過這還是空腹高心之談，因為雖是「中流」，也並不一概，即使同是剽竊，有取了好處的，有取了無用之處的，有取了壞處的，到得「中流」的下流，他就連剽竊也不會，「老莊」不必說了，雖是明清的文章，又何嘗真的看得懂。標點古文，不但使應試的學生為難，也往往害得有名的學者出醜，亂點詞曲，拆散駢文的美談，已經成為陳跡，也不必回顧了；今年出了許多廉價的所謂珍本書，都有名家標點，關心世道者癌然憂之，以為足煽復古之焰。我卻沒有這麼悲觀，化國幣一元數角，買了幾本，既讀古之中流的文章，又看今之中流的標點；今之中流，未必能懂古之中流的文章的結論，就從這裡得來的。例如罷，——這種舉例，是很危險的，從古到今，文人的送命，往往並非他的什麼「意德沃羅基」的悖謬，倒是為了個人的私仇居多。然而這裡仍得舉，因為寫到這裡，必須有例，所謂「箭在弦上，不得不發」者是也。但經再三忖度，決定「姑隱其名」，或者得免於難歟，這是我在利用中國人只顧空面子的缺點。例如罷，我買的「珍本」之中，有一本是張岱的《琅嬛文集》，「特印本實價四角」；據「乙亥十月，盧前冀野父」跋，是「化峭僻之途為康莊」的，但照標點看下去，卻並不十分「康莊」。標點，對於五言或七言詩最容易，不必文學家，只要數學家就行，樂府就不大「康莊」了，所以卷三的《景清刺》裡，有了難懂的句子：「……佩鉛刀。藏膝髁。太史奏。機謀破。不稱王向前。坐對御衣含血唾。……」琅琅可誦，韻也押的，不過「不稱王向前」這一句總有些費解。看看原序，有云：「清知事不成。躍而詢上。大怒曰。毋謂我王。即王敢爾耶。清曰。今日之號。尚稱王哉。命抉其齒。王且詢。則含血前。淰御衣。上益怒。剝其膚。……」（標點悉遵原本）那麼，詩該是「不稱王，向前坐」了，「不稱王」者，「尚稱王哉」也；「向前坐」者，「則含血前」也。而序文的「躍而詬上。大怒曰」，恐怕也該是「躍而詬。上大怒曰」才合式，據作文之初階，觀下文之「上益怒」，可知也矣。縱使明人小品如何「本色」，如何「性靈」，拿它亂玩究竟還是不行的，自誤事小，誤人可似乎不大好。例如卷六的《琴操》《脊令操》序裡，有這樣的句子：「秦府僚屬。勸秦王世民。行周公之事。伏兵玄武門。射殺建成元吉魏徵。傷亡作。」文章也很通，不過一翻《唐書》，就不免覺得魏徵實在射殺得冤枉，他其實是秦王世民做了皇帝十七年之後，這才病死的。所以我們沒有法，這裡只好點作「射殺建成元吉，魏徵傷亡作」。明明是張岱作的《琴操》，怎麼會是魏徵作呢，索性也將他射殺幹淨，固然不能說沒有道理，不過「中流」文人，是常有擬作的，例如韓愈先生，就替周文王說過「臣罪當誅兮天王聖明」，所以在這裡，也還是以「魏徵傷亡作」為穩當。我在這裡也犯了「文人相輕」罪，其罪狀曰「吹毛求疵」。但我想「將功折罪」的，是證明瞭有些名人，連文章也看不懂，點不斷，如果選起文章來，說這篇好，那篇壞，實在不免令人有些毛骨悚然，所以認真讀書的人，一不可倚仗選本，二不可憑信標點。七還有一樣最能引讀者入於迷途的，是「摘句」。它往往是衣裳上撕下來的一塊繡花，經摘取者一吹噓或附會，說是怎樣超然物外，與塵濁無幹，讀者沒有見過全體，便也被他弄得迷離惝恍。最顯著的便是上文說過的「悠然見南山」的例子，忘記了陶潛的《述酒》和《讀山海經》等詩，捏成他單是一個飄飄然，就是這摘句作怪。新近在《中學生》的十二月號上，看見了朱光潛先生的《說『曲終人不見，江上數峰青』》的文章，推這兩句為詩美的極致，我覺得也未免有以割裂為美的小疵。他說的好處是：「我愛這兩句詩，多少是因為它對於我啟示了一種哲學的意蘊。『曲終人不見』所表現的是消逝，『江上數峰青』所表現的是永恆。可愛的樂聲和奏樂者雖然消逝了，而青山卻巍然如舊，永遠可以讓我們把心情寄託在它上面。人到底是怕淒涼的，要求伴侶的。曲終了，人去了，我們一霎時以前所遊目騁懷的世界猛然間好像從腳底倒塌去了。這是人生最難堪的一件事，但是一轉眼間我們看到江上青峰，好像又找到另一個可親的伴侶，另一個可托足的世界，而且它永遠是在那裡的。『山窮水盡疑無路，柳暗花明又一村』，此種風味似之。不僅如此，人和曲果真消逝了麼；這一曲纏綿悱惻的音樂沒有驚動山靈？它沒有傳出江上青峰的嫵媚和嚴肅？它沒有深深地印在這嫵媚和嚴肅裡面？反正青山和湘靈的瑟聲已發生這麼一回的因緣，青山永在，瑟聲和鼓瑟的人也就永在了。」這確已說明瞭他的所以激賞的原因。但也沒有盡。讀者是種種不同的，有的愛讀《江賦》和《海賦》，有的欣賞《小園》或《枯樹》。後者是徘徊於有無生滅之間的文人，對於人生，既憚擾攘，又怕離去，懶於求生，又不樂死，實有太板，寂絕又太空，疲倦得要休息，而休息又太淒涼，所以又必須有一種撫慰。於是「曲終人不見」之外，如「只在此山中，雲深不知處」或「笙歌歸院落，燈火下樓台」之類，就往往為人所稱道。因為眼前不見，而遠處卻在，如果不在，便悲哀了，這就是道士之所以說「至心歸命禮，玉皇大天尊！」也。撫慰勞人的聖藥，在詩，用朱先生的話來說，是「靜穆」：古希臘人，也許把和平靜穆看作詩的極境的罷，這一點我毫無知識。但以現存的希臘詩歌而論，荷馬的史詩，是雄大而活潑的，沙孚的戀歌，是明白而熱烈的，都不靜穆。我想，立「靜穆」為詩的極境，而此境不見於詩，也許和立蛋形為人體的最高形式，而此形終不見於人一樣。至於亞波羅之在山巔，那可因為他是「神」的緣故，無論古今，凡神像，總是放在較高之處的。這像，我曾見過照相，睜著眼睛，神清氣爽，並不像「常如作甜蜜夢」。不過看見實物，是否「使我們覺到這種『靜穆』的風味」，在我可就很難斷定了，但是，倘使真的覺得，我以為也許有些因為他「古」的緣故。我也是常常徘徊於雅俗之間的人，此刻的話，很近於大煞風景，但有時卻自以為頗「雅」的：間或喜歡看看古董。記得十多年前，在北京認識了一個土財主，不知怎麼一來，他也忽然「雅」起來了，買了一個鼎，據說是周鼎，真是土花斑駁，古色古香。而不料過不幾天，他竟叫銅匠把它的土花和銅綠擦得一干二淨，這才擺在客廳裡，閃閃的發著銅光。這樣的擦得精光的古銅器，我一生中還沒有見過第二個。一切「雅士」，聽到的無不大笑，我在當時，也不禁由吃驚而失笑了，但接著就變成肅然，好像得了一種啟示。這啟示並非「哲學的意蘊」，是覺得這才看見了近於真相的周鼎。鼎在周朝，恰如碗之在現代，我們的碗，無整年不洗之理，所以鼎在當時，一定是幹幹淨淨，金光燦爛的，換了術語來說，就是它並不「靜穆」，倒有些「熱烈」。這一種俗氣至今未脫，變化了我衡量古美術的眼光，例如希臘雕刻罷，我總以為它現在之見得「只剩一味醇樸」者，原因之一，是在曾埋土中，或久經風雨，失去了鋒棱和光澤的緣故，雕造的當時，一定是嶄新，雪白，而且發閃的，所以我們現在所見的希臘之美，其實並不准是當時希臘人之所謂美，我們應該懸想它是一件新東西。凡論文藝，虛懸了一個「極境」，是要陷入「絕境」的，在藝術，會迷惘於土花，在文學，則被拘迫而「摘句」。但「摘句」又大足以困人，所以朱先生就只能取錢起的兩句，而踢開他的全篇，又用這兩句來概括作者的全人，又用這兩句來打殺了屈原，阮籍，李白，杜甫等輩，以為「都不免有些像金剛怒目，憤憤不平的樣子」。其實是他們四位，都因為墊高朱先生的美學說，做了冤屈的犧牲的。我們現在先來看一看錢起的全篇罷：「省試湘靈鼓瑟善鼓雲和瑟，常聞帝子靈。馮夷空自舞，楚客不堪聽。苦調淒金石，清音入杳冥。蒼梧來怨慕，白芷動芳馨。流水傳湘浦，悲風過洞庭。曲終人不見，江上數峰青。」要證成「醇樸」或「靜穆」，這全篇實在是不宜稱引的，因為中間的四聯，頗近於所謂「衰颯」。但沒有上文，末兩句便顯得含胡，不過這含胡，卻也許又是稱引者之所謂超妙。現在一看題目，便明白「曲終」者結「鼓瑟」，「人不見」者點「靈」字，「江上數峰青」者做「湘」字，全篇雖不失為唐人的好試帖，但末兩句也並不怎麼神奇了。況且題上明說是「省試」，當然不會有「憤憤不平的樣子」，假使屈原不和椒蘭吵架，卻上京求取功名，我想，他大約也不至於在考卷上大發牢騷的，他首先要防落第。我們於是應該再來看看這《湘靈鼓瑟》的作者的另外的詩了。但我手頭也沒有他的詩集，只有一部《大歷詩略》，也是迂夫子的選本，不過篇數卻不少，其中有一首是：「下第題長安客舍不遂青雲望，愁看黃鳥飛。梨花寒食夜，客子未春衣。世事隨時變，交情與我違。空余主人柳，相見卻依依。」一落第，在客棧的牆壁上題起詩來，他就不免有些憤憤了，可見那一首《湘靈鼓瑟》，實在是因為題目，又因為省試，所以只好如此圓轉活脫。他和屈原，阮籍，李白，杜甫四位，有時都不免是怒目金剛，但就全體而論，他長不到丈六。世間有所謂「就事論事」的辦法，現在就詩論詩，或者也可以說是無礙的罷。不過我總以為倘要論文，最好是顧及全篇，並且顧及作者的全人，以及他所處的社會狀態，這才較為確鑿。要不然，是很容易近乎說夢的。但我也並非反對說夢，我只主張聽者心裡明白所聽的是說夢，這和我勸那些認真的讀者不要專憑選本和標點本為法寶來研究文學的意思，大致並無不同。自己放出眼光看過較多的作品，就知道歷來的偉大的作者，是沒有一個「渾身是『靜穆』」的。陶潛正因為並非「渾身是『靜穆』，所以他偉大」。現在之所以往往被尊為「靜穆」，是因為他被選文家和摘句家所縮小，淩遲了。八現在還在流傳的古人文集，漢人的已經沒有略存原狀的了，魏的嵇康，所存的集子裡還有別人的贈答和論難，晉的阮籍，集裡也有伏義的來信，大約都是很古的殘本，由後人重編的。《謝宣城集》雖然只剩了前半部，但有他的同僚一同賦詠的詩。我以為這樣的集子最好，因為一面看作者的文章，一面又可以見他和別人的關系，他的作品，比之同詠者，高下如何，他為什麼要說那些話……現在採取這樣的編法的，據我所知道，則《獨秀文存》，也附有和所存的「文」相關的別人的文字。那些了不得的作家，謹嚴入骨，惜墨如金，要把一生的作品，只刪存一個或者三四個字，刻之泰山頂上，「傳之其人」，那當然聽他自己的便，還有鬼蜮似的「作家」，明明有天兵天將保佑，姓名大可公開，他卻偏要躲躲閃閃，生怕他的「作品」和自己的原形發生關系，隨作隨刪，刪到只剩下一張白紙，到底什麼也沒有，那當然也聽他自己的便。如果多少和社會有些關系的文字，我以為是都應該集印的，其中當然夾雜著許多廢料，所謂「榛楛弗剪」，然而這才是深山大澤。現在已經不像古代，要手抄，要木刻，只要用鉛字一排就夠。雖說排印，糟蹋紙墨自然也還是糟蹋紙墨的，不過只要一想連楊村人之流的東西也還在排印，那就無論什麼都可以閉著眼睛發出去了。中國人常說「有一利必有一弊」，也就是「有一弊必有一利」：揭起小無恥之旗，固然要引出無恥群，但使謙讓者潑剌起來，卻是一利。收回了謙讓的人，在實際上也並不少，但又是所謂「愛惜自己」的居多。「愛惜自己」當然並不是壞事情，至少，他不至於無恥，然而有些人往往誤認「裝點」和「遮掩」為「愛惜」。集子裡面，有兼收「少作」的，然而偏去修改一下，在孩子的臉上，種上一撮白胡須；也有兼收別人之作的，然而又大加揀選，決不取謾罵誣蔑的文章，以為無價值。其實是這些東西，一樣的和本文都有價值的，即使那力量還不夠引出無恥群，但倘和有價值的本文有關，這就是它在當時的價值。中國的史家是早已明白了這一點的，所以歷史裡大抵有循吏傳，隱逸傳，卻也有酷吏傳和佞幸傳，有忠臣傳，也有奸臣傳。因為不如此，便無從知道全般。而且一任鬼蜮的技倆隨時消滅，也不能洞曉反鬼蜮者的人和文章。山林隱逸之作不必論，倘使這作者是身在人間，帶些戰鬥性的，那麼，他在社會上一定有敵對。只是這些敵對決不肯自承，時時撒嬌道：「冤乎枉哉，這是他把我當作假想敵了呀！」可是留心一看，他的確在放暗箭，一經指出，這才改為明槍，但又說這是因為被誣為「假想敵」的報復。所用的技倆，也是決不肯任其流傳的，不但事後要它消滅，就是臨時也在躲閃；而編集子的人又不屑收錄。於是到得後來，就只剩了一面的文章了，無可對比，當時的抗戰之作，就都好像無的放矢，獨個人在向著空中發瘋。我嘗見人評古人的文章，說誰是「鋒棱太露」，誰又是「劍拔弩張」，就因為對面的文章，完全消滅了的緣故，倘在，是也許可以減去評論家幾分懵懂的。所以我以為此後該有博採種種所謂無價值的別人的文章，作為附錄的集子。以前雖無成例，卻是留給後來的寶貝，其功用與鑄了魑魅罔兩的形狀的禹鼎相同。就是近來的有些期刊，那無聊，無恥與下流，也是世界上不可多得的物事，然而這又確是現代中國的或一群人的「文學」，現在可以知今，將來可以知古，較大的圖書館，都必須保存的。但記得Ｃ君曾經告訴我，不但這些，連認真切實的期刊，也保存的很少，大抵只在把外國的雜志，一大本一大本的裝起來：還是生著「貴古而賤今，忽近而圖遠」的老毛病。九仍是上文說過的所謂《珍本叢書》之一的張岱《琅嬛文集》，那卷三的書牘類裡，有《又與毅儒八弟》的信，開首說：「前見吾弟選《明詩存》，有一字不似鐘譚者，必棄置不取；今幾社諸君子盛稱王李，痛罵鐘譚，而吾弟選法又與前一變，有一字似鐘譚者，必棄置不取。鐘譚之詩集，仍此詩集，吾弟手眼，仍此手眼，而乃轉若飛蓬，捷如影響，何胸無定識，目無定見，口無定評，乃至斯極耶？蓋吾弟喜鐘譚時，有鐘譚之好處，盡有鐘譚之不好處，彼蓋玉常帶璞，原不該盡視為連城；吾弟恨鐘譚時，有鐘譚之不好處，仍有鐘譚之好處，彼蓋瑕不掩瑜，更不可盡棄為瓦礫。吾弟勿以幾社君子之言，橫據胸中，虛心平氣，細細論之，則其妍醜自見，奈何以他人好尚為好尚哉！……」這是分明的畫出隨風轉舵的選家的面目，也指證了選本的難以憑信的。張岱自己，則以為選文造史，須無自己的意見，他在《與李硯翁》的信裡說：「弟《石匱》一書，洶筆四十餘載，心如止水秦銅，並不自立意見，故下筆描繪，妍媸自見，敢言刻劃，亦就物肖形而已。……」然而心究非鏡，也不能虛，所以立「虛心平氣」為選詩的極境，「並不自立意見」為作史的極境者，也像立「靜穆」為詩的極境一樣，在事實上不可得。數年前的文壇上所謂「第三種人」杜衡輩，標榜超然，實為群醜，不久即本相畢露，知恥者皆羞稱之，無待這裡多說了；就令自覺不懷他意，屹然中立如張岱者，其實也還是偏倚的。他在同一信中，論東林云：「……夫東林自顧涇陽講學以來，以此名目，禍我國家者八九十年，以其黨升沉，用占世數興敗，其党盛則為終南之捷徑，其黨敗則為元祐之黨碑。……蓋東林首事者實多君子，竄入者不無小人，擁戴者皆為小人，招徠者亦有君子，此其間線索甚清，門戶甚迥。……東林之中，其庸庸碌碌者不必置論，如貪婪強橫之王圖，奸險兇暴之李三才，闖賊首輔之項煜，上箋勸進之周鐘，以致竄入東林，乃欲俱奉之以君子，則吾臂可斷，決不敢徇情也。東林之尤可醜者，時敏之降闖賊曰，『吾東林時敏也』，以冀大用。魯王監國，蕞爾小朝廷，科道任孔當輩猶曰，『非東林不可進用』。則是東林二字，直與蕞爾魯國及汝偕亡者。手刃此輩，置之湯鑊，出薪真不可不猛也。……」這真可謂「詞嚴義正」。所舉的群小，也都確實的，尤其是時敏，雖在三百年後，也何嘗無此等人，真令人驚心動魄。然而他的嚴責東林，是因為東林黨中也有小人，古今來無純一不雜的君子群，於是凡有黨社，必為自謂中立者所不滿，就大體而言，是好人多還是壞人多，他就置之不論了。或者還更加一轉云：東林雖多君子，然亦有小人，反東林者雖多小人，然亦有正士，於是好像兩面都有好有壞，並無不同，但因東林世稱君子，故有小人即可醜，反東林者本為小人，故有正士則可嘉，苛求君子，寬縱小人，自以為明察秋毫，而實則反助小人張目。倘說：東林中雖亦有小人，然多數為君子，反東林者雖亦有正士，而大抵是小人。那麼，斤量就大不相同了。謝國楨先生作《明清之際黨社運動考》，鉤索文籍，用力甚勤，敘魏忠賢兩次虐殺東林黨人畢，說道：「那時候，親戚朋友，全遠遠的躲避，無恥的士大夫，早投降到魏黨的旗幟底下了。說一兩句公道話，想替諸君子幫忙的，只有幾個書呆子，還有幾個老百姓。」這說的是魏忠賢使緹騎捕周順昌，被蘇州人民擊散的事。誠然，老百姓雖然不讀詩書，不明史法，不解在瑜中求瑕，屎裡覓道，但能從大概上看，明黑白，辨是非，往往有決非清高通達的士大夫所可幾及之處的。剛剛接到本日的《大美晚報》，有「北平特約通訊」，記學生遊行，被警察水龍噴射，棍擊刀砍，一部分則被閉於城外，使受凍餒，「此時燕冀中學師大附中及附近居民紛紛組織慰勞隊，送水燒餅饅頭等食物，學生略解饑腸……」誰說中國的老百姓是庸愚的呢，被愚弄誆騙壓迫到現在，還明白如此。張岱又說：「忠臣義士多見於國破家亡之際，如敲石出火，一閃即滅，人主不急起收之，則火種絕矣。」（《越絕詩小序》）他所指的「人主」是明太祖，和現在的情景不相符。石在，火種是不會絕的。但我要重申九年前的主張：不要再請願！十二月十八——十九夜。	Six I recall that Mr. T once told me: after the publication of my Collected Works from Outside the Collection, Mr. Shi Zhecun had somewhere published a critique, opining that the book was not worth printing and would have been better off with some selection. I never saw that periodical; but judging from Mr. Shi's reverence for the Literary Selections and his feat of personally editing Twenty Late Ming Essayists, as well as his self-proclaimed virtue of "consistency between word and deed," this does sound like something he would say. Fortunately, I have no present need to investigate his words and deeds, so I need not trouble myself with all that. That the Collected Works from Outside the Collection is not worth printing — this is correct, whoever says it. Indeed, it is not only this one book. When the Imperial Library is reopened in the future, I'm afraid all my translations will be on the list for exclusion. Even now, in the catalogue of the Tianjin Library, beneath Outcry and Wandering, there is noted the character "destroy" — "destroy" meaning to be destroyed. When Professor Liang Shiqiu served as head of some library, I hear he also banished a number of my translations. But speaking of the general state of affairs, the publishing world at present is not really all that rigorous, and so printing one of my books, Collected Works from Outside the Collection, hardly seems to constitute a special desecration of paper and ink. As for anthologies, I am inclined to think them more harmful than helpful. I recall writing an essay called "On Anthologies" the year before last, setting out my views, which was subsequently included in the Collected Works from Outside the Collection. Naturally, if one is just idly browsing, then any anthology will do — the Literary Selections is fine, and so is Guwen Guanzhi. But if one wishes to study literature or a particular author — to "know the man and judge his times," as they say — then an anthology adequate to the purpose is very hard to find. What an anthology reveals is often not the special qualities of the author but the eye of the anthologist. The sharper the eye and the broader the knowledge, the more accurate the anthology will be; but unfortunately most anthologists are as shortsighted as beans, and far more of them distort the author's true face — this is where a genuine "literary catastrophe" lies. Take Cai Yong, for example: anthologists generally select only his stele inscriptions, so that the reader gets the impression he was nothing more than a master of dignified, weighty prose. One must see the "Rhapsody on a Journey" in his collected works (also found in the Supplement to the Ancient Literary Garden) — lines such as "lavishing exquisite craft on terraces and pavilions while the people sleep exposed to the elements; feeding fine grain to birds and beasts while below they have not even chaff or husks" (I am writing from memory without the book at hand, and may be mistaken; to be corrected later) — before one understands that he was not merely a pedantic old scholar but a man of blood and passion, that one understands the circumstances of his time, and that one understands he did indeed bring death upon himself for good reason. Or take Master Tao Qian, from whom the anthologists have extracted "Return Home!" and "Peach Blossom Spring," and whom the critics have praised for "plucking chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge, serenely beholding the Southern Mountain" — in posterity's imagination he has truly been floating in ethereal transcendence for far too long. But in his complete works, he is sometimes quite modern: "Would that I were silk to be made into slippers, attending white feet through every turn; alas that walking and standing have their propriety — cast aside in vain before the bed." He actually wished to transform himself into his beloved's shoes! Although he later claimed to have restrained himself on grounds of "ritual propriety" and did not press his attack to the end, those confessions of wild fancy were bold indeed. Even in his poetry, beyond the "serenely beholding the Southern Mountain" that critics so admire, there are lines like "The Jingwei bird carries twigs in its beak, determined to fill the sea; Xingtian dances with shield and axe, his fierce resolve forever lives" — the "wrathful Vajrapani" mode — proving that he did not float in ethereal transcendence day and night. This man who wrote "his fierce resolve forever lives" and this man who "serenely beheld the Southern Mountain" are one and the same person. If you make selections, you no longer have the whole person; if you then add emphasis and suppression, you depart even further from reality. Consider a warrior: he fights, he rests, he eats and drinks, and naturally he has sexual intercourse too. If you take only this last point, paint his portrait, and hang it in a brothel, honoring him as a "Grand Master of Sexual Intercourse," one cannot say it is entirely without basis — and yet, how unjust! Whenever I see modern writers citing Tao Yuanming, I cannot help but feel aggrieved on behalf of the ancients. This too is a question of how we make use of our literary heritage. Those who are so degraded as to be befuddled can never obtain what is good. A few days ago, I saw in the "Qingguang" supplement of the China Times a quotation from Mr. Lin Yutang, the original of which I have since discarded. The gist was: Laozi and Zhuangzi are the upper stream; shrewish cursing in the street and such things are the lower stream; he wants to observe both; only the middle stream, which pilfers from above and steals from below, is utterly beneath notice. If my memory serves, then this truly sentences to death not only the Song dynasty discourse records, the Ming dynasty familiar essays, and all the way down to The Analects, This Human World, and Cosmic Wind — these "middle stream" works — but also transparently declares the speaker's utter lack of self-confidence. Yet this is still the talk of one who is ambitious on an empty stomach, for even the "middle stream" is not all of one kind. Even if all involve pilfering, some take what is useful, some take what is useless, and some take what is harmful. When the "middle stream" sinks to its own lower reaches, it cannot even pilfer properly — never mind Laozi and Zhuangzi; even the Ming and Qing essays, can they truly be read and understood? Punctuating classical texts is a torment not only for examination candidates but also for famous scholars, who are often made to look foolish; the fine tales of wildly punctuated ci poetry and mangled parallel prose have already become old news and need not be revisited. This year many inexpensive so-called rare editions have been published, all punctuated by celebrated experts. Those who care about public morality view this with alarm, fearing it will fan the flames of archaism. I am not so pessimistic. Spending one yuan and a few jiao of national currency, I bought several volumes and read both the middle-stream writing of the ancients and the middle-stream punctuation of the moderns; the conclusion that today's middle stream may not be able to understand the middle-stream writing of the ancients — this is where it came from. For example — and this kind of example-giving is very dangerous; from ancient times to the present, when men of letters have lost their lives, it has rarely been because of any heresy in their "ideology" but mostly on account of personal vendettas. Nevertheless I must give examples here, because having written to this point, examples are required — as they say, "the arrow is on the string and must be released." But after much deliberation, I have decided to "conceal the names for now" — perhaps this will save me from disaster. Here I am exploiting the Chinese weakness for caring only about face. For example: among the "rare editions" I purchased was one volume of Zhang Dai's Langyan Collection, "special edition, actual price four jiao." According to the colophon by "Lu Qian, courtesy name Yiye, in the tenth month of the yihai year," this was to "transform the steep and tortuous path into a broad highway." But reading on through the punctuation, it was not altogether "a broad highway." Punctuation is easiest for five-character or seven-character verse — no literary scholar is needed, only a mathematician. But for yuefu ballads it is less of a "broad highway," and so in volume three's "Jing Qing's Assassination," there appear some puzzling sentences: "...Wore a lead knife. Hid it in the kneecap. The Grand Historian memorialized. The plot was exposed. Did not call King step forward. Sat facing the imperial robe containing blood spat..." It rolls off the tongue and even rhymes, yet "did not call King step forward" is rather hard to parse. If one checks the original preface, which reads: "Qing knew the affair would fail. Leapt up and accosted the sovereign. Great rage said. Do not call me King. Even a King would dare do this. Qing said. Today's appellation. Can one still call King. Ordered his teeth pulled. The King further accosted. Then containing blood forward. Spat on the imperial robe. The sovereign's rage increased. Flayed his skin..." (all punctuation follows the original) — then the poem should read: "Did not call 'King,' stepped forward to sit" — "did not call 'King'" meaning "can one still call him King?"; and "stepped forward to sit" meaning "then containing blood, stepped forward." And in the preface, "leapt up and accosted the sovereign. Great rage said" should probably be "leapt up and accosted. The sovereign in great rage said" to make sense — for, as any beginning composition student knows, we can tell from the subsequent "the sovereign's rage increased." No matter how "genuine" or how "spirited" the Ming familiar essays may be, one still cannot play around with them recklessly. Misleading oneself is a small matter; misleading others seems rather less acceptable. For instance, in the preface to "The Wagtail Song" among the "Qin Melodies" in volume six, there is this sentence: "The retainers of the Qin estate. Urged Prince of Qin Shimin. To perform the deed of the Duke of Zhou. Ambushed troops at Xuanwu Gate. Shot and killed Jiancheng and Yuanji Wei Zheng. Grieved over the loss composed." The prose reads smoothly enough, but one glance at the History of the Tang reveals that Wei Zheng was really killed quite unjustly here — in fact, he died of illness seventeen years after Prince Shimin became emperor. So we have no choice but to punctuate it as: "Shot and killed Jiancheng and Yuanji; Wei Zheng, grieved over the loss, composed [this piece]." It is clearly Zhang Dai who wrote these "Qin Melodies," so how could it be Wei Zheng? To go ahead and shoot him dead too is not entirely without its logic, but since "middle stream" literary men often compose works in the voice of historical figures — for example, Master Han Yu once said on behalf of King Wen of Zhou, "Your subject's crime deserves death; the Heavenly King is sage and wise" — here it is more prudent to read "Wei Zheng, grieved over the loss, composed [this piece]." I am here committing the crime of "literati despising one another"; my offense is termed "splitting hairs." But I hope to "offset my crime with merit" by proving that certain famous personages cannot even understand a piece of writing, let alone punctuate it properly. If such people were to compile anthologies, pronouncing this essay good and that one bad, it would truly send shivers down one's spine. Therefore, any serious reader must, first, not rely on anthologies, and second, not trust punctuated editions. Seven There is yet another thing most apt to lead readers astray, and that is "extracting quotations." These are often a scrap of embroidery torn from a garment, and after the extractor has puffed them up or twisted their meaning, claiming they show such-and-such transcendence, such-and-such detachment from the dusty world, the reader who has never seen the whole is left in a haze of bewilderment. The most conspicuous example is the one mentioned above — "serenely beholding the Southern Mountain" — where people forget Tao Qian's "On Wine" and "Reading the Classic of Mountains and Seas" and other poems, and mold him into nothing but a floater in the clouds — all the mischief of extracted quotations. Recently, in the December issue of The Secondary School Student, I read Mr. Zhu Guangqian's essay "On 'The Song Ends, the Player Vanishes; Above the River, Several Peaks Stand Green,'" which extols these two lines as the ultimate in poetic beauty. I feel this, too, is not free of the minor fault of finding beauty in fragmentation. He says of their merit: "I love these two lines partly because they reveal to me a certain philosophical implication. 'The song ends, the player vanishes' expresses evanescence; 'above the river, several peaks stand green' expresses eternity. The lovely music and the musician may have vanished, but the green mountains remain as majestic as ever, forever offering us a place to rest our sentiments. People fear desolation, after all, and crave companionship. When the song ends and the player departs, the world in which we were just roaming with eye and spirit seems suddenly to collapse from under our feet. This is one of the most unbearable things in life, yet in a flash we see the green peaks above the river, as if we have found another beloved companion, another world on which to set our feet, one that will always be there. 'The mountains end, the waters vanish, there seems no road; willows darken, flowers brighten — another village!' — the flavor is similar. And more: have the player and the song truly vanished? Has this piece of lingering, plaintive music not stirred the mountain spirit? Has it not expressed the charm and solemnity of the green peaks above the river? Has it not been deeply imprinted in that charm and solemnity? In any case, the green mountains and the sound of Xiangling's zither have already formed this karmic bond; the green mountains abide, so the zither and the one who played it also abide." This has indeed explained his reasons for admiration. But it is not complete. Readers are of every variety: some love to read the "Rhapsody on the River" and the "Rhapsody on the Sea"; others savor "The Small Garden" or "The Withered Tree." The latter are men of letters hovering between being and nothingness, life and death — they dread the turmoil of life yet fear its departure; they are too weary to seek life, yet take no pleasure in death; solidity feels too rigid, utter stillness too empty; they are too fatigued and need rest, yet rest is too forlorn, so they must have some consolation. Hence, besides "the song ends, the player vanishes," lines such as "He is only somewhere in this mountain, but the clouds are too deep to know where" or "Songs and pipes return to the courtyard; lamplight descends the stairs" are often quoted with approval. For what is not before one's eyes is yet somewhere in the distance; if it were not there at all, one would grieve — and this is why the Daoist priest says, "With utmost sincerity I take refuge in the Jade Emperor, Supreme Lord of Heaven!" The holy medicine that soothes the laboring man, in poetry, is — to use Mr. Zhu's term — "serene stillness": The ancient Greeks may perhaps have regarded peaceful serenity as the ultimate realm of poetry — on this point I have no knowledge whatsoever. But judging from surviving Greek poetry, Homer's epics are grand and vital; Sappho's love songs are forthright and passionate — neither is serene. I suspect that setting up "serene stillness" as the ultimate realm of poetry, while this realm is never found in actual poetry, is perhaps like setting up the egg shape as the highest form of the human body, while this form is never found in actual people. As for Apollo on the mountaintop — that is because he is a "god," and gods, in all ages, are always placed in elevated positions. I have seen a photograph of this statue: the eyes are open, the expression clear and vigorous — it does not look like someone "perpetually having a sweet dream." Whether seeing the actual object would "give us the flavor of this 'serene stillness,'" I really cannot say with certainty; but if one truly did feel it, I suspect it might partly be because the statue is "ancient." I too am someone who often hovers between the refined and the vulgar; what I say at this moment rather spoils the mood. But sometimes I consider myself quite "refined": occasionally I enjoy looking at antiques. I recall that over ten years ago, in Beijing, I made the acquaintance of a rustic man of wealth who, for some reason, suddenly took it into his head to become "refined." He bought a ding tripod, said to be from the Zhou dynasty — truly mottled with earthy patina, radiating antique elegance. But to everyone's astonishment, a few days later he had a coppersmith polish away every trace of patina and verdigris until it was spotless, and then placed it in his parlor, gleaming with the luster of copper. In my entire life I have never seen a second piece of ancient bronze polished to such brilliance. Every "refined gentleman" who heard of it roared with laughter. I too, at the time, could not help passing from astonishment to laughter — but then immediately became solemn, as though I had received a revelation. This revelation was not a "philosophical implication" but the sense that now, at last, I was seeing something close to the true appearance of a Zhou tripod. A ding in the Zhou dynasty was like a bowl in our modern age. We would never go a whole year without washing our bowls, so a ding in its own time must have been spotlessly clean and gleaming with golden brilliance — in other words, it was not at all "serenely still" but rather "passionate." This vulgarity has never left me; it has transformed the way I look at ancient art. Take Greek sculpture, for instance: I have always felt that its present appearance of "nothing but plain simplicity" is partly due to having been buried underground, or long weathered by wind and rain, so that it has lost its sharp edges and luster. At the time of its carving, it must have been brand-new, snow-white, and gleaming. Therefore what we see today as Greek beauty is not necessarily what the Greeks themselves considered beautiful; we should imagine it as a brand-new thing. Whenever one discusses literature and art by positing a nebulous "ultimate realm," one is bound to end up in a "dead end." In art, one becomes entranced by earthy patina; in literature, one is driven into "extracting quotations." And "extracting quotations" is perfectly suited to ensnare people, which is why Mr. Zhu can only seize upon Qian Qi's two lines while kicking aside his entire poem, then use these two lines to sum up the author's entire being, and then use these two lines to strike down Qu Yuan, Ruan Ji, Li Bai, and Du Fu, pronouncing them all "not free of the appearance of wrathful Vajrapani, bristling with indignation." In truth, all four of them have been sacrificed unjustly, made to serve as pedestals for elevating Mr. Zhu's aesthetic theory. Let us first look at Qian Qi's poem in full: "Provincial Examination: The Spirit of the Xiang River Plays the Zither — Skilled at playing the cloud-and-harmony zither, / We always hear of the Emperor's daughter's spirit. / Feng Yi dances in vain, / The man of Chu cannot bear to listen. / Bitter melodies move gold and stone to sorrow, / Pure tones enter the farthest dark. / From Cangwu comes longing and lament, / White angelica stirs its fragrance. / Flowing water reaches the Xiang shore, / Mournful wind crosses Lake Dongting. / The song ends, the player vanishes — / Above the river, several peaks stand green." To prove "simplicity" or "serene stillness," this entire poem is really not suitable to cite, because the four middle couplets are rather close to what is called "declining and desolate." But without the preceding lines, the last two lines appear vague — though this vagueness may be precisely what the quotation-extractor calls "transcendent marvelousness." Now, a glance at the title makes it clear: "the song ends" wraps up "playing the zither"; "the player vanishes" picks up the word "spirit"; "above the river, several peaks stand green" addresses the word "Xiang." The whole poem, while not unworthy as a Tang examination poem, is not especially miraculous in its final two lines. Moreover, the title plainly states "Provincial Examination" — naturally there will be no "appearance of bristling indignation." If Qu Yuan, instead of quarreling with pepper and orchid, had gone up to the capital to seek official advancement, I imagine he too would not have vented his grievances on the examination paper — his first concern would have been not to fail. We should therefore look at some other poems by the author of "The Spirit of the Xiang River Plays the Zither." But I do not have his collected poems at hand either, only a volume of Selections from Dali Poetry, which is also a pedantic anthology, though it contains quite a number of poems. Among them is one: "Written at a Chang'an Inn After Failing the Examination — I did not achieve my hope of the blue clouds; / In sorrow I watch the orioles fly. / Pear blossoms on a Cold Food night, / A traveler without his spring clothes. / The world's affairs change with the times, / Friendships have turned against me. / Only the host's willow tree remains, / Meeting me, still bending tenderly." As soon as he fails the examination, scribbling poetry on the inn wall, he becomes rather indignant after all — which shows that in "The Spirit of the Xiang River Plays the Zither," it was only because of the subject, and because it was a provincial examination, that he had no choice but to be so smoothly and deftly rounded. He and Qu Yuan, Ruan Ji, Li Bai, and Du Fu all occasionally take on the aspect of wrathful Vajrapani, but taken as a whole, he does not measure up to their full stature. There is a method in the world called "judging each matter on its own merits." Discussing poetry on its own terms might also be said to be unobjectionable. Yet I have always held that if one wishes to discuss literature, it is best to consider the entire work, and moreover to consider the author's entire person, as well as the state of the society in which he lived — only then does one approach certainty. Otherwise, one very easily drifts close to dream-talk. But I am not opposed to dream-talk per se; I only insist that the listener know clearly that what he hears is dream-talk. This is not essentially different from my advice to serious readers not to rely on anthologies and punctuated editions as magic talismans for studying literature. Cast your own gaze over a broader range of works, and you will know that not a single one of history's great writers was "serene stillness through and through." Tao Qian is great precisely because he is not "serene stillness through and through." The reason he is so often revered today as "serene stillness" is that he has been diminished and dismembered by anthologists and quotation-extractors. Eight Among the collected works of the ancients still circulating today, those from the Han dynasty no longer preserve anything close to their original form. For the Wei period, the surviving collection of Ji Kang still includes others' gifts, replies, and disputations; for the Jin, the collection of Ruan Ji also contains Fuyi's letters — these are probably very ancient fragments, re-edited by later hands. The Collected Works of Xie of Xuancheng, though only the first half survives, includes poems composed jointly with his colleagues. I consider such collections the best, because while reading the author's own writing, one can simultaneously see his relationship with others — how his works compare with those of his fellow poets, and why he said what he said... The modern collection that adopts this method of editing, so far as I know, is The Collected Writings of Duxiu, which also appends the relevant writings of others connected to the texts preserved therein. Those formidable writers who are scrupulous to the bone and frugal with ink, who wish to pare their lifetime's work down to a single word or three or four words and carve them atop Mount Tai, "to be transmitted to the right person" — that is naturally their own business. Then there are the ghoulish "writers" who clearly have the Heavenly Host protecting them and whose names could well be made public, yet who insist on being evasive and furtive, terrified that their "works" might be connected to their true identities, deleting as they go until nothing remains but a blank page and ultimately nothing at all — that too is naturally their own business. But writings that have at least some connection to society should, I believe, all be collected and printed. Among them there will naturally be much dross — what is called "leaving the thornbushes uncut" — but this is precisely what makes a deep mountain and a great marsh. We are no longer in ancient times, when everything had to be hand-copied or woodblock-printed; one need only set the lead type and that is enough. Though even typesetting wastes paper and ink, one need only consider that even the drivel of the likes of Yang Cunren is still being printed, and then anything at all can be sent out with one's eyes closed. The Chinese often say "where there is an advantage, there is a disadvantage"; it is equally true that "where there is a disadvantage, there is an advantage." Raising the banner of petty shamelessness naturally attracts a shameless crowd, but prodding the modest into boldness — that is an advantage. People who have withdrawn into modesty are in fact not few, but again, the majority do so out of what is called "cherishing oneself." "Cherishing oneself" is naturally not a bad thing — at the very least, one will not descend to shamelessness — yet some people mistakenly take "ornamentation" and "concealment" for "cherishing." In their collections, some include their "juvenilia," but then go and revise it, planting a tuft of white beard on a child's face. Others include the writings of their opponents, but make rigorous selections, absolutely refusing to include abusive or slanderous articles, deeming them worthless. In reality these things have value just as the main text does — even if their force is not sufficient to attract a shameless crowd, when they are related to the valuable main text, that is precisely their value at the time. Chinese historians understood this long ago, which is why in the dynastic histories one generally finds biographies of upright officials and biographies of recluses, but also biographies of cruel officials and biographies of imperial favorites; biographies of loyal ministers, but also biographies of treacherous ministers. For without this, one cannot know the whole. Moreover, if the stratagems of the ghoulish are allowed to vanish at will, one cannot fully understand the person or the writings of those who opposed them. Leaving aside the works of mountain recluses — if the author was a man living in the world, with something of the combatant about him, then he inevitably had adversaries in society. But these adversaries would never admit it, simpering: "How unjust! He is merely using me as an imaginary enemy!" Yet if one looks carefully, there he is shooting arrows in the dark; and once exposed, he switches to open lances, claiming it is retaliation for having been falsely designated an "imaginary enemy." The stratagems he employs he would never allow to survive — not only after the fact does he want them destroyed, but even at the time he is evasive. And the compiler of collected works disdains to include such material. Thus, in the end, only one side's writings remain; with nothing to compare them to, the combative works of the time all look like shooting at empty air, a lone madman raging at the void. I have often seen people critiquing the ancients' essays, saying so-and-so is "too sharp-edged" or so-and-so is "bows drawn and swords unsheathed" — precisely because the opposing essays have vanished entirely. Had they survived, they might relieve the critics of a measure of their befuddlement. Therefore I believe that henceforth there should be collections that broadly gather all manner of supposedly worthless writings by others and include them as appendices. Though there is no precedent for this, it would be a treasure bequeathed to posterity, serving the same function as the tripod of Yu, on which the forms of demons and monsters were cast. Even among recent periodicals, the banality, shamelessness, and vulgarity of some are things rarely matched in the world. Yet this is indeed the "literature" of a certain group in modern China. In the present it can serve to understand today; in the future it can serve to understand the past. Larger libraries must preserve them. But I recall that Mr. C once told me that not only these but even serious, earnest periodicals are rarely preserved — for the most part, only foreign magazines, one big volume after another, are bound and kept: still suffering from the old disease of "venerating the ancient and despising the present, neglecting what is near and pursuing what is far." Nine Returning to the aforementioned Zhang Dai's Langyan Collection, one of the so-called Rare Book Series: in the letter section of volume three, there is a letter titled "Again to My Eighth Brother Yiru," which opens by saying: "Previously I saw that in your anthology Ming Poetry Preserved, any poem with a single character unlike Zhong Tan was discarded; now the gentlemen of the Ji Society loudly praise Wang and Li, and bitterly revile Zhong and Tan, and your editorial method has changed once again — any poem with a single character resembling Zhong Tan is discarded. The poetry of Zhong and Tan is still the same poetry; your eyes and hands are still the same eyes and hands; yet you whirl about like tumbleweed and shift as fast as an echo — how can your views be so utterly without conviction, your eyes so utterly without fixed judgment, your mouth so utterly without consistent opinion, to such an extreme? When you admired Zhong and Tan, you saw their good qualities but also took in all their bad qualities; their jade, after all, still bore rough stone, and should not have been entirely regarded as priceless. When you came to hate Zhong and Tan, you saw their bad qualities, but their good qualities remained; their flaws, after all, did not obscure their luster, and they should not have been entirely discarded as rubble. Do not, brother, let the words of the Ji Society gentlemen be lodged rigidly in your breast; empty your mind, calm your temper, and examine matters carefully — then their beauty and ugliness will reveal themselves. Why should you take other people's preferences as your own?..." This clearly paints the face of the anthologist who turns with every wind, and also demonstrates how unreliable anthologies are. Zhang Dai himself, however, held that in compiling anthologies and writing history, one must have no opinions of one's own. In his letter "To Li Yanweng," he says: "In my Stone Casket, to which I devoted my furious brush for over forty years, my mind was like still water and a Qin bronze mirror; I absolutely did not form my own opinions. Therefore when I set pen to paper to describe, beauty and ugliness revealed themselves; I dare not claim to have carved and chiseled — I merely followed the shape of the thing itself...." Yet the mind is after all not a mirror, nor can it be truly empty. Therefore, setting up "empty mind and calm temper" as the ultimate state for selecting poetry, and "absolutely having no opinions of one's own" as the ultimate state for writing history, is — like setting up "serene stillness" as the ultimate realm of poetry — unattainable in practice. A few years ago, the so-called "Third Category Men" on the literary scene — the Du Hengs and their ilk — trumpeted their transcendent neutrality but were in reality a pack of scoundrels; before long their true colors were exposed, and anyone with a sense of shame was embarrassed to mention them. There is no need to say more about them here. Even one who sincerely believes himself free of ulterior motives and stands firm in neutrality, like Zhang Dai, is in reality still biased. In the same letter, he discusses the Donglin faction: "...From the time Gu Jingyang began his lectures, the Donglin faction has been bringing disaster upon our nation for eighty or ninety years. The rise and fall of the faction can be taken as an index of the empire's fortunes. When the faction thrives, it becomes a shortcut to Zhongnan Mountain; when it falls, it becomes the Yuanyou Party Stele.... There were indeed many gentlemen among the founders of the Donglin, but not a few petty men who wormed their way in; those who rallied to its banner were all petty men, though among those they attracted were some gentlemen. The threads here are quite clear, the factions quite distinct.... Among the Donglin, the mediocre need not be discussed, but as for the greedy and domineering Wang Tu, the treacherous and violently cruel Li Sancai, Xiang Xu who became Grand Secretary under the Chuang bandit, and Zhou Zhong who submitted a memorial urging usurpation — when these men wormed their way into the Donglin, to insist on honoring them all as gentlemen — I would sooner have my arm broken than comply. The most shameful among the Donglin was Shimin, who upon surrendering to the Chuang bandit said, 'I am Shimin of the Donglin,' hoping for high office. When Prince Lu served as regent over a tiny rump court, the censors Ren Kongdang and their like still said, 'None but Donglin men may hold office.' The very words 'Donglin' were then fated to perish together with that tiny Lu state. To take such men and put them to the blade, to cast them into boiling cauldrons — one truly cannot be too vigorous in adding fuel to the fire...." This can truly be called "words stern and meaning righteous." The petty men he cites are all real, and Shimin above all — even three hundred years later, are there not men of exactly the same kind? It truly makes one's blood run cold. Yet his stern censure of the Donglin is because there were also petty men among the Donglin. Since no party in all of history has ever been composed purely of gentlemen, any party or faction will inevitably earn the disapproval of self-proclaimed neutralists. Whether the good outnumber the bad or the bad outnumber the good, taken as a whole — that he simply leaves aside. Or perhaps he adds another turn: the Donglin, though containing many gentlemen, also has petty men; the anti-Donglin, though containing many petty men, also has upright scholars. Thus it appears that both sides have good and bad, with no difference between them. But because the Donglin are reputed to be gentlemen, the presence of petty men among them is especially shameful; because the anti-Donglin are known to be petty men, the presence of upright scholars among them is especially commendable. Harsh toward the gentlemen, lenient toward the petty men — he fancies himself keen-sighted enough to see the tip of an autumn hair, when in reality he is helping the petty men. If instead one were to say: the Donglin, though containing some petty men, are mostly gentlemen; the anti-Donglin, though containing some upright scholars, are mostly petty men — then the scales would tip very differently. Mr. Xie Guozhen, in his Study of Party and Factional Movements in the Late Ming and Early Qing, has researched the documents with great diligence. After narrating Wei Zhongxian's two rounds of savage persecution of the Donglin, he says: "At that time, relatives and friends all kept their distance and hid away. The shameless among the scholar-officials had long since surrendered under the banner of the Wei faction. Those who spoke a few words of justice, who tried to help the gentlemen, were only a handful of bookworms and a few common people." He is referring to the incident when Wei Zhongxian sent his secret police to arrest Zhou Shunchang, only to be beaten and scattered by the people of Suzhou. Indeed, the common people, though they do not read the classics, do not know historiographical method, do not know how to find flaws in jade or seek the Way in excrement, are able to see the big picture, distinguish black from white, and tell right from wrong — they often possess a discernment that the lofty, worldly-wise scholar-officials cannot remotely approach. I have just received today's edition of the Shanghai Evening Post, which contains a "Special Correspondence from Beiping" reporting on a student demonstration: the students were sprayed by police water cannons, beaten with clubs, and slashed with knives; some were shut outside the city walls, left to freeze and starve. "At this point, the students and teachers of Yanji Middle School, the Normal University Attached Middle School, and nearby residents all organized comfort brigades, bringing water, flatbread, steamed buns, and other food. The students were somewhat relieved of their hunger..." Who says China's common people are stupid? Deceived, swindled, and oppressed down to the present day, they still see this clearly. Zhang Dai also said: "Loyal ministers and righteous men mostly appear when the nation crumbles and the family falls — like fire struck from a flint, a flash and then darkness. If the ruler does not quickly gather them, the fire's seed will be extinguished." (Preface to "Poems of Yue's Downfall") The "ruler" he refers to is the Ming founder; it does not correspond to the present situation. But as long as the flint remains, the fire's seed will never die out. Yet I must reiterate the position I took nine years ago: no more petitioning! Nights of December 18-19.
漢字拉丁化的方法一出世，方塊字系的簡筆字和注音字母，都賽下去了，還在競爭的只有羅馬字拼音。這拼法的保守者用來打擊拉丁化字的最大的理由，是說它方法太簡單，有許多字很不容易分別。這確是一個缺點。凡文字，倘若容易學，容易寫，常常是未必精密的。煩難的文字，固然不見得一定就精密，但要精密，卻總不免比較的煩難。羅馬字拼音能顯四聲，拉丁化字不能顯，所以沒有「東」「董」之分，然而方塊字能顯「東」「鷳」之分，羅馬字拼音卻也不能顯。單拿能否細別一兩個字來定新文字的優劣，是並不確當的。況且文字一用於組成文章，那意義就會明顯。雖是方塊字，倘若單取一兩個字，也往往難以確切的定出它的意義來。例如「日者」這兩個字，如果只是這兩個字，我們可以作「太陽這東西」解，可以作「近幾天」解，也可以作「占卜吉凶的人」解；又如「果然」，大抵是「竟是」的意思，然而又是一種動物的名目，也可以作隆起的形容；就是一個「一」字，在孤立的時候，也不能決定它是數字「一二三」之「一」呢，還是動詞「四海一」之「一」。不過組織在句子裡，這疑難就消失了。所以取拉丁化的一兩個字，說它含胡，並不是正當的指摘。主張羅馬字拼音和拉丁化者兩派的爭執，其實並不在精密和粗疏，卻在那由來，也就是目的。羅馬字拼音者是以古來的方塊字為主，翻成羅馬字，使大家都來照這規矩寫，拉丁化者卻以現在的方言為主，翻成拉丁字，這就是規矩。假使翻一部《詩韻》來作比賽，後者是賽不過的，然而要寫出活人的口語來，倒輕而易舉。這一點，就可以補它的不精密的缺點而有餘了，何況後來還可以憑著實驗，逐漸補正呢。易舉和難行是改革者的兩大派。同是不滿於現狀，但打破現狀的手段卻大不同：一是革新，一是復古。同是革新，那手段也大不同：一是難行，一是易舉。這兩者有鬥爭。難行者的好幌子，一定是完全和精密，借此來阻礙易舉者的進行，然而它本身，卻因為是虛懸的計劃，結果總並無成就：就是不行。這不行，可又正是難行的改革者的慰藉，因為它雖無改革之實，卻有改革之名。有些改革者，是極愛談改革的，但真的改革到了身邊，卻使他恐懼。惟有大談難行的改革，這才可以阻止易舉的改革的到來，就是竭力維持著現狀，一面大談其改革，算是在做他那完全的改革的事業。這和主張在床上學會了浮水，然後再去游泳的方法，其實是一樣的。拉丁化卻沒有這空談的弊病，說得出，就寫得來，它和民眾是有聯系的，不是研究室或書齋裡的清玩，是街頭巷尾的東西；它和舊文字的關系輕，但和人民的聯系密，倘要大家能夠發表自己的意見，收獲切要的知識，除它以外，確沒有更簡易的文字了。而且由只識拉丁化字的人們寫起創作來，才是中國文學的新生，才是現代中國的新文學，因為他們是沒有中一點什麼《莊子》和《文選》之類的毒的。十二月二十三日。 Category:漢字改革	When the method of Latinizing Chinese characters first appeared, both the simplified characters of the block-script system and the National Phonetic Alphabet were outclassed. The only remaining competitor was the Romanized spelling system. The strongest argument wielded by the conservatives of this Romanized system to batter the Latinized script was that its method was too simple, making many characters difficult to distinguish. This is indeed a shortcoming. Any writing system that is easy to learn and easy to write is generally unlikely to be precise. A cumbersome script is not necessarily precise either, but if one seeks precision, a degree of complexity is inevitably required. Romanized spelling can indicate the four tones while Latinized script cannot, so it cannot distinguish between "dong" (east) and "dong" (to direct). Yet the block characters can distinguish "dong" (east) from "xian" (a type of pheasant), while Romanized spelling cannot either. To judge the merits of a new script solely by whether it can differentiate one or two characters is hardly fair. Moreover, once characters are employed in composing sentences, their meaning becomes clear. Even with block characters, if one isolates just a character or two, it is often impossible to determine their exact meaning. For instance, the two characters "ri zhe" — taken alone, we could interpret them as "the sun, that thing," as "in recent days," or as "a fortune-teller." Likewise "guo ran" usually means "indeed," but it is also the name of a certain animal, and can serve as a description of something protruding. Even the single character "yi," standing alone, cannot be determined as the numeral "one" in "one, two, three," or the verb "to unify" in "unifying the four seas." But place them in a sentence, and the ambiguity vanishes. To pick out one or two words from the Latinized script and call it vague is therefore not a legitimate criticism. The real dispute between the advocates of Romanized spelling and Latinization lies not in precision versus crudeness, but in their origins — that is to say, their purposes. The Romanized spelling camp takes the traditional block characters as their basis and transliterates them into Roman letters, demanding everyone write according to these rules. The Latinization camp, however, takes the living spoken dialects as their basis and transcribes them into Latin letters — and that itself is the standard. If one were to transliterate a rhyme dictionary for a competition, the latter would surely lose. But when it comes to writing the living speech of actual people, it is effortless. This single point is more than enough to compensate for any lack of precision — not to mention that future experiments can gradually correct the system. Easy methods and difficult methods: these are the two great factions among reformers. Both are dissatisfied with the status quo, but their means of breaking it are vastly different: one is innovation, the other restoration. Even among innovators, the means differ enormously: one is the difficult way, the other the easy way. Between these two there is struggle. The fine banner of the difficult-way faction is invariably completeness and precision, which they use to obstruct the progress of the easy-way faction. Yet their own approach, being nothing more than a castle in the air, invariably produces no results whatsoever: it simply does not work. This not-working, however, is precisely the consolation of the difficult-way reformers, for though they achieve nothing in practice, they enjoy the reputation of reform. Some reformers are exceedingly fond of talking about reform, but when real reform arrives at their doorstep, it fills them with dread. Only by endlessly discussing difficult reform can they forestall the arrival of easy reform — that is, they strain every nerve to maintain the status quo while grandly discoursing on reform, counting this as the pursuit of their perfect reform enterprise. This is essentially no different from the method of proposing to learn to swim while lying in bed, and only then venturing into the water. Latinization, however, is free from this malady of empty talk. What can be said can be written. It is connected with the masses; it is not an objet d'art for the study or the laboratory, but something of the streets and alleyways. Its ties to the old script are slight, but its bonds to the people are strong. If we want everyone to be able to express their own opinions and acquire essential knowledge, there is simply no simpler writing system than this. Moreover, only when people who know nothing but the Latinized script begin to write creative literature will Chinese literature experience a true rebirth, a truly new literature for modern China — for they will be unpoisoned by the slightest trace of the Zhuangzi, the Wenxuan, or anything of that sort. December 23.
果戈理開手作《死魂靈》第一部的時候，是一八三五年的下半年，離現在足有一百年了。幸而，還是不幸呢，其中的許多人物，到現在還很有生氣，使我們不同國度，不同時代的讀者，也覺得仿佛寫著自己的周圍，不得不歎服他偉大的寫實的本領。不過那時的風尚，卻究竟有了變遷，例如男子的衣服，和現在雖然小異大同，而閨秀們的高髻圓裙，則已經少見；那時的時髦的車子，並非流線形的摩托卡，卻是三匹馬拉的篷車，照著跳舞夜會的所謂眩眼的光輝，也不是電燈，只不過許多插在多臂燭臺上的蠟燭：凡這些，倘使沒有圖畫，是很難想像清楚的。關於《死魂靈》的有名的圖畫，據里斯珂夫說，一共有三種，而最正確和完備的是阿庚的百圖。這圖畫先有七十二幅，未詳何年出版，但總在一八四七年之前，去現在也快要九十年；後來即成為難得之品，新近蘇聯出版的《文學辭典》裡，曾采它為插畫，可見已經是有了定評的文獻了。雖在它的本國，恐怕也只能在圖書館中相遇，更何況在我們中國。今年秋末，孟十還君忽然在上海的舊書店裡看到了這畫集，便像孩子望見了糖果似的，立刻奔走呼號，總算弄到手裡了，是一八九三年印的第四版，不但百圖完備，還增加了收藏家藹甫列摩夫所藏的三幅，並那時的廣告畫和第一版封紙上的小圖各一幅，共計一百零五圖。這大約是十月革命之際，俄國人帶了逃出國外來的；他該是一個愛好文藝的人，抱守了十六年，終於只好拿它來換衣食之資；在中國，也許未必有第二本。藏了起來，對己對人，說不定都是一種罪業，所以現在就設法來翻印這一本書，除紹介外國的藝術之外，第一，是在獻給中國的研究文學，或愛好文學者，可以和小說相輔，所謂「左圖右史」，更明白十九世紀上半的俄國中流社會的情形，第二，則想獻給插畫家，借此看看別國的寫實的典型，知道和中國向來的「出相」或「繡像」有怎樣的不同，或者能有可以取法之處；同時也以慰售出這本畫集的人，將他的原本化為千萬，廣布於世，實足償其損失而有餘，一面也庶幾不枉孟十還君的一番奔走呼號之苦。對於木刻家，卻恐怕並無大益，因為這雖說是木刻，但畫者一人，刻者又別一人，和現在的自畫自刻，刻即是畫的創作木刻，是已經大有差別的了。世間也真有意外的運氣。當中文譯本的《死魂靈》開始發表時，曹靖華君就寄給我一卷圖畫，也還是十月革命後不多久，在彼得堡得到的。這正是里斯珂夫所說的梭可羅夫畫的十二幅。紙張雖然頗為破碎，但圖像並無大損，怕它由我而亡，現在就附印在阿庚的百圖之後，於是俄國藝術家所作的最寫實，而且可以互相補助的兩種《死魂靈》的插畫，就全收在我們的這一本集子裡了。移譯序文和每圖的題句的，也是孟十還君的勞作；題句大概依照譯本，但有數處不同，現在也不改從一律；最末一圖的題句，不見於第一部中，疑是第二部記乞乞科夫免罪以後的事，這是那時俄國文藝家的習尚：總喜歡帶點教訓的。至於校印裝制，則是吳朗西君和另外幾位朋友們所經營。這都應該在這里聲明謝意。一九三五年十二月二十四日，魯迅。	When Gogol first set to work on the first part of Dead Souls, it was the latter half of 1835 — a full century ago. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately — many of the characters in it are still very much alive today, making us readers of a different country and a different era feel as though he were writing about our own surroundings. One cannot but marvel at his great realist powers. To be sure, the fashions of that time have undergone change: men's clothing, for instance, differs only slightly from the present, but the towering coiffures and voluminous skirts of the young ladies are seldom seen anymore. The fashionable carriage of that era was not a streamlined motorcar but a covered coach drawn by three horses, and the so-called dazzling brilliance illuminating a ball was not electric light, but merely rows of candles mounted on multi-armed candelabra. All this, without illustrations, is very difficult to picture clearly. Regarding the celebrated illustrations for Dead Souls, Liskoff tells us there are three sets in all, and the most accurate and complete is Agin's set of one hundred plates. These illustrations originally numbered seventy-two; the year of publication is uncertain, but it must have been before 1847 — nearly ninety years ago. They soon became rare items. The recently published Soviet Literary Dictionary has used them as illustrations, which shows they have already become an established reference. Even in their own country, one could probably only encounter them in a library, let alone in our China. This autumn, Mr. Meng Shihuan suddenly spotted this collection in a Shanghai secondhand bookshop and, like a child catching sight of sweets, immediately ran about raising the alarm and finally managed to get his hands on it. It is the fourth edition, printed in 1893 — not only is the full hundred plates complete, but it includes three additional plates from the collection of the collector Efremov, plus one advertisement illustration and one small drawing from the cover of the first edition: a total of one hundred and five plates. This was presumably brought out of Russia by a Russian at the time of the October Revolution. He must have been a lover of literature and the arts, having held on to it for sixteen years before finally being forced to trade it for food and clothing. In China, there is probably not a second copy. To keep it locked away would be, for oneself and for others, something close to a sin. Therefore we have now arranged to reprint this book. Apart from introducing foreign art, our first purpose is to offer it to those in China who study literature or love literature, so that it may complement the novel itself — what is called "illustrations on the left, history on the right" — and give a clearer picture of Russian middle-class society in the first half of the nineteenth century. Second, we wish to present it to illustrators, so they may see the realist models of another country and understand how they differ from China's traditional "story pictures" or "embroidered portraits," and perhaps find something to learn from. At the same time, we would console the man who sold this collection: his original copy will be multiplied into thousands and tens of thousands, spread widely throughout the world — more than enough to compensate his loss — and we hope this will not have been in vain, Mr. Meng Shihuan's frantic running and calling. For woodcut artists, however, I fear this may not be of great benefit, because although these are called woodcuts, the drawing was by one person and the cutting by another — fundamentally different from today's creative woodcuts, where the artist both draws and cuts, where cutting is itself the art. There are indeed unexpected strokes of luck in this world. Just as the Chinese translation of Dead Souls began to be published, Mr. Cao Jinghua sent me a set of illustrations — also obtained in Petrograd not long after the October Revolution. These are precisely the twelve plates by Sokolov that Liskoff mentions. Though the paper is rather damaged, the images are largely intact. Fearing they might perish through me, I now have them printed as an appendix to Agin's hundred plates. Thus, the two most realistic and mutually complementary sets of Dead Souls illustrations created by Russian artists are now gathered together in this single volume. The translation of the preface and the caption for each plate is also the work of Mr. Meng Shihuan. The captions generally follow the translation, though there are several discrepancies, which I have not standardized. The caption of the very last plate does not appear in the first part; I suspect it depicts an event from the second part, after Chichikov's acquittal — this was the fashion among Russian literary men of that era: they always liked to include a touch of moral instruction. As for the proofreading, printing, and binding, these were managed by Mr. Wu Langxi and several other friends. This should be stated here with gratitude. December 24, 1935. Lu Xun.
這一本的編輯的体例，是和前一本相同的，也是按照著寫作的時候。凡在刊物上發表之作，上半年也都經過官廳的檢查，大約總不免有些刪削，不過我懶於一一校對，加上黑點為記了。只要看過前一本，就可以明白犯官忌的是那些話。被全篇禁止的有兩篇：一篇是《什麼是諷刺》，為文學社的《文學百題》而作，印出來時，變了一個「缺」字；一篇是《從幫忙到扯淡》，為《文學論壇》而作，至今無蹤無影，連「缺」字也沒有了。為了寫作者和檢查者的關系，使我間接的知道了檢查官，有時頗為佩服。他們的嗅覺是很靈敏的。我那一篇《從幫忙到扯淡》，原在指那些唱導什麼兒童年，婦女年，讀經救國，敬老正俗，中國本位文化，第三種人文藝等等的一大批政客豪商，文人學士，從已經不會幫忙，只能扯淡這方面看起來，確也應該禁止的，因為實在看得太明，說得太透。別人大約也和我一樣的佩服，所以早有文學家做了檢查官的風傳，致使蘇汶先生在一九三四年十二月七日的《大晚報》上發表了這樣的公開信：一來就說作者得了不正當的錢是近來文壇上的老例，我被人傳說拿著盧布就有四五年之久，直到九一八以後，這才將盧布說取消，換上了「親日」的更加新鮮的罪狀。我是一向不「為愛護貴刊起見」的，所以從不寄一封辨正信。不料越來越濫，竟謠到蘇汶先生頭上去了，可見謠言多的地方，也是「有一利必有一弊」。但由我的經驗說起來，檢查官之「愛護」「第三種人」，卻似乎是真的，我去年所寫的文章，有兩篇冒犯了他們，一篇被刪掉（《病後雜談之餘》），一篇被禁止（《臉譜臆測》）了。也許還有類於這些的事，所以令人猜為「入××（照錄原文）會」了罷。這真應該「不勝憤慨」，沒有受慣奚落的作家，是無怪其然的。然而在對於真的造謠，毫不為怪的社會裡，對於真的收賄，也就毫不為怪。如果收賄會受制裁的社會，也就要制裁妄造收賄的謠言的人們。所以用造謠來傷害作家的期刊，它只能作報銷，在實際上很少功效。其中的四篇，原是用日本文寫的，現在自己譯出，並且對於中國的讀者，還有應該說明的地方——一，《活中國的姿態》的序文裡，我在對於「支那通」加以譏刺，且說明日本人的喜歡結論，語意之間好像笑著他們的粗疏。然而這脾氣是也有長處的，他們的急於尋求結論，是因為急於實行的緣故，我們不應該笑一笑就完。二，《在現代中國的孔夫子》是在六月號的《改造》雜誌上發表的，這時我們的「聖裔」，正在東京拜他們的祖宗，興高采烈。曾由亦光君譯出，載於《雜文》雜誌第二號（七月），現在略加改定，轉錄在這裡。三，在《中國小說史略》日譯本的序文裡，我聲明瞭我的高興，但還有一種原因卻未曾說出，是經十年之久，我竟報複了我個人的私仇。當一九二六年時，陳源即西瀅教授，曾在北京公開對於我的人身攻擊，說我的這一部著作，是竊取鹽谷溫教授的《支那文學概論講話》裡面的「小說」一部分的；《閒話》裡的所謂「整大本的剽竊」，指的也是我。現在鹽谷教授的書早有中譯，我的也有了日譯，兩國的讀者，有目共見，有誰指出我的「剽竊」來呢？嗚呼，「男盜女娼」，是人間大可恥事，我負了十年「剽竊」的惡名，現在總算可以卸下，並且將「謊狗」的旗子，回敬自稱「正人君子」的陳源教授，倘他無法洗刷，就只好插著生活，一直帶進墳墓裡去了。四，《關於陀思妥夫斯基的事》是應三笠書房之托而作的，是寫給讀者看的紹介文，但我在這裡，說明著被壓迫者對於壓迫者，不是奴隸，就是敵人，決不能成為朋友，所以彼此的道德，並不相同。臨末我還要記念鎌田誠一君，他是內山書店的店員，很愛繪畫，我的三回德俄木刻展覽會，都是他獨自佈置的；一二八的時候，則由他送我和我的家屬，以及別的一批婦孺逃入英租界。三三年七月，以病在故鄉去世，立在他的墓前的是我手寫的碑銘。雖在現在，一想到那時只是當作有趣的記載著我的被打被殺的新聞，以及為了八十塊錢，令我往返數次，終於不給的書店，我對於他，還是十分感愧的。近兩年來，又時有前進的青年，好意的可惜我現在不大寫文學，並聲明他們的失望。我的只能令青年失望，是無可置辯的，但也有一點誤解。今天我自己查勘了一下：我從在《新青年》上寫《隨感錄》起，到寫這集子裡的最末一篇止，共歷十八年，單是雜感，約有八十萬字。後九年中的所寫，比前九年多兩倍；而這後九年中，近三年所寫的字數，等於前六年，那麼，所謂「現在不大寫文章」，其實也並非確切的核算。而且這些前進的青年，似乎誰都沒有注意到現在的對於言論的迫壓，也很是令人覺得詫異的。我以為要論作家的作品，必須兼想到周圍的情形。自然，這情形是極不容易明瞭的，因為倘一公開，作家要怕受難，書店就要防封門，然而如果自己和出版界有些相關，便可以感覺到這裡面的一部份消息。現在我們先來回憶一下已往的公開的事情。也許還有讀者記得，中華民國二十三年（一九三四年）三月十四日的《大美晚報》上，曾經登有一則這樣的新聞——中央黨部禁止新文藝作品滬市黨部於上月十九日奉中央黨部電令、派員挨戶至各新書店、查禁書籍至百四十九種之多、牽涉書店二十五家、其中有曾經市黨部審查准予發行、或內政部登記取得著作權、且有各作者之前期作品、如丁玲之《在黑暗中》等甚多、致引起上海出版業之恐慌、由新書業組織之中國著作人出版人聯合會集議，於二月二十五日推舉代表向市黨部請願結果、蒙市黨部俯允轉呈中央、將各書重行審查、從輕發落、同日接中央複電、允予照準、惟各書店於複審期內、須將被禁各書、一律自動封存、不再發賣、茲將各書店被禁書目、分錄如次、店名書名譯著者神州政治經濟學批判郭沫若文藝批評集錢杏村浮士德與城柔石現代中國古代社會研究郭沫若石炭王郭沫若黑貓郭沫若創造十年郭沫若果樹園魯迅田漢戲曲集（五集）田漢檀泰琪兒之死田漢平林泰子集沈端先殘兵周全平沒有櫻花蓬子掙扎樓建南夜會丁玲詩稿胡也頻炭礦夫龔冰廬光慈遺集蔣光慈麗莎的哀怨蔣光慈野祭蔣光慈語體文作法高語罕藤森成吉集森堡愛與仇森堡新俄文學中的男女周起應大學生私生活周起應唯物史觀研究上下華漢十姑的悲愁華漢歸家洪靈菲流亡洪靈菲萌芽巴金光華幼年時代郭沫若文藝論集郭沫若文藝論續集郭沫若煤油郭沫若高爾基文集魯迅離婚潘漢年小天使蓬子我的童年蓬子結婚集蓬子婦人之夢蓬子病與夢樓建南路茅盾自殺日記丁玲我們的一團與他馮雪峰三個不統一的人物胡也頻現代中國作家選集蔣光慈新文藝辭典顧鳳城郭沫若論顧鳳城新興文學概論顧鳳城沒落的靈魂顧鳳城文藝創作辭典顧鳳城現代名人書信高語罕文章及其作法高語罕獨清文藝論集王獨清鍛煉王獨清暗雲王獨清我在歐洲的生活王獨清湖風美術考古學發現史郭沫若青年自修文學讀本錢杏村暴風雨中的七個女性田漢饑餓的光芒蓬子惡党樓建南萬寶山李輝英隱秘的愛森堡寒梅華漢地泉華漢賭徒洪靈菲地下室手記洪靈菲南強屠場郭沫若新文藝描寫辭典（正續編）錢杏村怎樣研究新興文學錢杏村新興文學論沈端先鐵流楊騷十月楊騷大江現代新興文學的諸問題魯迅毀滅魯迅藝術論魯迅文學及藝術之技術的革命陳望道藝術簡論陳望道社會意識學大綱陳望道宿莽茅盾野薔薇茅盾韋護丁玲現代歐洲的藝術馮雪峰藝術社會學底任務及問題馮雪峰水沫文藝與批評魯迅文藝政策魯迅銀鈴蓬子文學評論馮雪峰流冰馮雪峰藝術之社會的基礎馮雪峰藝術與社會生活馮雪峰往何處去胡也頻偉大的戀愛周起應天馬魯迅自選集魯迅蘇聯短篇小說集樓建南茅盾自選集茅盾北新而已集魯迅三閒集魯迅偽自由書魯迅文學概論潘梓年處女的心蓬子舊時代之死柔石新俄的戲劇與跳舞馮雪峰一周間蔣光慈沖出雲圍的月亮蔣光慈合眾二心集魯迅勞動的音樂錢杏村亞東義塚蔣光慈少年飄泊者蔣光慈鴨綠江上蔣光慈紀念碑蔣光慈百花亭畔高語罕白話書信高語罕兩個女性華漢轉變洪靈菲文藝安特列夫評傳錢杏村光明青年創作辭典錢杏村暗云王獨清泰東現代中國文學作家錢杏村枳花集馮雪峰俄國文學概論蔣光慈前線洪靈菲中華咖啡店之一夜田漢日本現代劇選田漢一個女人丁玲一幕悲劇的寫實胡也頻開明蘇俄文學理論陳望道春蚕茅盾虹茅盾蝕茅盾三人行茅盾子夜茅盾在黑暗中丁玲鬼与人心胡也頻民智美術概論陳望道樂華世界文學史余慕陶中外文學家辭典顧鳳城獨清自選集王獨清文藝社會科學問答顧鳳城儿童窮儿苦狗記樓建南良友蘇聯童話集樓建南商務希望柔石一個人的誕生丁玲圣徒胡也頻新中國水丁玲華通別人的幸福胡也頻樂華黎明之前龔冰廬中學生中學生文藝辭典顧鳳城出版界不過是借書籍以貿利的人們，只問銷路，不管內容，存心「反動」的是很少的，所以這請愿頗有了好結果，為「体恤商艱」起見，竟解禁了三十七种，應加刪改，才准發行的是二十二种，其余的還是「禁止」和「暫緩發售」。這中央的批答和改定的書目，見於《出版消息》第三十三期（四月一日出版）—— 中國國民党上海特別市執行委員會批答執字第一五九二號（呈為奉令禁毀大宗刊物附奉說明書懇請轉函中宣會重行審核從輕處置以恤商艱由）呈件均悉查此案業准中央宣傳委員會公函并決定辦法五項一、平林泰子集等三十种早經分別查禁有案應切實執行前令嚴予禁毀以絕流傳二、政治經濟學批判等三十种內容宣傳普羅文藝或挑撥階級斗爭或詆毀党國當局應予禁止發售三、浮士德与城等三十一种或系介紹普羅文學理論或系新俄作品或含有不正确意識者頗有宣傳反動嫌疑在剿匪嚴重時期內應暫禁發售四、創造十年等二十二种內容間有詞句不妥或一篇一段不妥應刪改或抽去后方准發售五、圣徒等三十七种或系戀愛小說或系革命以前作品內容均尚無礙對於此三十七种書籍之禁令准予暫緩執行用特分別開列各項書名單函達查照轉飭遵照等由合仰該書店等遵照中央決定各點并單開各种刊物分別繳毀停售具報毋再延誤是為至要件存此批「附抄發各項書名單一份」中華民國二十三年三月二十日常務委員吳醒亞潘公展童行白先后查禁有案之書目（略）這樣子，大批禁毀書籍的案件總算告一段落，書店也不再開口了。然而還剩著困難的問題：書店是不能不陸續印行新書和雜誌的，所以還是永遠有陸續被扣留，查禁，甚而至於封門的危險。這危險，首先於店主有虧，那就當然要有補救的辦法。不多久，出版界就有了一种風聞——真只是一种隱約的風聞—— 不知道何月何日，党官，店主和他的編輯，開了一個會議，討論善后的方法。著重的是在新的書籍雜誌出版，要怎樣才可以免於禁止。听說這時就有一位雜誌編輯先生某甲，獻議先將原稿送給官廳，待到經過檢查，得了許可，這才付印。文字固然決不會「反動」了，而店主的血本也得保全，真所謂公私兼利。別的編輯們好像也無人反對，這提議完全通過了。散出的時候，某甲之友也是編輯先生的某乙，很感動的向或一書店代表道：「他犧牲了個人，總算保全了一种雜誌！」「他」者，某甲先生也；推某乙先生的意思，大約是以為這种獻策，頗於名譽有些損害的。其實這不過是神經衰弱的憂慮。即使沒有某甲先生的獻策，檢查書報是總要實行的，不過用了別一种緣由來開始，況且這獻策在當時，人們不敢縱談，報章不敢記載，大家都認某甲先生為功臣，於是也就是虎須，誰也不敢捋。所以至多不過交頭接耳，局外人知道的就很少，——於名譽無關。總而言之，不知何年何月，「中央圖書雜誌審查委員會」到底在上海出現了，於是每本出版物上，就有了一行「中宣會圖書雜誌審委會審查證……字第……號」字樣，說明著該抽去的已經抽去，該刪改的已經刪改，并且保證著發賣的安全——不過也并不完全有效，例如我那《二心集》被刪剩的東西，書店改名《拾零集》，是經過檢查的，但在杭州仍被沒收。這种亂七八遭，自然是普通現象，并不足怪，但我想，也許是還帶著一點私仇，因為杭州省党部的有力人物，久已是复旦大學畢業生許紹棣老爺之流，而當《語絲》登載攻擊复旦大學的來函時，我正是編輯，開罪不少。為了自由大同盟而呈請中央通緝「墮落文人魯迅」，也是浙江省党部發起的，但至今還沒有呈請發掘祖墳，總算党恩高厚。至於審查員，我疑心很有些「文學家」，倘不，就不能做得這么令人佩服。自然，有時也刪禁得令人莫名其妙，我以為這大概是在示威，示威的脾气，是雖是文學家也很難脫体的，而且這也不算是惡德。還有一個原因，則恐怕是在飯碗。要吃飯也決不能算是惡德，但吃飯，審查的文學家和被審查的文學家卻一樣的艱難，他們也有競爭者，在看漏洞，一不小心便會被搶去了飯碗，所以必須常常有成績，就是不斷的禁，刪，禁，刪，第三個禁，刪。我初到上海的時候，曾經看見一個西洋人從旅館里出來，几輛洋車便向他飛奔而去，他坐了一輛，走了。這時忽然來了一位巡捕，便向拉不到客的車夫的頭上敲了一棒，撕下他車上的照會。我知道這是車夫犯了罪的意思，然而不明白為什么拉不到客就犯了罪，因為西洋人只有一個，當然只能坐一輛，他也并沒有爭。后來幸蒙一位老上海告訴我，說巡捕是每月總得捉多少犯人的，要不然，就算他懶惰，於飯碗頗有礙。真犯罪的不易得，就只好這么創作了。我以為審查官的有時審得古里古怪，總要在稿子上打几條紅杠子，恐怕也是這緣故。倘使真的這樣，那么，他們雖然一定要把我的「契訶夫選集」做成「殘山剩水」，我也還是諒解的。這審查辦得很起勁，据報上說，官民一致滿意了。九月二十五日的《中華日報》云——中央圖書雜誌審查委會工作緊張中央圖書雜誌審查委員會、自在滬成立以來、迄今四閱月、審查各种雜誌書籍、共計有五百余种之多、平均每日每一工作人員審查字、在十万以上、審查手續、异常迅速、雖洋洋巨著、至多不過二天、故出版界咸認為有意想不到之快、予以便利不少、至該會審查標准、如非對党對政府絕對顯明不利之文字、請其刪改外、余均一秉大公、無私毫偏袒、故數月來相安無事、過去出版界、因無審查机關、往往出書以后、受到扣留或查禁之事、自審查會成立后、此种事件、已不再發生矣、聞中央方面、以該會工作成績优良、而出版界又甚需要此种組織、有增加內部工作人員計划、以便利審查工作云、如此善政，行了還不到一年，不料竟出了《新生》的《閒話皇帝》事件。大約是受了日本領事的警告罷，那雷厲風行的辦法，比對於「反動文字」還要嚴：立刻該報禁售，該社封門，編輯者杜重遠已經自認該稿未經審查，判處徒刑，不准上訴的了，卻又革掉了七位審查官，一面又往書店里大搜涉及日本的舊書，牆壁上貼滿了「敦睦邦交」的告示。出版家也顯出孤苦零丁模樣，据說：這「一秉大公」的「中央宣傳部圖書雜誌審查委員會」不見了，拿了稿子，竟走投無路。那么，不是還我自由，飄飄然了么？并不是的。未有此會以前，出版家倒還有一點自己的脊梁，但已有此會而不見之后，卻真覺得有些搖搖擺擺。大抵的農民，都能夠自己過活，然而奧國和俄國解放農奴時，他們中的有些人，卻哭起來了，因為失了依靠，不知道自己怎么過活。況且我們的出版家并非單是「失了依靠」，乃是遇到恢复了某甲先生獻策以前的狀態，又會扣留，查禁，封門，危險得很。而且除怕被指為「反動文字」以外，又得怕違反「敦睦邦交令」了。已被「訓」成軟骨症的出版界，又加上了一副重擔，當局對於內交，又未必肯怎么「敦睦」，而「禮讓為國」，也急於「体恤商艱」，所以我想，自有「審查會」而又不見之后，出版界的一大部份，倒真的成了孤哀子了。所以現在的書報，倘不是先行接洽，特准激昂，就只好一味含胡，但求無過，除此之外，是依然會有先前一樣的危險，挨到木棍，撕去照會的。評論者倘不了解以上的大略，就不能批評近三年來的文壇。即使批評了，也很難中肯。我在這一年中，日報上并沒有投稿。凡是發表的，自然是含胡的居多。這是帶著枷鎖的跳舞，當然只足發笑的。但在我自己，卻是一個紀念，一年完了，過而存之，長長短短，共四十七篇。一九三五年十二月三十一夜半至一月一日晨，寫訖。	The editorial arrangement of this volume follows the same principle as the preceding one: the pieces are ordered chronologically by the time of writing. All works published in periodicals during the first half of the year passed through official censorship, and there were presumably some deletions, but I have been too lazy to collate each one and mark them with black dots. Anyone who has read the previous volume will understand which sorts of statements offend the authorities. Two pieces were suppressed in their entirety. One was "What Is Satire?", written for the Literary Society's One Hundred Topics in Literature; when it came out in print, it had been replaced by the single word "lacking." The other was "From Helpfulness to Drivel," written for Literary Forum; to this day it has vanished without a trace — not even the word "lacking" remains. Through the relationship between writer and censor, I came indirectly to know the censors, and at times felt considerable admiration. Their noses are remarkably keen. My essay "From Helpfulness to Drivel" was aimed at that great swarm of politicians, tycoons, men of letters, and scholars who trumpet this or that — Children's Year, Women's Year, Saving the Nation Through Reading the Classics, Revering the Elderly and Rectifying Morals, Chinese-Centered Culture, Third-Category Literature, and so forth. Viewed from the angle that they have already become incapable of genuine help and can only talk drivel, the essay certainly deserved to be banned, for it saw too clearly and spoke too plainly. Others apparently shared my admiration, for a rumor soon circulated that literary men had become censors, prompting Mr. Su Wen to publish the following open letter in the Ta Wan Pao on December 7, 1934: "Claiming right off that an author received illicit payments has become a standing custom in literary circles. The rumor that I was taking rubles has dogged me for four or five years; it was only after the September 18th Incident that the rubles charge was dropped and replaced with the fresher accusation of being 'pro-Japanese.' I have never been one to write correction letters 'for the sake of protecting your esteemed publication,' and so I never sent one. But the rumors grew ever more rampant, until they finally descended upon Mr. Su Wen himself — proof that where rumors abound, 'every advantage has its disadvantage.' From my own experience, however, the censors' 'protection' of the 'Third Category' appears to be genuine. Two of the essays I wrote last year offended them: one was deleted ('Random Jottings After an Illness') and the other was banned ('Speculations on Painted Faces'). Perhaps there were other incidents of this sort, which led people to surmise that he had 'joined the xx (quoted from the original) Society.' This truly calls for 'the utmost indignation' — and a writer unaccustomed to mockery may well be excused for feeling so." Yet in a society that finds genuine rumormongering unremarkable, genuine bribery is equally unremarkable. A society that punished bribery would also punish those who fabricate rumors of bribery. Therefore the periodicals that use rumormongering to harm writers can only serve as waste paper — in practice they have very little effect. Four of the pieces in this volume were originally written in Japanese. I have now translated them myself, and for the Chinese reader there are several points requiring explanation. First, in the preface to Living China, I ridicule the so-called "China experts" and point out the Japanese fondness for conclusions, my tone suggesting I am laughing at their superficiality. Yet this disposition has its merits too: their eagerness to reach conclusions stems from their eagerness to act, and we should not simply laugh and leave it at that. Second, "Confucius in Modern China" was published in the June issue of Kaizo magazine, at a time when our "Sage's Descendants" were in Tokyo worshipping their ancestor, in high spirits. It was translated by Mr. Yi Guang and published in the second issue (July) of Zawen magazine. I have now slightly revised and reproduced it here. Third, in the preface to the Japanese translation of A Brief History of Chinese Fiction, I declared my pleasure, but there was one reason I did not state: after ten years, I had at last avenged a personal grudge. In 1926, Professor Chen Yuan — also known as Xi Ying — had publicly launched a personal attack on me in Beijing, alleging that this work of mine was stolen from the section on fiction in Professor Shionoya's Outline Lectures on Chinese Literature. The "wholesale plagiarism" mentioned in his "Idle Talk" also referred to me. Now Professor Shionoya's book has long since been translated into Chinese, and mine has now been translated into Japanese. Readers of both nations can see for themselves — has anyone pointed out my "plagiarism"? Alas, "male theft and female whoredom" are the most shameful things in the world. I bore the infamy of "plagiarism" for ten years, but now at last I can shed it, and return the banner of "lying dog" to Professor Chen Yuan, self-proclaimed "upright gentleman." If he cannot clear himself of it, he will simply have to carry it through life and into his grave. Fourth, "Concerning Dostoevsky" was written at the request of Mikasa Shobo and is an introductory essay for readers. But what I say here is that the oppressed, in relation to the oppressor, can only be either slaves or enemies — never friends. Consequently, the morality of each is not the same. In closing, I wish to commemorate Mr. Kamata Seiichi, a clerk at the Uchiyama Bookshop who was very fond of painting. He single-handedly arranged my three exhibitions of German and Russian woodcuts. During the January 28th Incident, it was he who escorted me, my family, and a group of other women and children to safety in the International Settlement. In July 1933, he died of illness in his hometown; the inscription on the monument before his grave is in my handwriting. Even now, when I recall the newspapers that merely found it amusing to report the news of my being beaten and killed, and the bookshop that made me go back and forth several times over eighty dollars only to refuse payment in the end, I remain deeply grateful to him — and deeply ashamed. In recent years, well-meaning progressive young people have occasionally expressed regret that I no longer write much literature, and declared their disappointment. That I can only disappoint the young is beyond dispute, but there is a misunderstanding. Today I examined the record myself: from my first Random Impressions in New Youth to the last piece in this collection, eighteen years have passed, and my miscellaneous essays alone amount to approximately eight hundred thousand characters. In the latter nine years I wrote twice as much as in the first nine; and in these latter nine years, the characters written in the last three years equal those of the preceding six. So the claim that "he doesn't write much anymore" is not, in fact, an accurate assessment. Moreover, these progressive young people seem not to have noticed the current suppression of speech, which I find quite astonishing. I believe that to discuss a writer's work, one must also consider the surrounding circumstances. Naturally, these circumstances are extremely difficult to understand clearly, for if they were made public, writers would fear persecution and publishers would fear having their doors sealed shut. But if one has some connection to the publishing world, one can sense at least part of what is going on. Let us now recall some matters that were once public. Perhaps some readers remember the following news item that appeared in the Ta Mei Wan Pao on March 14, Year 23 of the Republic of China (1934): "The Central Party Headquarters bans new literary works. The Shanghai Municipal Party Bureau, upon receiving a telegram from Central Party Headquarters the previous month, dispatched agents to go door to door to new bookstores, confiscating up to one hundred and forty-nine titles and involving twenty-five bookstores. Among these were works that had already been reviewed and approved for publication by the Municipal Party Bureau or registered with the Ministry of the Interior for copyright, as well as earlier works by various authors, such as Ding Ling's In the Darkness, and many others, causing a panic in Shanghai's publishing industry. The Chinese Authors and Publishers Association, organized by the new-book trade, held a meeting, and on February 25 elected delegates to petition the Municipal Party Bureau. The Bureau graciously agreed to forward the petition to the Central authorities, who would re-examine all books and deal leniently. On the same day, a telegram was received from the Central authorities granting approval, on condition that all bookstores voluntarily seal and cease selling the banned books during the re-examination period. The banned booklists for each bookstore are recorded as follows..." [there follows the list of banned titles by publisher] The publishing world is, after all, merely people using books to make a profit. They care about sales, not content; those who deliberately harbor "reactionary" intent are very few. Therefore the petition achieved quite good results. For the sake of "sympathizing with the merchants' hardship," thirty-seven titles were in fact unbanned; twenty-two were to be revised before being permitted for sale; and the rest remained "banned" or "temporarily suspended from sale." [The Central authorities' reply and the revised booklist appeared in Publishing News, issue 33 (April 1).] [There follows the KMT Shanghai Municipal Executive Committee's official reply, document number 1592, and the five-point decision from the Central Propaganda Committee, classifying books into categories: those previously banned to be destroyed; those promoting proletarian literature or inciting class struggle to be banned from sale; those introducing proletarian theory or New Russian works or containing improper ideology to be temporarily banned during the bandit-suppression period; those with occasional improper passages to be revised before sale; and thirty-seven deemed harmless — romances or pre-revolution works — to have their ban tentatively lifted.] And so the great mass-banning of books came to a temporary conclusion, and the bookstores fell silent. Yet a difficult problem remained: bookstores could not help but continue publishing new books and magazines, and so they remained perpetually in danger of having materials confiscated, banned, or their doors sealed shut. This danger fell first upon the store owners, who naturally had to find a remedy. Before long, a rumor circulated through the publishing world — truly, only a vague rumor: At some unknown date, party officials, store owners, and their editors held a meeting to discuss remedial measures. The emphasis was on new books and magazines — how to avoid having them banned. It was said that a certain magazine editor, Mr. A, proposed that manuscripts first be submitted to the authorities for inspection, and only after passing censorship be sent to press. The writing would of course never be "reactionary," and the store owner's capital would be preserved — truly serving both public and private interests. The other editors apparently raised no objections, and the proposal passed unanimously. As they filed out, Mr. B, a friend of Mr. A and himself an editor, said with great emotion to a representative of one of the bookstores: "He has sacrificed himself personally, but at least he has saved a magazine!" "He" being Mr. A. Judging from Mr. B's meaning, he apparently thought this act of offering strategy somewhat damaging to one's reputation. In truth, this was nothing more than neurotic worry. Even without Mr. A's proposal, the censorship of books and periodicals would have been implemented anyway, merely using some other pretext to begin. Moreover, at the time, people dared not speak freely of this proposal, newspapers dared not report it, and everyone regarded Mr. A as a hero — which made it the tiger's whiskers, and no one dared to pluck them. So at most there was whispering, and outsiders knew very little — reputation unharmed. In short, at some unknown date, the "Central Book and Periodical Censorship Committee" finally appeared in Shanghai. Thenceforth, every publication bore the line "Approved by the Central Propaganda Department Book and Periodical Censorship Committee, Certificate No. ..." — certifying that what should have been cut had been cut, what should have been revised had been revised, and guaranteeing safe sale. Though this was not entirely effective — for instance, my Two Hearts Collection was gutted and the bookstore renamed what remained Gleanings, which passed censorship, yet was still confiscated in Hangzhou. Such chaos is, of course, the normal state of affairs and not at all surprising. But I suspect it may also have carried a touch of personal vendetta, since the powerful figures in the Zhejiang Provincial Party Bureau had long been the likes of Xu Shaodi, a graduate of Fudan University, and when the magazine Yusi published reader letters attacking Fudan, I was the editor — I had given no small offense. It was also the Zhejiang Provincial Party Bureau that petitioned the Central authorities to issue a warrant for "the degenerate literary man Lu Xun" in connection with the Freedom League. But so far they have not yet petitioned for the exhumation of my ancestral graves — Party grace is, all things considered, magnanimous. As for the censors, I suspect a good many of them are "literary men." Otherwise, they could not perform their work so admirably. Of course, there are times when their deletions and bans are utterly baffling. I believe this is mostly a show of power — and this urge to demonstrate authority is difficult for even literary men to shake off; besides, it is not really a vice. There is another reason too, I fear: the rice bowl. The need to eat can hardly be called a vice either, but when it comes to eating, the censoring literary man and the censored literary man face equally hard times. They have competitors watching for slip-ups, and one careless moment may cost them their rice bowl. So they must constantly produce results: ban, delete, ban, delete, and a third round of banning and deleting. When I first arrived in Shanghai, I once saw a Westerner emerge from a hotel, and several rickshaws rushed toward him. He sat in one and drove off. A policeman then appeared and struck one of the empty rickshaw-pullers on the head, tearing the license from his vehicle. I understood this meant the puller had committed an offense, but could not fathom why failing to get a passenger was a crime — the Westerner was only one person and could only sit in one rickshaw; the puller hadn't even been fighting for the fare. Later, an old Shanghai hand kindly explained: the police had a monthly quota of arrests, and falling short would mark them as lazy, endangering their rice bowls. Since genuine criminals are hard to come by, they had to resort to creative methods. I suspect that when censors sometimes produce bizarrely arbitrary results, insisting on slashing a few red lines through every manuscript, it is for much the same reason. If this is truly the case, then even though they insist on turning my Chekhov Selected Works into a landscape of "remnant mountains and leftover waters," I can still find it in me to understand. This censorship was carried out with great vigor. According to the newspapers, officials and public were uniformly satisfied. The Zhonghua Daily of September 25 reported: "The Central Book and Periodical Censorship Committee works intensively. Since its establishment in Shanghai four months ago, it has reviewed over five hundred books and magazines. Each staff member reviews an average of over one hundred thousand characters per day. Review procedures are exceptionally swift; even voluminous works take no more than two days. Publishers universally acknowledge unexpectedly quick service and considerable convenience. The Committee's review standards are fair and impartial, requesting deletion only of texts clearly and explicitly detrimental to the Party and the government. In the months since its founding, there has been peace. In the past, publishers, lacking a review authority, often had books confiscated or banned after publication. Since the Committee's establishment, such incidents no longer occur. It is reported that the Central authorities, recognizing the Committee's excellent work and the publishing industry's great need for such an organization, plan to increase internal staff to facilitate review operations." Such benevolent governance! — implemented for less than a year when the Xinsheng magazine's "Idle Talk about the Emperor" affair erupted. Apparently in response to a warning from the Japanese Consul, the thunderous measures taken were even harsher than those against "reactionary writing": the publication was immediately banned from sale, the press was shut down, the editor Du Zhongyuan had already admitted the article had not been reviewed, was sentenced to imprisonment, and denied the right to appeal — and yet seven censors were also dismissed. Meanwhile, old books touching on Japan were swept from bookstores, and walls were plastered with notices about "fostering friendly relations between nations." Publishers took on an orphaned and forlorn appearance. It was said that this "impartial" "Central Propaganda Department Book and Periodical Censorship Committee" had vanished, and when one brought manuscripts, there was nowhere to turn. So was freedom restored, and were we soaring free? Not at all. Before the Committee existed, publishers still had something of a backbone of their own. But after the Committee appeared and then disappeared, they truly felt themselves swaying and tottering. Most peasants can take care of themselves, yet when Austria and Russia emancipated their serfs, some of them wept — having lost their support, they did not know how to fend for themselves. Moreover, our publishers had not merely "lost their support"; they had reverted to the state before Mr. A's proposal — once again facing confiscation, banning, door-sealing, and great danger. And in addition to fearing accusations of "reactionary writing," they now also had to fear violating the "Order for Fostering Friendly International Relations." The publishing world, already "trained" into spinelessness, now bore an additional heavy burden. The authorities, meanwhile, showed no particular inclination to "foster friendship" in domestic affairs, and being eager to "exercise propriety and deference for the nation" and to "sympathize with the merchants' hardship," I think that after the Censorship Committee appeared and then vanished, a large portion of the publishing world had truly become orphans in mourning. Therefore, present-day books and periodicals, unless cleared in advance through special arrangements and specifically permitted to be stirring, can only be uniformly vague, seeking only to give no offense. Beyond this, they remain subject to the same dangers as before — liable to be struck with a stick and have their license torn away. Any critic who does not understand the foregoing cannot properly evaluate the literary scene of the past three years. Even if he does offer a critique, it will be very hard to hit the mark. In this past year, I have not submitted a single piece to any daily newspaper. What has been published is, naturally, vague for the most part. This is dancing in shackles — fit only to provoke laughter. But for me, personally, it is a memento. One year is finished, and I preserve it as it passed — long and short pieces, forty-seven in all. Written from the night of December 31, 1935, through the morning of January 1.

Lu Xun Complete Works/zh-en/Qiejieting zawen 2

Contents

且介亭杂文二集 (且介亭杂文二集)

一

二

三

四

五

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

一

二

三

I

II

III

六

七

八

九

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

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