Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Qiejieting zawen 2

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且介亭杂文二集

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.