Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Refeng
Lu Xun: Hot Wind (热风)
Lu Xun (1881-1936)
Translation from the Chinese
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Section 3
In April he went to the Tongwen Academy to give a lecture entitled: "Hooligans and Literature."
In June he gave a lecture at the Japanese "Women's Friends Association."
In July he finished explaining the entire "Brief History of Chinese Fiction" for Masuda Wataru.
In the same month he went to the "Social Science Research Association" to deliver the lecture "A Glimpse of Shanghai's Literature and Art."
On August 17 he asked Mr. Uchiyama Kakichi to teach students woodcut techniques, with the Master himself translating, which was completed on the 22nd. On the 24th he gave a lecture for the woodcut section of the "Eighteen Art Society."
In November he collated "The Collected Works of Ji Kang" against the Song dynasty reprint of the Hanfenlou Library.
In the same month the printing of "Destruction" was completed.
In December he co-edited with friends the ten-day periodical "At the Crossroads."
Twenty-first Year [of the Republic] -- 1932 -- Fifty-two years old
On January 29 he was caught in the crossfire during hostilities. The next day he took refuge in the Uchiyama Bookstore.
On February 6, escorted by a staff member of the Uchiyama Bookstore, he was taken to the Uchiyama branch in the English Concession for temporary shelter.
In April he compiled his short essays from 1928 and 1929, calling them: "Collection of Three Idlers." His miscellaneous writings from 1930 to 1931 he collected under the title "Collection of Two Hearts."
In May he compiled his own bibliography of translations and writings.
In September he finished compiling and translating the first volume of an anthology of twenty modern Russian fiction writers, which he called "The Harp." The second volume, also completed, he called "A Day's Work."
In October he arranged "Letters Between Two Places."
On November 9 he traveled to Beiping because of his mother's illness.
From the 22nd of the same month, he gave lectures at Peking University, Fu Jen University, Beiping University, the Women's College of Arts and Sciences, Normal University, China University, and other institutions.
Twenty-second Year [of the Republic] -- 1933 -- Fifty-three years old
On January 4, Cai Yuanpei invited him by letter to join the "China League for Civil Rights"; he was elected a member of the executive committee.
On February 17, Cai Yuanpei invited him by letter to Song Qingling's residence to welcome George Bernard Shaw.
In March "Lu Xun's Self-Selected Works" was published by Tianma Bookstore.
On the 27th of the same month he moved his books to Dixwei Road, renting a house for their storage.
On April 11 he moved to No. 9, Dalu New Village.
On May 13 he went to the German Consulate to submit a protest against the atrocities of the "Fascists."
On June 20, Yang Quan was assassinated; he went to the International Funeral Home for the laying out of the body. There were rumors at the time that the Master too would not be spared, and some tried to dissuade him from going, but he would not be deterred; he left without taking his house key, to show his resolve.
In July the monthly magazine "Literature" was launched; the Master was one of the contributors.
In October the woodcut picture sequence "One Man's Suffering," edited and prefaced by him, was printed.
In the same month the "Woodcut Exhibition" was held at Qianai Lane.
Also the collection of short essays "Pseudo-Free Book" was printed.
Twenty-third Year [of the Republic] -- 1934 -- Fifty-four years old
In January "The Beijing Letter Paper Album" was published.
In May he proofread the essay collection "Southern Tones and Northern Melodies," which was printed the same month.
In May the woodcut collection "Luring Jade," edited and prefaced by him, was published.
In August he edited the inaugural issue of the magazine "Translation."
On the 23rd of the same month, because of the arrest of an acquaintance, he left his residence to seek safety.
In October "Woodcut Chronicle" was printed.
On December 14 at night, back pain and night sweats. After the illness he grew very thin; his dentures no longer fit his gums.
In the same month the collection of short essays "Quasi-Wind-and-Moon Talks" was published.
Twenty-fourth Year [of the Republic] -- 1935 -- Fifty-five years old
In January he finished translating the Soviet fairy tale "The Clock" by Panteleev.
In February he began translating Gogol's "Dead Souls."
In April the first volume of "The Letter Paper Album of the Ten Bamboo Studio" was printed.
In June he finished selecting and writing the introduction for the second volume of fiction in the "Anthology of New Literature"; it was printed.
In September the translation of Gorky's "Russian Fairy Tales" was published.
In October he edited the first volume of Qu Qiubai's posthumous writings: "Forest Voices from the Sea."
In November he continued writing "Old Tales Retold."
In December he compiled the woodcut edition of "One Hundred Illustrations of Dead Souls" and wrote a preface.
Twenty-fifth Year [of the Republic] -- 1936 -- Fifty-six years old
In January, severe pain in shoulders and ribs.
On the 20th of the same month the fortnightly "Petrel," co-founded with friends, was published.
Also he finished proofreading "Old Tales Retold"; the book appeared immediately.
In February he began the continuation of translating Part Two of "Dead Souls."
On March 2 in the afternoon, a sudden asthma attack.
On April 7 he went to the Liangyou Company to select "Soviet Prints" for them.
In the same month he edited the second volume of "Forest Voices from the Sea."
On May 15 another attack of illness; the doctor diagnosed a stomach ailment. Thereafter the fever persisted. On the 31st, Miss Smedley brought the American Dr. Dunn for examination; the condition was extremely critical.
In June, he gradually recovered from his prostration and could sit up a little, stand and read. He was able to write a few dozen characters.
In the same month, while ill, he answered a visitor O.V.'s question: "On Our Present Literary Movement."
Also "Marginalia" was printed.
In July the "Selected Prints of Kaethe Kollwitz," edited and printed by him, was published.
In August, blood in the sputum.
He wrote a short piece for the inaugural issue of "Zhongliu" (In Midstream).
In October his weight was eighty-eight pounds, approximately two pounds more than on August 1.
The translation of Chekhov's "Bad Boys and Other Strange Stories" was published.
He could occasionally go out to see films and pay brief visits to friends.
On the 8th of the same month he visited the second "National Traveling Woodcut Exhibition" at the YMCA.
On the 17th he visited Kaji Wataru and Uchiyama Kanzo.
On the 18th, before dawn, the illness struck; incessant asthma, until he passed away at five twenty-five in the morning on the 19th.
Section 6
And yet there is still much paper in the world, while the members of each literary society are few, their ambitions large but their strength slight, unable to cover all the paper with writing. Hence the critics within a society, whose duty it is to vanquish enemies, aid friends, and sweep away alien elements, sigh heavily with shaking heads and stamping feet when they see others come to scribble on paper. The Shanghai Shenbao went so far as to call translators of social science "any Tom, Dick, or Harry" -- such was its indignation. Mr. Jiang Guangci, whose "position in China's new literature is long since known to readers," had gone to Tokyo to convalesce, and there met Kurahara Korehito. When the conversation turned to the many bad Japanese translations, which were practically harder to read than the originals, he laughed and said: "...The Chinese translation world must be even more absurd. Recently many Chinese books have been translated from Japanese; if the Japanese convey European works into Japanese with sundry errors and abridgments, and these are then translated into Chinese, will not the work have lost half its face?..." (See "The Pioneer.") This too is an expression of deep dissatisfaction with translation, especially retranslation. However, Mr. Liang at least names titles and specific flaws, while Mr. Jiang merely smiles gracefully and sweeps everything away -- truly far more sweeping. Kurahara Korehito has translated many works of literary theory and fiction directly from Russian, which has been of great benefit to me personally. I hope that China too will have one or two such honest translators from Russian who will gradually produce good books, instead of merely cursing themselves once as "idiots" and considering their duty as revolutionary writers discharged.
But how do things stand at present? Mr. Liang Shiqiu does not translate such things, the great man who calls others "Tom, Dick, and Harry" does not translate either, and Mr. Jiang, who has studied Russian, would actually be best suited, but unfortunately after his convalescence he has produced only one book, "One Week," while Japan has long had two translations. China once talked eagerly about Darwin, eagerly about Nietzsche, and at the time of the European War cursed them roundly, but to this day there is only one translation of Darwin's works, only half of Nietzsche; the scholars and literary luminaries who have studied English and German have neither the leisure nor the inclination to attend to it -- and that is that. So for the time being, I am afraid we can only let ourselves be laughed at and cursed and continue to retranslate from Japanese, or take an original text and translate it directly while consulting the Japanese version. I intend to continue doing so, and I hope there will be more people who do the same, to fill in a little of the emptiness behind all the thoroughgoing high talk. For we cannot "laugh about it" like Mr. Jiang, nor should we "wait, wait, wait" like Mr. Liang.
6
At the beginning I wrote, "To pose as hard while actually being soft as cotton is quite a characteristic of the Crescent Moon Society" -- to which I should like to add a few brief supplements here, as a conclusion to this essay.
When "The Crescent Moon" came into the world, it immediately advocated a "strict attitude," but cursed those who cursed and mocked those who mocked. That is not wrong at all; it is simply "returning to each man according to his own method," though it is also a kind of "retaliation," not done for selfish ends. Even in the advertisement for the combined issue of Volume 2, Numbers 6 and 7, it says: "We all maintain an attitude of 'tolerance' (except for the attitude of 'intolerance,' which we cannot tolerate), and we all appreciate sound, rational doctrines." The first two sentences are also not wrong -- "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" -- and are consistent with the initial position. But if one continues along this broad road, one must inevitably arrive at "violence against violence," which is no longer compatible with the "soundness" so dear to the gentlemen of the Crescent Moon Society.
This time, when the Crescent Moon Society's "free speech" was suppressed, the old method would have required suppressing the suppressor as well. But the reaction displayed in "The Crescent Moon" was an essay "To the Suppressors of Freedom of Speech," which first cited the other side's party doctrine, then foreign laws, and finally historical examples from East and West, to show that those who suppress freedom often meet destruction -- a warning solicitously conceived for the other side.
So the Crescent Moon Society's "strict attitude," the "eye for an eye" method, comes down in the end to being applied exclusively to forces of similar or lesser strength. If a more powerful party punches one's eye swollen, an exception is made: one merely raises a hand, covers one's own face, and cries, "Watch out for your own eye!"
Section 7
Habit and Reform
A people whose bodies and minds have already hardened will obstruct even the most trifling reform. On the surface it seems as though they fear inconvenience for themselves; in truth they fear disadvantage for themselves, yet the pretexts they devise often appear supremely just and dignified.
This year's prohibition of the lunar calendar is, of course, a trifling matter that touches nothing essential, but the merchants naturally bewail it to the skies. And that is not all: even Shanghai's unemployed and company clerks often sigh profoundly and say this is very inconvenient for farmers in their planting, or very inconvenient for ocean vessels awaiting the tides. They actually think of the country farmers they have long had nothing to do with, and the sailors on the sea. This really does sound like universal love.
As soon as the twenty-third of the twelfth lunar month arrives, firecrackers explode everywhere. I asked a shop clerk: "May one still celebrate the old New Year this year? Next year we'll definitely celebrate the new calendar New Year?" The answer was: "Next year is next year; we'll have to see then." He does not believe that next year one will be compelled to celebrate the solar New Year. But on the calendar the lunar dates were indeed deleted, leaving only the solar terms. Yet at the same time, an advertisement appeared in the papers for a "One Hundred and Twenty Year Combined Solar-Lunar Calendar." Wonderful -- they have prepared the lunar calendar even for the times of great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, one hundred and twenty years!
Although the likes of Mr. Liang Shiqiu very much despise the majority, the power of the majority is formidable and crucial. Those who aspire to reform, if they do not thoroughly understand the heart of the people and find ways to guide and educate them, will find that however lofty their essays and however grand their debates, whether romantic or classical, these will have nothing to do with the people -- everything will amount to a few individuals in their studies admiring each other and achieving self-satisfaction. And if there were actually a "government of good men" that ordered reforms, the people would soon drag it back onto the old road.
True revolutionaries have their own original insights. Mr. Ulyanov, for example, includes "customs" and "habits" within "culture" and considers reforming these extremely difficult. I think that if these things are not reformed, the revolution amounts to nothing -- like a tower built on sand that collapses in an instant. China's first anti-Manchu revolution found ready support because its slogan was "restoration of the old" -- that is, "restoration" -- which easily wins the consent of a conservative people. But when the flourishing age customarily expected at the beginning of a new dynasty failed to materialize and one had merely lost a queue in vain, the general dissatisfaction was great.
The somewhat newer reforms that followed failed one after another: one liang of reform, ten jin of reaction. For example: one year the lunar calendar is banned from the official calendar -- and in exchange comes a combined solar-lunar calendar for one hundred and twenty years.
Such combined calendars will certainly find many enthusiastic buyers, for they are upheld by customs and habits and therefore also have customs and habits for their backing. With other matters it is the same: if one does not penetrate deep into the broad masses and study their customs and habits, analyze them, distinguish good from bad, establish standards for preservation and abolition, and for both carefully select the method of implementation, then every reform will be crushed by the rock of habit or will merely drift on the surface for a time.
Now is no longer the time to sit in the study, book in hand, discoursing loftily on religion, law, literature, art, and the like. Even if one wishes to discuss these things, one must first understand customs and habits and possess the courage and perseverance to face their dark aspects squarely. For without clear sight, no reform is possible. To merely proclaim the coming light is in truth to deceive one's own lazy self and one's lazy audience.
Section 8
Non-Revolutionary Radical Revolutionary Theorists
Should one say that a great revolutionary army must presuppose that the consciousness of all its fighters is entirely correct and clear -- only then is it a true revolutionary army, otherwise not worth a smile -- this sounds at first glance quite justified and thorough, yet it is an impossible task, empty talk, a sweet poison that poisons the revolution.
Just as under the rule of imperialism it is impossible to train the masses so that every individual possesses "love of humanity" and then with smiles and folded hands establishes the "great harmony" of the world -- equally, under the forces against which the revolutionaries rebel, it is impossible through word or deed to bring the great majority to an entirely correct consciousness. Therefore in every uprising of a revolutionary force, the sentiment of the fighters is fundamentally but one: resistance to the status quo. In this they agree; in their ultimate aims they diverge widely. Some fight for society, some for a small clique, some for a lover, some for themselves, some simply to die. And yet the revolutionary army can still advance. For on the march, the bullet fired by an individualist at the enemy is just as deadly as one fired by a collectivist; and when a fighter falls, the reduction in the army's fighting strength is equal in both cases. Of course, because of the differences in ultimate aims, people will continually desert, lose their way, grow dispirited, or defect along the route. But as long as this does not impede the advance, the force will over time become ever purer and sharper.
When I wrote the preface to Mr. Ye Yongzhen's "A Small Decade," I held that the protagonist had already rendered some service to society, and this was precisely what I meant. The protagonist after all went to the front and stood sentry (even though he was never even taught how to fire a rifle) -- that is incomparably more concrete than the literary luminaries who merely sit on their knees singing sad songs or clutch their pens and sigh angrily. To demand that today's fighters must without exception possess correct consciousness and be steadfast as steel is not only a utopian fantasy but also an unreasonable demand beyond all reason.
But later in the Shenbao I saw an even sterner, even more thorough criticism: because the protagonist of the book went to war from personal motives, deep dissatisfaction was expressed. The Shenbao is the most peace-loving newspaper, the one that least encourages revolution -- which at first glance seems quite incongruous. I wish to point out here that there are people who outwardly appear to be thorough revolutionaries but in truth are highly unrevolutionary or individualistic theorists harmful to the revolution -- so that the soul of the criticism and the body of the newspaper match perfectly.
One type is the decadent: because he himself has neither a definite ideal nor definite abilities, he sinks and seeks momentary pleasure; having gorged on a particular pleasure, he feels surfeited and constantly seeks new stimuli, which must be ever more intense for him to feel satisfaction. Revolution too is one of the decadent's new stimuli -- like a glutton who has overeaten on rich sweets, whose palate is jaded and stomach weak, and who must now eat pepper and chili so that a little sweat appears on his brow and he can still get down half a bowl of rice. From revolutionary literature he demands thorough, complete revolutionary literature; the moment a reflection of the era's defects appears, he frowns and considers it not worth a smile. Detachment from reality does not matter -- so long as one gets one's thrill. Baudelaire in France is universally known as a decadent poet, yet he welcomed the revolution; only when the revolution began to interfere with his decadent life did he come to hate it. Therefore the paper revolutionaries on the eve of revolution, who are moreover the most thorough, most radical revolutionaries, can when the revolution comes tear off their former masks -- their unconscious masks. Such historical examples should also be presented to "revolutionary literary men" of the Cheng Fangwu type, who at the slightest setback flee east to Tokyo or run west to Paris the moment they obtain a small position (or a small sum).
The other type -- I cannot yet name him. In short, he is a man without fixed convictions, who therefore finds that nothing in the world is right and that he himself is never wrong, and who in the final analysis considers the status quo best. When he speaks as critic, he arbitrarily seizes upon one thing to refute its opposite. When he wants to refute the theory of mutual aid, he uses the theory of the struggle for existence; when he wants to refute the struggle for existence, he uses mutual aid. Against the peace theory he invokes class struggle; against struggle he preaches the love of humanity. If his opponent is an idealist, his standpoint is materialism; but when debating a materialist, he transforms into an idealist. In short, he measures Russian versts with English feet and meters with French feet, and discovers that nothing matches. Because nothing else matches, he eternally feels that he "holds to the golden mean," eternally self-satisfied. According to the guidance of these people's criticism, anything that is not perfect and has defects is no good. But where in today's world, among today's people and affairs, is there anything perfectly perfect and entirely flawless? For safety's sake, the only course is not to budge an inch. Yet this not budging is itself a great error. In short, the art of being human is extremely difficult, and being a revolutionary, naturally, even more so.
The Shenbao's critic demands a thoroughly revolutionary protagonist for "A Small Decade," but for the translation of social science he has only venomous cold mockery. His soul therefore belongs to the latter category, with a slight touch of the decadent's boredom with life, wanting to eat a bit of chili to stimulate the appetite.
Section 9
Zhang Ziping's "Theory of the Novel"
Zhang Ziping is, so they say, the "most progressive" "proletarian writer": while you are still "sprouting," still "breaking new ground," he is already harvesting. That is progress -- sprinting ahead, leaving nothing but dust in the distance. What he industriously writes, however, is still the love triangle -- the specialty of the "revolutionary writer" that no one else can surpass -- but that is a matter upon which outsiders cannot pass judgment, and for the moment I shall not discuss it here. Now he has produced a book called "Theory of the Novel," which might give a "romanticist" pause, for from it one learns: the novel does indeed have a "theory." But the method of this "theory" is also quite simple; it requires only copying -- just like his own novels.
Section 10
Opinions on the League of Left-Wing Writers
-- Speech at the founding assembly of the League of Left-Wing Writers, March 2
Many things have already been explained in detail by others, and I need not repeat them. I believe that today it is very easy for "left-wing" writers to become "right-wing" writers. Why? First, if one has no contact with actual social struggle and merely sits behind glass windows writing essays and studying problems, then however radical and "left" one may be, that is easily accomplished; but the moment one collides with reality, one is instantly shattered. Shut up in a room, it is easiest to hold forth on thoroughgoing principles, yet also easiest to "drift rightward." In the West this is called the "salon socialist" -- "salon" means drawing room: sitting in the drawing room chatting about socialism, very elegant, very pretty, but without any intention of putting it into practice. Such socialists are utterly unreliable. Moreover, in the present age there is virtually no writer or artist who does not carry at least a touch of socialist thought in the broad sense -- that is, writers or artists who hold that the workers and peasants should be slaves, should be slaughtered and exploited, are almost nonexistent, unless one counts Mussolini, but Mussolini has not written literary works. (Of course, one cannot say such writers are entirely absent -- for instance, the literati of the Chinese Crescent Moon school and the Mussolini-admired D'Annunzio belong to them.)
Second, if one does not understand the actual circumstances of revolution, one can also easily turn "right." Revolution is pain; it inevitably contains filth and blood; it is by no means as interesting or as perfect as poets imagine. Revolution above all is a matter of reality and requires all manner of lowly, troublesome work -- by no means as romantic as poets imagine. Revolution of course involves destruction, but it needs construction even more; destruction is exhilarating, but construction is a troublesome business. Therefore those who hold romantic illusions about revolution easily become disillusioned the moment they approach or enter the revolution. I hear that the Russian poet Yesenin initially also warmly welcomed the October Revolution, crying at the time: "Long live the revolution in heaven and on earth!" and also "I am a Bolshevik!" But when after the revolution the actual situation proved entirely different from what he had imagined, he fell into disillusionment and decadence. Yesenin later committed suicide, and this disillusionment was, I hear, one of the causes. Pilnyak and Ehrenburg are also examples. In our own Xinhai Revolution there were similar cases: many literati at that time, such as members of the "Southern Society," were initially quite revolutionary, but they harbored an illusion -- they believed that once the Manchus were driven out, everything would be restored to the splendor of "Han official dignity," everyone would wear wide sleeves, tall caps and broad sashes, and stride grandly through the streets. But after the Manchu emperor was expelled and the Republic established, everything was utterly different, and so they were disillusioned; some later even became reactionaries against the new movement. If we too do not understand the actual circumstances of revolution, we risk becoming like them.
Furthermore, the notion that poets or writers stand above all other people and their work is nobler than all other work is also incorrect. For instance, Heine once believed that the poet was the noblest being and God the most just; after death the poet would go to God, sit around Him, and God would offer him sweets. Nowadays, of course, no one believes God offers sweets. But to believe that the poet or writer, who today makes revolution for the laboring masses, will after the revolution's success certainly be richly rewarded and specially favored by the working class, will ride in special carriages and eat special meals -- or that workers will bring him buttered bread saying: "Our poet, please help yourself!" -- this too is incorrect. For in reality this will never happen; it will probably be even harder then than now -- not only no buttered bread, but perhaps not even black bread, as the situation in Russia one or two years after the revolution illustrates. If one does not understand this, one can also easily turn "right." In fact, the laboring masses, as long as they are not those whom Liang Shiqiu would call "successful," will by no means specially value members of the intelligentsia -- just as the Medik (of intelligentsia origin) in "Destruction," which I translated, is often mocked by miners and others. Needless to say, the intelligentsia has its own work to do and should not be specially despised; but the working class has absolutely no obligation to give poets or writers specially favorable treatment as an exception.
Now let me mention several points we should heed in the future.
First, the struggle against the old society and old forces must be resolute, sustained, and uninterrupted, with attention to actual strength. The foundations of the old society are extremely solid; without still greater force, the new movement cannot shake them. Moreover, the old society has excellent methods of making the new force compromise, while it itself never compromises at all. In China there have been many new movements, yet each time the new has lost to the old, and the cause generally lay in the new side's lack of a resolute, comprehensive aim -- its demands were small and easily satisfied. For example, the vernacular movement: at first the old society resisted with all its might, but soon it permitted the vernacular to exist, assigned it a pitiful position, and in the corners of newspapers one could see articles written in the vernacular. This was because the old society saw that the new thing was nothing special and not threatening, so it let it exist, and the new side was satisfied, thinking the vernacular had won the right to exist. Similarly the proletarian literature movement of the past year or two: the old society also tolerated proletarian literature, because it was not particularly formidable. On the contrary, they themselves dabbled in proletarian literature and used it as decoration, as if placing a coarse worker's bowl alongside the many antique porcelains in the drawing room -- quite charming. And the proletarian writers? They already had a small place on the literary stage, their manuscripts already sold, they no longer needed to fight, and the critics sang triumphal songs: "Proletarian literature is victorious!" But apart from personal victory, how much had proletarian literature as such actually won? Moreover, proletarian literature is a wing of the proletariat's liberation struggle and grows with the growth of the proletariat's social power: when the proletariat's social position is very low and the position of proletarian literature in the literary world is on the contrary very high, this merely proves that the proletarian writers have left the proletariat and returned to the old society.
Second, I believe the front should be expanded. In the year before last and last year there were battles in literature, but the scope was really too narrow. All old literature and old thought were ignored by the new school; instead, in one corner, new writers fought new writers, while the old school could comfortably watch the battle from the sidelines.
Third, we should train great numbers of new fighters. For at present we truly lack hands. We have several magazines, and not a few books are published as separate volumes, but the authors are always the same few people, so the content cannot help being thin. If one person does not specialize but dabbles in this and that -- translating and also writing novels and also writing criticism and also writing poetry -- how can it turn out well? This is all because too few people are involved. If there were more, the translators could specialize in translating, the creators in creating, the critics in criticism; in repelling the enemy too, the military force would be formidable and victory easier. On this point let me mention one thing in passing. When the Creation Society and the Sun Society attacked me the year before last, their strength was truly meager; in the end even I found it a bit boring and had no desire to counterattack, because I eventually saw that the enemy army was playing "the empty city ruse." At that time my enemy army was solely occupied with bluster, neglecting to recruit soldiers and train officers; the attacks on me were naturally numerous, but one could see at a glance that they were all pseudonyms, and the curses back and forth were always the same few sentences. I was waiting for someone capable of sniping at me with the marksmanship of Marxist criticism, but he never appeared. For my part, I have always paid attention to training new young fighters and have organized several literary groups, though with little effect. But henceforth we must attend to this.
We urgently need to produce great numbers of new fighters, but at the same time, people on the literary front must possess "tenacity." What I mean by tenacity is that one should not use the method of the "doorknocking brick" as in the former Qing dynasty's eight-legged essay. The eight-legged essay of the former Qing was a tool for "entering school" and becoming an official; once one could write "introduction, development, turn, and conclusion" and thereby attained the title of "xiucai" or "juren," one could throw away the eight-legged essay and never need it again in one's life -- hence the name "doorknocking brick," like using a brick to knock on a door: once you've knocked your way in, the brick can be discarded, no need to carry it with you anymore. This method is still used by many people today. We often see that after some people have published one or two volumes of poetry or fiction, they vanish forever. Where have they gone? Because after publishing one or two books and gaining a small or large reputation, after obtaining a professorship or some other position, their success is achieved and there is no longer any need to write poetry or fiction -- hence they have vanished forever. This is why China has nothing to show for itself in either literature or science; but we must have something, because it is useful to us. (Lunacharsky even advocated preserving Russian peasant art, because it could be produced and sold to foreigners, which would be economically helpful. I believe that if we have something in culture and science to present to others, it would even help the political movement to break free from imperialist oppression.) But to achieve results in culture, tenacity is absolutely essential.
Finally, I believe that a united front requires a common objective as its necessary condition. I recall hearing something like this: "The reactionaries already have a united front, and we are still not united!" In truth they do not have a deliberate united front either; only because their objective is the same, their actions are consistent, and to us it looks like a united front. That we cannot unify our front proves that our objectives are not consistent -- perhaps they serve only a small clique, or perhaps in truth only individuals. If everyone's objective were the working and farming masses, then the front would naturally be united.
Section 11
We Want Critics
Judging by the general situation (we cannot obtain reliable statistics here), since last year the readership of creative fiction published under the "revolutionary" label has been declining, and the trend in the publishing world has already shifted toward the social sciences, economics, and even philosophy. Whether this is the reverse side of suppression or whether it expresses a new advance in the consciousness of readers, I cannot say. But one thing is certain: creative fiction has not yet developed well enough, whether judged by quality or quantity. And as for criticism, it is an even greater wasteland. Among us there is not yet a single equipped critic who surveys the entire literary scene and is capable of delivering the right judgment at the right moment.
Section 12
Good Government-ism
Mr. Liang Shiqiu has this time in the "Sundries" section of "The Crescent" also expressed his approval of "dissatisfaction with the status quo," but he thinks that "today's intellectuals (especially those who have long styled themselves 'pioneers,' 'authorities,' 'vanguards') are most content with the status quo," and they should please "stand up and demand a good government rather than merely shouting revolutionary slogans." That sounds quite cheap. As for "good government," the demand for it is by no means based solely on dissatisfaction with "bad government"; rather: if the social order is not fundamentally changed, if only the personnel are replaced, then the successors may at best be somewhat more exemplary at the beginning, but soon they too will become a "bad government" again. This is a truth that even ancient Chinese history proves. Mr. Liang need not consult any "dangerous thoughts"; he need only open the twenty-four dynastic histories -- provided he has read them.
Section 13
"Homeless" "Capitalists' Toothless Running Dog"
Because the "Pioneer" called him "a running dog of the capitalists," Mr. Liang Shiqiu wrote an article he himself entitled "I Am Not Angry." First, basing himself on the definition on page 672 of the second issue of the "Pioneer," he concluded that he "felt somewhat like a member of the proletariat," and then defined "running dog" as follows: "Generally speaking, all running dogs want to please their master and thereby gain a little favor." He then raised the question:
"The 'Pioneer' says I am a running dog of the capitalists. Which capitalist, or all capitalists? I don't even know who my master is. If I knew, I would certainly take several magazines to my master to show my merits, and perhaps receive a few gold pounds or rubles as a reward... I only know that by working ceaselessly one can earn money to sustain one's livelihood. How one goes to the capitalist's counting house to collect gold pounds, how one goes to the XX Party to collect rubles -- these skills, how could I possibly know them?..."
This is a living portrait of "the capitalists' running dog." Every running dog may be kept by a particular capitalist, but in truth belongs to all capitalists. Therefore it wags its tail before all the wealthy and barks at all the poor. Not knowing who its master is -- that is precisely why it wags before all the wealthy, and proof that it belongs to all capitalists. Even if no one feeds it and it starves to a skeleton and becomes a stray, it still wags before all the wealthy and barks at all the poor -- only now it knows even less who its master is.
Since Mr. Liang himself recounts how hard he works, so that he seems like "the proletariat" (that is, what Mr. Liang formerly called "the defeated"), and does not know "who his master is," he belongs to the latter category. To be precise, we must add a few words and call him a "homeless" "running dog of the capitalists."
Yet even this title has some shortcomings. Mr. Liang is after all an educated professor, and therefore different from the ordinary type. He has finally stopped asking "Does literature have class character?"; in his essay "Reply to Mr. Lu Xun" he very cleverly inserts sentences about "Armed Protection of the Soviet Union" written on telegraph poles and the smashing of newspaper office windows; and in the passage quoted above he writes "go to the XX Party to collect rubles" -- where the two deliberately concealed X's can immediately be recognized as the characters for "Communist." He thereby implies that anyone who maintains "literature has class character" and has offended Mr. Liang is engaged in the business of "protecting the Soviet Union" or "collecting rubles." This is the same method by which Duan Qirui's guards shot students and the Morning Post claimed the students had lost their lives for a few rubles, or by which, when my name appeared on the Freedom League, the "Revolutionary Daily" reported in a dispatch that I had been "bought with glittering golden rubles." Mr. Liang may believe that sniffing out criminals ("scholarly bandits") for his master is also a form of "criticism," but this profession is even more base than that of an "executioner."
I still remember: during the era of "KMT-CCP cooperation," it was most fashionable to praise the Soviet Union in correspondence and speeches. Now things are different: according to the papers, writing on telegraph poles and the "XX Party" are being pursued most vigorously by the police. Well then, to point to one's own debating opponent as a "defender of the Soviet Union" or the "XX Party" is also fashionable and timely and might even earn one "a little favor" from the master. But to say that Mr. Liang aims to obtain "favor" or "gold pounds" would be slander; there is nothing at all to it. He merely wants to lend a hand to rescue his "literary criticism" from its impasse. Therefore, from the perspective of "literary criticism," one must affix another adjective before "running dog": "toothless."
(April 19, 1930.)
Section 14
Preface to "Evolution and Degeneration"
This is a selection the translator has assembled from the nearly one hundred texts translated over ten years: works that are not too specialized, that anyone can read, brought together in one volume in the hope of wider circulation. First, it shows the state of the latest evolutionary theory; second, it serves as reference for those engaged in biology; and third -- perhaps most importantly -- it aims to provide stimulus even to non-specialists, since evolutionary theory by no means concerns biology alone but also influences thinking in general.
However, I must add: the hope that this work will truly exert influence is slight. For Chinese society, though readily receptive to new doctrines, ordinarily adopts them only to lay them as ornament upon the old order, like sticking fresh flowers in a corpse's hair.
Section 15
The Secret of Writing Classical Prose and Being a Good Person
-- Night Notes, No. 5
Of all the so-called critical writings about us during the past year and a half since last year, the most suffocatingly comical was Mr. Chang Yansheng's words in a monthly called "The Long Night," where he put on a fair face and said my works had at least ten more years of life. I recall that a few years earlier, when "The Storm" ceased publication, this same Mr. Chang Yansheng had also published an article to the effect that "The Storm" had attacked Lu Xun, and now no publisher wanted to bring it out -- who knows (!) whether Lu Xun had not influenced the publisher to persecute it? He then went on to lavishly praise the magnanimity of the North China warlords. I still have some memory, and so beneath that fair face I could still dimly see the watermark of that earlier piece of forged prose; at the same time I recalled Professor Chen Yuan's method of criticism: first enumerate a few merits, to display fairness, but then a host of grave charges -- grave charges arrived at through fair weighing. Merits offset against crimes, it all comes down in the end to "scholarly bandit," who deserves to have his head displayed beneath the banner of the "upright gentlemen" as a warning to all. My experience therefore is: censure may do no harm, but praise can be terrifying, sometimes extremely "urgent in its peril." How much more so when this Mr. Chang Yansheng reeks through and through of the Five-Colored Flag -- even if he sincerely grants my works immortality, it feels to me as if the Xuantong Emperor had suddenly beamed with delight and graciously bestowed upon me the posthumous title "Wenzhong" (Loyal in Letters). Amid the suffocating comedy within the oppression, I had no choice but to reverently remove my hat, bow, and most respectfully decline.
But in another issue of the same "Long Night" there was an essay by Mr. Liu Dajie -- these essays seem not to have been collected in "China's Literary Debate" -- which I read with genuine gratitude, perhaps precisely because, as the author himself says, we were entirely unacquainted and no personal grudges or favors intervened. What I found especially useful was that the author devised a way out for me, suggesting that in such a siege from all sides it would be better to lay down the pen and go abroad for a while; and he gave me the honest advice that a few blank pages in one person's life history are really nothing serious. That a few blank pages in the life history of a single person, or even a book entirely blank, or even a book painted entirely black, would by no means cause the earth to explode -- this I had long known. The unexpected gain I made this time was that after thirty years, as if I had suddenly caught the insight yet without being able to formulate the clear and concise formula, I had at last seized the bridle of the secret of writing classical prose and being a good person.
The formula is: To write classical prose and be a good person, one must write it all through and still end up with something equivalent to a blank page.
The teachers who taught us composition in the old days imparted no "Ma's Grammar" or "Methods of Essay Writing" and the like. Day in, day out, it was just: read, write, read, write. If the essay was bad, again: read, write. The teacher never said where the faults lay or how one should write. A dark alley in which one had to grope one's own way -- whether one got through or not, everyone left to fate. But now and then -- it came quite suddenly and one did not know how -- truly "now and then" and "one did not know how" -- the essay in the notebook had fewer and fewer deletions and corrections, and the passages left standing, even those with dense circles of approval, grew more numerous. Then the student's heart filled with joy, and he simply went on writing like that -- truly, he himself did not know how, it was just "like that" -- and after long years the teacher no longer deleted or changed anything in the essays, but merely wrote at the end comments like "has book and pen, neither sprawling nor branching." When one reached this point, one could be counted as "proficient." -- Of course, if one asked the high critic Mr. Liang Shiqiu, he would probably not accept it; but I am speaking of the world in general, so for now I follow common usage.
The basic idea of such writing must of course be clear; what the opinion is, is secondary. Suppose one must write an essay on "He who would do fine work must first sharpen his tools": one may argue from the positive side that "blunt tools produce no fine work"; or one may argue from the negative side that "for the craftsman, skill comes first; if skill is unripe, then however sharp the tools, the work will still not succeed." Even concerning the emperor, one may say "The Son of Heaven is holy, the subject's crime deserves death" -- or one may equally say the emperor is bad and should be cut down with one stroke of the sword, for our Master Mencius said beforehand: "I have heard that a single villain named Zhou was executed, but not that a sovereign was killed" -- and we disciples of the Sage think precisely so. But in any case one must argue from beginning to end, layer by layer, until everything is perfectly clear: is the Son of Heaven holy, or should he be beheaded? Or if one disagrees with both, one may declare at the end: "Though the tyrant raged cruelly, the distinction between sovereign and subject endures; the gentleman does not go to extremes, and in my humble opinion it suffices to banish him to the four frontiers" -- such an approach too would probably not meet with the teacher's disapproval, for "the golden mean" is likewise a teaching of our ancient sages.
However, the above applies to the late Qing period. At the beginning of the Qing dynasty, a single denunciation could have exterminated one's entire clan, and even advocating "banishment to the four frontiers" would not have been tolerated -- then they would not discuss Mencius and Confucius with you. Now, since the revolution has only recently succeeded, conditions probably resemble those at the start of the Qing. (Unfinished)
This is the smaller half of the fifth piece of the "Night Notes." The "Night Notes" were something I intended to write from 1927 onward, jotting down occasional thoughts by lamplight to collect them; that year I published two pieces. In Shanghai, moved by the ferocity of the massacres, I wrote one and a half more pieces entitled "Slaughter," beginning with matters like the Japanese shogunate's crucifixion of Christians and the Russian tsar's cruel treatment of revolutionaries. But soon I ran into the storm of denunciation of humanism, and so I used this as an excuse for my laziness and wrote no more; now even the manuscript has vanished.
The year before last, Roushi wanted to go to a publisher as a magazine editor and asked me to write something casual, something that would not cause a headache to read. That evening I thought again of writing "Night Notes" and set down this title. The gist was that writing and being a good person in China must have been like this since antiquity: it must already exist, but one must not copy whole passages verbatim; rather one must piece together from here and there, patch and mend so that no seams show -- only then does it count as a supreme success. One writes a great deal and in the end has written next to nothing, and the critics call it a fine essay or a fine person. That society makes no progress in anything has its root precisely here. That evening I did not finish, and went to sleep. The next day Roushi came to visit; I showed him what I had written; he furrowed his brow and thought it a bit too verbose, and also feared it would take up too much space. So I suggested he translate a short piece instead, and I set this aside.
Now it has been over a year since Roushi was killed, and when I chanced to dig this manuscript out of a heap of papers, my grief was beyond words. I wanted to complete the entire text, but could not manage it; no sooner did I take up the pen than my thoughts immediately wandered to other things. What is called "both the man and his lute are gone" -- this is probably what it looks like. Now I merely append this half piece here, as a memorial to Roushi.
In the night of April 26, 1932, written down.