Selected Prose Works of Fenglu

Author: Zong Pu
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-01-01
Features: "A person who has been bathed in Western art and yet 'transformed' by Chinese culture is indeed blessed." Zong Pu herself was such a blessed individual. The gods of fate had been kind to her—her father, a scholar versed in both Eastern and Western studies, and her upbringing in Tsinghua's campus, had continuously nurtured and refined her soul. Zong Pu's essays are a must-read; in the living environments and inner worlds depicted in her works, we can everywhere find the profound, latent, and dissolving influences of Chinese philosophy and cultural arts, endowing them with a unique elegance, tranquility, freedom, and introspective spirit. Excerpt: On a certain day in late summer and early autumn of 1966, I had believed that some things would never be forgotten. Many years have passed, and upon reflection, I have not only lost the torrent of emotions I once felt but have also become increasingly hazy about the events themselves. I had initially planned to title this article "A Certain Day in June or July of 1966," but having forgotten the specific date, I asked others. Some said that the past was too painful to revisit and that they did not wish to touch upon the wounds in their hearts; others claimed that they had not even dared to write a single word back then, so how could they remember. Thus, I settled on such a lengthy title. It was not intended to forget, yet gradually, I found myself forgetting. A sense of alarm overwhelmed me. How much of the scene at that time can words capture? In late summer and early autumn of 1966, the Cultural Revolution had already been underway for about three months. At that time, people were divided into two camps: the revolutionary masses and the demonic spirits. The revolutionary masses fought against the demonic spirits, who were, in turn, fought against. To improve their struggle techniques, units engaged in mutual visits and observations, researching how to completely defeat, humiliate, and crush the demonic spirits, as if they were studying some technical skill, seeking invention and creation. That spring, under the guidance of Mr. Bian Zhilin, I read some works by Kafka, and during the struggle, I often thought of Kafka's novel "In the Penal Colony." That killing machine was also meticulously crafted. The Philosophy and Social Sciences Department was then probably the second most advanced unit of the Cultural Revolution after Peking University and Tsinghua University. Every day, crowds gathered to read the big-character posters. In the courtyard stood a large tent, used for military training and martial arts practice. Struggle sessions were often held there. Demonic spirits from various research institutes, in addition to being fought against in their own institutes, were frequently dragged to the tent to receive criticism and other simple forms of punishment, such as the "jet stream." At that time, two factions had already emerged. Both factions sought the backing of central leaders. On one small poster, I saw a record of a faction visiting a certain leader. That leader asked, "Are you from the Department? What do you all study?" I chuckled inwardly for a good while. "What do you all study?" I answered in my heart, "killing! You all study killing!" Such thoughts arose because I was a target of struggle. If I had belonged to the other faction, I probably would have been "studying" too, because that was the task. The forms of struggle continued to evolve, no doubt as a result of this "research."
On a certain day in late summer and early autumn of 1966, the Literature Research Institute organized a grand struggle session against He Qiying, and most of the demonic spirits from the Department attended as (accomplices in suffering). The session was held at the Jixiang Theater. The day before, tickets were issued, but there were not enough to go around, so some "" (fellow victims) were left out. It was later revealed that not being allowed to participate was actually a great "consideration" and "protection." That day was very hot. I remember wearing a short-sleeved shirt and sitting in the left rear of the theater. The theater was quickly filled with people, the masses from the Department, but also those from Peking University and the Writers' Association who came for inspiration and support. I do not recall who presided over the session. It does not matter, nor do I wish to remember. He Qiying, escorted by several revolutionaries, came out onto the stage, bowing his head and standing there. He wore ragged paper clothes and held a wooden sign with three large black characters: He Qioul! "Down with He Qiying!" "Carry the proletarian revolution to its conclusion!" The slogans were terrifying. He Qiying began his self-criticism, but after speaking only a few words, someone grabbed his head. They kept pushing him down, as if he was not bending low enough, until he was forced to kneel on the ground. He struggled but could not rise. "I was wrong, I was wrong—" His Sichuanese dialect trembled in the theater (which should be called a site of punishment). The sign "He Qioul" fell to the ground, and he crawled to pick it up, still kneeling. To this day, I believe no study of "Dream of the Red Chamber" surpasses He Qiying's own. To this day, workers from both the Chinese and foreign literature research institutes still cherish his leadership and teachings. And how the beautiful "Records of Dreams" moved me! Such a person kneeling on the ground! A person who combined the talents of academic research, literary creation, and organizational work, kneeling on the ground! He kept saying, "I was wrong, I was wrong!" When the Cultural Revolution began, He Qiying was already being criticized. Several so-called party meetings were held, with the masses invited to attend. He seemed to have no understanding of his situation (who really did at that time), still arguing logically and eloquently. A tall, thin man with a belt around his waist shoved him several times. Sitting by the door, I whispered to a colleague known for his gentleness, "Why are they pushing him? It's so disrespectful! Let's stand up and say something!" But we did not. We were shy, unaccustomed to speaking in public, and too timid! That colleague also said, "We need to learn to speak and debate, or else the bad guys will take control!" In reality, truth does not become clearer with more debate; truth is already forged into, constantly scalding people's faces! Two accomplices were brought forward: Yu Pingbo and Yu Guanying. They too wore paper costumes and paper masks with wings; their steps were unsteady, and they immediately became targets of the slogans "Down with them!" The left door of the theater was filled with commotion. "Down with Shao Quanlin!" several people shouted. They escorted the gaunt Shao Quanlin onto the stage. After being accused of the "theory of the intermediary role," Shao Quanlin was no longer the leader of the Writers' Association and was transferred to the Institute of Foreign Languages as a researcher, but he still faced criticism within the Association. It was natural for the Department to call him for a struggle session. Several critiques were delivered. I believe most were out of revolutionary fervor. The speakers screamed wildly, but after their outbursts, He Qiying was still forced to self-criticize. The comrade still knelt there, his voice broken, mentioning his views on "Dream of the Red Chamber," which was also a major crime. "Stand up and speak!" someone shouted. He struggled to stand but was immediately knocked down again by several men, his head and arms twisted, forcing him back to his knees. He was made to stand up only to be knocked down again! This happened several times. They tortured a few others like this, and then, seemingly uninterested, they called for a large group of accomplices. "Feng Zhi!" Mr. Feng took the stage. After a struggle session at the Institute of Foreign Languages, the "targets" were made to beat drums in a circle, with Feng Zhi leading the way, and I was at the back. It seemed that the worse it got, the more hopeless it became; it was as if they would never be able to escape the loop. "Qian Zhongshu!" Mr. Qian stood up from a row at the back of the theater and walked past me at a quick pace. Someone immediately grabbed his collar. "Jia Zhi!" One person grabbed his hand and twisted his arm. He sat there, enduring the "jet stream," and was brought onto the stage. The theater was filled with an atmosphere of killing intent, and slogans rose one after another. Beneath the noise, I felt an overwhelming silence, a bloody, silent silence. Soon, the entire stage was crowded with black faces, all wearing paper hats with inscriptions of their crimes. Compared to those wearing urine jars, this was indeed more civilized. Most academic authorities were called up first, followed by department heads and those considered staunch conservative old guard. "Mou Huazhen!" This was the director of the library at the Institute of Foreign Languages, a plump woman. Suddenly, a Red Guard saw me. "Feng Zhongpu!" he shouted. Without waiting for a second call, I stood up and rushed forward. Fearing being touched, I bent my body as much as possible, like a worm. Up on stage, I noticed that there were only a few paper hats left behind, none for me. I had not expected to be called. "Hurry and make one!" someone whispered. We were each roughly pushed down. I had only one thought: bend as much as possible, shrink myself as small as possible. After some time, the many feet in front of me began to move. The demonic spirits lined up one by one in front of the microphone to declare their identities and then could leave. I heard many familiar voices, all calm. It was my turn. I did not know my exact crime. At that time, those who lacked sufficient learning and status, yet were still accused of additional crimes, were called "three-counter revolutionaries." The "three-counter revolutionaries" were those who counterparty, counter-socialism, and counter-Mao Zedong Thought. I walked to the microphone and declared my identity. Several people in the audience shouted, "Look at your hat!" I took off the hat and saw it written in white and black, "The daughter of Feng Youlan." What does "the daughter of Feng Youlan" mean? I added descriptive adjectives to myself: "The reactionary academic authority Feng Youlan's daughter." The audience fell silent. This identity was far more important than being a "three-counter revolutionary." There was no torture on the way down, and only a few remained on stage, still attracting attention. I left through the peace gate and found the world very bright. I was surprised to have such thoughts, relief that I was not born in the Ming Dynasty. If I had been born in the Ming Dynasty, I would have been sold into servitude by the authorities! Thinking this, the bustling East Street beneath the bloody, silent silence suddenly seemed to bleed. "Feng Zhongpu!" a timid voice called. It was Shao Quanlin. He was turning around at the corner of Beihebian. "Where is Dingyin Hutong? I can't find it." Dingyin Hutong, a certain number, was the prison of the Writers' Association. He needed to return to the prison. "Comrade Shao Quanlin!" I whispered, "Are you feeling well?" A smile touched his face, looking calm. He looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but what came out was, "Where is Dingyin Hutong?" I led him a dozen steps, pointed him in the direction, and watched his figure, as if ready to fall at any moment, blend into the crowd. I had inherited the "reactionary" label and had various connections with many "reactionaries." They had watched me grow up. Before stepping down, Shao Quanlin always encouraged me to write and had even requested a creative leave for me from "World Literature." Yet, these beloved teachers, along with my father and myself, had all become irredeemable criminals! Slowly, I walked back to my temporary residence, No. 27 Neizefu. It was no longer a "home" because I was alone. The small courtyard had two northern and two eastern rooms, filled with mysterious plants that grew thickly around me. Sitting and resting for a while, my thoughts gradually focused on one question: should I commit suicide? So many academic elites stood on one stage, being cruelly bullied! And all of this was carried out under the banner of revolution. This world would only grow more absurd, more inhumane! I did not want to see tomorrow, nor could I bear to see it. As for myself, to avoid personal humiliation and being pushed and shoved, suicide was the only way. If I had sleeping pills on hand, I would have already fallen into a quiet sleep. But I did not. Operations, cutting, hanging, and throwing myself into the river were too terrifying. I wanted to pass away quietly, without a sound. Suddenly, the paper hat labeled "The daughter of Feng Youlan" swayed in front of me, and I jolted in shock. My elderly parents were already on the brink of death. Could I add to their pain and satisfy their enemies? I did not know who my enemies were, yet I seemed to face them: I must live! I would not die! There would still be tomorrow after tomorrow. The entire courtyard was filled with silence. The night was approaching. I did not turn on the lights and simply slept. Let me sleep first. I was too tired. After sleeping for an unknown amount of time, I suddenly awoke. All the lights in the room were on: the main lamp, the desk lamp, and the bedside lamp. I sat up instinctively and turned them all off. Through the window, I saw the lights in the eastern room were also on. Without hesitation, I opened the door, walked through the pitch-black courtyard, and entered the eastern room. Here were the same three lights, shining brightly. I turned them off one by one and returned to the northern room. Turning on the lamp to check the time, it was 2:25—a deep night. After turning off the light, I sat for a while, wondering if it would turn back on. It remained dark, and I fell asleep. Strangely, I was not afraid at all. Sleep came easily. I was alive, and soon after, I fell seriously ill. Yet, I did not die. Many, many people died, but I survived. I recorded this day in late summer and early autumn of 1966.