One's love and death

Author: Lin Xianzhi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: The horrific scene of the maniac witnessing the cannibalistic tragedy unfolds at night; the hope of Shan Si's wife is shattered at night; the revolutionary-minded Ah Q is dimly carried to the county town at night. Chen Shicheng, Xiang Linsuo, Wei Lianhu, Zijun, and Fan A'ernong, as well as Roushi—all die in the stillness of the night, in the clamor of the night, or in the endless mourning of the survivors at night. In short, it is all at night. The entire Jiguotun is shrouded in night—a drowsy day—otherwise, why would they need to keep the lanterns burning? The story of the night watchers has long faded away, leaving only the night and the ever-present herd of beasts.” Life is suffering because when one wakes from a dream, there is no path to follow. He often laments over the forgetfulness of the Chinese people. One of the ways the powerful oppress the ignorant is to repeatedly paint a rosy picture of the present and distort history. It is not enough to be a slave; what is tragic is to be content with being a slave. “We are easily turned into slaves, and even after becoming slaves, we still enjoy it immensely.” Kafka has only heaven, no roads; whereas Lu Xun has only roads, no heaven. —Lin Xianzhi Life is suffering because when one wakes from a dream, there is no path to follow. Kafka has only heaven, no roads; Lu Xun has only roads, no heaven. Qu Qiubai said: Lu Xun was raised on the milk of beasts. I first read Lu Xun in my middle school days. I remember as soon as I entered school, I bought a copy of Selected Stories of Lu Xun. However, under the clear glass window, I could only float on the surface of the words, and as for the hidden meanings, there was no way to grasp them. During the Cultural Revolution, reading became more systematic, although I couldn’t get the complete collection, I managed to get all the individual volumes. Rather than calling it a chance encounter in the forest of books, it was a deliberate choice with a certain intention. But only then did I unexpectedly discover that Lu Xun’s works were a powerful painkiller. In the early days of the Cultural Revolution, I was labeled a “little Deng Tuo” and a “demon and ghost.” Later, I was swept away by the Red Guard movement. Several years later, my father was labeled a “current counter-revolutionary” twice and spent more than a year in a cell called the “three-in-one” prison. My older sister, in order to reunite with her husband after years of separation, became a “smuggler” and was imprisoned several times. At that time, “mass rule” didn’t care about eating, so I took on the role of delivering food, running between the “production team” and the “village commune.” Once, absurdly, because I arrived late to deliver food, I was locked up as well and wasn’t released until a week later. Whenever a political movement approached, with the propaganda and work teams the village, it was inevitable that my family would be the first to be scrutinized. Fear, anxiety, humiliation, and pain hung over every day. In this world, who could give me comfort? Who could give me the courage to live and teach me to walk the long road of life? I am grateful that I could read, for among the limited books left after the fire, I could rediscover the person named Lu Xun. A human, not a god. People talk about the Cultural Revolution as a “modern god-making movement,” but what was made were other gods, not Lu Xun. Lu Xun will always be the protector of the souls of the powerless—this is what I have perceived from my own years of life and reading, not from divine pronouncements or authoritative works. Lu Xun came from hardship and knew the suffering of the well; he had experienced all kinds of revolutions: the 1911 Revolution, the Second Revolution, the National Revolution, and the Communist Revolution (beyond publications, mainly through the League of Left-Wing Writers and relationships with friends who studied abroad). He had a deep understanding of revolution and revolutionaries; he had always endured the oppression of darkness, from the monstrous state to the ever-changing ghosts, he had seen and fought against them all. He stood in the trench but sometimes stepped out, revealing his straight neck, bones, and flesh, resisting attacks from both front and back. Yet, even in the fiercest battles, he never forgot to protect the weak with his broad robes. He once said that he leaned more toward the side of “indulgence.” But society did not allow him to indulge, and his only choice was resistance. In the later stages of the Cultural Revolution, the climate did not improve but worsened. In the quiet nights of the village, under the dim kerosene lamp, I wrote more than ten papers: Lu Xun on Qin Shi Huang, Lu Xun and Qu Qiubai, Lu Xun on Water Margin, Lu Xun on Writing Realism. These writings were all inspired by the context of the time and were all related to Lu Xun. Except for the one on Water Margin, which was published many years later, none of the others were published. I never thought of publishing them when writing, on the contrary, I was extremely afraid of being discovered. When the paper was filled, I carefully placed each page into the movable compartment specially made for my desk by a carpenter friend. I am not a brave person. Lu Xun once said he was dancing while wearing shackles, but I was quietly stuck in shackles, imagining the happiness of dancing in front of everyone. I remember Ba Jin once said that during the Cultural Revolution, he translated Herzen’s Reminiscences and Reflections and felt a kind of revengeful satisfaction every time he translated the words cursing the autocracy of the Tsar. I can deeply understand that feeling. [Preface] A friend told me that a critic at sea called me a “Lu Xun’s ‘everything’,” asking for my opinion. I replied that it was a great honor, though I felt unworthy. In China, Lu Xun is the only intellectual who truly makes me believe in his concern for the progress of China and the fate of the common people. Unlike the powerful, he had no sword to command, so the only thing that drew people to him was his personality and intellectual charm. However, with his magnanimity, loftiness, and depth, it was difficult to follow. As an old saying goes, “Gaze up at the high mountain, follow the shining path.” The so-called “stop” in this context means that even if one wanted to “do everything,” it was impossible. To give a simple example. Lu Xun wanted China to produce heroes and was willing to be a “ladder” for others to climb up on. Later, he joined the League of Left-Wing Writers, happy to be used by radical youth, but from personal correspondence at the time, he had long seen through these people as “all pale like eggplant flowers” and still “knew it was impossible but did it anyway.” Frankly, I do not have this kind of self-sacrificing heart, and I believe that the critic who thinks he is above it all probably does not have it either.