16. The actual section is 378, in chap. 30, “On Din and Noise.” See Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860), Parerga and Paralipomena: Short Philosophical Essays, trans. E. F. J. Payne (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 2:642–45.
17. The 1941 edition ends: “you jot down another essay” (you xiele yi pian suibi ); all subsequent versions contain the current ending. In the penultimate sentence, the clause “. . . and that your own bawling has prevented people next door from thinking or sleeping” was first added in the 1983 edition.
EXPLAINING LITERARY BLINDNESS
1. The earliest version of this essay appeared as the second installment of the series “Cold Room Jottings” (Lengwu suibi ), Criticism Today (Jinri pinglun ) 1, no. 6 (February 5, 1939).
2. In editions previous to that of 1983, this line referred to “shooing” rather than “exterminating” mosquitoes.
3. In the 1939 and 1941 editions, the final clause in this sentence reads: “and when teachers ask for a raise, they make it seem like a mere ten or twenty dollars would influence the course of human culture.”
4. Su Shi, “I and Li Zhi Fangshu Have Known Each Other for Ages; Now I Have Passed the Examinations but Li Has Not, and I Feel Deep Regret, So I Have Written a Poem to See Him Off” (Yu yu Li Zhi Fangshu xiangzhi jiu yi, linggong jushi, er Li bu dedi, kui shen, zuoshi songzhi ), in Su Shi shiji (Collected Poems of Su Shi), annot. Wang Wengao , punct. Kong Fanli , Zhongguo gudian wenxue jiben congshu (The Basics of Classical Chinese Literature: A Collection) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1982), 5:1568–70.
5. Jinshu , juan 113, zaiji 13. In the 1939 and 1941 editions, Qian elaborates: “. . . and I think it could, since the Records of Fujian of the Book of the Jin mentions that Fujian was drafting a secret decree and kept the door closed so that no one would know, when a sole fly that had been hovering above his brush suddenly turned into a boy in black and leaked the contents of the decree to the outside. This is perfect evidence, and moreover it appears in a standard history, so its veracity is unshakable.” Shortened in the 1983 edition.
6. William Blake (1757–1827), “Auguries of Innocence.”
7. Exegetical studies and phonology were two disciplines pursued by puxue (literally, “plain study”) scholars during the Qing dynasty. The puxue movement advocated rigorous evidentiary and textual research into the Confucian classics, at the expense, Qian suggests, of true aesthetic and philosophical understanding.
8. The multiple tomes of French literary historian Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve’s (1804–1869) Nouveaux Lundis were published between 1863 and 1870.
9. Aroma (Hua Xiren ), the favorite maid of Jia Baoyu in the novel Dream of the Red Chamber, goes on to become the highest-ranking courtesan in the Jia family.
10. To “have a dream while pinching one’s nose” (nie bizi zuo meng ) means to indulge in impossible fantasizing (since as soon as one falls asleep, one can no longer continue pinching one’s nose). For an explanation of the expression, see Wang Zhongxian (text) and Xu Xiaoxia (illus.), Shanghai suyu tushuo (Shanghai Slang Illustrated and Explained) (Shanghai: Shanghai shehui chubanshe, 1935), 570–72 (entry no. 232).
11. Qian’s translation of this apocryphal statement literally reads: “I don’t know what’s good, but I know what I like.”
12. The 1941 edition reads: “. . . sublime art beyond gazing at fashionable women.” Changed in the 1983 edition.
13. The 1941 edition reads: “unworthy women.”
14. The 1941 edition reads: “. . . a bit of an injustice to Traveler Sun!”
ON WRITERS
1. The earliest version of this essay appeared as the first installment of the series “Cold Room Jottings” (Lengwu suibi ), Criticism Today (Jinri pinglun ) 1, vol. 3 (January 15, 1939).
2. Qian here uses a different meaning of the word for “writer” (wenren ) than that found in the title of the essay. The second use of wenren refers to literati in traditional China who took the government examinations that served as the gateway to coveted postings in the civil service. The less prestigious route of advancement to wealth and power was rising in the military (wu ) ranks. The suggestion seems to be that during the modern age, when utility reigns supreme, the traditional respect for wen rather than wu has been inverted, since modern scientists stuck in between these two categories of the governing elite seem to aspire to the usefulness of the wu officials rather than to the wen officials’ role as cultural stewards.
3. Tao Kan (259–334) was a Six Dynasties era official whose frugality was legendary. See Jinshu , chap. 66.
4. Shishuo xinyu , “Rendan” . For an English translation of the relevant story, see Liu I-ch’ing, Shih-shuo Hsin-yu: A New Account of Tales of the World, trans. Richard B. Mather (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976), 388.
5. The terms that Qian employs for “ruler” (jun ), “father” (fu ), and “elder brother” (xiong ) denote fundamental Confucian categories of traditional China’s social hierarchy.
6. The author is toying here with the third-century poet Cao Pi’s well-known dictum: “Literary men disparage one another; it has always been that way.”
7. Shiji , “Biography of Lu Jia” (Lu Jia liezhuan ).
8. The 1941 edition has additional sentences here: “As the poem by Chen Shiyi [ (1856–1937), who worked in the education section of the Qing government and later taught at Xiamen University in the late 1920s] puts it, ‘Those adept in literature / Will never high rank secure; / How could men in the seat of command / Waste their time on mere words?’ This explains why Gaozu was capable of realizing his goal to become emperor, whereas Plato could gratify his political yearnings merely by dreaming about the reign of ‘philosopher-kings,’ devising in vain his plans (Republic) and blueprints (Laws) for founding the nation. From this, one can see not only that writers are despicable wretches unworthy of rapid advancement in the official world, but that even those worthies who are opposed to literature seem to come up with excessively long writings and an overabundance of discussion—they lack the dignity of someone sparing in words but high in position.” Cut in the 1983 edition.
9. Théophile Gautier’s (1811–1872) Les Grotesques (1844) is a work of literary criticism in praise of “grotesques” and formerly unpopular poets like François Villon (ca. 1431–1463).
10. The 1941 edition has an additional sentence here: “That is why the ancient Roman church father Tertullian, in his On Idolatry (De idolatria), argues that if the Great Teaching is to be manifested in all its glory and a realm of divine bliss is to be realized on earth, literature must first be uprooted.”
11. Alexander Pope (1688–1744) epitomizes English poetry of the Augustan age. The Tang dynasty poet Bai Juyi (772–846) is the subject of an apocryphal legend about his ability to read Chinese characters at birth.
12. The 1941 edition has an additional sentence here: “Wang Shizhen’s [ (1526–1590)] essay ‘Nine Fates of Literature’ [Wenzhang jiuming ] long ago provided an exhaustive account of how writers since ancient times have been subject to myriad calamities and misfortunes.” Wang’s essay discusses nine faults that plagued the writing of poetry from the pre-Qin period to the Song dynasty.
13. Fayan , “Wuzi pian” . Here, Yang Xiong (53 B.C.E.–18 C.E.) belittles his own earlier aesthetic orientation. The original phrase is diaochong zhuanke, zhuangfu bu wei .
14. The 1941 edition has additional sentences here: “When J. G. Lockhart wrote a biography of his father-in-law, he noted that Sir Walter Scott deeply regretted that he was able only to record the martial feats of great heroes but was himself incapable of bringing any astounding accomplishments to fruition. Hugo’s poem ‘My Childhood Days’ (Mon enfance) articulates the same sentiment. When even persons of this sort bewail their fate and regret having become writers, one can well surmise how dim a view others take of them.” The 1939 “Cold Room Jottings” version does not contain the Hugo sentence.
15. This sentence contains a sardonic reference to Lu Xun’s (1881–1936) somewhat melodramatically t
itled short-story anthology Roaring Battle Cries (Nahan , 1923). The phrase “how could he have roared battle cries or written martial songs while seated in his study (Kriegslieder schreiben und in Zimmer siteenl [sic])” does not appear in the 1939 “Cold Room Jottings” version.
16. In the 1939 “Cold Room Jottings” version, this sentence refers to “we” and “us” instead of “they” and “them.” The 1941 edition has additional sentences here: “In Browning’s ideal world, a baker could write poetry, and a hog butcher could paint at his easel. In our ideal world, nobody would bother about literature or the arts; the poet would become a baker, and the painter would take up the trade of the hog butcher—and if there are useful occupations that offer even more fame and fortune than the trades of baker and butcher, they would naturally be all the more palatable.”
HUMAN, BEAST,
GHOST
FIRST PREFACE TO THE 1946 KAIMING EDITION
Should this manuscript not end up lost or burned and one day happen to be published, a preface is unavoidable.
Labor-saving devices are becoming more advanced every day, and there are always people more than happy to identify themselves as the original model for a particular character in a novel or play as an effortless way to promote themselves. To preempt those who would assume a false identity in this manner, let me declare categorically that the characters and events in this book are completely fictitious. Not only are the humans within its pages good, law-abiding citizens, but its beasts are domesticated pets, and even its ghosts are not those homeless spirits that roam about unchecked. All live strictly within the confines of this volume and will never step outside its covers. Should someone claim to be one of the humans, beasts, or ghosts who appear in this collection, it would be tantamount to saying that a character, who is purely a product of my imagination, has walked off the page, taken on blood and flesh, soul and vitality, assumed that person’s likeness, and now moves about freely in the real world. I’m afraid that since man was first molded out of clay we have yet to see another such miracle of creation, and I dare not dream that my artistry has reached such heights. I must thus refute any such claims in advance and respectfully thank those who would so flatter me.
April 1, 1944
SECOND PREFACE TO THE 1946 KAIMING EDITION
This manuscript was originally put together on my behalf by Ms. Yang Jiang during the chaos and strife of wartime. “Inspiration” was previously published in the first and second issues of New Talk [Xin yu], edited by Messrs. Fu Lei and Zhou Xuliang. “Cat” was previously published in the first issue of Literary Renaissance [Wenyi fuxing], edited by Messrs. Zheng Zhenduo and Li Jianwu. The publication of this book was made possible by the efforts of Mr. Xu Tiaofu. To all I would like to offer my thanks.
January 3, 1946
GOD’S DREAM
At that time, our world had been trained into utter obedience by scientists, philosophers, and politicians. Every day, it revitalized and improved itself according to the laws of creationism, evolutionism, accretionism, eugenics, and the “New Life Movement.”1 Today’s way of life supplanted yesterday’s through natural selection, and culture became more refined from morning to afternoon. Life and civilization underwent a thousand transformations in the blink of an eye. The changes came so fast that History had no time to record them all, and even Prophecy couldn’t keep up. At that time, the course of human life was measured in “steps.” Instead of saying “another year has passed,” we said “another step forward has been taken.” Instead of saying “die of old age,” we said “pedestrians halt.” Instead of saying “lament so-and-so’s passing,” we said “run a hundred steps and laugh at someone who has run only fifty”—laugh because he didn’t succeed in running forward a few more steps.2 When a man and woman joined in marriage, well-wishers at the gathering spoke of the lovebirds “flying together,” but not “nesting together.”3 Only a few sticks-in-the-mud still insisted on expressing the wish that the bridal couple might “keep each other warm for five minutes”—roughly akin to our blessing, “May you spend a century growing old together”—knowing full well the impossibility of that empty phrase. Yet this beautiful world of progress had one shortcoming: it rendered every history of a near century, every half-century “cultural self-criticism,” every diary, biochronology, autobiography, “A Certain Percentage of My Life,”4 and other such epitaphs utterly useless. As luck would have it, people at that time were just too plain busy to read. And the authors of such reading material? Fortunately for them, they had long ago hastened to reincarnate themselves in the early twentieth century, where they were born, wrote, had their works read (or go unread), and were forgotten.
The Law of Evolution holds that what comes later is superior to what precedes it. Out of Time and Space evolved inorganic objects, which then evolved into animals and plants. Out of the inanimate plants evolved woman, who is placid but able to root one in place with her nagging. Out of the rambunctious animal kingdom evolved man, who is rough and risk taking. Man and woman created children, and children brought forth dolls. Thus, though God, who is supreme and peerless, should by rights be the final product of evolution, producing a God is easier said than done. Has any great man throughout history deigned to be born before spending ten months in his mother’s womb? Take, for instance, the Yellow Emperor, whose four hundred million descendants are now cruelly slaughtering one another. He burdened his mother with a full twenty months of pregnancy. Lao-tzu, the Right Supreme Moral Paragon, likewise lived in his mother’s belly for eighty years before dropping to the ground with a wail—an “old son” [lao tzu] indeed!5 Thus, by the time the powers of evolution finally created a God, the human race had vanished from this world eons ago. Perhaps that was because they “flew together” but didn’t “nest together”—even evolutionists couldn’t wait that long. As a result, this world of material abundance was also empty, like the head of a simpleton expanded to the nth degree.
The night was deepening. The ancient darkness gently enveloped the aging world like heavy eyelids over weary eyes. The powers of evolution pushed God out from the nothingness. Entering time and space, he began to sense his own existence. At this moment, the testimonies of theologians and mystics and the prayers of lovers, soldiers, peasants, and the poor since time immemorial finally had a Lord. But, these various signs of devotion were like a letter from home to a vagabond or parents’ aspirations for a child who has passed away—God was completely oblivious to them. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. The silence surrounding him was limitless, unfathomable. Instincts bequeathed by the extinct human race half awoke in God. He felt frightened like a child and wanted to cry, but the stillness, long unbroken by the human voice, had coalesced into glue that prevented sound from floating about within it. God realized that the stillness around him and the fear in his heart had incubated in this darkness, and this realization made him loathe darkness and long for light, which he had yet to see or know by name. Moment by moment, this desire grew stronger. After an indeterminate interval of time, the darkness suddenly thinned slightly and the pressure of the night lessened, revealing faint contours of high mountains and deep valleys. His eyes began to serve their purpose and were rewarded with things to see. God was astounded at the stupendous power of his own will. He had wanted it to not be dark, he reflected, and, tactfully, the darkness withdrew. But this was not enough! In the past, his gaze had met with nothing. Now, wherever his eyes rested, they were obliged with something emerging from the darkness. Yet again, God’s subconscious seemed to rumble with the strains and echoes of mankind’s earlier elegies to the Omnipotent Creator.
God’s temperament was also human. Aware of his own powers, he liked to wield them arbitrarily. He wanted to banish darkness once and for all to see whether or not it would obey his order. Hey! Sure enough, the east quickly turned from gray to white and from white to a fiery red as the sun came out. God was delighted with the thought that this was his doing—that this had come about on his command. Reflexively,
he closed his eyes against the blinding glare of the sun. At the same time, he thought, “This fellow’s not to be trifled with! We can do without him for the time being.” And, curiously, in a trice everything vanished before his eyes. All he could see was darkness, which gave off round flashes of red. By this point, God had no more doubts about his own capacities and powers. Anyone could do away with the light by closing one’s eyes, but it was his eyes that had generated light in the first place. Not convinced? Just open your eyes. Look, isn’t that the sun? Aren’t those mountains and, over there, water? Each thing obediently and respectfully presented itself to his gaze. Long ago, a rooster swaggered before his hen and crowed loudly and smugly at the sun because it dared not show its face before his morning report. God, who was immeasurably greater than a rooster, at this moment was actually thinking along quite similar lines. He regretted only that the workings of evolution had failed to produce something equivalent to a hen to keep him company and listen to his bragging. There was a scientific explanation for this evolutionary flaw. Like every animal bred through eugenics (like the mule) and every revered dictator (like the uni-testicled Hitler),6 God could not reproduce and thus had no need for a partner. Nevertheless, smug, roosterlike crowing was inevitable. Without meaning to, God laughed out loud. His laughter echoed through the wild, empty valleys, impressing him with how his voice could multiply so many times, resound so loudly, and carry so far.
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