A speech delivered April 8, 1927, at the Whampoa Military
Academy. From Lu Xun’s Jottings
Under Lamplight.
*
Today I would like to say a few things on the topic of
“Literature in Times of Revolution.” This academy has invited me on a number of
occasions, but I have always put off coming. Why? Because I thought that the
reason you gentlemen invited me was probably because I have written several
works of fiction and am a man of letters, and so you would like to hear
something about literature from me. In truth, that’s not who I am, and I really
don’t understand much about literature. My formal studies were first in mining,
so the results might be somewhat better if you asked me to speak on the mining
of coal than on literature.
Naturally, because of my own interests, I also read some
literature from time to time, but I never learned anything that might be of use
to you gentlemen. Added to that, my experience in Beijing over these past few
years gradually led me to start doubting all the old literary discourses I am familiar
with. That was when they opened fire and murdered students and censorship was
especially tight. I thought: Literature, oh literature, you are a most useless
thing. Only those without power talk about you; no one with real strength
bothers to talk, they just murder people. Oppressed people who say a few things
or write a few words will be killed. Even if they are fortunate enough not to
be killed, and shout out, complain of their suffering, and cry out against
injustices every day, those with real strength will still continue to oppress,
abuse, and kill; there is no way to deal with them. What value does this
literature have for people, then?
The natural world also works this way. When a hawk hunts a
sparrow, it is the hawk that is silent while the sparrow squawks. When a cat
preys on a mouse, it is the cat that is silent while the mouse squeals. The
result is still that those who cry out are eaten by those who remain
silent. If a writer does well and writes a few essays, he might garner some
fame for himself in his time or earn a reputation for a few years. This is like
how after a memorial service, no one mentions the feats of the martyr; rather,
everyone discusses whose elegiac couplets are best. What a stable business this
is.
However, I’m afraid that the literary specialists in this
revolutionary place are always fond of saying how close the connection between
literature and revolution is. For example, they say literature can be used to
publicize, promote, incite, and advance the revolutionary cause, and thus bring
about revolution. Still, it seems to me that this sort of literature has no
strength because good literature has never been about following orders and has
no regard for its effects. It is something that flows naturally from the heart.
If we write literature according to a preselected topic, how is that any
different from the formal prose of an imperial examination? It has no value as
literature, not to mention no ability to move people.
For revolution to occur, what is needed are revolutionaries;
there is no need to be overly anxious about “revolutionary literature.” Only
when revolutionaries start writing will there be revolutionary literature.
Still, it seems to me that, after all, there is a
relationship between revolution and writing. The literature in times of
revolution is not at all the same as literature in times of peace. When there
is revolution, the contours of literature itself change. However, only real
revolution can change literature; a small revolution won’t because it doesn’t
revolutionize anything, so neither can it change literature. Everyone here is
used to hearing the term revolution. But when the term is mentioned
in Jiangsu or Zhejiang, the people who hear it become fearful, and those who
speak it are put in danger. In truth, though, there’s nothing special about
revolution; only with it can society reform and humanity progress. That humans
were able to evolve from protozoans and civilizations to evolve from barbarism
is precisely because there is never a moment without revolution. Biologists
tell us: “There is no great difference between humans and monkeys; humans and
monkeys are cousins.” But why have humans come to be humans, while monkeys
remained monkeys?
The reason is that monkeys refuse change—they insist on
walking with their four limbs. Perhaps there was once a monkey who stood up and
attempted to walk on two legs. But many other monkeys said: “Our ancestors have
always crawled. We forbid you to stand!” And then they bit the monkey to death.
Not only did they refuse to stand, they also refused to speak, all because they
had to follow old behaviors. Humans are different. They finally came to stand
and speak, and they emerged victorious as a result. Now, things are not
finished yet. So I say that revolution is nothing special. Every race that has
not yet gone extinct is earnestly engaged in revolution on a daily basis, even
if it is only a small revolution.
What influence does real revolution have on literature,
then? We can roughly divide things into three periods.
(1) Before the revolution, all literature is, in the main,
attuned to the inequities and suffering in various social conditions. So this
literature complains of suffering and cries out against inequities. There is no
dearth of examples of this sort of writing in world literature. However, this
literature that complains of suffering and cries out against inequities has no
influence on the revolution because it has absolutely no power to it; the
oppressor pays it no mind. Even if the mouse were to produce excellent
literature from its squeals, the cat would still unceremoniously devour it.
Therefore, at a time when literature merely complains of
suffering and cries out against inequities, the race will have yet to find hope
because it remains limited to complaining of suffering and crying out against
inequities. This is similar to the situation in a court case when the defeated
is reduced to asserting that an injustice is being rendered—his opponent then
knows that he no longer has power to fight anymore and that the case is closed.
Similarly, literature that complains of suffering and cries
out against inequities amounts to such an assertion of injustice and makes the
oppressor feel at ease. Some races simply don’t bother to complain of suffering
or cry out against inequities since doing so is futile, and they become silent
and gradually fall into decline: the Egyptians, the Arabs, the Persians, and
the Indians have all lost their voices! As far as races that are defiant and
powerful are concerned, since complaining of suffering and crying out against
inequities is useless, they see the light and progress from sorrowful laments
to shouts of anger. Once this angry literature arrives on the scene, resistance
is soon to follow. They are already enraged, so works of literature from this
period when the revolution is about to erupt are often accompanied by sounds of
rage. This literature wants to resist, and it wants revenge. There was quite a
bit of such literature just before the Russian Revolution. Of course, there are
also exceptions, for example, Poland. Although the Poles early on had a
literature of revenge, it took the Great War in Europe for Poland to become
independent.
(2) When revolution arrives, there will be no literature, no
voice anymore. This is because, under the influence of the revolutionary tide,
everyone has shifted from shouting to action, everyone is busy with revolution,
and there is no leisure for discussing literature. Seen from another angle,
when life is destitute and people think only of finding nonexistent food to
eat, who would be in the frame of mind to discuss literature? Because they have
taken a blow from the revolutionary tide, those who long for the past are
furious and can no longer indulge in their sort of literature. Some say,
“literature is written in times of misery,” but this is not necessarily true;
it may be that in times of misery there is no literary output.
In Beijing, whenever I was in dire straits, I went all over
looking to borrow money and couldn’t write a single word. It was only once my
salary was paid that I could sit down and write. It is also impossible to write
when you are busy: a porter with a load must put it down first before he can
write; a rickshaw puller must park his rickshaw first before he can write.
Revolution is an extremely busy state. At the same time, poverty is widespread
during a revolution. This faction is fighting that faction. It is absolutely
necessary to first change the social conditions. No one has the time or the
mind to write literature. So in times of revolution, literature must
temporarily fall silent.
(3) When the revolution is successful, social conditions
have improved, and there is abundance in people’s lives, then literature can be
produced again. There are two kinds of literature in this period. The first
kind acclaims and lauds the revolution. It sings the praises of revolution
because progressive writers find it meaningful when they reflect on how society
has changed, and progress will contribute to the collapse of the old society
and the establishment of the new. On the one hand, they are pleased to see the
collapse of the old system; on the other hand, they praise the establishment of
the new one. The second kind of literature, which mourns the eradication of the
old society—the elegy—is also a kind of literature you find after a revolution.
Some feel that this is “counterrevolutionary literature,” but it seems to me
that there is no need to label it as such a serious crime.
Although the revolution is in progress, there are still a
great many old-style people in society who can’t possibly be converted right
away into new-style people. Their minds are full of old thoughts and things. As
their environment gradually changes, affecting everything about them, they then
recall the comfort of the old times and become nostalgic for the old society.
Accordingly, they will create a sort of literature using ancient and stale
language. This sort of literature is tragic in tone, expressing the unease in
their hearts, witnessing the victorious establishment of the new alongside the
destruction of the old system, so they start singing elegies. But this
nostalgia and elegiac literature shows that revolution is in progress. If there
were no revolution, these old-style people would be ascendant and would not,
therefore, sing elegies.
Nonetheless, China has neither of these two types of
literature: elegies for the old system or songs lauding the new system. This is
because the revolution has not yet succeeded, and we are still engaged in it.
However, the old literature remains quite prevalent: nearly everything in the papers
is in the old style. I think this is indicative of the fact that the revolution
in China has not had a great effect on society and has had no great influence
on old-style people, so they can transcend world matters. The literature
discussed in Guangdong’s papers is all in the old style; very rarely is new
literature taken up. This is evidence of the fact that Guangdong’s society has
not been influenced by the revolution. There are no songs lauding the new, no
elegies for the old. Guangdong today remains the same as the Guangdong of ten
years ago.
Not only is this the case, there isn’t even any literature
that complains of suffering or cries out against inequities. All we ever see
are reports of unions marching in protest, but even this is limited to what has
been permitted by the government; it isn’t resistance to oppression but rather
revolution by imperial order. There has been no change in Chinese society, so
there are no nostalgic laments, nor are there any battle hymns for the new.
These two types of literature exist only in Soviet Russia. The majority of the
literary works written by their old-style writers who have fled to foreign
lands are mournful and nostalgic laments. The new literature, by contrast, is
vigorously moving forward. While there are no great masterpieces yet, even now
there are a large number of new works that have already left angry shouts
behind and transitioned to the period of singing in praise. It is impossible to
know now exactly what the effect this literature extolling the establishment of
a progressive, revolutionary society will be, but we may conjecture that it
likely will be a people’s literature, since a world for the masses is the goal
of revolution.
Of course, there is no people’s literature in China; indeed,
there is no people’s literature anywhere in the world yet. All literature that
exists now—songs, poetry, and whatnot—in the main is written for the elite.
With full bellies, they recline on a couch and read. A scholar encounters a
beauty, and the two fall in love. A scoundrel appears causing mischief and
creating misunderstandings, but it’s happily ever after in the end. It’s so
pleasant to read such things. If the literature doesn’t describe such elite
pleasures, then it ridicules the lower classes.
A few years ago, New Youth published
a few stories describing the life of a criminal in the barren north. A number
of college professors were displeased on reading them since they don’t like
reading about this sort of low-class person. If a poem describes a rickshaw puller,
then it is lowbrow; if a play includes criminal events, then it is lowbrow. For
these professors, the characters in a play should be restricted to scholars and
beauties: the scholar is ranked highest among imperial examinees, the beauty is
ennobled as a lord’s wife. They like the idea of scholars and beauties, so they
are fond of reading such literature and are filled with delight after reading
it. The lower classes have no choice but to share in their delight. If today
someone writes a novel or poem about the people—workers or peasants— we call it
people’s literature.
But in truth this is not people’s literature for the reason
that the people have not yet begun to speak. This is the writing of someone
else observing the life of the people and adopting the people’s manner of
speaking. There are some writers before us who, although poor, are still better
off than workers or peasants, otherwise they couldn’t afford to read or write.
On first glance it seems that this is the people’s voice. But this is not the
case; these are not true stories of the people.
Nowadays there are also people who transcribe the mountain
songs and folk ballads that the people sing. They imagine that this is the true
voice of the people since this is what ordinary folks sing. But the fact of the
matter is that they have to a large extent been indirectly influenced by
ancient books. The ordinary folks greatly admire the immense holdings of land
of the local gentry; and so they often model their own thoughts on that of the
gentry. The gentry recite poetry of regulated verse in either five or
seven-character lines. Accordingly, the majority of the mountain songs and folk
ballads sung by the ordinary folk also have five or seven characters per line.
This is to speak merely of form; in terms of plot and theme, it’s all very
hackneyed and worn out, and we can’t call this a true people’s literature.
Chinese fiction and poetry today just isn’t comparable to
that of other countries. Since nothing can be done, all we can do is call it
literature, but it doesn’t qualify as literature in times of revolution, let
alone people’s literature. The writers today are all scholars. If workers and
peasants are not liberated, their thought patterns will remain the same as
those of the scholars. We must await the true liberation of the workers and
peasants before there can be a true people’s literature. Some say, “China
already has a people’s literature,” but this is wrong.
You, gentlemen, are true fighters, are warriors of the
revolution. For now, I think, it is best not to hold literature in overly high
regard. Studying literature doesn’t benefit the war. At best, a war song, if
written well, can be read while resting between battles and may provide some
amusement. To put it somewhat more grandly, it’s like planting a willow tree:
once it has grown tall, providing broad and dense shade from the sun, the
farmers, having plowed until noon, might sit under the tree to eat their meal
and rest. The present state of affairs in China is that we are in the midst of
a revolutionary war. A poem will not scare off Sun Chuanfang, but a cannon shot
might send him scurrying for cover. Of course, some say that literature gives
strength to the revolution, but personally I have my doubts. Literature has
always been a product of leisure. To be sure, though, it can reflect a nation’s
culture.
For the most part, people aren’t satisfied with their
present occupations. I have no abilities other than writing some essays, and I
have grown tired of doing it. But you, gentlemen, grasping your rifles, want to
hear a speech on literature.
For myself, I’d naturally prefer to hear the sound of
artillery. It seems to me that the sound of artillery is a much finer thing
than the sound of literature. This is the end of my speech; thank you, gentlemen,
for listening to the end.
Translated by Andrew Stuckey.
From Jottings
Under Lamplight, ed. Eileen J. Chang and Kirk A. Denton. Used with
permission of Harvard University Press. Copyright © 2017 by the President and
Fellows of Harvard College.
_____
De LITERARY HUB,
25/09/2017
Imagen: Lu Xun
Imagen: Lu Xun
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