Dear Teacher Mo Yan, Hello!

 Dear Teacher Mo Yan, Hello!

Dear Teacher Mo Yan! Greetings!

Dear Teacher Mo Yan! How are you? How has your health been recently? It must be quite good, I suppose. And your mood lately—perhaps just so-so? Any worries on your mind? Probably quite a few, I’d imagine. Though it may seem a bit abrupt and presumptuous, I’d first like to sincerely wish you: good health, happiness for your family, and vigor in your later years! Do you know who I am? Let me briefly introduce myself. I’m a junior far removed from you, a shameless junior at that. Do you know just how shameless I can be? Let me put it this way: about two or three months ago, I started writing some short essays—scattered pieces, about a dozen or so. Though I don’t have a proper platform to share them, I shamelessly think they’re decent enough, not too bad. What’s even more shameless is that every single one of my essays, including this one, is anti-establishment. Truly, in terms of opposing the establishment, it’s no longer a matter of choice for me—I simply can’t write anything that isn’t anti-establishment, at least not lately. Worse still, I have no intention of changing myself on this front. To put it bluntly, when it comes to opposing the establishment, I could probably endure being spat in the face and still carry on. How shameless can I get, right? I think if, by some chance, you ever read this little piece I’ve written for you, you’d surely see just how shameless I am. Of course, as to why I’ve become so shameless, I’d like to explain it to you from two perspectives.

The first perspective revolves around two phrases. The first is the famous “Serve the People,” which could be called the soul of the establishment (if it even has one). This phrase is also a halo above its head—or at least a big part of that halo. Without it, the establishment would be nothing. The second phrase is “The establishment is the people,” which could be considered its heart (if it has one) or the valve through which it breathes—at least a major part of it. If you separate the Party from the nation, or the Party from the people, the establishment would suffocate itself. Taking it a step further, do you know who I think of when I put these two phrases together, based on my shallow understanding? I think of Liu Jixing, the last ruler of the Southern Han during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period. It’s said that to ensure his ministers’ loyalty, he required those who wished to serve him to castrate themselves. Only the self-castrated could become his trusted aides. Think about it—from these two phrases, it’s clear that what the establishment does is, in essence and logic, eerily similar to Liu Jixing’s actions. Sure, Liu Jixing’s demands were physical, while the establishment’s are spiritual, but the establishment goes even further. Liu Jixing only demanded it of his ministers, whereas the establishment demands it of everyone—no distinction between domestic or foreign, insider or outsider, living or dead. Everyone must see the halo above its head, must accept that “the establishment is the people,” or else they’re enemies—or at the very least, bad people. I don’t care about others, but I refuse to castrate myself, not even spiritually. So, to avoid that, I can only be shameless—shameless to any degree necessary.

The second perspective involves a nursing home. About two or three years ago, during a sweltering summer like now, I happened to visit a nursing home by chance. It was located in a rural-urban fringe of a small county, next to a highway—either a provincial or county road. The building itself was barely passable: a large iron gate that rarely opened, with a smaller locked gate within it. Beyond the small gate was a rectangular courtyard, fairly spacious, about one or two acres. On either side of the courtyard were rows of low brick bungalows, and facing the big gate was another, wider bungalow. They say it used to be a restaurant before it became a nursing home, the kind that hosted rural wedding banquets. But do you know the most shocking thing, Teacher Mo Yan? Right next to this nursing home, separated by just a wall, was a huge cattle farm. In the scorching summer heat, the nursing home was swarming with flies, and the stench was so pungent it stung your eyes. I won’t even get into the overall state of the forty or fifty elderly uncles and aunties in their sixties, seventies, and eighties waiting to die there. Let me first talk about the cattle farm. After leaving the nursing home, I actually drove around that farm, which housed at least a hundred big black beef cows. What I remember now is that the farm’s gate was wide open—I drove in, circled around, and no one stopped me. And those hundred-plus cows? They were truly black and glossy, fat to the point of oozing oil. Those big, black, fat cows—I’ll never forget them, just like I’ll never forget an old man in his seventies, hunched over, pacing endlessly in that spacious courtyard, muttering that he wanted to go home, followed by an old woman, probably his wife, also in her seventies, explaining to me, a stranger, that his mind wasn’t right. I can’t forget any of it. I know I’ve rambled on, Teacher Mo Yan, but you probably get the gist of this nursing home situation, right? Do you know how I thought about it then, and how I still think about it now? Here’s my take: overall, you can’t say the children or relatives who send their parents or elders to that nursing home to die for a few hundred yuan are all evil—some might even be doing a good deed. If those uncles and aunties weren’t waiting to die there, they might suffer more and die faster. By the same logic, you can’t entirely say the owner of the nursing home is evil—maybe they’re doing a good deed too. Similarly, you can’t fully blame the local government, who at the very least failed in oversight—perhaps their negligence has a good side too. And on a different note, you can’t resent those hundred-plus big black cows, can you? Defecating and urinating is their basic right. But Teacher Mo Yan, I’m convinced—unshakably, until my dying day—that the establishment is absolutely evil. I don’t follow a single religion, and if I may be so bold, even if the Buddha and God I deeply admire came together to urge me to calm down, I doubt I could let go of my hatred for the establishment. Writing this, I feel like crying—sorry for making you laugh, Teacher Mo Yan. Sigh, I’m not sure if I’m a good person or a bad one right now, and I don’t really care. All I can promise you is that I’m human—unlike the filthy likes of Hu Xijin, Jin Canrong, Sima Nan, and Zhang Weiwei, those representatives of patriotic scoundrels. If only for the possibility that one day these scoundrels might be locked up, whether I’m shameless or not doesn’t matter much.

Teacher Mo Yan, I’ve roughly explained why I’m shameless. Reading it back, I realize I really am shameless—whether I moved anyone else with the nursing home story, I don’t know, but I certainly moved myself first. Pathetic, truly pathetic. But since I’ve mentioned being moved, let’s continue from there. Do you know, Teacher Mo Yan, in my biased view, sometimes—including now—I think that on this land, as a whole, people born in the same era as you (roughly within five years of your birth year) with some cultural background might be the least likely to be moved by anything beyond the affection of family, friends, and lovers. This isn’t to say, even collectively, that you’re worse or better, or even less kind—kindness involves more than just sympathy, after all. It’s simply that you’re harder to move. When you were born, material resources were scarce overall, and traditional books or education were equally lacking. Yet, in contrast, the omnipresent propaganda—or rather, venting—of the establishment was something we juniors can hardly fathom, only vaguely imagine. Revolutionary, triumphant, great, violent, extreme, naively pure yet utterly hypocritical propaganda formed a bubble world around you. It easily shaped an idealism in your budding minds—something I can’t quite name and don’t really want to understand, whether real or illusory. Then came the Great Leap Forward, the steel-smelting campaigns, the Cultural Revolution—unprecedented human catastrophes. You heard, witnessed, and experienced far too much suffering. For some of you, that idealism shattered; for more of you, it didn’t so much shatter as warp. What followed was the great reforms, the grand era, the big development. But given the establishment’s nature, even its proudest, most self-congratulatory development—its so-called shining moment—came against a backdrop of extreme backwardness, built on countless sins and injustices. Teacher Mo Yan, can all this rambling escape your eyes? Or your mind? I don’t think so. You just disdain it, don’t want to, or aren’t willing to get too close to these overly ethereal things. Mo Yan! Mo Yan! Your name alone offers so many answers and rejects even more questions. But Teacher Mo Yan, you must also know full well that this era, this situation, this land is still entirely in your hands—or rather, in the hands of a few among you. Do you realize how much your idealism, or the idealism of a few among you, has harmed this land, past and present? And the future? What about the future?

Teacher Mo Yan, regarding the future, I’d like to start with a few lines from Zhuangzi’s Xiaoyaoyou as an introduction: “In the northern darkness, there is a fish named Kun. The Kun is so vast, no one knows how many thousands of miles it spans. It transforms into a bird named Peng. The Peng’s back is so vast, no one knows how many thousands of miles it stretches.” Based on my superficial understanding of the past and present, when I look to the future, on this same land, among these same people, it’s as if two shadows emerge. The shadow called Kun swims rapidly forward, toward North Korea; the shadow called Peng flies swiftly ahead, toward the former Soviet Union. Ten years, twenty years—thirty at most, I think—not too long, not too short. One of these shadows will reach its destination. This land will either become a Western North Korea or undergo a complete transformation. Perhaps my knowledge is too limited, perhaps my perspective is too skewed, but I honestly can’t imagine a middle ground. Frankly, I believe the establishment’s current approach—playing the harlot while pretending to be virtuous—neither can nor should last much longer. It’s already gone on too long, long enough. Either it fully embraces being a harlot, or its façade will be torn down by others. It’s like the old saying, “Ice and charcoal cannot coexist in the same vessel for long; cold and heat do not arrive at the same time.” Similarly, I’d like to echo what Ni Kuang once said: comparing the establishment to a harlot is an insult to harlots. Think about it, Teacher Mo Yan—even the most malicious harlot, how many people can they harm? How many has the establishment directly killed? If we exclude war and disease and rank the deadliest entities in history by the number of lives taken, if the establishment isn’t number one, no one dares claim that spot—not even its ancestor, the Soviet communists. They’re far behind. That’s how glorious and great the establishment is. Sigh!

Teacher Mo Yan, though it’s unlikely, if by some chance you read this little piece I’ve written for you, would you think I’m too dark? Would you think I’m too uncultured? As for my darkness, I can only brush it off with, “I’m a bit shameless.” As for my lack of culture, I admit I haven’t read that many books, especially not many purely literary ones or those with strong literary merit. Compared to literature, I prefer history; compared to my love for history, my hatred for the establishment runs deeper. I can’t give politics, as I understand it, a very positive definition, but I roughly believe that no perfect politics has ever existed—past, present, or future. There’s only politics that tends toward good or toward evil. Good politics vary, each with its strengths and flaws, but evil politics share a fundamental trait: they devour people. And when it comes to methods of devouring, the establishment is undeniably a master in this realm. They eat raw and剥 alive, and what’s worse, they do it with glowing faces and smug satisfaction. Teacher Mo Yan, it shouldn’t be like this. It really shouldn’t.

Teacher Mo Yan, I’d like to ramble a bit more about my lack of education and limited reading. I haven’t read much, but I’ve read the works of Mr. Jin Yong, Mr. Wang Xiaobo, and you many times over, deeply inspired and immensely grateful!

Mr. Wang Xiaobo and Mr. Jin Yong have passed away. If there’s an afterlife or heaven, I wonder how they’re doing there? Any regrets or lingering resentments? Just as I’m not entirely sure about your mood being “just so-so,” the physical and hierarchical distance between us is too vast. Still, I’d like to quote a few lines from the great Song Dynasty scholar Zhang Zai to express my respect for you: “To establish a heart for heaven and earth, to establish a destiny for the people, to carry on the lost learning of past sages, to open peace for all generations.” In my understanding of Chinese literature, setting aside the other three, when it comes to “carrying on the lost learning of past sages,” in this era and for a long time to come, you are the most qualified and capable person to do so. In my literary worldview, your literary ability is the closest to “carrying on the lost learning of past sages.” Your depth and insight, your wisdom and intelligence, your mastery of literature and language—these are beyond what most people could hope to reach. Of course, I’m not trying to convince anyone of this view, including you (should you humbly disagree), nor am I saying it’s your responsibility to “carry on the lost learning of past sages.” But since I’m writing this to you in this behind-the-scenes way, no matter how I dodge it, you’d surely think I’m up to no good—or, more bluntly, that I’m wicked and bad, trying to put innocent you on the fire to roast. Whether I succeed or not aside, just having this idea is a sin, isn’t it? Beyond selfishly believing that with your depth and intelligence, no matter how I write this piece, you’ll remain unscathed, I’d still like to explain who I am from two perspectives.

The first perspective is about an injury to my leg a few days ago—it still hurts a bit. Here’s how it happened: a couple of days ago, I took my youngest kids, now twelve, to see Octagonal Cage by Teacher Wang Baoqiang. While waiting outside the mall, I saw two women in their thirties pointing and arguing with each other. Honestly, I had no interest in watching, but after a while, three men—relatives or friends of one of the women—showed up and started backing her up. Without thinking much, I went over. At first, I tried to calm the three men down, saying, “Let it go, let it go.” I don’t know if it was my劝说 that did it, but one of the taller, sturdier guys got more riled up the more I tried, and he started going after the other woman. I grabbed him, tussling for a minute or two, but I couldn’t hold him back—she still got kicked, though with me holding him, it wasn’t too hard. Once she was kicked, I stopped bothering with the guy and told the woman to take pictures and call the police. While waiting for the cops, I argued with the three men a bit more, but there was no further physical conflict. When the police arrived, I reminded the woman who’d been kicked to wait for her family and go to the hospital, then I went into the mall to watch the movie. I was fine when I left, but after the movie, one of my leg joints hurt so bad I couldn’t put weight on it. That night, I went to a clinic; the next day, I visited two more, found the right doctor, got some medicine, and it’s much better now. Teacher Mo Yan, I’ve rambled about this just to explain that, past or present, on a personal level, I’m not inherently bad. The reason I feel so twisted—neither fully human nor ghost—in many of my thoughts is entirely because of the establishment and those patriotic scoundrels like Hu Xijin, Jin Canrong, Sima Nan, and Zhang Weiwei. They’ve gone too far. Not hating them feels like a betrayal of my own conscience.

The second perspective is a rough opinion of mine. Here it is: if I could, against my conscience, beautify the establishment and those patriotic scoundrels like Hu Xijin, Jin Canrong, Sima Nan, and Zhang Weiwei as a cesspool, then I think no one—or however many people—trying to bury or shovel away that cesspool (locking up those scoundrels) should worry too much about getting splashed with its filth. Otherwise, there’s no chance of success. Think about it, Teacher Mo Yan—if I were truly someone who kept myself clean, why would I, like so many others, have this urge to either bury or shovel away the cesspool? Sigh, Teacher Mo Yan, whatever the outcome, I think it’s fate. If it’s fate, you have to accept it—there’s no escaping it. Don’t you agree?

At the end of this piece, I’d like to ask you three questions, Teacher Mo Yan.

Teacher Mo Yan, do you hate those patriotic scoundrels like Hu Xijin, Jin Canrong, Sima Nan, and Zhang Weiwei? I think you don’t. I can imagine two reasons. First, your depth and stature are far too great—they don’t deserve it. Second, I understand you’ve already done your utmost; you must have your own difficulties and struggles!

Teacher Mo Yan, if by some chance you read this little piece I’ve written for you, would you hate me, this shameless junior so far from you in both distance and stature? Would you despise me even more than those patriotic scoundrels? I don’t know—probably not, right? I’m not worthy of it, truly not worthy.

Teacher Mo Yan, can you see those two shadows I mentioned earlier, Kun and Peng? Teacher Mo Yan! How are you? How’s your health lately? It must be quite good, I suppose. Your mood—perhaps just so-so? Any worries? Probably quite a few, I’d imagine.

Teacher Mo Yan! I sincerely wish you: good health, happiness for your family, and vigor in your later years!

Teacher Mo Yan! I sincerely apologize! Sorry! Sigh!

Yours sincerely,
With respect,

July 15, 2023, Saturday