Yan Lianke - The Four Books

After that, no one else even dared to flee.

Life here is in fact much better than prison. Here everyone has enough food to eat and clothes to wear. The air is as fresh as a ripe peach or pear. Many people spend most of their time sunning themselves in winter and enjoying the cool breeze in summer, and throughout the year they are only busy when there is farmwork to be done. When the farmwork is light, they feel as though they are on vacation. Like me, for example. Here I can not only go for walks, enjoy the fresh air, chat with my neighbors, play cards, and sleep, I can also write novels. If everyone had not insisted that a mu of farmland definitely wouldn’t be able to yield six hundred jin of grain, then virtually everyone would be able to read whatever books they wanted, and think about whatever they wanted.

However, everyone committed the grievous crime of claiming that a mu of land wouldn’t be able to yield six hundred jin of grain. As a result, things were never the same again, precipitating a situation whereby a tiny grain of sand was transformed into a huge stone, and a light breeze was transformed into a full-blown storm.

3. Criminal Records , p. 9 (excerpt)

The seemingly calm afternoon of December 26 was actually fraught with class struggle between the capitalists and the proletariat. On the surface, everyone was undergoing labor reform, following the current trends, but in reality the capitalists were secretly cursing and plotting against the proletariat. For instance, I noticed that when the pretty young Musician went to work in the fields, she would always have a copy of La Dame aux Camélias in her pocket. This is an extremely reactionary French capitalist novel about a prostitute. Not only had the Musician not voluntarily handed over this book, but she even dared to carry it with her when she went down into the fields, and when everyone else was resting she would secretly read the novel, rapt with attention and her eyes full of tears. She would stare intently at that image of the heavily made-up prostitute, Marguerite, and for the longest time couldn’t bring herself to look away — and from this one can clearly see how sordid her thoughts were. In order to attract men, Marguerite would wear a camellia blossom and therefore always smelled of camellias. The Musician, too, always emitted a camellia-like scent of cold cream. Marguerite’s hair flowed down like a waterfall, while the Musician’s also hung past to her shoulders like a waterfall. What did this all mean?

I recommend that the higher-ups would be well served if they carefully monitor the Musician’s capitalist behavior and tendencies. A single ant hole can cause an entire dike to collapse. We can not permit the Musician’s petty bourgeois feminine sensibility to infect our Re-Ed district.

4. Old Course , pp. 17–22

The reason the higher-ups requested that I write Criminal Records was so that I might record all of the discussions and actions of our ninety-ninth to which the higher-ups themselves were not privy. In return, they promised I would quickly be designated a new man and allowed to return home. I therefore proceeded to write down everything I saw and heard. I left some portions of the document in my drawer, and handed over others. The parts I handed over described my contribution and loyalty to Re-Ed, while the ones I left behind in my drawer contained material I hoped to use for a novel after I succeeded in becoming a new man. I didn’t know which of these was more important to me, just as I didn’t know which is more important — the life of an author, or his works. In any event, the key thing was that I could write. I could stand in front of all the criminals, and before they even had a chance to dip their pens in the inkpot, I could use the reputation I had gained from publishing a revolutionary novel to then write my Criminal Records , which would be handed over to the higher-ups. I could also, in front of the higher-ups, use my reputation as the author of this Criminal Records to gather material for my future novels. The Child finds me, above all the others, most reliable. He trusts me just as intimately as he does his own eyes and hands.

The sowing began.

No one further raised the question of whether the district’s per- mu grain production would be able to reach six hundred jin . No one opened their foul scholarly mouths to make false, exaggerated, and unscientific reports, or spout antiscientific nonsense. Everyone said, “Science is a turd. Anyone who steps in it will get dirty, so it would be best to bury it out in the field.”

The land was divided among the different brigades. Each person was assigned about seven mu , and each brigade was given two hundred mu that was a combination of sand and arable soil. The smaller fields were a few mu in size, while the larger ones could be several dozen. Between the fields, there were areas that had become ponds, marshes, lakes, and wasteland. The fields were wedged between these wetlands and wasteland, and for ten or twenty li there wouldn’t be a soul in sight.

In order to sow all the fields in a single week, the ninety-ninth’s four brigades were divided into groups of seven or eight people each. Those who could sow were assigned to operate the wheat drill and everyone else pulled ropes attached to either side of a plow. Previously, each mu could yield two hundred jin of grain, which came from about half a sack of seed, or about forty jin . But now that each mu had to yield six hundred jin , it would require a 150- jin sack of seed, and the seeds themselves would need to be planted more closely together. At this time of year in the wild plain, the heat had passed but the autumn chill had not yet arrived. The wind, carrying a muddy, alkaline smell, blew in from the Yellow River. Everyone’s faces were cold, but their bodies were warm from pulling the ropes, leaving them soaked in sweat as though they had just taken a bath and then put on their clothes without drying off first.

Our brigade was located several li to the south of the district. If you were to walk over from a three- li -wide marsh, you would reach a triangular field about fifty mu in size, which was essentially reclaimed wasteland. The soil was plowed, and the new earth was bright yellowish red. The field was surrounded by gray sand and marsh plants. Everyone was sowing and pulling ropes, proceeding methodically from one end of the field to the other, and then turning back again. They did this over and over, like birds soaring through the endless sky. I was one of the people handling the wheat drill, which was what the peasants called a skill. That work was certainly not harder than writing a novel, and consisted of merely inserting the row of four drill bits two inches into the soil, then rotating the drum forward thirty degrees and, with the help of the people pulling the ropes, steadying the drill handle to deposit the seed into the row of holes. First the fields are drilled, then the wheat seeds are planted. After two trips back and forth, I became quite proficient at this task; and after four trips I was an expert. Watching the people pull the drill in front of me was like watching a blindfolded mule pull a grindstone in a mill house.

The mule driver asked, “Are you all tired?”

The criminals pulling the drill said, “That’s right. If fifty jin of seeds can yield two hundred jin of grain per mu , wouldn’t one hundred and fifty jin of seeds yield six hundred jin of grain?”

The mule driver replied, “If you are thirsty, then go to the edge of the field to drink some water.”