Howard Goldblatt (Editor) - Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused – Fiction From Today

I still cannot forget it.

And then one day, I get a chance to visit the ancient capital of Xi'an, to see firsthand the stone engravings of the Han, objects simple and vigorous in their very antiquity. On observing the six-steeds engraving of the Tang dynasty, I note that horses, like women, had to be fat to be beautiful-a sign of a prosperous dynasty. This triggers something in my memory, and I think back to the brass lion, the king of beasts, which was not terribly fierce and which, because it was sleeping, neither bared its teeth nor stretched its claws. Weak eras have sickly aesthetic visions; perhaps the lion belonged to Southern Song? It couldn't be Yuan, who knew only of bows and of shooting vultures and were happy in their yurts and thus never placed much stock in decorating imperial palaces or princely manors. It's possible that the date was even later.

On my trip to the ancient capital, I seek out one of my good friends, a famous scholar from Central Shaanxi province. His writing is serene and elegant; he lives alone; he is slightly younger than I but much more celebrated. He hosts a feast at his home and entertains me graciously. During our conversation, apart from the art of writing, of course, I rave about the objects of the ancient capital, expressing regret over the toils of time. He tells me that there is now a national law prohibiting people from plowing deeper than three feet anywhere within a radius of seven miles of the city. I am a bit nervous. Who knows whether several feet beneath my chair lie the ashes and bones of the burner of books and burier of scholars Qin Shihuang? Or the place where Empress Wu Zetian asked her favorite lord, Zhou Xing, to enter an urn and subsequently roasted him? My friend goes on to say that tiles from Qin and Han can be found throughout the area; when he went down to the countryside to (sample the life there, his landlady even gave him some Han pottery. In the future, when he has a chance, he will let me have some antiques. I am overjoyed; I think of those machine-assembled decorations on our shelves at home, made of aluminum, paragons of shallow taste.

I hurry out onto the balcony to view the two crude pots, un-glazed, the designs full of carefree abandon. Alas, I am truly a descendant of the southern barbarians: for the life of me, I cannot see what is so wonderful about them. Their shape is a bit like the so-called horse-bucket chamber pots of Shanghai and the lidded manure-tower chamber pots of Guangdong -could it be that the ancients sat solemnly upon these when they moved their bowels? Not that this would detract from their greatness. After admiring the pieces, I ask why they have been placed on the terrace, exposed to the harsh caprices of nature. My friend answers casually that they are simply too large to fit inside and have no aesthetic value. The expansiveness of his manner suddenly makes me envious and serves as a reminder of the difference in our levels of appreciation. Back several years, when a sleeping lion with considerably less historical tenure was snatched away, blood was nearly shed on a wasteland hill. Still, it must be said that this gifted friend of mine has not cast away these worthless pots; they are, in spite of everything, relics of our ancestors and cannot be abandoned. Apparently, people's sensibilities are the same, whether the people are illiterate Leizhou peasants or literati from the north and south. I suddenly develop an uncanny sense of empathy.

More years pass as if in an instant. The nature of the world changes daily, the pace is rapid. People's hearts gradually leave the ancient world behind.

Whereas in the past, underground laborers had to carry out their business in secret, in the changed world such practices are no longer noteworthy. These days, there are many novelties.

One day, the long unseen Yellow Hair knocks at my door. After cigarettes and tea, I learn that his factory has run up against competition from computerized cutting tools, and his problems have been compounded by the depressed economy. There was for him no choice but to stop salaries and let people go on extended vacation. Without paychecks, however, vacations are not very interesting. He wants to change his profession.

I comment that the construction business is booming and that he is still a master mason. He says that his poor ancestors played with dirt for generations, and why should he hold on to this rotten rice bowl? Furthermore, he is in his late thirties and has had his fill of following orders. This time, he wants to strike out on his own and open a store.

What line?

"Dogmeat, snails, and cobras; salted olives, preserved ginger, dried litchis. If it's edible, I'll sell it."

I ask if this business will hold up, and he says he first will hire a clerk, and when he has found a wife, he will let the clerk go. I say, "Great, forget the rest, let's celebrate the opening by going out for snake soup"-which I haven't tasted since Hainan.

Yellow Hair, this easygoing fellow, unexpectedly stiffens and mutters that he is short on the capital he needs to open the store, to the tune of at least eighteen hundred.

I would like to reach into my pocket to help him, and although I receive modest compensation for my manuscripts, unfortunately I belong to the slow-scribbler's school and have not been able to save much. When I examine what I have at hand, the most I can come up with is four hundred yuan.

Yellow Hair waves his hand and shakes his head; it's not my money he wants, just the painting from long ago, which, if sold, could bring a tidy sum. He is afraid I don't believe him and tells me quite a few true-life stories, which to my ears seem more like folk legends, but all contain exact names, dates, and places.

And then I consider that there is another type of antique collecting-that is, speculation. Not very cultivated and overly profit oriented, but not without benefit to the national economy and the people's livelihood. "It's over at Old Wu's," I tell him.

Embarrassed, Yellow Hair says he knows where it is but that each of us has a stake in the painting.

Yellow Hair is not particularly friendly with Old Wu, this I know. When I think of that tattered old shroud, I suspect it can't be worth much at all, so that if we did sell it, we wouldn't be robbing the nation of very much. "Well, all right, I'll go talk it over with Old Wu, and if we sell it, no matter what the price, you can have my share, too."

The next day, I arrive on Old Wu's doorstep. After the many generations of poverty in his family, he is finally established, having been recently assigned to a certain graduate school to specialize in some sort of Western ism. I think of the verse he used to recite back in the days when he was down and out in Hainan: "If we raise our heads and laugh when we go out the door, how can we be lowly commoners?"

What is most admirable about Old Wu is that he is unswerving in his affectations and will never stoop to self-deprecatory or polite remarks simply because I happen to be momentarily enjoying a bit of notoriety. I have always genuinely sought out his teaching, and although his knowledge of archaeology is close to my own, when we get on to abstract topics, he brims with ideas; he has indeed been blessed with the benefits of higher education. After we settle down, he speaks with exuberance on the origin and development of philosophy, its implications for the future of humanity, how interesting a tool it is for dissecting our Chinese national consciousness, and so on. He admonishes me to renew my knowledge, especially the new findings in the social sciences. I promise to devote myself to this endeavor in the future. He continues by making pointed criticisms of my most recent fiction, saying that I am using uh, ah, hmm , and well too much. A piece of writing should be pristine and vigorous. I need to model my works after the ancient writers and to emulate the early Qin essays. Under no circumstances should I emulate Ming and Qing novels, for with the exception of a few works they all belong to decadent fin de siècle literary styles. Modern works are even worse. He gives me Liu Xie's volume on criticism, The Carving of Dragons and Literary Minds . I accept it and promise to read it for the fourth time.