Jottings under Lamplight

Jottings under Lamplight

Lu Xun

My original intention in writing this essay was, in fact, to study how the family might be reformed. And because parental authority is so weighty in China, with paternal authority weightier still, I especially wished to offer a few opinions on the question of fathers and sons, which has always been regarded as sacred and inviolable. In short: the revolution must be carried all the way to the fathers themselves. But why have I so grandly chosen these nine characters as the title? There are two reasons:

First, China’s “disciples of the sages” hate nothing more than seeing two of their cherished things shaken. One of them need not be mentioned and has nothing whatsoever to do with people like us; the other is their ethical order. Since we occasionally cannot help saying a few words about it, we are implicated by association and have earned many ugly names such as “destroyers of morality” and “beastly degenerates.” They believe that a father possesses absolute power and authority over his son: whatever the old man says is naturally permissible, while whatever the son might say has already been declared wrong before he opens his mouth. But grandfather, father, son, and grandson are really no more than successive links in the bridge of life; none is fixed forever. The son of today will be the father of tomorrow, and then the grandfather of the future. I know that we and our readers, if not already serving fathers, are at least fathers-in-waiting, and all of us may hope one day to become ancestors; the only difference is one of time. To save ourselves a great deal of trouble, then, we need not be modest. We may as well seize the upper hand in advance, assume the dignity of fathers, and discuss the relationship between ourselves and our children. This will not only reduce difficulties when the time comes to put our ideas into practice, but in China it will also appear perfectly proper and keep the “disciples of the sages” from becoming frightened. Thus we gain two advantages at once. Hence: “How We Should Be Fathers.”

Second, I have touched briefly on the problem of the family in the “Random Thoughts” column of New Youth—numbers 25, 40, and 49. The general meaning can be summed up in a single idea: beginning with ourselves, we should liberate those who come after us. As for liberating one’s children, this ought to be the most ordinary thing in the world and should require no discussion at all. But China’s older generation has been too deeply poisoned by old habits and old ideas; it is impossible for them to awaken. Suppose a crow cries in the morning. A young person pays no attention, whereas a superstitious old person may be dejected for half the day. Pitiful though this is, there is no cure for it. Since there is no cure, we can only begin with those who have awakened and let each of them liberate his own children. Let us ourselves bear the burden of inherited tradition, brace our shoulders against the gate of darkness, and let them pass through into a broad and bright place, where afterward they may live happily and conduct themselves rationally.

There is something else. I once said that I was no creator, and for this I received a scolding in the “New Lessons” column of a Shanghai newspaper. But whenever we comment on anything, we should first examine ourselves and avoid pretending to be what we are not; only then can our words be worthy of ourselves and others. I know that I am not merely no creator; I am not even a discoverer of truth. Whatever I say or write is simply something I have taken from the principles and events I have encountered in ordinary life, some idea that seems reasonable to me. As for ultimate truths, I cannot know them. I cannot even say how far theories may advance and change several years from now; I only believe that there ought to be further progress and further change beyond the present. Therefore I say: “How We Should Be Fathers Now.”

I put down the book, closed my eyes, lay there, and thought about how to learn this skill. I concluded that it differs greatly from the method of “the gentleman keeps away from the kitchen,” because this time the gentleman himself has personally entered the kitchen. After meditation, I devised two forms of tai chi. First, toward worldly affairs one should “glance at reflections on the surface,” forgetting them at once, never understanding too clearly: one appears slightly concerned but is not truly earnest. Second, toward reality one should “block the ears and cover the eyes,” becoming numb and calm, unaffected by stimulation—first through effort, later naturally. The name of the first method does not sound very good. The second, however, is also a secret for curing illness and prolonging life, something even ancient Confucians did not avoid discussing. These are both great paths. There is also a light and nimble little path: lie to one another, deceive oneself and others.

Some things become rather inappropriate when put in different words, which is why gentlemen dislike vulgar people “speaking the truth plainly.” In fact, “the gentleman keeps away from the kitchen” is precisely a method of deceiving oneself and others. The gentleman absolutely must eat beef. Yet he is compassionate and cannot bear to see the ox trembling before death. So he walks away. Once the ox has been cooked into steak, he slowly returns and chews it. Steak certainly does not “tremble,” so there is no longer any conflict with compassion. Thus his mind is at peace, natural delight fills him, he picks his teeth, pats his stomach, and declares: “All things are complete within me.” Lying to one another is certainly not something that damages elegance either. When Mr. Dongpo lived in Huangzhou, whenever a visitor came he asked him to tell ghost stories. The visitor said he knew none. Dongpo replied: “Just make one up!” To this day it is still regarded as an elegant anecdote.

Telling a small lie can relieve boredom and dispel oppression. Later one forgets the truth and believes the lie. Then one’s mind becomes peaceful and filled with natural delight. When Yongle forcibly became emperor, some scholar-officials considered it rather wrong, especially because of his cruel slaughter of loyal ministers of Jianwen. Among those killed together with Jing Qing was Tie Xuan. Jing Qing was flayed; Tie Xuan was fried in oil. Tie Xuan’s two daughters were sent to the entertainment bureau and made prostitutes. This made the scholar-officials still more uncomfortable. But someone said that later the two daughters presented poems to the official who had originally interrogated them. Yongle learned of this, pardoned and released them, and married them to scholars.

This truly gives us “a refined conclusion after the tune ends.” One feels an enormous burden lifted: the emperor was after all enlightened, and good people were finally saved. Although she had been an official prostitute, she was ultimately a talented woman capable of poetry. Her father was also a great loyal minister. Marrying a scholar would naturally not be a humiliation. Yet one must let one’s thoughts “skim the surface” and stop precisely here. One must not continue thinking. If one thinks further, one remembers Yongle’s edicts, some of which were vicious and obscene. Compared with them, Zhang Xianzhong’s famous words when sacrificing to the God of Zitong—“I, your old man, am surnamed Zhang; you too are surnamed Zhang. Let us become relatives. Enjoy the offering!”—are truly elegant and refined enough to appear in a first-class Western magazine. Then one begins to feel that the Yongle Emperor hardly resembled an enlightened ruler who cherished talent and pitied the weak. Besides, what kind of place was the entertainment bureau at that time? Wives and daughters of criminals did not simply sit quietly waiting for customers. According to Yongle’s regulations, they also had to “make the rounds of the camps,” meaning that they spent several days in each military camp, the aim being to subject them to sexual humiliation by many men and make them give birth to “little tortoises” and “filthy low creatures”! Thus the “preservation of chastity” that has now become such a problem was then actually a special privilege reserved exclusively for “respectable people.” Under such rule, in such a hell, could writing one poem really enable someone to escape rebirth?