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Yu Hua begins his narrative by describing his visit to Oslo in 2006, coinciding with the centennial of the famous Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen’s death. Upon arriving at the airport, Yu Hua noticed Ibsen’s portrait on the tail of the Norwegian Air jet that would fly him to Oslo. Once in the city, he observed banners bearing the same portrait fluttering on both sides of the road, creating a striking visual of countless Ibsens gazing at him through the gentle drizzle. The memory of this experience prompts Yu Hua to reflect on the influence and changing perception of the Chinese writer Lu Xun, who introduced Ibsen to Chinese readers in the early 20th century. Yu Hua wonders if Lu Xun, a pivotal figure in modern Chinese literature, would have been equally curious about his own work had they lived in the same era.
During the years of the Cultural Revolution, Lu Xun and Mao Zedong were the only authors whose works were studied in Chinese schools. Lu Xun’s critical writings were wielded as tools to condemn the old society and expose its perceived evils. Lu Xun was elevated to the status of a great author, thinker, and revolutionary. His influence reached its zenith during this period, second only to that of Mao himself. The phrase “Mr. Lu Xun says” became a ubiquitous refrain in speeches, articles, and even personal arguments, as Lu Xun’s name evolved into a catchphrase representing “eternal correctness and revolution” (99). Curiously, despite the Cultural Revolution’s debunking of honorifics like “Mr.” as feudal and bourgeois, Lu Xun alone was permitted to retain this title.
As a student growing up during the Cultural Revolution, Yu Hua found Lu Xun’s writings to be dark, depressing, and largely incomprehensible. However, he recognized the power of invoking “Mr. Lu Xun says” to win arguments with his classmates. Yu Hua recounts two such instances: one involving a debate about the sun’s proximity to Earth at different times of the day, and another concerning the potential destruction caused by detonating all the world’s atomic bombs simultaneously. In both cases, Yu Hua fabricated quotes attributed to Lu Xun to emerge victorious in the arguments, demonstrating the absolute authority that the writer’s name carried during that era. Yu Hua even went so far as to set Lu Xun’s story “A Madman’s Diary” to music using a numerical notation system that he didn’t fully understand, filling an entire notebook with this bizarre composition that no one could perform or hear.
After the Cultural Revolution, Lu Xun’s reputation underwent a significant shift. While some continued to honor his literary legacy, others began to criticize his personal life. As China’s market-based economy grew, Lu Xun’s commercial value was increasingly exploited: Characters and places from his stories were used to name various products, businesses, and even private rooms in nightclubs and karaoke joints. Some entrepreneurs went so far as to employ Lu Xun’s image directly in their advertising.
In 1984, as a young writer working in the cultural center of a southern town, Yu Hua initially rejoiced at seeing Lu Xun’s works gathering dust under a table, believing that the author’s influence had finally waned. However, his perspective changed dramatically in 1996 when he was asked to adapt Lu Xun’s stories for a film. Upon re-reading the works, Yu Hua gained a newfound appreciation for the author’s skill, insight, and narrative power. He advised the director against adapting the stories, feeling that Lu Xun’s literary merit deserved better treatment. This experience led Yu Hua to purchase a complete set of Lu Xun’s works and immerse himself in the author’s writing.
Yu Hua concludes by reflecting on how Lu Xun’s writing is better suited for mature, sensitive readers rather than children, and that encountering an author at the right moment in one’s life is crucial. He acknowledges that being force-fed Lu Xun’s work during the Cultural Revolution contributed to his initial dislike of the author, as the constant exposure and political contextualization stripped the works of their inherent literary value. The chapter ends with a Norwegian historian confiding in Yu Hua that he once disliked Ibsen in a similar manner, highlighting the parallels between the two authors’ reception in their respective countries and the importance of approaching literature with an open and critical mind.
Yu Hua’s personal experiences with Lu Xun’s works reflect the broader changes in Chinese society and politics, emphasizing The Personal as a Microcosm of the National. His initial encounter with Lu Xun’s writings during the Cultural Revolution, when they were used as tools for political indoctrination, reflects the way in which literature was manipulated to serve the interests of the state. Similarly, Yu Hua’s later rediscovery of Lu Xun’s true literary merit mirrors the gradual loosening of ideological controls and the resurgence of artistic expression in the post-Mao era. Through his own evolving relationship with Lu Xun, Yu Hua demonstrates how personal narratives can provide valuable insights into the larger forces that shape a society.
During the Cultural Revolution, Lu Xun’s works were stripped of their literary value and used primarily as political tools to condemn the old society. As Yu Hua notes, “Lu Xun’s scathing works were wielded as whips to lash and scourge the supine form of China’s past” (98). Yu Hua constructs the violent metaphor of a whip to juxtapose this use of literature to the poetic and thought-provoking experience that he aims to cultivate. This politicization of literature was a hallmark of the Cultural Revolution, as the state sought to control all aspects of cultural production and to mold the minds of its citizens. Yu Hua’s personal experience of being force-fed Lu Xun’s writings in school, without truly understanding their meaning, reflects the way in which literature was reduced to an instrument of ideological indoctrination.
Yu Hua highlights the way in which Lu Xun’s name became a catchphrase during the Cultural Revolution. The phrase “Mr. Lu Xun says” was invoked in all manner of public discourse, from speeches and articles to personal arguments. It hence becomes a motif representing dogmatism in China in Ten Words. This phenomenon demonstrates the power of catchphrases in shaping public opinion and enforcing conformity. As Yu Hua observes, “Lu Xun had changed from an author to a catchphrase, one that represented eternal correctness and permanent revolution” (98). The reduction of Lu Xun to a mere slogan reflects the broader tendency of the Communist Party to demand unquestioning adherence to official doctrine.
Despite the political appropriation of Lu Xun’s works during the Cultural Revolution, Yu Hua ultimately comes to recognize their enduring literary value. He describes how, upon re-reading Lu Xun’s stories in 1996, he was struck by the author’s prose. Yu Hua says he later wrote of Lu Xun that “his narrative moves with such momentum it’s like a bullet that penetrates the flesh and goes out the other side, an unstoppable force” (110). He once again uses tactile descriptions of encounters with literature to highlight the intimacy of reading and writing. This realization suggests that great literature has the capacity to transcend the political and historical circumstances of its creation, and to speak to readers across time and space.
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