An interesting work in which I feel that Zhang is asking himself and the reader what the value of his experiences were. Unlike other people and ethnic groups that have suffered deeply under their governments, the government which persecuted Zhang is still in power today, and would prefer it if the reality of events like the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution where left forgotten, or at least kept away from foreign eyes. Unfortunately, even though the physical scars may be swept away under the rug, the psychological trauma still persists in those that have survived the labor camps. As the nation moves forward, this lost generation never really receives closure and rather gets continued criticism for their perceived crimes, and intellectuals like Zhang pass along their trauma to those they love most, most notably in this case the relationships he runs away from. The common theme throughout the book is that after his many brushes with death in the camps, Zhang simply has a hard time feeling anything, maybe anything aside from fear of further condemnation, and so he cannot return the love women give him in his fleeting relationships. Basically, the government succeeded in shattering him, and the person that existed afterwards is only a shadow of the former poet that went in.
Some quotes I liked:
"He had stayed at her house the last time he was in San Francisco. "Jing Hui" -neither the name nor the person could have come from the mainland. He could smell the difference between mainland Chinese and others. Jing Hui's very way of walking, as she moved into the living room, showed that she had never marched in any Communist parade. She couldn't be called pretty, but it was equally clear that she had never worked in a production brigade or in the fields. Her long sculpted fingernails toyed with an exceedingly small dog that she had scooped up and was now cradling in her arms." (Pg. 26)
"Although accustomed to stinking smells, I could hardly stand the stench. The few people I saw looked oppressed, like lost souls who were there to transmit pain and misfortune to one another. This was not a hospital in which the living administered to the dying but one in which the dying tried to pull down those still alive." (Pg. 81)
"After going through twenty years of being criticized, struggled against, 'making a clean breast of one's crime's, or repeatedly writing self-examinations, of attending large meetings, small meetings, ad infinitum, or being paraded through the streets as an example to the masses, or ceaseless impromptu debates...there is not a single Chinese intellectual who is not an expert in oral eloquence."
"The unending political movements in China have created wave upon wave of masters of the Chinese language. Those who were not articulate all died-who told them, after all, that they had the right to be inarticulate! It was only proper that they die!"
"Those who lived were those who could talk and could write self-criticisms, and consequently they are all professionals. All Chinese intellectuals who are alive today know how to cater to the tastes of an audience, how to tailor their speech to the mood and the time available, and how to end when it is time to end." (Pg. 91)
"I know I was trying to please the public with nonsense, but true knowledge can't be verbalized. The most precious things are those learned by experience, learned viscerally. Those things have to stay buried inside. Anything that can be defined absolutely admits a fraction of what's false into itself. So it's better," I concluded, "to phrase inner knowledge in the form of jokes than to say with all seriousness things that are half false, half true." (Pg. 97)
"Those who take their ancestors to be their glory will also take their ancestors to be their shame. A race of men that puts too much emphasis on them will dig them up and whip their corpses when they want to change their names. If bad times come, these men run to blame the graves-they don't take any responsibility on themselves. These people are not really human, they're merely the tails of ancestors." (Pg. 183)
"I followed my lessons to the letter, doing everything that the books and the newspapers told me to do. I truly loved what the regulations said I should love. But the final thing I should love [Mao Zedong] wore me down till there was nothing left, and from then on I no longer dared to love."
"In the past, I remember once loving my mother. But then my teacher [Mao] warned me about her, told me not to love her anymore. According to the laws of class analysis, she belonged to the bureaucratic class-she should not take any pleasure in bearing such vile, evil spawn as me. All the crimes that later came down on my head were the direct result of her happiness in giving birth to me. So my teacher split me off from the mother I loved. Then I fell in love with the first woman I encountered, but the Great Teacher warned her that she should "draw a clear line" between the two of us, that according to class analysis, I belonged to the capitalist class, and so he split me off from a woman who loved me. With no one else to love, he said I should love him, that he alone was the saving star of all under heaven. Without him, I would immediately go to hell. And the way to love him best was to fill my breast full of hatred: Hate became the ethical standard of the new world."
"He had used the slightest tap of a single finger to destroy my primitive sense of love, like flicking over the first of a set of dominoes. From then on my ability to love was maimed." (Pg. 166)