When I first entered Beijing's Esperanto circles back in the day, the freshness and warmth I felt left me — an outsider from the provinces — beside myself with excitement, and I threw myself into it with total devotion. Thirty years have passed, and my Esperanto land has seen many people and events intertwined with my NLP career.

Senior Sister: Crazy Esperanto

[Photo: Li Wei stands beside a burly senior brother, posing with the elegant senior sister (Yuanmingyuan, 1984)]

Seeing my junior brother popularizing Esperanto, I'll share a few tidbits for fun.

I can't remember the exact timing — probably the second semester of my first year in graduate school. One day, my junior brother, full of ambition, threw himself into learning Esperanto, declaring he would use it as an interlingua for machine translation and build the most standardized, most scientific, most rational MT system ever. Good junior brother — his word was his bond, and his actions followed through. From then on, every day he'd appear at the far end of the dormitory hallway at the crack of dawn, reciting Esperanto at the top of his lungs.

At first, our classmates were curious, approving, tolerant. Among graduate students, English speakers went without saying, and there were those who knew Japanese, French, German, Spanish — even Serbian and Urdu. But Esperanto, this was probably the junior brother's exclusive domain — one of a kind, no other branch. Before long, however, the classmates couldn't take it anymore. It turned out the junior brother threw himself into learning Esperanto with complete abandon, oblivious to everyone around him, bordering on mania. Whether it was early morning in the hazy dawn or high noon under the blazing sun, the moment he picked up his Esperanto book he'd start reciting aloud, with rising and falling intonation, utterly indifferent to how many classmates were still deep in slumber.

Years later, Beijing produced that "Crazy English" guru Li Yang. No matter how he hyped his "crazy" achievements, I was never impressed. Li Yang's "craziness" compared to my junior brother's was a minor witch before a major sorcerer — not worth mentioning. If one were to trace the inventor of the "Crazy Foreign Language Learning Method," my junior brother would undoubtedly be first, Li Yang a distant second at best.

But enough digression — back to the main story. As my junior brother kept bellowing Esperanto at the end of the hallway day after day, the neighboring students' repeated "protests" proved futile, and they had no choice but to come to me: "Get your junior brother under control — we really can't take this anymore." "What language is your junior brother even studying? We can't understand a single word — it's just unbearable." At first, I just smiled and had no intention of getting involved. No matter how authoritative a senior sister might be, she couldn't interfere with her junior brother's diligent study — those were the days when hard work and eagerness to learn were virtues. Besides, no matter how much he "shouted," it didn't affect the women's dorm upstairs.

Gradually, as I heard about it more and more, I too began to feel his diligent study was indeed a bit "crazy." One Sunday afternoon, a male student came to the women's dorm upstairs on business and ran into me in the hallway. As if seeing his savior, he hurriedly said: "Go check on your junior brother — he's made so-and-so furious, and he's cursing up a storm in his room right now." I went downstairs and heard the junior brother's ringing recitation. Walking further... "Lunatic! BAM—" from the tightly shut door of the room next to my junior brother's came a loud shout followed by the crash of something being thrown. No doubt — my junior brother's loud recitation had disturbed that person's long weekend siesta. Word had it that student suffered from chronic insomnia and had his days and nights reversed. The junior brother had disturbed his afternoon nap, so clearly this was serious.

Seeing me arrive, the junior brother invited me into his room — his roommate wasn't there. It seemed he'd extrapolated from that and assumed all the other rooms were empty too. I asked: "Was so-and-so cursing at you?" "What?" — his face was a picture of bewilderment. Well, he was completely oblivious. I decided not to meddle further — there are advantages to blissful ignorance. I merely hinted gently that he shouldn't recite aloud in the hallway anymore. He paused, then burst out laughing. I never figured out whether he understood or not.

Crazy studying brought crazy results. The junior brother's Esperanto progressed at breakneck speed, bearing abundant fruit. In about half a year he could use Esperanto fluently — not only serving as an interpreter for Huang Hua at the International Esperanto Congress, he also became a minor celebrity in Esperanto circles. In the machine translation world, I don't know if my junior brother was the only one using Esperanto as a translation framework. But his wild, passionate dedication to learning and loving Esperanto was surely one of a kind.

My First Esperanto Paper

[Photo: Mimeographed conference paper, later formally published in El Popola Ĉinio]

Going to Kunming in 1985 for the First National Esperanto Congress was the first long journey of my Esperanto voyage. Our group from Beijing chatted and laughed the whole way, as close as family. Among us was Elder Sister Qiu, the female singer known nationwide during the Cultural Revolution for "I Go to the Kitchen for the Revolution." Also in our group was Big Brother Wang Yanjing, a very handsome young man who was already a "veteran" Esperantist. He'd often brag to us that he was part of the Whampoa First Class — the glorious experience of over a hundred people receiving the first post-Cultural Revolution Esperanto training in the grand auditorium.

For this conference, under the guidance and support of my advisor Liu Yongquan, we specially submitted a paper for the scientific symposium organized by the congress. The paper reported on my brewing master's thesis topic — "One-to-Two Automatic Translation from Esperanto to English and Chinese" — and discussed the feasibility of using Esperanto as an interlingua for multilingual machine translation. Professor Liu was the father of Chinese machine translation; as early as the late 1950s he had brought back the spark of MT research from his studies in Russia. Professor Liu was also a member of the "Friends of Esperanto" association, and he was very encouraging and supportive of my decision to study Esperanto and use it for machine translation experiments. This Esperanto paper was later formally published in the beautifully printed Esperanto magazine El Popola Ĉinio, under the title "Babelo Estos Nepre Konstruita" (Liu, Y. and W. Li 1987. Babelo Estos Nepre Konstruita. El Popola Ĉinio.).

There was a time when machine translation was in its artisanal R&D phase — each language pair required manually developing two systems, one from A to B and one from B to A. As the number of language pairs grew, there arose a combinatorial explosion problem. How to achieve mutual translation among multiple languages thus became one of the classic topics in the MT field. Various explorations and proposals emerged, falling mainly into two categories: one was the so-called interlingua-based design approach; the other was the unification grammar approach.

The first approach sounded wonderful: if there existed a relatively neutral interlingua capable of expressing meaning, then each language would only need to build a translation system to and from the interlingua, and through it one could achieve translation between any language pair. This picture was so beautiful that the elder generation of MT evangelists never tired of extolling it. This in turn sparked all manner of debates and explorations regarding interlingua design and selection — some advocated designing an entirely new logic-based formal language (Japan, amid the so-called "Fifth Generation Computer" fever, once collaborated with China and other Asian nations to implement this approach); some advocated using or adapting Esperanto (the Dutch company BSO once attempted this, which drew me into its multilingual project); still others insisted that only a natural language (such as English, or simplified English) as interlingua was realistically viable.

The second approach — unification grammar — was also theoretically tantalizing. Its rise accompanied the advent of the new programming language Prolog: unification operations were a built-in feature of Prolog. Unification grammar aimed to eliminate the procedural nature embedded in traditional computational grammars for language analysis and generation. Under the banner of unification grammar emerged a series of grammar formalisms suffixed with "G" — such as GPSG and HPSG (my doctoral research was on bidirectional MT experiments within the HPSG framework). Because linguistic rules were no longer directional, the same grammar could serve both analysis and generation — whether the system performed analysis or generation was determined only when the grammar resources were invoked at runtime. In theory, translating from Language A to Language B versus Language B to Language A, once linguistic resources were unified, the engineering cost of system development was cut in half. For multilingual translation, the efficiency gains might not match the interlingua approach, but cutting labor in half was still enormously attractive.

Both approaches were traditional rule-based systems. Although both underwent considerable research and exploration, they ultimately failed to scale due to the limitations of handcrafted rule systems and never achieved major impact. What ultimately proved successful was the later deep neural network-based machine translation. The multilingual translation problem was thus transformed into an end-to-end resource problem of massive bilingual parallel corpora. With the same architecture and algorithm, one only needed to train the same bilingual corpus twice — once for each translation direction — to produce two MT models. Interestingly, in recent years there have also been approaches for language pairs lacking parallel data that take a detour through a resource-richer language as a pivot.

The Wang-Ai Sisters

[Photo: Top row: Elder Sister, Wang Ai, Li Wei. Bottom row: Teacher Wang Zhihuan, Japanese Esperantist Ms. Araki Miki]

At the time, we Beijing Esperantists had a stronghold — the home of the Wang-Ai sisters near the National Art Museum. Wang Ai had an eternally youthful baby face and seemed to be part of the Whampoa First Class too. The two sisters had classic northern Chinese personalities — warm, cheerful, good at organizing, widely connected, and full of humor. Going to their home felt as comfortable and natural as being in your own. The day an Esperanto art film was being screened, our whole group arranged to watch it at her place. When foreign Esperanto friends came to visit, we'd often take them to the Wang-Ai home for gatherings.

During the congress, a male Japanese Esperantist became quite close with us as well. It happened that my older brother came to Beijing at the time, so the two of us brothers joined Wang Ai in accompanying our Japanese friend on a visit to Yuanmingyuan, after which we gathered a bunch of Esperanto friends for a dinner party at Wang Ai's home — a lively, wonderful time.

[Photo: Ms. Rabin offstage after her performance]

What Wang Ai was proudest of was a candid shot she'd captured of Ms. Rabin after her performance during the Esperanto Congress. It was truly a photographic masterpiece — clean composition, vivid colors, the subject's expression astonishingly lifelike. No wonder the photo lab owner enlarged it and displayed it in the shop window as a sample to attract customers.

Love of Esperanto

After Dr. Zamenhof, the father of Esperanto, created the language, he didn't release it right away. Instead, he spent years conversing with himself and writing in Esperanto until it became second nature. When I first encountered Esperanto, it was love at first sight. A poem bears witness:

Al Nia Kara Lingvo

La lingvo gracia, kara mia,
Ĝis kiam vi venis al mi fine fin?
Atendis soife mi, eterne via,
MI AMAS VIN!

Mi amas vin vere, pruvu Dio,
Kaj mia bon-koro batas nur por vi;
Ne plu sekreteto estas tio:
VIN AMAS MI!

Ĉu kredas vi mian amon maran?
Ĉu kredas, ke mia koro flamas?
Ĉu kredas la vorton pure karan:
VIN MI AMAS!

This was a poem I wrote in 1986 — my Esperanto debut. Though naive, it was burning with sincere passion. Later, when I was doing machine translation experiments from Esperanto to English and Chinese, I simply fed it into my translation program, playing a little joke on "artificial intelligence," and even declared triumphantly in my thesis: Who says poetry can't be translated? Who says poetry can't be machine translated? Here is my master's system's automatic translation:

To Our Dear Language

The language graceful, my dear,
Till when you came to me at last?
Waited longingly I, ever yours,
I LOVE YOU!

I love you truly, let God prove,
And my good heart beats only for you;
No longer that is a little secret:
I LOVE YOU!

Do you believe my love like the sea?
Do you believe that my heart burns?
Do believe the word purely dear:
I LOVE YOU!

Young and reckless, what flowed were scorching words — unadorned, unsubtle — yet they captured the ecstatic state I was in when I first discovered Esperanto.

As a linguistics graduate student, I was captivated from the very beginning by Esperanto's linguistic features. The flexibility and diversity of Esperanto's modes of expression won me over completely. First was the freedom of word order: a simple accusative suffix -n granted total freedom to the subject-verb-object sequence. Mi amas vin ("I love you") could be expressed in six different ways! I marveled at this magic and drew poetic inspiration from it, using different word orders for rhyming. Many years later, I didn't forget to tell my daughter that Esperanto allows six combinations for saying "I love you." Every phone call with my daughter, before hanging up, she never forgets to say "I love you" in six languages — Chinese, English, French, Russian, Japanese, and Esperanto — always ending with Esperanto, rattling it off in one breath:

Mi amas vin. Mi vin amas. Vin mi amas. Vin amas mi. Amas mi vin. Amas vin mi.

What also amazed me was the freedom of word formation and the symmetrical beauty of the correlative table. I recorded these observations in my Esperanto notes, which eventually became material for my paper on the linguistic characteristics of Esperanto. Take the freedom of word formation, for example:

Ŝi rid-as. / Ŝi rid-etas. / Ŝi estas rid-ema. / Ŝi estas rid-emulo. / Ŝi estas rid-emulino (rid-emino). / Ŝi estas rid-emulineto (rid-emineto)……
She laughs. / She giggles. / She is laughter-prone. / She is a laughter-prone person. / She is a laughter-prone woman. / She is a laughter-prone little girl……

Esperanto's rich affixes and the agglutinative nature of its word formation give language users the greatest elasticity of form — one can almost shape words at will, deeply satisfying the creative urge. Esperanto's very nature encourages the "invention" of words. In actual use, of course, this flexibility manifests more as convenience in word creation rather than indulging creative desire. If I forget a specialized term, say komputero (computer), I can temporarily coin elektrona kalkulilo (electronic calculating tool — which could mean either a calculator or a computer) without hindering communication. Everyone who has used Esperanto has experienced this convenience and the joy of creation.

当年初入北京世界语圈子，感受到的新鲜和温暖，使我一个外地人兴奋莫名，遂以全部热情投入。三十年了，我的世界语国也经历了很多与我的NLP生涯交织在一起的人和事。

师姐：疯狂世界语

记不得确切的时间了，大约是研一的下学期。某日，师弟踌躇满志，拉开学习世界语的帷幕，宣称要用世界语作为机器翻译媒介语，打造最规范、最科学、最合理的机器翻译系统。好师弟，言必信，行必果。此后便天天一大早出现在宿舍的走廊尽头高声朗读世界语。刚开始，同学们还好奇、赞许、包容。研究生中会英语的自不必说，日语、法语、德语、西班牙语，以至于塞尔维亚语、乌尔都语也会者有之。独独这世界语大概是师弟"只此一家，别无分店"。然而，很快同学们便受不了了。原来师弟学习世界语尽情投入，旁若无人，几近疯狂。不论是清晨蒙蒙天亮，还是正午赤日炎炎，他只要拿起世界语便放声诵读，抑扬顿挫，全然不顾还有多少同学尚在睡梦之中。多少年后，北京出了个"疯狂英语"李扬，不论其怎么宣传"疯狂"业绩，我皆不以为然。李扬那个"疯狂"比起我师弟来，实在是小巫见大巫，不足挂齿。若要考证"疯狂外语学习法"的发明人，肯定是我师弟第一，李扬顶多第二。

闲话少说，言归正传。话说师弟每日在走廊尽头狂喊世界语，周邻的同学多次"抗议"无效，只得跑来找我："管管你那个师弟，我们实在受不了了。""你师弟学的是什么语啊？我们一句也听不懂，简直让人受不了。"刚开始，我笑笑，并不打算管事。当师姐的再有威信也不能干涉师弟的勤奋学习啊，那年头可是以勤奋好学为美的，何况师弟不论如何"喊叫"，并不影响楼上的女生宿舍。渐渐地，听得次数多了，我也感到师弟的勤奋好学确实有点"疯狂"。一个周日的下午，一位男生到楼上的女生宿舍有事，走廊里正好碰见我，好似看到救星一般，他忙说："快去看看你那个师弟，把＊＊气坏了，正在宿舍里大骂呢。"我走下楼梯，听见师弟那朗朗的读书声，再往前走……"神经病！咣——"师弟隔壁宿舍紧关着的门里伴随着高声的喊叫，传出了一声摔东西的声音。不用说，肯定是师弟的高声诵读打搅了那人周末长长的午休。据说，那同学长日失眠，昼夜颠倒。师弟打扰了人家的午休，可见问题煞是严重。见我到来，师弟把我请进了他的宿舍，他宿舍里没人。敢情他以此推论，以为其他宿舍也没人呢。我问："＊＊是不是骂你呢？""什么？"他一脸的迷惘。得，他浑然不觉呢，我也别再多事，懵懂自有懵懂的好处。我只是委婉地提醒他，以后别在走廊里高声朗读。他先是一愣，接着哈哈大笑。不知道他是明白了还是没明白。

疯狂的学习带来疯狂的收获。师弟学习世界语进步神速，硕果累累。大约半年后便能流利地使用世界语，不仅在国际世界语大会上给黄华做了翻译，还在世界语圈子里成为小小的名人。在机器翻译界，用世界语做翻译体系，不知道师弟是不是唯一的。但是，他那学习世界语，热爱世界语的疯狂劲头肯定是唯一的。

第一篇世界语论文

1985年去昆明开全国第一届世界语大会，是我的世界语之旅的第一次远行。我们北京一伙人，一路谈笑，亲如一家。同行有邱大姐，就是文革时唱过家喻户晓的"我为革命下厨房"的女歌手。同组还有老大哥王彦京，一个很英俊的小伙子，是"老"世界语者了，常跟我们吹嘘他是黄埔一期，当年在大礼堂上百人接受文革后第一批世界语培训的光荣经历。

为了这次会议，在导师刘涌泉指导支持下，我们专门提交了一篇论文，参加大会组织的科技研讨会。该论文汇报了酝酿中的硕士课题"世界语到英语和汉语的一对二自动翻译"，并就世界语作为多语机器翻译媒介语方案的可行性提出了讨论。刘老师是中国机器翻译之父，早在上世纪50年代末就从俄国进修带回了机器翻译研究的火种。刘老师也是"世界语之友"会员，对于我决定学习研究世界语，并用它尝试机器翻译的想法非常鼓励支持。这篇世界语论文后来正式发表在印制精美的世界语杂志《中国报道》上，题目是"巴别通天塔必将建成"（Liu, Y. and W. Li 1987. Babelo Estos Nepre Konstruita. El Popola Chinio.）。

曾几何时，机器翻译处于手工业研发时期，每个语言对要手工开发两套系统，A 到 B 一套，B 到 A 一套，语言对一多就有一个组合爆炸的问题。如何实现多套语言之间的相互翻译于是成为机器翻译领域的经典话题之一。各种探索和方案都有提出，主要有两类：一类是所谓基于媒介语的设计思想；另一类是合一文法支持的方案。第一种方案很动听，因为如果有一种比较中性可以表达意义的媒介语，那么每个语言只要编制针对媒介语的互译系统，就可以通过媒介语实现任意语言对的翻译。这幅图画如此美妙，为老一辈机器翻译宣传家门所津津乐道。由此而来又引发了媒介语设计和选择的种种争论和探索。第二类合一文法的研究在理论上也很诱人，它的兴起伴随着新型计算机语言 Prolog的问世。在合一文法的大旗下出现过一系列以后缀G命名的文法形式化方案，如 GPSG，HPSG等。理论上，A 语言翻译为 B 语言，与 B 语言翻译为 A 语言，在语言资源归一以后，开发系统的工程耗费就节省了一半。这两类方案都是传统的基于规则的系统，虽然都做过相当程度的研究探索，但最终由于局限于手工规则系统难以规模化而没成大气候。最终修成正果的还是后起的深度神经网络为基础的机器翻译。多语翻译的问题因此转化为海量双语对照语料库的端到端资源问题。同一个架构和算法，原则上只需要同一个双语对照语料库对互译的两个方向训练两次即可生成两套机译模型。

王艾姐妹

当时我们北京世界语者有一个据点，就是美术馆附近王艾姐妹的家。王艾长着一张总也不老的娃娃脸，好像也是黄埔一期的。她姐妹俩典型北方人性格，为人热情爽朗，会张罗，结交广，富有幽默感。到她家，就跟到自己家一样感觉亲切自在。世界语文艺片播放那天，我们一拨人于是相约到她家看。遇到国外世界语朋友来访，我们也常常带到王艾家聚会。

大会期间，还有一位男的日本世界语者跟我们交往颇深。恰好赶上我哥哥来京，于是我兄弟俩和王艾一起陪同日本朋友逛圆明园，然后召集一批世界语朋友在王艾家晚餐聚会，热闹非凡。

王艾最得意的就是她抓拍了一张世界语大会期间拉宾小姐演出之余的照片。这的确是一幅摄影杰作，画面干净利索，色彩鲜艳，人物神态，栩栩如生。难怪照片洗印店的老板把照片放大摆放在门前作为招徕顾客的样榜。

世界语之恋

世界语之父柴门霍夫博士创造完世界语后，并没有马上发布，而是用世界语自己跟自己说话和著述了好多年，烂熟于心。我刚开始接触世界语，就一见钟情，有诗为证：

Al Nia Kara Lingvo

La lingvo gracia, kara mia,
Ĝis kiam vi venis al mi fine fin?
Atendis soife mi, eterne via,
MI AMAS VIN!

Mi amas vin vere, pruvu Dio,
Kaj mia bon-koro batas nur por vi;
Ne plu sekreteto estas tio:
VIN AMAS MI!

Ĉu kredas vi mian amon maran?
Ĉu kredas, ke mia koro flamas?
Ĉu kredas la vorton pure karan:
VIN MI AMAS!

这是我1986年写的诗，是我世界语的处女作。尽管幼稚，却是火热真情。我后来做世界语到英语汉语的机器翻译实验，索性把它送进我的翻译程序，跟"人工智能"开了个小玩笑，还振振有词地在论文中说：谁说诗歌不能翻译？谁说诗歌不能机器翻译？以下是我的硕士系统的自动翻译：

To Our Dear Language

The language graceful, my dear,
Till when you came to me at last?
Waited longingly I, ever yours,
I LOVE YOU!

I love you truly, let God prove,
And my good heart beats only for you;
No longer that is a little secret:
I LOVE YOU!

Do you believe my love like the sea?
Do you believe that my heart burns?
Do believe the word purely dear:
I LOVE YOU!

年少轻狂，流淌的都是滚烫的词句，不加掩饰，不知含蓄，但表现了我当年初识世界语那种欣喜若狂的状态。

作为语言学研究生，我一开始就被世界语的语言学特点迷住了。世界语表达方式的灵活多样让我折服。首先是语序的自由，一个简单的目的格后缀 -n, 主谓宾句式的语序就获得了完全的自由：mi amas vin (我爱你），可以有六种表达！我感叹其神奇，也获得了诗歌的灵感，于是用不同语序入韵。很多年以后，我没有忘记告诉我的女儿，世界语可以用6种组合说"我爱你"。每次跟女儿电话，挂电话前，她总不忘用六种语言说"我爱你"（汉／英／法／俄／日和世界语），最后总是以世界语结束，并且一口气说下去：

Mi amas vin. Mi vin amas. Vin mi amas. Vin amas mi. Amas mi vin. Amas vin mi.

让我惊奇的还有构词的自由性，和相关词表的对称美。我把这些写入我的世界语笔记，最终成为我的世界语语言学特点的论文素材。就说构词的自由性吧，比如：

Ŝi rid-as. / Ŝi rid-etas. / Ŝi estas rid-ema. / Ŝi estas rid-emulo. / Ŝi estas rid-emulino (rid-emino). / Ŝi estas rid-emulineto (rid-emineto)……
她笑。 / 她微笑。/ 她爱笑。/ 她是爱笑的人。/ 她是爱笑的女人。/ 她是爱笑的小女孩儿 ……。

世界语丰富的词缀和构词的黏合特性，从形式上给了语言使用者最大的弹性，几乎可以随心所欲，很能满足人的创造欲：世界语的本性是鼓励"生造词"的。当然，在实际使用中，这种弹性更多表现在给人以造词的便利，而不是满足创造欲。如果我忘记了一个专门词汇，比如 komputero（电脑），临时生造一个 elektrona kalkulilo (电子运算工具：可以指计算器或电脑)，也不妨碍我的交流。每一个使用过世界语的，都体会过这种便利和创造的乐趣。

From 《朝华午拾》电子版目录. Original Chinese: 《朝华之十七: 我的世界语国》.

Wang Zhihuan, my college teacher, passed away on August 16, 2013. May she rest in peace.

I just learned that my college English teacher, the venerable Wang Zhihuan, died last month at Xinhua News Agency's compound. A friend online informed me:

"I asked around at Xinhua — the old lady passed away on the 16th of last month…"

She was ninety-four. Ninety-four years — a full life by any measure, what the Chinese call a natural end. But her final years were lonely and desolate, filled with physical suffering. For the last decade, she had stayed in touch with my father, turning to him for medical advice to ease her pain.

Miss Wang came from a Nationalist naval officer's family. Bright and quick-witted from childhood, she was a top student at St. John's University and Jinling College, gifted at composing English poetry — she submitted a collection of her own sonnets as her graduation thesis, earning high praise from her professors and from Wu Yifang, the college president. In the 1930s and '40s, she went to Yan'an to join the revolution. Among the progressive young women who made that journey around the same time was Wang Guangmei; the two were close friends who shared a cave dwelling. Wang Guangmei married Liu Shaoqi, China's former president before Cultural Revolution; Miss Wang married Wang Bingnan, also a founding elder of the Communist Party. In between came many personal and political upheavals and the dissolution of a marriage. She had translated Marx, Lenin, and Mao in Yan'an, then worked at the Writers' Association and Xinhua News Agency after Liberation — until the early 1960s, when the unrelenting political campaigns drove her to multiple suicide attempts. She then tried to "defect" to Hong Kong to join her father and was caught at the border, sentenced to nearly twenty years in prison. In the end, she was hired by our institute to teach advanced English reading and writing.

A few years ago, I visited her at the Xinhua dormitory. By then she could barely get around outside — inside her apartment, she essentially crawled to live. But her mind and speech remained sharp. Her immobile legs caused her constant agony, and she spent most of her waking hours wrapping them, layer by layer, in some kind of Chinese herbal bandage, to dull the pain.

As for longevity, she had outlived every rival and every peer. In her own words: "I couldn't beat you, but I could outlive you." I remember when she said that, the two of us burst out laughing.

More than thirty years ago, Miss Wang told me stories of her childhood. Her family lived in Qingdao, with a cook, a gardener, and a housekeeper — a comfortable high-class environment. She had a stern mother she didn't like, but her father adored her. A naval captain, he often took her out to sea. She told me she had been precocious, sensitive, and melancholic from a very young age. She remembered vividly: when she was just four or five, barely old enough to form memories, she stood once on the deck of her father's warship, watching the sunset paint half the sky crimson. A dim sense of life's drifting smallness washed over her — an immense, wordless sorrow — and she wept uncontrollably. Her father couldn't console her, no matter how he tried. So tiny, not yet able to speak in full sentences, yet the philosopical feeling of human insignificance against the infinite universe struck her with piercing clarity. She had also said: "I was born by the sea, and I should return to the sea." The end she had envisioned for herself was to be laid to rest in the ocean, somehow.

From the 1940s onward, when Miss Wang Zhihuan threw herself into the Yan'an revolution, she set out on a path of blood and fire from which there was no return — the path of the "progressive youth." She had been a daughter of the bourgeoisie, educated in fine missionary schools, a dreamer and writer of English verse, sensitive and brilliant, already standing out in college and deeply admired by her foreign professors. She had the chance to study abroad on scholarship, far from her afflicted homeland. But by a twist of fate, the revolutionaries noticed her, and she was drawn into the revolutionary crucible — a life destined for tragedy.

Revolution is not painting or embroidery. Revolution is a meat grinder. A bystander might use majestic words like "epic" and "sweeping." But for someone ground nearly to death in that machine, the view from inside is altogether different. The truth is, after nearly twenty years in a labor camp, even if you survive, you cannot emerge whole. Spirit and body alike bear wounds upon wounds. A good person can be tortured into a paranoiac.

But there is another way of looking at that life choice. Had the progressive youth not thrown herself into revolution — had she instead gone abroad as a young bourgeois — the result would have been a different kind of life: relatively ordinary, materially comfortable (a journalist, a writer, or a translator), in all likelihood just one more face in the crowd. But joining the revolution, and seeing the revolution succeed — apart from being sacrificed to it or fed into the meat grinder — there was indeed the historical possibility of becoming a woman leader of the new China. Had her marriage not ended, with Wang Bingnan's stature (a Party founding elder who had been involved in the Xi'an Incident), the position of his wife would have been only a few steps away from that of First Lady.

Miss Wang once alluded, obliquely, to her awkward position. When Wang Bingnan's German ex-wife arrived in Beijing with their son, Miss Wang, as the lady of the house, took the boy rowing at Beihai Park — she felt reluctant, put-upon, yet compelled to keep up appearances. That was likely one of her efforts to hold the marriage together. As for how the divorce came about, she never once described the process. Besides, I've since learned that the remarriage with Anna never materialized — Wang Bingnan eventually married someone else.

Our teacher's tragic life fulfilled an ancient verse: "The clouds drift out from the mountain caves with no intent; the bird, weary of flight, knows at last to return." Her given name, "Zhihuan," means "knowing to return." She had been weary for so long — but without the long sleep, how could she ever "return"? After the failed suicide attempts of the early 1960s, with no way out, her only road home was to join her father in Hong Kong. "How foolish I was. I got off the train at Shenzhen and just walked straight down the main road — I was nowhere near the border and they intercepted me." A few questions and she was exposed: attempted defection, fleeing to the capitalist free world — a grave crime.

May Miss Wang rest in peace.

---

Miss Wang's Final Days

About Miss Wang's final days, my father made inquiries. He reported:

"I called Miss Wang Zhihuan's caregiver, Jin, today. The old lady passed away on August 16th of the solar calendar. She was at Peking Union Medical College Hospital for three days, unconscious for only one. In the end it was respiratory and kidney failure. She had eaten dinner the night before. She did not suffer much at the end. She had passed her ninety-fourth birthday. Not a single relative came to handle her affairs. There was no memorial ceremony. The Veteran Cadres Bureau managed everything."

"Her dying wish not to be cremated meant nothing — her ashes will be kept for three years. Miss Wang once told her part-time helper that she had a younger sister in Shanghai, a younger brother, and a cousin who had come to visit — but when death came, not one relative appeared. They couldn't be reached while she was alive. I don't know why."

As for refusing cremation — however much she wished otherwise, in modern Beijing, it was unavoidable.

In truth, more than thirty years ago in Anqing, she already felt herself growing old. I remember her choosing a bedsheet — she picked the cheaper, lower-quality one, then said to me: "How much longer do you think I'm going to live? What use is good quality?" She always had one ailment or another, so she never imagined she'd reach such an advanced age. Yet she was meticulous about diet and health. To treat her low platelet count (her skin wouldn't clot easily), she learned that the red skin of peanuts helped — so she made a point of eating a few peanuts at breakfast every day, keeping it up for decades. She guarded her health with cautious diligence. Even at ninety, she told me on the phone that she'd noticed she kept forgetting to salt her cooking lately — but the dulling of her taste buds didn't dampen her pursuit of flavor. Since she ate alone anyway, she'd cook once and eat for several days.

As for her relatives — those she had been close to, those who once kept in touch with — they had all passed away before her. Their children and grandchildren had never known her, had no contact, and never reached out. So the old woman died alone.

Ninety-four years. By traditional Chinese reckoning, that can be called a joyous funeral. Miss Wang, rest in peace.

— Written September 12, 2013

---

Biographical Notes on Miss Wang Zhihuan

Collected from online sources:

Wang Zhihuan, female. From 1938 to 1944, she studied and worked at St. John's University in Shanghai and Jinling College in Chengdu. During this period, when Comrade Wang Bingnan of the Communist Party's foreign affairs association was explaining the truth of the New Fourth Army Incident (Wannan Incident) to the foreign press, he enlisted Wang Zhihuan as translator. It was through this that Wang Zhihuan came to know Wang Bingnan. At the time, Wang Zhihuan had learned from the media about Yan'an's proposals for democratic governance and wished to go there and join the revolution. She visited the Eighth Route Army's Chongqing office for this purpose. Later, in Chongqing, she met Gong Peng, Zhou Enlai's secretary. In September 1945, she arrived in Yan'an to work, serving as a translator in Xinhua News Agency's English department. In 1947, she worked as a translator at the Central Foreign Affairs Group. In Yan'an, she shared a cave dwelling with Wang Guangmei.

(From *The Perils of Obedience*)

Wang Zhihuan loved and composed English poetry from her youth. She joined the revolution in 1947. She translated Chairman Mao's works, worked as an editor, engaged in international literary exchange, and wrote journalistic features. After prolonged hardship, she was politically rehabilitated in the spring of 1985 and retired in 1987.

Wang Zhihuan was born into an official family. Her father was a naval officer in the Nationalist government (online records show he served as a ship captain and director of the Naval Supply Depot). A family of some culture, they gave her a name rich in meaning: *zhihuan* — "knowing to return." Her mother, too, was educated, but was more devoted to mahjong parties with other official wives, emotionally distant from her daughter. The daughter, in turn, looked down on her mother and the other wives' idle, dissipated lives. This, too, was among the reasons she later yearned for Yan'an and threw herself into the revolution.

Wang Zhihuan was a bright and ambitious young woman. She was a top student in the English departments of both St. John's University in Shanghai and Jinling College in Nanjing. She loved writing English poetry and had composed many sonnets during her school years, earning the admiration of her foreign instructors. While at school, she read revolutionary works including *The Communist Manifesto* and *The State and Revolution*, and came to embrace the revolutionary cause. During this period, Wang Bingnan — then head of the CPC Central Committee's international affairs — hired Wang Zhihuan as an English translator. When the Wannan Incident occurred and the Party needed to explain the truth to foreign media, it was again Wang Zhihuan who served as translator. Under the influence of the Communists, Wang Zhihuan decided to go to Yan'an and join the revolution, cutting off ties with her family for this purpose. After arriving in Yan'an, she was assigned to Xinhua News Agency, and it was there that she married Wang Bingnan. In Yan'an, every weekend the Central Auditorium held dances; all the educated young women were expected to attend and dance with the central leadership. Wang Zhihuan danced with Mao Zedong, Liu Shaoqi, and Zhou Enlai. According to her account, Mao was somewhat clumsy at ballroom dancing — not a very good dancing partner.

After entering Beijing in 1949, Wang Zhihuan worked at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She had not expected that Wang Bingnan's German ex-wife, Anna, would return with their child, seeking to remarry him. By then, Wang Bingnan was already one of the principal leaders of the Foreign Ministry. Citing considerations of foreign relations, Zhou Enlai personally spoke with Wang Zhihuan, persuading her to divorce Wang Bingnan so that he could remarry Anna. And so, Wang Zhihuan was compelled to divorce Wang Bingnan.

From that point on, Wang Zhihuan was inexplicably transferred from unit to unit. Unable to make sense of it, she swallowed sleeping pills in a suicide attempt that failed. It was the height of the Anti-Rightist Campaign, and she became entangled with the "rightist" label. She was sent down to the countryside, and soon Xinhua found a pretext to transfer her out of Beijing. Cornered and desperate, she thought of the origin of her name — and realized she was herself that weary bird who should fly home. But where was home? In her youth, she had severed ties with her parents for the revolution. During her life with Wang Bingnan in Yan'an, her allergic constitution had caused several pregnancies to end in miscarriage. Now she was utterly alone, and her revolutionary comrades had abandoned her, too. After much deliberation, she decided to seek out her father in Hong Kong. On a rash impulse, she bought a southbound train ticket. She was arrested the moment she stepped off the train in Guangzhou. She said later that she had been unbelievably naïve — she'd imagined she could simply walk from the train station all the way to Hong Kong. After being detained and sent back to Beijing, she was sentenced to ten years for "treason and counterrevolutionary crimes" and dispatched to a labor camp in Anhui. During her imprisonment, she once tried to keep walking south, hoping to reach Yunnan and cross the border from there. But no sooner had she set out than she was caught again. It was not until the end of the Cultural Revolution that she was hired — as a temporary English instructor — by Anqing Normal College in Anhui. The college entrance exams had just been restored, and schools everywhere desperately needed English teachers. Wang Zhihuan, still technically in the labor camp, was dug out by a nearby college to "put talent to its proper use." Only after emerging did she realize: a few months in the cave, a thousand years in the world outside. Urged on by others, she began seeking out old acquaintances, asking favors far and wide, embarking on the long road of petitioning for her political rehabilitation.

Miss Wang's death was a natural end (she passed away in August 2013 at the age of ninety-four). Compared to another woman connected to Wang Bingnan — Guan Lu — she had been relatively fortunate. In retrospect, judging by the timing of Wang Bingnan's abrupt break with Guan Lu "in the name of the revolution" and his subsequent marriage to Wang Zhihuan, Wang Zhihuan filled the emotional gap left after Wang Bingnan's divorce from Anna and the Party's interference in his relationship with Guan Lu. Later, again "in the name of the revolution," Wang Zhihuan was made to yield her place as wife. Can there be anything more ridiculous in this world? The ones sacrificed were always the women — women who had made outstanding contributions to the revolutionary cause, women who would later suffer the most grievous injustices at the hands of their own revolutionary organization. Guan Lu endured a lifetime of suppression and persecution. She struggled through to her political rehabilitation in 1982, but in the end she remained alone and forsaken — clutching a doll to her chest, she swallowed sleeping pills and took her own life. Wang Zhihuan lived to the end.

I think again of her name. She was, truly, a little bird who had flown until she was far too weary — and now, at last, she has flown home to her eternal rest. Rest in peace, Wang Zhihuan.

— From Xu Suizhi's blog

朝华午拾之十二：鸟倦飞而知还

王知还老师2013年8月16日逝世，愿她安息

刚得知，我大学英语老师王知还老人家上个月在新华社去世。最近有网友告知：

"刚向新华社的朋友打听过，老人家已于上个月16日过世……"

终年94。94高龄而去，也算寿终正寝了。但是晚景还是寂寞凄凉，饱受病痛。她最后10年与我老爸一直有联系，寻求老爸在医疗方面的帮助，以减轻病痛。

王老师出身国民党海军军官家庭。自小聪颖伶俐，圣约翰大学和金陵女大高材生，擅长写英诗，她用自己写的十四行诗的诗集作为毕业论文，极受老师和校长吴贻芳的赞誉。上个世纪30-40年代投奔延安，同期去延安的上进革命女青年还包括王光美，两人曾是同室闺友，住在一个窑洞里。王光美嫁的是刘少奇，王老师嫁的是王炳南，也是中共元老。中间经历很多生活与政治的波折及婚变。曾经在延安翻译马列毛，解放后在作家协会和新华社工作，直到因60年代初不堪政治运动的折腾，几度自杀未成，进而企图"叛逃"香港（去投奔父亲）在边境被抓，判刑入狱近20年，最后应聘来我院做我们英文阅读写作课的主讲老师。

几年前去新华社宿舍楼看她，她已经基本不能外出行动了，在室内也差不多是爬行。但是头脑口齿还很清楚。已经难以挪动的双腿带给她很大的痛苦，清醒时大部分时间就是自己用某种中药绷带，一层层缠绕双腿，以减轻痛苦。

她这一辈子，论高寿，已经把对手和同龄人都比过去了，用她自己话说：我斗不过你，可我活得过你。记得当时她说完这句，我和老师都大笑了一场。

在王老师家合影（2005）

30多年前，王老师给我讲述她小时候的故事。她家住在青岛，家里有厨子、园丁和管家，家境很不错。家里有一个严厉的母亲，她不喜欢。但她的父亲非常宠爱她。作为舰长的父亲还常常带她出海。她告诉我，她很小就比同龄人早熟、敏感和忧郁。她还清楚地记得，她四五岁刚记事的时候，有一次在舰艇甲板上，看日落晚霞红遍半边天，就隐约感觉人生的飘摇和渺小，触发一种巨大的悲凉，无可言说，泪如雨下，父亲怎么哄她也止不住她的泪水。那么小啊，连话都说不全，可那种叹人生之渺小宇宙之无穷的感受却是那么真切。她还说过：我是大海边生的，应该回归大海。她当年设想的归宿，是用某种方式葬身在大海。

王知还老师从上个世纪40年代投奔延安，参加革命起，就走上了一条"上进青年"的血与火的不归路。本来是资产阶级家的千金，受过良好的教会学校教育，爱幻想，爱写英诗，敏感聪慧，大学时代就崭露头角，极受外国教授欣赏。曾有机会拿奖学金留洋，远离灾难的祖国。她却阴错阳差被革命党看中，最终投入革命大熔炉，注定了悲剧的一生。

革命不是绘画绣花，革命是绞肉机。作为旁观者，可以用波澜壮阔这样豪迈的字眼，被绞肉机折磨近死的人，完全是另一种心境。事实上，近20年的劳改农场生活，如果幸存，也不可能是完好的人，精神和肉体都是伤痕累累，好人也会折磨成被迫害狂。

中央外事组（1947年，山西）左起：徐永煐　 王炳南　 王知还　 王朝臣　 章文晋　 陈家康　 吴青　 王凝

但对这样的道路选择确实有另一个角度。"上进青年"如果不投身革命，而是小资留洋，其结果肯定是另一种人生，一种相对平凡，物质富足的生活（成为记者、作家或翻译），基本上注定是千万人中的一员。可是参加革命，而且革命成功了，除了为革命而牺牲，被革命投入绞肉机等非人遭遇外，确实也可能成为新中国女性领袖这样的历史机遇。如果没有婚变，以王炳南（曾介入西安事变的中共元老）这样的资格，其夫人的地位与第一夫人也不过几步之遥。

王老师隐约提到过自己的尴尬境地，说王炳南的德国前妻带着儿子来北京时，她作为女主人，带这个孩子去北海划船，感觉勉强无奈又不得不应对场面，这应该是她为保持婚姻做的一个努力。至于怎么离婚的，她从来没提过程。另外，据查与安娜复婚的事情并未成事实，王炳南后来跟另外的人结了婚。

老师悲剧的一生，真是应验了老话： "云无心以出岫，鸟倦飞而知还"（王老师的名是"知还"）。其实早就倦了，可是不到长眠"还"得了么？60年代初自杀未遂，不得解脱，唯一的回家之路是投奔在香港的老爸。"我多么傻啊，在深圳下了车居然沿着大路走，离边境还远着呢，就被截留"。几句盘问，就露馅了，企图叛逃，投奔资本主义自由世界，这可是重罪。

愿她老人家安息！

王老师的临终情况

关于王老师的临终情况， 老爸了解了一下，说：

"今天电话王知还保姆金某：老人是阳历八月十六去世的，住协和医院三天，只昏迷一天，最后是呼吸和肾衰竭，前一天晚上还吃饭了。临终痛苦不多。她过了九十四岁生日，后事无一亲属來过问，也没有什么告别仪式，都是老干局代为办理的。

她表示不愿身后火葬的临终愿望，毫无意义，骨灰存放三年。王老师生前跟小时工说过她有妹在上海，也有弟，还有表妹什么人也曾來看她，但临终前后没有一个亲属到场。生前都联系不上，不知何故。"

关于不想火葬，虽然她不愿意，在现代中国的北京，是不可能避免的。

其实30多年前在安庆的时候，她就觉得自己开始老了，记得买一个床单，她选择了较便宜质量不够好的一款，然后跟我说：你以为我还能活多久啊，好质量管什么用。她自己身体一直有这里那里的不舒服，所以自己也从来没想到会高寿。但是，她很讲究饮食和保健。为了治血小板低（皮肤破了不容易凝血），得知花生米的红衣有帮助，她每天早饭就特意吃几颗花生米，一直坚持几十年。她谨小慎微地维护自己的健康。90岁的时候还在电话里说，她发觉近来做菜老忘记放盐，但味觉退化没有让她放弃对口感的追求。她说反正是自己一个人吃，做一次吃好几天。

30多年前，王老师给我讲述她小时候的故事。她的父亲非常宠爱她。作为舰长的父亲常常带她出海。她告诉我，她很小就比同龄人早熟、敏感和忧郁。

至于她的亲属，跟她亲的、曾有走动的，都先她而去了。这些亲戚的后人根本就不了解她，也无任何接触，从不联系。使得老人孤苦离世。

94 高龄而去，按照中国的传统看法，可以算是喜丧了。王老师安息！

记于
2013-9-12

附：从网络上查到的王老师生平等信息。

王知还，女，1938年到1944年，先后在上海圣约翰大学，成都金陵女子文理学院读书、工作。在这期间，共产党外交协会王炳南同志向外国媒体介绍皖南事变的真相时，请王知还作翻译。为此，王知还认识了王炳南。那时，王知还从媒体上知道延安要建立民主政治的主张，想到延安参加革命，为此去过八路军驻渝办事处。后在重庆认识周恩来的秘书龚澎。1945年9月到延安参加工作，在新华社英文部做翻译。1947年曾在当时中央外事组做翻译。在延安和王光美曾住过一个窑洞。

摘自《唯上之灾》

王知还，青少年时期喜爱并习作英诗；1947年参加革命。翻译过毛主席著作，做过编辑、对外文学交流工作、写过新闻特写。经历长期坎坷后，于1985年春平反，1987年离休。

王知还出生于官宦家庭，父亲是国民政府的海军军官（网上查到他当过舰长、海军供给总站站长）。这样的家庭，很有些文化，所以给她起了这样一个寓意深远的名字。她母亲也有文化，但是更热衷于官太太们之间的打牌聚会，对女儿感情淡漠。女儿也看不起母亲和官太太们无所事事的萎靡生活。这也是她后来向往延安、投奔革命的原因之一。

王知还是个聪颖上进的女子。她曾是上海圣约翰大学英文系和金陵女大英文系的高材生，喜欢写英文诗，上学期间就写了不少十四行诗，很受当时外教的欣赏。在校读书时还读了《共产党宣言》、《国家与革命》等革命书籍，向往革命。这期间，中共中央国际事务负责人王炳南聘请王知还做英文翻译，皖南事变发生后，在向国外媒体说明事变真相时，也是请王知还做的翻译。受共产党人影响，王知还决定去延安参加革命，为此和家庭断绝了关系。到延安后，她被分配在新华社工作，并在那里和王炳南结婚。在延安，每个周末中央大礼堂都会有舞会，那些知识女青年都要去和中央领导跳舞。王知还和毛泽东、刘少奇、周恩来都跳过舞。据她描述，毛泽东跳交谊舞比较笨拙，不是很好的舞伴。

1949年进京后，王知还在外交部工作。没料到这时王炳南的德国前妻安娜带着他们的孩子找了回来，要和王炳南复婚。这时王炳南已经是外交部主要领导之一。以考虑对外关系为由，周恩来亲自找王知还做工作，让她和王炳南离婚，以便王炳南和安娜的复婚。就这样，王知还被迫和王炳南离了婚。

从此，王知还被莫名其妙地多次调换单位，她想不通，服安眠药自杀未遂。其时正值反右高潮，又与右派扯上了关系，遂被下放农村，很快又被新华社借故调出北京。走投无路的她这时想到了自己名字的出处，而自己正是那飞倦了的鸟，该回家了。可是家在哪呢？早年为了革命和父母决裂；在延安和王炳南生活期间又因为自己过敏体质几次怀孕都流产了；现在落了个孤身一人不说，革命同志也都把她抛弃了。想来想去决定还是去找在香港的父亲。一念之差，买了张南下的火车票，到广州一下火车便被逮捕。她说她那时真是Naïve到极点。想着下了火车以后就步行走到香港去。哪知道被捕押回北京后即被以叛国投敌和反革命罪判刑十年，押往安徽的一个劳改农场。劳改期间她也曾试图一直往南走，想走到云南，从那里出境。但是刚一出走就又被抓回。一直到文革结束，才被安徽安庆师范学院聘为临时英文教师。那时刚恢复高考，各地高校急需英语教师，还在劳改农场的王知还，被附近高校挖出来"人尽其才"。出来后才知道洞中才三月，世上已千年。经人劝说，遂寻觅故旧，四处托人，开始了漫长的上访平反之路。

王老师的去世还算寿终正寝（2013年8月去世，享年94岁），比起另一位跟王炳南有关的女人关露，她已经幸运了许多。现在想来，根据王炳南"以革命的名义"突然跟关露断交、后跟王知还结婚的时间来看，王知还是填充了王炳南跟安娜离婚、又遭遇组织干涉和关露的恋情期间的情感空挡。后来仍然是"以革命的名义"，王知还又让出了妻子的位置。世上真有如此Ridiculous的事情!被牺牲的偏偏都是女人，是对革命事业有杰出贡献的女人，是日后遭受自己的革命组织极为不公平待遇的女人。关露受压抑受迫害一辈子，挣扎到1982年的平反，最终还是孤苦伶仃单身一人，怀里抱着一个洋娃娃，吞服安眠药自尽。王知还活到了最后。

我又想到她的名字。她真是一只飞得太疲倦太疲倦的小鸟，现在总算飞还永久的家了。安息吧，王知还。

摘自徐绥之的博客

From Morning Glory at Noon (朝华午拾). Original Chinese: 朝华之十二: 鸟倦飞而知还.

Note: From the perspective of when this was written, this was the very first piece in my Morning Glory at Noon nostalgia series — the one that started it all. Looking back, those "dragon gate" moments — the college entrance exam and the graduate school exam — were truly the pivotal turns of fate in life. When I visited home recently, both my elder brother and my senior colleague told me the same thing: the life trajectories of our generation were largely sealed at the moment we faced the dragon gate. That's deeply unfair, because so many classmates' talents and potential could never be fully measured by an exam-oriented education system. But that is how society ranks people — essentially the same imperial examination system in modern form. Opportunities and resources ultimately fell to the fortunate few who leaped through the dragon gate. It fills one with sighs.

The year I graduated, like everyone else, I took the graduate school entrance exam, applying to the English and American Literature program in the Foreign Languages Department of Nanjing University. I failed miserably. How could the education we received compare to Nanjing University's? Later, at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, a female classmate from Suzhou — a Nanjing University Foreign Languages graduate from the class of '77 — told me that the exam that year had been extraordinarily difficult. The number of applicants was enormous, and most people's scores were unbelievably low. My very first attempt had run into a brick wall. That year, only one person from our class passed: a Shanghai classmate, who went to the Foreign Languages Department of Anhui University.

After graduation, I was assigned to teach at Fanchang High School, a county near my hometown. Two lessons I learned there: First, I wasn't suited for teaching — especially the younger grades and the "slow classes." I simply couldn't maintain order; I had no way to handle the mischievous kids. Walking into that classroom felt like marching to the execution ground. (Teaching the honors classes or high school was better — the students respected me more, and I felt good about it.) Second, I worried constantly that over time, if I lost control, something inappropriate might develop between me and a female student. Perhaps it was biological — girls in junior high easily develop crushes on young male teachers, and if the teacher can't keep his bearings, it's easy to cross the line. Fanchang High School had a precedent, and it ended tragically: the teacher and student both jumped from a high building, and the teacher's skull was shattered.

The only way out was the graduate school exam. So I took the application handbook and flipped through it back and forth, until I discovered that the Institute of Linguistics at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences had a program in Machine Translation with very particular requirements: two foreign languages, linguistics, advanced mathematics, discrete mathematics, politics, and a comprehensive exam. I felt this might work — I could play to my strengths and avoid my weaknesses. After all, in our era, practically no one who knew mathematics also knew two foreign languages, and it was rare for someone proficient in languages to be able to handle mathematics. I had studied advanced mathematics, but I'd never heard of discrete mathematics. I asked around — everyone had a different interpretation, and I was just as confused as before. As for what machine translation even was, that was equally mysterious. So I went to consult a teacher who taught math and science at Nanling No. 2 Middle School. This teacher was unusual — he loved to read, was broadly knowledgeable, and had his own independent opinions. He said with great confidence: "This is a good field — it's an interdisciplinary area where it's easy to make contributions. The subject itself is practical, and it has a future." His insight convinced me, and I locked in my direction.

That year, I still didn't pass — the main culprit was the "comprehensive exam." The Institute of Linguistics had borrowed the exam paper from Peking University's Chinese Department, pulling questions from every subfield: "In what year was Chairman Mao's 'Talks at the Yan'an Forum on Literature and Art' published?" and so on — thoroughly mean-spirited, with non-Chinese-major students at an obvious disadvantage. It seemed like discrete mathematics also did me in. But Beijing still sent someone to Fanchang to conduct a background investigation on me, which proved I had come close. This gave me tremendous confidence — at least I wasn't groping in the dark anymore. It also confirmed that my strategy of playing to my strengths had been right. Otherwise, in all of China, why would they have bothered investigating me after I failed? Clearly, more people had done worse than me. (Later I learned this was indeed the case — that year, not a single person met the program's threshold, which is why they recruited again the following year.)

The second year, I prepared for the battle again. The preparation was still grueling, but the goal was now crystal clear. My father borrowed a quiet little room from a neighbor for me and gave strict orders that no one was to disturb me. Beyond working through exercise book after exercise book of mathematics, for the humanities subjects I recorded myself explaining key concepts and listened to the tapes over and over, day and night. What is historical comparative linguistics? What are componential analysis and structural analysis? What is transformational-generative grammar? What is the difference between deep structure and surface structure? On and on. When I got tired of studying, I would often walk out to the fields beyond the old town wall and gaze at the endless, brilliant yellow rapeseed flowers, breathing in the fresh air. Many times I ran into my father on the road. He would say: "Good to take a walk, rest your brain a bit." His eyes were full of approval and encouragement.

The exam was to be taken at a testing center in the neighboring county. My father saw me off at the bus station. Just before I boarded, the weather began to turn cold and the wind picked up. Dad took off his woolen Zhongshan suit — his finest jacket — and draped it over my shoulders. From the bus window, I saw him waving in the cold wind. That is the image etched in my memory: the turning back at the bend in the road. At the exam center in Xuancheng County, I stayed in a shabby guesthouse. Three straight days of exams — when I came out after each session, I was utterly drained, on the verge of tears. On the evening after the exams, I went to the movie theater, and there I found a place to vent. They were showing two Chinese short films, artistically mediocre, but at least they had a touch of tragedy. And so, following the plot, I cried from beginning to end. I wept until the sky went down and the earth spun — but it felt so, so good, as if I had released emotions that had been bottled up for a very long time.

Good things come with complications. The registered letter with my interview notice got lost at the post office. The mail carrier knew it was lost (there was a record) and knew I was the recipient, but he tried to bluff his way through and never notified me. It was only thanks to Secretary Liu at the Institute of Linguistics, who was meticulous and responsible, that she placed a long-distance call to my middle school.  Communications back then were nothing like today — that long-distance call took an entire morning to get through. Secretary Liu told our principal that today was supposed to be my interview day, and where was I? Seeing that I lived far away in the mountains, she said they could reschedule, but I absolutely must come to Beijing for the interview as soon as possible. Later, when the negligent mail carrier realized his failure had been exposed, he asked acquaintances to plead with us to go easy on him and not hold him accountable. We did go easy — but he should know: that one moment of negligence nearly destroyed my future. The severity of what he did was no different from murder for profit.

The Beijing interview was urgently pressing, so my father decided to escort me the whole way. Train cars in those days were like cattle cars from the 1930s — packed to the brim, thick with cigarette smoke. With my father at my side looking after me, getting food and drink, I was able to immerse myself in the study materials I had brought, preparing for the final sprint.

After the interview, I felt good about it and breathed a sigh of relief. Neither my father nor I had ever been to the capital before; our spirits were extraordinarily high, and we threw ourselves into visiting several famous sights without pause. At Tiananmen Square, we even bought a simple camera and took a photo.

At the ticket office in front of Qianmen, we stood in a long line to buy tour bus tickets for the Great Wall. The young woman in front of us was willowy and poised, graceful in manner, and she spoke standard Mandarin. She explained the differences between the various tour buses — the air-conditioned luxury coaches versus the ordinary public-transit-style buses. I was completely captivated by her elegance, and thought to myself: who cares about luxury or ordinary, as long as I can be on the same bus as her. Unfortunately, when we boarded later, I didn't see her, and a sense of loss settled in my heart. Despite that disappointment, seeing the Great Wall for the first time still overwhelmed me with its grandeur. Climbing up, exhausted and parched, Dad brought out the beer he had bought along the way and we drank it together. That was my first time drinking beer. I found the taste bizarre and hard to swallow, but I was too thirsty to be picky, so I used beer in place of water, all the while gazing into the distance at the Wall stretching to the horizon, with nothing but vastness as far as the eye could see.

Seeing that graduate school was looking promising for me, Dad was in especially good spirits. He told me: we still have money left over — let's fly back! In those days, this was an extravagant luxury beyond imagination. I had never even ridden in a car before, and now I was jumping straight to an airplane — I was beside myself with excitement. Unfortunately, the plane tickets were sold out. I never did get to fly, but the euphoria my father and I shared on that trip is something I can never forget.

Then came those months after receiving the acceptance letter — like months of walking on clouds. It was an indescribably wonderful feeling. Never in my life had I experienced such lightness and joy, such freedom from worry. I genuinely didn't know how to express the happiness, so I simply went climbing mountains by myself, from one peak to the next, letting the thorns tear my skin and draw blood, savoring the stinging thrill. For days on end, I climbed every day until I couldn't move anymore. In September I entered Beijing, my mood matching Li Bai's poem: "Laughing up at the sky, I strode out the door — how could I be one of those who live among the weeds?" (Li Bai, "Farewell to My Children at Nanling as I Enter the Capital").

For a middle-school teacher from a small southern mountain town, the graduate school exam truly was the only path to changing one's destiny. These dramatic ups and downs, these extraordinary experiences and emotions — they were all proportionate to the exam's importance. But looking back, having an exam determine your entire life necessarily requires luck, and luck doesn't always hold. At the time, perhaps I didn't notice the peculiarity of this particular program and its specific requirements; perhaps the program had already filled its quota in previous years and would not have recruited again. If Secretary Liu at the Institute of Linguistics hadn't been so dedicated, I might well have stayed forever in that small town. On the other hand, life cannot be measured solely by so-called career success — it should be assessed holistically, by quality of life and each person's own satisfaction with living. As long as basic needs are met, it's very difficult to judge from the surface whether a life is good or bad. They say that for a considerable stretch of time in China, farmers in the Northeast lived the most contented lives, free of pressure — because the land was vast and fertile, even extensive cultivation yielded decent returns, and they could fully enjoy the idyllic life of "ten acres of land, two oxen, a wife and children, and a warm kang bed." On a global scale, life satisfaction is reportedly highest in relatively poor India (where religion plays a major spiritual role), while the most miserable life experience is in Japan. A Japanese friend of mine, who once worked at a machine translation company, told me that despite the good salary, it was an inhuman existence: she watched as several colleagues had mental breakdowns, and some committed suicide. She later went to Australia for graduate studies — she became a poor student, but felt as if she had escaped from a sea of suffering.

Written on May 28, 2004, in Buffalo, USA

朝华午拾 · 我的考研经历

【立委按】从写作时间上看，这是我《朝华午拾》怀旧系列的第一篇，从此一发不可收。回想起来，人的一生，高考和考研的"跳龙门"确实是命运的根本转机。最近探亲，老哥和师姐都跟我说，同辈人后来的生活道路，大多在冲刺龙门的那一刻就注定了。这很不公平，因为很多同学所具有的才干和潜力，应试教育是不能全面衡量的。但是，社会就是这样来鉴别的，本质上还是科举制度。机会和资源最终落在少数幸运的跃过龙门的同学身上，让人不胜唏嘘。

毕业那年，跟大家一样，考研究生，报南京大学外语系英美文学专业。一败涂地。我们的教育怎么能跟南大比。后来到社科院，有一个苏州女同学就是南大外语系77级，她告诉我，那一年研究生考试奇难，报名人数特多，大多成绩低得不可思议。我第一次尝试就碰了个硬钉子。那一年，我们班级就考上一个，上海男生，去了安徽大学外语系。

毕业后分到离家不远的邻县繁昌中学教书，有两点体会：首先，我不适应教书，尤其是低年级和程度差的班级（"坏班"），主要是压不住阵，没有办法对付调皮的孩子，上课跟上刑场似的。（教重点班或者高中课还好，学生比较佩服和尊重我，感觉良好。）其次，老当心时间长了，控制不好，会和女学生发展出不合适的关系或感情纠葛。也许是生理原因，女生在初中很容易仰慕年轻男教师，这时候，如果男教师把握不住，就容易犯错误。繁昌中学曾有先例，结果很悲惨，师生双双跳楼，男教师肝脑涂地。

唯一的出路是考研究生。于是，拿来报考手册，翻来翻去，发现中国社科院语言研究所有一门机器翻译专业，要求很特别：考两门外语，语言学，高等数学，离散数学，政治和综合考试。觉得有戏，可以扬长避短，毕竟在我们的年代，会数学的人还懂两门外语，几乎没有，而会外语可以考数学的人也难得。我学过高等数学，只是没有听说过离散数学，问了一些人，各有各的理解，也是一头雾水。至于机器翻译是个什么玩意儿，也高深莫测，就去请教在南陵二中教数理的一位老师。这位老师与众不同，爱读书，很通达，有自己的见解。他非常肯定地说，"这个专业好，是个交叉学科，容易出成就。学科本身很实用，有前景。"他这一番洞见，使我坚定了主攻方向。

这一次考研，仍然不中，主要坏在"综合考试"：语言所借用北京大学中文系的试卷，从中文系各科抽选题目，考什么毛主席《在延安文艺座谈会上的讲话》发表在哪一年，等等，缺德透了，非中文系的人明摆着吃亏。好象"离散数学"也栽了。但是北京还是派人到繁昌对我做了外调，证明我已经擦边。这给了我很大信心，至少不是在黑暗中摸索了。也知道我的扬长避短的策略是对的，不然，偌大的中国，为什么我考栽了还有幸被外调呢？很显然，更多的人考的还不如我（后来知道确实如此，那一届该专业一个也没有达标，这才有下一年接着再招）。

第二年再战，准备仍然辛苦，但目标很明确。父亲从邻居处借了一个清静的小屋给我，明令任何人不得打扰。我除了数学习题一本本地做，对于文科，就把一些关键概念的解说录下音来，不分昼夜反反复复地听。什么是历史比较语言学，什么是成分分析法和结构分析法，什么是转换生成语法，表层结构和深层结构的区别，等等等等。复习累了，我常到城墙头外的田地去看黄灿灿一望无际的油菜花，透透新鲜的空气。好多次都在路上遇到父亲，跟我说："去散散步好，休息一下大腿"。目光里满是赞许和鼓励。

考研要去邻县的考场。父亲送我到车站，临上车前，天气有点转凉，开始刮风了。父亲把自己的呢子中山装脱下（呢子服算是父亲最高级的外套了），给我披上。在车上看到父亲在冷风中挥手，这就是刻印在我脑海里的拐弯处的回头。到邻县宣城考场，住在一个简陋的招待所，一连考三天，下场后精疲力竭，直想哭。晚上钻进电影院，可找到发泄场所了。演的是两个国产短片，艺术水平很一般，但是好在有一点悲剧意味，于是跟着剧情，从头哭到尾，直哭得天昏地暗，但是非常非常痛快，好象把积压了很久的情绪释放出来了。

好事多磨。我的面试通知（挂号信）在邮局丢了，邮递员明知丢了（有记录），也知道我是收信人，却想蒙混过关，并不通知我。多亏语言所秘书刘老师办事严谨负责，给我的中学挂了长途（一辈子感激刘老师！）。当年的通讯可不像现在，这个长途挂了一上午才通。刘老师告诉我们校长，今天应该是我面试的日子，怎么不见人。看我山高路远，可以再作安排，但务请火速来京面试。后来，失职的邮递员看见事情败露，托熟人请求我们高抬贵手，不要追究他的责任。贵手倒是高抬了，但他可知道，这一失职可不当紧，差点断送了我的前程，其严重程度无异于谋财害命。

北京面试催得急，父亲决定全程护送。当年的火车厢象30年代的闷罐车，人满为患，烟雾弥漫。有爸爸在身边照顾，弄吃弄喝，我一路上得以一心扑在随身携带的复习资料上，准备最后的冲刺。

面试完，感觉良好，松了口气。父亲和我都是第一次来首都，兴致特别高，马不停蹄地游玩几个著名景点，在天安门前还买了一个简易相机留了影。我们在前门前的售票处，排长队买去长城的旅游车票。排在我们前面的是个女生，亭亭玉立，落落大方，说一口普通话。她跟我们解释不同旅游车的区别，带空调的豪华车和公车一样的普通车等等。我被她的风度迷住了，心里想，管他豪华普通，能跟她同车就好。可惜，后来上车没有看见她，心里失落落的。尽管有缺憾，第一次玩长城，还是被它的气势所震撼。爬上长城，又累又渴，父亲拿出在路上买的啤酒我们一块喝。这是我第一次喝啤酒，觉得味道很怪，难以下咽，无奈太渴，只好以酒代水，一边极目远眺，看长城内外，惟余莽莽。

父亲看我读研有望，心情特别好，跟我说，带的钱还剩不少，我们坐飞机回去！这在当年是极大的奢侈，我那时侯连轿车都没有坐过，一步登天去坐飞机，兴奋莫名。不巧的是，飞机票卖完了。飞机没坐上，但那次旅行，父亲和我的欣快情绪，难以忘怀。

再后来就是接到录取通知后的几个月腾云驾雾的日子，那真是一种不可言传的美妙感受。一辈子从来没有过如此的轻松愉快，无忧无虑。真的不知道怎样表达喜悦，干脆一个人爬山，从一个山头到另一个山头，任由荆棘刺破皮肤，滴着鲜血，享受火辣辣的快意。连续几天，每天爬山到不能动为止。九月进京，心情同李白："仰天大笑出门去，我辈岂是蓬蒿人"（李白·《南陵 别儿童入京》）。

对于一个南方山城的中学教师来说，考研确实是改变命运的唯一途径。这些跌宕起伏，非凡的经历和感受，跟考研的重要性是相称的。但是，回想起来，考试定终身必然需要运气，而运气并不总有。当时也许没有注意到这个特别的专业和特别的要求，也许该专业前几年已经招到了，不再招生，如果语言所的刘秘书工作不是那样尽心尽力，我很可能永远留在那个小城里。另一方面，生活也不能仅仅看所谓事业有成，应该总体来看生活质量和各人的自我生活满意程度。在确保温饱的前提下，很难从表面评价人生的好坏。据说，在中国相当一段时间，东北农民，活得最滋润，没有压力。因为土地肥沃广大，广种薄收也有不错的所得，可尽情享受"十亩地，两头牛，老婆孩子热炕头"的世外桃源生活。在世界范围，据报道生活满意度最高的是比较贫穷的印度（宗教起了很大的精神作用），而生活感受最差的是日本。我的一名日本朋友，以前在一家机器翻译公司工作过，告诉我，尽管薪水好，却是非人的日子：她眼看几个同事有的精神跨了，有的自杀了。她后来去澳大利亚读研究生，成了穷学生，却有跳出苦海的感觉。

记于2004年五月28，美国水牛城

From 朝华午拾 / Morning Glory at Noon. Original Chinese: 我的考研经历.

Just after the Mid-Autumn Festival, our eldest sister passed on the sad news: Master Liu Zhuo, my foundational mentor and a guiding light of our generation, had passed away at the age of 89.

🎬 In Memoriam: Mentor Liu Zhuo, 2022 (Video)

Forty years ago, I filled in “Machine Translation”（MT） on my graduate school application to the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. My heart was full of awe and a sense of mystery. When I first entered the field, I worked on foreign-to-Chinese machine translation. I never dared to touch Chinese-to-foreign translation — Chinese grammar was so resistant to formalization, it felt impossibly difficult.

Machine translation is the oldest application area in natural language processing（NLP）, dating back to the early 1950s. It has carried the youth and dreams of 啊couple of generations, Chinese and foreign alike — including my own younger years. Today, the dream has become reality. Embedded machine translation is everywhere, a smartphone app that ordinary people summon at will and dismiss just as easily, quietly serving hundreds of millions of users every moment of every day. My daughter uses it to study Chinese, to study Spanish, and to browse Japanese anime websites — she uses it so much that she takes it completely for granted, treating machine translation as an entitlement. Only when a translation goes hilariously wrong does she notice its existence, occasionally mocking it: “So dumb.” But machine translation never complains and never tires. For my daughter’s generation, machine translation has become a natural part of life. While I am full of its history and lore, I don’t really know how to tell her these stories. Through snippets of my scattered words, she seems to dimly sense that machine translation holds a special meaning in her father’s life, but I still can’t recount those tales with the same fluency and fondness I would share with a peer, conveying the weight and sanctity that machine translation carries in my heart. This is more than just an ordinary generation gap — it’s the gulf created by the leapfrog advance of technology, giving two generations fundamentally different perspectives. There’s comfort in that, and also a pang of wistfulness.

My personal observation is that two kinds of people especially appreciate and show patience toward machine translation. One is the older generation of web users who don’t know foreign languages — suddenly the whole world’s internet has opened up to them, with the joy of the blind regaining sight. The other kind is fossil-level veterans like me, who have built machine translation systems themselves and know firsthand how hard it is, and therefore feel compelled to cheer every breakthrough. In recent years, the neural machine translation revolution has elevated MT to genuinely expert-level quality — translations are now fluent and natural, completely free of the stiffness and “machine flavor” of the pre-neural era. One could say that humanity’s thousand-year dream of breaking down language barriers for free communication is being realized before our very eyes. (With the breakthrough in Large Language Model (LLM), the linguistic Tower of Babel for AI has been built.)

Looking back, I consider it a gift from heaven when a student of natural language processing begins their career with symbolic machine translation. This kind of practitioner no longer exists in the new generation — they have all kinds of low-code platforms and resources at their disposal. If you were forced to build rule-based machine translation without any platform support, you suffered, but you were also blessed. You had to build everything from scratch: dictionaries, sentence segmentation (tokenization), part-of-speech tagging, phrasal chunking, SVO syntax and logical semantics. You also had to handle bilingual structural transfer, word sense disambiguation, and finally target-language generation — including morphological generation, re-ordering, and rhetorical smoothing. In short, from linguistic analysis to bilingual transfer to language generation, you had to cover every aspect completely. Without a platform or a domain-specific language, using only general-purpose programming languages as we did for our master’s theses — COBOL, ALGOL, BASIC, even assembly — it was like being tempered in Laozi’s Eight Trigrams Furnace. You couldn’t help but emerge with piercing, flame-tested eyes. Today’s computational linguistics graduate students, by contrast, casually download a software package and zero in on a single subtask — word segmentation, sentiment classification, word sense disambiguation — and even when they do full MT, they never need to touch that many layers and low-level details (Note: this was written pre-LLM days: as we know, after LLM burst into existence, LLM eats up not only MT but also the entire NLP). By a fortunate twist of fate, I received the baptism of early machine translation, studying under the Two Liu's — the founding fathers of Chinese machine translation. This has been a lifelong treasure, and it has also steeled my resolve to “carry forward the lost learning of past sages,” passing the torch of symbolic NLP to the next generation.

A photograph with mentor Liu Zhuo and Sister Aiping, taken before I left for overseas in 1991.

I cannot forget those years after earning my master’s degree, when I stayed at the Institute of Linguistics and worked alongside Sister Aiping under Teacher Liu Zhuo’s leadership, developing every step of the JFY machine translation system. Prof. Liu personally designed a domain-specific NLP language to implement JFY, from the interpreter to the controller, from expert dictionaries (idiosyncratic rules) to sentence-pattern transfer (general rules) — the entire system architecture and pipeline. This project condensed decades of design principles and algorithms from MT research and exploration. Prof Liu had a remarkable skill: without any debugging tools, he could locate system problems purely through intense mental concentration. Often, when the system had a bug, Prof Liu couldn’t sleep at night — the program would turn around and around in his head. Many times he would catch the bug in the middle of the night and rush to the computer the next morning to test his fix; the problem would usually be solved. Sometimes the bug was too deeply hidden to untangle mentally, so Sister Aiping and I would help him with “manual stepping” — literally step-by-step tracing — which could take several days of meticulous work before we discovered the logical flaw. The joy we felt then was like winning a battle. Software engineers today would probably find it hard to imagine how one could code a system in a development environment with no debugging tools at all, but that is precisely how Prof Liu led us, grinding it out day by day.

I found Prof Liu Zhuo’s papers quite a headache to read back then. But his papers were packed with substance — like the dried bean curd of Ma’anshan, tough but rewarding to chew on. I’ve lost count of how many times I read them. He is the old gentleman who commanded deep respect in the field, and with good reason — he had the hard currency of real achievements. Yet more than half of the people who admired him couldn’t understand a word he was saying. It was a curious phenomenon: partly because Prof Liu was not particularly good at popular science communication, and partly because he genuinely had little time, nor any interest in trivialities.

In 2013, I was invited to give a talk on big data NLP at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. Prof.  Liu Zhuo was hospitalized at the time for surgery, and Sister Aiping took me to visit him. I was relieved to see him in good spirits and recovering well after the operation. We chatted about the past and present of NLP. The fine-grained, robust pattern-matching analysis methods that Prof Liu had pioneered years ago remain effective tools in many scenarios where annotated data is scarce, and they still have a role to play in the big data era. Times have changed — today’s computing hardware and software have been upgraded from shotguns to cannons, making it possible to run NLP across hundreds of millions of documents. At scale, everything changes. Miracles happen through quantitative transformation, and we are both creating and witnessing such miracles. And none of this would have been possible without the nurturing and teaching of my mentor all those years ago.

I told Prof Liu that in the age of big data, we can leverage cloud computing — renting hundreds of virtual machines to process vast amounts of data in parallel, performing deep syntactic parsing on hundreds of millions of documents, and extracting and mining public opinion. Such a scale was unimaginable in the old days. Precisely because of the natural information redundancy in big data and the processing capacity that comes with scale, the quality of the intelligence we extract — in terms of both precision and coverage — has dramatically improved from the user’s perspective. Problems that once seemed intractable, such as capturing the motivations behind public opinion and answering why and how questions, have now achieved practical breakthroughs.

Like Prometheus bringing fire from the gods, my other mentor Prof Liu Yongquan returned from the Soviet Academy of Sciences with the sacred knowledge of machine translation. He was a generous and kind elder, and his wife was warm and gracious. On holidays, they would invite students to their home for dinner. Prof Liu would call and say, “Come on over. Do you know how to slaughter a chicken? I’ve got live ones at home.” But his lecturing style was another matter — his tone was extraordinarily slow and drawn out, with an old Beijing accent. Often he would utter the first half of a sentence, then pause for a long while before continuing. In the afternoon, when drowsiness was setting in, I’d pinch my thigh countless times just to stay awake through one class. There were only two students, sitting around the small table in his home, with sunlight slanting in through the window — nodding off would have been utterly unacceptable.

In machine translation class, Prof Liu Yongquan trained us to do manual annotation of structural transfer, using a tag system they had invented themselves called “intermediary components” to label sentences. It was a bit like drawing syntax trees in grammar class — take some complex English sentences and annotate them in such a way that a machine could simulate the process. Once the annotation was done, the translation was essentially there. For example, the concise and practical intermediary component tag [Pre-Prep-Attr-B] — a four-element label — indicated that this prepositional phrase should be fronted in translation, that it was an attributive modifier, and that it was at the B layer. This simple, even crude labeling was the intermediate representation for foreign-to-Chinese MT transfer back then. We tested it on many complex sentences, and remarkably, it handled most of them — the resulting English-to-Chinese translations were quite readable. This was the most innovative invention of my two advisors. The intermediary component analysis method was a source-to-target correlation analysis designed specifically for machine translation, essentially solving the internal representation problem for foreign-to-Chinese translation. This system, distilled from extensive hands-on practice, was something of a magical invention — it looked like nothing more than a limited set of four-element label combinations, yet it could handle the vast majority of sentence translation needs. The four elements boiled down to traditional subject-predicate-object-attributive-adverbial-complement analysis, plus identification of the important prepositional phrase chunk and two kinds of word-order adjustment strategy labels (A and B). Transfer is the link between analysis and generation, and the four-element tags captured exactly the information transfer required — the result being that a relatively simple interpretation and execution algorithm could handle the generation of many complex sentences. In terms of output readability, it was quite effective, at least for foreign-to-Chinese translation. Of course, this system only represented the most critical transfer information, and as an MT intermediate representation it was still overly concise. It worked well in many foreign-to-Chinese scenarios, which actually had much to do with the inherent flexibility of Chinese grammar — applied to generation in other languages, it might fall short. For instance, word-order adjustment information was reduced to just two layers (A and B) in alternation — this greatly simplified the complexity of linguistic structure, but some translations came out less than smooth. With this in mind, in my master’s thesis I made some critical revisions to the tag set, adding more dimensions of information. I had worried that my advisors might take offense at my freely modifying the gold standard they had painstakingly developed, but after submitting the draft of my thesis, both advisors expressed approval. Prof Liu Zhuo even specifically said that he agreed with my criticism that the intermediary component system was overly simplistic.

Among Prof Liu Yongquan’s many teachings, one left the deepest impression on me. In the annotation training process, most of the time I could handle it with ease. Coming from an English major background, we had always excelled at drawing structural trees — this kind of annotation was like child’s play. But occasionally I’d get stuck and turn to Prof Liu for help. He never gave me the answer directly. He would only say: “If you can’t deconstruct it, how does a person understand and translate it?” Strictly speaking, there are certainly cases where human cognitive processes are hard to algorithmicize within a transparent symbolic logic framework. That a person can translate doesn’t mean they can articulate clearly how a machine should do it. But I still feel that this one piece of guidance has benefited me for life. It was a philosophical awakening about cognition, urging us to think about how to formalize human cognitive processes. Even when full formalization proves impossible, it helps us see where the bottleneck lies — common sense, domain knowledge, or something else entirely? This worldview has stayed with me all my life. It is, in essence, a philosophy of symbolic transparency that opposes the mystification of intelligence.

Studying design philosophy, machine translation principles, linguistic fieldwork, and the fine-grained analysis and command of language phenomena under Prof Liu Yongquan — my entire master’s program felt like being bathed in a spring breeze. Prof Liu Zhuo’s guidance was more concrete. In every innovative exploration of early machine translation, he was always at the forefront — separating data from program logic, advancing from fixed-table rule processing to defining a domain-specific language for expressive rules that enabled free-form rule writing, introducing ontology knowledge bases that encoded implicit common sense, and developing techniques for the separation and interaction of idiosyncratic and general rules. Across this entire series of key technological innovations along the symbolic rule-based path, Prof Liu Zhuo was both pioneer and implementer. After earning my master’s degree, I stayed for five years in Prof Liu Zhuo’s research lab, learning algorithms from him and coding a new-generation translation system based on expert dictionaries. I also followed Prof Liu in collaborating with Zhongguancun to productize our carefully designed laboratory system. This process of closely shadowing a master, transforming a research prototype all the way into a practical product — this was the golden experience that benefited me most in my entire life.

Eight years of research and development under the guidance of the Two Liu's became a lifelong treasure. When heaven does not change, the Way does not change; when heaven changes, the Way still does not change. I went abroad, gained a veneer of overseas polish, broadened my horizons, and came to better understand the strengths and weaknesses of different approaches. But certain core ideas in language processing transcend time and space. I am proud to be a torchbearer of the Two Lius’ legacy.

🎬 Memorial Video | Memorial Video 2

Rest in peace, great master. May the old gentleman’s journey onward be a smooth one!

Finalized on September 12, 2022

《朝华之十四：随恩师入行》

中秋刚过，大姐传过来不幸的消息：一代宗师，启蒙导师刘俢先生驾鹤西去，享年89岁。

🎬 缅怀恩师刘俢老师纪念册，2022

40年前，我在社科院硕士报考专业上填写“机器翻译”四个大字，内心充满了敬畏和神秘感。刚入行的时候做的是外汉机器翻译，一直不大敢碰汉外，原因是汉语语法不好形式化，感觉太难了。

机器翻译是自然语言处理领域历史最悠久的应用方向，从上个世纪50年代初发辛，承载了中外几代不知道多少人的青春和梦想，也包括青年时代的立委。如今，梦想化为现实，嵌入式机器翻译无孔不入，已经成为普罗大众手中招之即来挥之即去的手机应用，每时每刻在默默服务着亿万用户。女儿学汉语用它，学西班牙语用它，去日本动漫网页也用它，用到对它熟视无睹，把机器翻译视为理所当然。只在翻译错得离谱的时候才意识到它的存在，不时报以嘲讽：真笨。可机器翻译呢，虚怀若谷，任劳任怨。对于已经天然成为女儿这代人生活一部分的机器翻译，我满腹机器翻译的历史和掌故，却不知如何给她叙说。耳濡目染，她从我断续的话语中似乎隐隐觉得机器翻译对于她父亲的一生具有特别的意义，可是我还是无法象对同辈人那样婉婉道来，如数家珍，传达机器翻译在我心中所蕴含的那份厚重和神圣。这不仅仅是一般意义上的代沟，是技术的跨越式发展造成了两代人迏然不同的视角，让人欣慰更感慨。

我个人的观察是，有两种人会特别欣赏并宽待机器翻译。一种是不识外文的老一代网人，终于全世界的网络对他/她开放了，有盲人重见光明的喜悦。另一种是立委这样的机器翻译化石级元老，因为做过，知其艰辛，不得不为技术突破鼓与呼。近年神经机器翻译的革命，让机器翻译真正达到专家的水平，译文通顺流畅，完全摆脱前神经时代的生硬和“机器味儿”。可以说，人类破除语言壁垒实现自由交流的千年梦想正在我们眼前实现。人工智能的语言巴别塔已然建立。

回想起来，学自然语言的人如果入行做的就是符号机器翻译，那是上天的赐福。新一辈这种人没有了，有各种低代码平台资源可以利用。如果你在没有平台支持下被逼着去做规则机器翻译，你受苦了，也有福了。你必须从头开始做辞典、做断句分词、做词性标注、做短语组块、做 SVO 句法和逻辑语义，你还要做双语结构转换、词义消歧（Word Sense Disambiguation，WSD），最后还有目标语的生成，包括形态生成、调序，修辞意义上的一些平滑。总之，从语言分析、双语转换、语言生成，方方面面你必须全部做到。如果没有平台，没有专用语言，像我们做硕士论文那会儿不得不用通用计算机语言（COBOL，ALGOL，BASIC，甚至汇编）做，那就是在太上老君八卦炉里炼，没得不炼成火眼金睛。现在的计算语言学硕士博士呢，动不动就下载一个软件包，瞧准一个子任务，橘如分词，橘如情感分类，橘如WSD，哪怕就是做整个MT， 也不用涉及那么多的层次模块和底层细节。机缘巧合，有幸受到早期机器翻译的洗礼，师从中国机器翻译之父二刘老师，这既是我一辈子的宝贵财富，也坚定了我“为往圣继绝学”的志向，传承符号NLP的薪火。

1991 年出国前与刘俢导师和爱平大姐合影留念

不能忘记当年硕士毕业留语言研究所，与爱平大姐一起，在刘俢老师的带领下，研发JFY型机器翻译系统的每一步。刘老师亲自设计一套NLP专用语言，用于实现JFY型机器翻译，从解释器到控制器，从专家辞典（个性规则）到句型转换（共性规则）的系统架构和流程。这个项目凝结了几十年MT研究探索的设计思想和算法。刘老师有一个绝技，就是不借用任何工具，可以凭着自己苦思兩想找到系统问题的所在。常常是，系统有一个“虫子”（bug），刘老师晚上就睡不着，程序就在脑子里绕，常常是半夜捉住了bug，第二天迫不急待上机试验，问题往往得到解决。也有隐藏太深的 bug，头脑绕不出来，于是大姐和我就帮着刘老师“人工串图”（就是人工step-through的一种说法），有时候要一步步串好几天才发现逻辑漏洪，那种高兴，跟打了一场胜仗似的。如今的软件工程师大概很难想象在没有任何纠错工具的开发环境下，怎样编码系统，可当年刘老师带领我们就是这么磨出来的。

我当年读刘俢老师的论文就很头大。可是他那论文多是干货，跟马鞍山采石干子似的，耐嚼。当年读了多少遍自己都忘记了。老先生在业内备受景仰，毕竟有硬通货。可是当年景仰他的人，一多半根本看不懂他在说什么。这是一个很奇特的现象，一半是老先生不善于科学普及，另一半也许是老先生确实没有多少时间，也不屑于鸡毛蒂皮。

2013年，我应邀在科学院做大数据NLP的演讲。刘俢老师当时因手术住院，大姐带我去医院探视。看到刘老师术后精神蛮好，恢复不错，感到宽慰。我们闲谈了一些NLP的过去和现在，刘老师当年开创的一套模式匹配的精细鲁棒的分析方法，在很多缺乏标注的场景中依然是有效的工具，可以在大数据时代发挥作用。今非昔比，如今的计算机软硬件鸟枪换炮，使得NLP在亿万文档上施行。大了就不一样了，奇迹在量变中发生，我们正在创造和见证这种奇迹。而这一切都离不开恩师当年的栽培和教诲。

我跟刘老师说，如今大数据了，我们可以利用云计算，租用几百台虚拟机，对海量数据进行并行处理，对上亿的文档做深层语法解析，抽取挖掘舆情。这样的规模是当年不敢想象的。正因为有大数据天然的信息冐余及其规模化的处理能力，我们挖掘的情报质量，从用户体验上看，无论精度还是广度都得到了的大幅度提高。以前看上去无解的难题，橘如捕抓舆情动因，回答why和how这样的问题，如今都取得了实用性的突破。

像普罗米修斯一般从苏联科学院取得机器翻译真经的刘涌泉老师是一位宽厚的长者，师娘和蔼可亲。逢年过节请学生到家里吃饭，刘老师打来电话，说：你们过来吧，会宰鸡么？我家有活鸡。不过，刘老师上课语调特平缓悠长，老北京的腔调，常常是前半句话出口，停顿好久，才接上下文。下午正犯困呢，一堂课下来，我把大腿援了无数次。一共就两个学生，围着他家小桌子坐着，阳光从窗户斜射过来，打瞌睡成何体统。

机器翻译课上，刘涌泉老师训练我们来做结构转换的手工标注，用他们自己创立的“中介成分”标签给句子标注。有点像语法课上画树，弄些复杂的英语句子，说你们的标注， 必须是机器可以模拟处理的。标注完了，翻译也就差不离了。橘如，简明实用的中介成分 【前介定B】 这个四元组标签，说的是这个介词短语翻译的时候要前置，它是定语，处于 B 层。这种简单甚至简鄙的标注就是当年的外汉MT转换的中间标记。我们试验过很多复杂的句子，居然大体都可以对付，英汉翻译出来相当可读。这是我的两位导师当年最具有创新意义的发明创造。中介成分分析法是专门为机器翻译设计的从源语到目标语的相关分析法，基本上解决了外译汉的内部表示问题。这套大量实践总结出来的中介成分体系当时可算是个神奇的发明，看上去只是一套组合有限的四元组标签集合，却能够对付绝大多数句子的翻译需求。四元组说起来就是传统的主谓宾定犹补成分分析，外加重要组块PP的标识以及两种调整词序的策略标注。转换是分析和生成的绎带，四元组体现了转换所需要的信息，结果是只要编写一个相对简单的解释执行算法，就可以应对很多复杂句子的生成。论译文可读性，至少在外译汉场景还是很管用的。当然，这套体系只是表示了最紧要的转换信息，作为MT中间表示，还是显得太过简洁。在外汉的很多场景验证有效，其实与中文文法弾性大的特性有关，用于其他语言的生成就可能捉襟见肘。例如调整词序的信息只归纳为两层（A、B）的交错，好处是它大大简化了语言结构的复杂性，但有些翻译结果就显得不是很顺畅。鉴于此，我在我的硕士项目中，对这套标注集做了一些批评改造，增加了更多元的信息。本来还担心导师会怪罪对他们探索总结的黄金标准肆意改变，但论文初稿提交后，两位导师都表示认可。刘俢老师还特别表示，他同意我对中介成分体系失之简鄙的批评。

刘涌泉老师的教诲中，有一条我印象最深。在做标注培训的过程中，我多数时候是手到牺来。我们英语系出身的人从来就擅长画结构树，做这种标注跟玩似的。但做多了也会有卡壳的时候，于是请教刘老师。刘老师没有给答案，只是说：解构不出来，那人是怎么理解和翻译的呢？严格地说，当然有案例，人的认知过程很难在符号逻辑的透明框架中算法化。人能翻译，不见得可以能讲清楚让机器如何翻译。但是我还是觉得他这句教导使我终身受益。因为这是一种认知哲学的唤醒，促使我们琢磨人的认知过程如何形式化。哪怕不能完全形式化，也让我们明白卡在哪一个环节，常识、专业知识、还是缺了什么？这种世界观跟了我一辈子，它实际上是一种反对智能神秘化的符号透明哲学。

跟刘涌泉老师学哲学，学机器翻译原理，学语言田野工作，学习对于语言现象的精细解析和把握，整个硕士阶段感觉是如沐春风。刘俢老师的教导则更为具体，在早期机器翻译的每个创新探索中总是一马当先，例如把数据和程序分开的策略改变，从规则的固定表格模式处理推进到定义规则特定语言，赋能规则的自由书写，还有引入隐含常识的ontology知识库，以及个性与共性分离与交互技术，等等。这一系列符号规则路线的关键技术创新方面，刘俢老师都是先驱和实现者。硕士毕业后留在刘俢老师的研究室五年，跟他学算法，编码新一代基于专家辞典的翻译系统。也跟着刘老师与中关村合作，把精心设计的实验室系统产品化了。这个近距离跟随大师从研究原型一路转化为实用产品的过程，是我一辈子受益最大的黄金经历。

在二刘老师指导下的八年研发，成为我一生的宝贵财富。天不变，道不变；天变了，道亦不变。留洋了，镀金了，眼界开阔了，对不同方法的优劣比较了解了。但语言处理里面的一些核心思想可以超越时空。我以二刘老师的传人而骄做。

🎬 纪念视频 | 纪念视频二

大师千古，祝他老人家一路走好！

定稿于2022年九月12日

From 《朝华午披》. Original Chinese: 《朝华之十四：随恩师入行》.

Teacher Wang Zhihuan was my benefactor and mentor. During my undergraduate years, when qualified instructors were scarce, we were fortunate to have Miss Wang join the faculty.

I still remember a joke from my university days. Once, Miss Wang had a bad cold and came to class despite it, sneezing uncontrollably. Unable to help herself, she muttered under her breath, "Such nuisance!" Sitting in the front row, I softly replied, "It's really not a new-sance. It's an old 'sance'. You've caught cold for days now."  Miss Wang finally couldn't help but laugh. Some classmates who heard it laughed along; those who didn't were baffled.

Many years ago, I received from Miss Wang a copy of the bilingual Chinese-English poetry anthology she had compiled and translated, A Collection of Patriotic Lyric Poems, Ancient and Modern. Busy with work, I carried it with me and read a few poems whenever I had a spare moment, finding them quite distinctive. The anthology was compiled and published after she had survived nineteen years of unjust imprisonment, in her twilight years past sixty and seventy. Her translations are faithful to the spirit, language, and cadence of the originals — flowing and musical, demonstrating the profound mastery of this venerable teacher. The selection ranges from Qu Yuan in antiquity down to the Tiananmen Poems. Alongside well-known masterpieces, there are also lesser-known works she was particularly fond of — more obscure but rich in poetic sentiment, such as Shi Hanke's "Questioning the Stone Man." Running through it all is a somber, deep-felt concern for the nation and its people, inseparable, I suspect, from her own life experience.

After the anthology was published, I told Miss Wang: now that we are in the Internet age, I could create a Teacher's Collected Works column online to introduce her poetry and other writings. She was pleased, but also had misgivings about copyright. As a first attempt, she suggested we could begin by introducing her "Verses from the Ashes." She wrote:

Wei,

Hello!

Is there a way, whatever, any such,
in all the world existing, to unlade,
unlock, unlatch, enliven by a touch
magical the long-lonely weighed-
down soul, that, waking like an apple tree
frost-fettered, now reviving, trembling,
with wind and rain rollicking in glee,
it brightens to a loveliness of spring?
Yes, there is one, one only, one alone –
not love uncomprehending, singeing, blind,
self-happy-seeking; but there is a known
way, thing, fine thing, consoling, gracious, kind –
What? Sympathy! Reverberating wide
and wider, when the asking is replied.

This is a sonnet written sixty years ago by a university junior, which was once highly praised by several professors of English literature from the five Christian universities then gathered in Chengdu. Then, in 1967, before an assembly of female prisoners at the labor reform farm, it was committed to the flames — along with my other original works, translations, personal letters, photographs, and everything else — reduced to ashes in a single blaze. This time, when you read aloud over a transoceanic phone call Yang Zhenning's revised version of Weng Fan's English poem, it unexpectedly touched a nerve in me that had grown nearly numb, jolting me awake: both of us were Chinese university students (albeit in vastly different times, spaces, and circumstances) attempting to express poetic feeling in English — and yet how vastly different our two fates have been, to the point of such extremes! At the same time, small stories connected to my university poetry-writing days came vividly back to life in my mind. So I thought, if I could recall some verses still worth reading, they might be of interest. I racked what remains of my brain — already moderately eroded by dementia — and after several days of effort, miraculously retrieved from vanished ashes a few charred, shattered pages of verse. The above is the only poem I was able to reconstruct in its entirety. At the same time, I thought I would follow the current fashion of "poetry with illustrations" by pairing it with related little stories, serving as "sketches."

In 1942, I transferred into the English Department of Jinling Women's College. By then, Jinling, Yenching, Nanjing, and Cheeloo — four Christian universities — had successively relocated to the spacious campus of West China Union University in Chengdu. English majors from any of these schools could attend specialized courses offered by English professors from any of the institutions — "resource sharing," as we would say today. The courses "Introduction to English Poetry" taught by Dr. William P. Fenn, chair of the Nanjing University English Department, and "Modern Poetry" taught by Yenching professor Grace Boynton were both brilliantly taught. This ignited the impulse to write poetry that had been stirring in me since middle school — a "foolhardy audacity" — and, modeling my work on the linguistic styles of poets I particularly loved, I gradually wrote several dozen poems in my spare time. Later, I selected sixteen sonnets as my graduation thesis (with Dr. Fenn as my advisor), which surprisingly attracted the attention of many foreign faculty members across the West China campus.

However, "everything is hardest at the beginning." One small episode remains vivid and evergreen in my memory. Besides teaching "Modern Poetry," Miss Boynton also offered an English composition course. One day in 1943, after class, I approached her with a few of my poems and asked for her guidance. She accepted them with a smile, then said, unhurriedly and gently: "Oh dear, it's already an accomplishment if you Chinese students can write a decent English sentence — and now you're writing poetry!" But since the pages were already in her hands, I could hardly ask for them back. And so my "maiden works" entered her reading gaze. The next time we met after class, Miss Boynton's attitude had completely transformed — she offered a few words of delighted appraisal. After that, she invited me once or twice to her cottage for afternoon tea, to chat and talk about poetry. In composition class, she would often read my prose aloud to the entire class. Later, words of excessive praise for my work — which was in fact quite immature, especially in meter and rhyme — circulated among the foreign faculty at West China, remarks like "She'll burst into print any time"…

What I could never have imagined was that this would turn out to be the only period of original English poetry writing in my entire life! As for "bursting into print" (or rather, struggling into print), at least where English poetry was concerned, that would not come until a full half-century later — after enduring nineteen years as a prisoner, and at last living to see the wrongs of the past set right. That is to say, it came with the publication of the Collection of Patriotic Lyric Poems Ancient and Modern that you helped introduce online.

In raising this topic again today, I am doing no more than revisiting, in these waning years of little to commend, one of the relatively pleasant stretches of my adult life, and offering to an amateur poetry enthusiast such as yourself a few anecdotes of life in the old Christian university.

Wang Zhihuan
February 10, 2005, Beijing

That summer at the teachers' college, I would often have breakfast with Miss Wang and listen to her recount the hardships and legends of her life. What she missed most was her university days and the English poems she wrote then — at the time, she was outstanding, brimming with talent, and highly regarded by the foreign professors and President Wu Yifang. The poem above was a fragment she recalled and recorded for me back then. I still remember Miss Wang explaining the line "He sits and reads the pool" to me — she said that "sits" is a short vowel and "reads" is a long vowel, and their interplay gives the line its rise and fall. She even mimed the expression of a bird studying the pond with rapt attention, as a demonstration of the line.

Another of Missx Wang's early poems, a fragment:

"The Kingfisher"

He is a flame of emerald,
With a shining ruby breast,
Of all things most beautiful,
By Mother Nature drest;
Inhabits the deep woodland green,
By some water calm and cool,
And on a wayward stretching bough,
He sits and reads the pool.

Then darts he like a light'ning flash
With winning fleeting grace,
Dips his winglets in the pool,
And wrinkles its halcyon face.

Then the flame of emerald
Has vanished out of sight.

After Miss Wang was rehabilitated, she was reassigned to Beijing and spent her remaining years in the cramped dormitory apartment assigned to her by her old work unit, Xinhua News Agency. Small though it was, it was in the heart of Beijing — the downstairs restaurant was quite good, and it was close to the market and the subway. When I used to visit her, she would always send me to the market to buy some vegetarian chicken and to the Xinhua canteen to pick up some staples, and we would have dinner together. No matter how much humiliation and resentment she had endured at Xinhua, it was her final anchorage — the last manifestation of "the superiority of socialism." This was especially true for a retired veteran cadre who had made her way to Yan'an, a woman with no family by her side.

During my time in Beijing, several ladies in my Esperanto circle grew quite close to her at one point and offered help in daily matters, but in the end, her suspicious nature drove them away. Her paranoia and mistrust were likely the scars of many years of prison life — she suspected nearly everyone around her, and this determined the loneliness of her final years. When she later hired hourly help, she was always suspicious and excessively critical, with the result that her own life suffered all the more. Once, when she was hospitalized, she suspected the hospital of scheming against her, of possibly doing her harm, and insisted on being discharged before she had recovered. Her deepest grievance centered on the sister-in-law of Chen Qixia, who had been some kind of leader at Xinhua. Before the Ding-Chen Anti-Party Clique incident, Miss Wang had once raised criticisms of Chen — criticisms that were, to some degree, exploited, though Miss Wang maintained she had nothing to do with the Ding-Chen political affair. She believed the Chen family bore a grudge (indeed, Chen Qixia's later self-defense statement did accuse Miss Wang's criticisms of being one of the triggers), and she was convinced this sister-in-law had been making life difficult for her ever since — directly leading to her later suicide attempt, her "defection" (seeking out her father in Hong Kong), and ultimately ten years of imprisonment followed by nearly twenty years of inhuman existence in labor reform farms. This old score was branded too deeply into her heart, so much so that even after returning to Xinhua, she still suspected people there of persecuting her. I said to her, "Your adversaries are all dead — who are you afraid of anymore?" She replied, "Just because they're dead doesn't mean their faction has been purged." If she was going to think that way, living every step in fear, of course life would not be easy. A few days after returning from the hospital, she would insist that someone had gone through her belongings and that objects had been stolen. And so it went — every time I visited her, she would pour out her grievances at length, and I could only listen.

In her later years, although Miss Wang did not write memoirs or an autobiography, for a couple of years she did find something meaningful to occupy herself with: translating classical Chinese poetry into English. This was her forte. She truly spent years polishing a single sword, committing everything to heart. After completing the translations, she spent several more years struggling to get them published — in the process seeking help from elders such as Chen Baichen and Ye Junjian, and even contacting American writers and UNESCO. In the end, the book was published, and it did leave its mark in the field of poetry translation. After this achievement, however, she became constantly worried that someone would infringe upon her copyright, that someone would steal her work. She could not understand that stealing the work was simply impossible — there was, after all, an official publication. As for copyright, poetry translation is a money-losing enterprise; there is no motive for infringement. (To be honest, if piracy helped with additional print runs and wider distribution, wouldn't that be a good thing?) But she could not take in these arguments. And so, in my interactions with Miss Wang, I could basically only listen — only agree or chuckle along. I could not speak my mind. If I expressed a different view, it would arouse her suspicion.

— Recorded on September 22, 2006

朝华午拾之十三：灰烬中的诗篇

王知还老师是我的恩师。本科阶段，师资紧缺，幸亏有王老师的加入。

还记得在我大学时期的一个笑话。有一次，王老师重感冒，带病上课，打喷嚏不止，忍不住小声咕哝道："Such nuisance！" 我坐前排，轻声回应道: "It's really not a new-sance. It's an old 'sance'. You have caught cold for days now." （顺便一提，在西方，别人打喷嚏时最合适的话应该是，"Bless you!"）王老师终于忍俊不住笑了。同学中有听到的跟着笑, 有没听见的觉得莫名其妙。

多年前，我曾收到我的英文老师王知还寄赠的她选编翻译的汉英对照诗集《古今爱国抒情诗词选》。因为工作繁忙，便随身携带，有空阅读几首，觉得颇有特色。诗集编译出版于她从19年冤狱幸存出来、于花甲古稀衰迈之年。译作忠实于原作的精神、语言、气韵，琅琅上口，表现出她老人家的深厚功力。编选的范围上自屈原，下迄《天安门诗抄》。除去脍炙人口的名篇之外，也不乏她情有独钟的，较冷僻，但诗意浓郁的，比如释函可的"问石人"等篇什。贯穿始终的是一种沉郁的忧国忧民情怀，这大概与她本人的经历是密不可分的吧。

译作出版以后，我跟王老师说：现在是网络时代，我可以在网上开办一个《老师文集》专栏，介绍您的诗作和其他作品。她很高兴，但也有顾虑，怕侵权。作为第一次尝试，她提到可以从介绍她的《灰烬中的诗篇》开始。她写道：

立委：你好！

Is there a way, whatever, any such,
in all the world existing, to unlade,
unlock, unlatch, enliven by a touch
magical the long-lonely weighed-
down soul, that, waking like an apple tree
frost-fettered, now reviving, trembling,
with wind and rain rollicking in glee,
it brightens to a loveliness of spring?
Yes, there is one, one only, one alone –
not love uncomprehending, singeing, blind,
self-happy-seeking; but there is a known
way, thing, fine thing, consoling, gracious, kind –
What? Sympathy! Reverberating wide
and wider, when the asking is replied.

这是６０年前一个大三学生创作的"十四行"（sonnet，又译《商籁体》），曾被当时聚集于成都的五所教会大学几位英国文学教授所激赏。而后，１９６７年，在劳改农场的女犯面前，和我的其他原作和译作，以及私人信件、照片等等，统统在点燃的火苗中灰飞烟灭。这一次，你在越洋电话中，为我朗读扬振宁校改过的翁帆英文诗，不竟触动了我一根接近麻木的神经，令我猛醒：同为中国大学生（尽管是在迥异的时空和境遇中）用英文尝试表达诗情，二者的命运何其悬殊一至于此！同时，与我大学时期写诗相关的一些小故事，也鲜活地再现脑际。于是，我想，只要想起一些尚有可读性的诗句，可能会引起兴趣。便绞尽已被痴呆症中度侵蚀的脑汁，集数日之努力，竟从消失了的灰烬中，又神奇地拣回几片焦黑的破碎诗页。上列是唯一能完整地复述出来的一首。同时，也想学着时下流行的"诗配画"的风气，以相关的小故事，权当"速写"，与之相配。

１９４２年，我插班进入金女大英文系。当时，金女大、燕京、南京、齐鲁四所教会大学，已先后迁至位于成都的华西大学宽阔的校园内。各校英文系的学生都可选听任何一校英文教授开的专业课，"资源共享"。南大英文系主任 Dr. William P. Fenn 开的"英诗概论"和燕大教授 Grace Boynton 开的"现代诗歌"课（注：２００３年１１月３日《中华读书报》所载章开沅的"教会大学在中国"文中，曾评价并引用过 Fenn 的言论。Boynton 的名字也曾在几年前"博览群书"某文中被提起过），都讲授得十分精彩。这就引发了我自中学始即跃跃欲试的"大胆妄为"的写诗冲动，照着我特别喜爱的一些诗的语言风格，"依样画葫芦"，课余逐渐写了几十首。后来，精选出１６首十四行，作为我的毕业论文（Dr. Fenn 就是我的导师），居然引起华西大校园中许多外籍教师的瞩目。

不过，"万事开头难"。一个小插曲至今留在记忆中，鲜活常青。Miss Boynton 除教"现代诗歌"外，还开过英文作文课。１９４３年某日，下课后我拿着自己的几首诗请她指教。她微笑着接过去，却不紧不慢、温和地说："呀，你们中国学生能把英文句子写通就不错了，还写诗呀！"但诗页既已递到她手，我也不便再要回来。这样，我的"处女作"，就进入了她的审读视线。再次课余见面，Boynton 态度大变，她惊喜地评说了两三句。此后，她曾邀请我到她独居的小楼去喝过一二次午茶，谈天、说诗。作文课上，她常向全班朗读我写的散文。再后，华西大各校外籍教师中曾传来过对我实际上很幼稚（尤其在意韵方面）的作品的溢美之辞，比如说，"She'll burst into print any time"……

想不到的是：那竟成了我此生仅有的一段原创性英文诗写作的实践了！至于"burst into print" (应该说, struggle into print) ，至少在有关英诗方面，那是在整整半个世纪以后，当陪衬"运动员"和沦为囚犯１９载、最终幸逢拨乱反正以后的事了。－－也就是你帮忙上网介绍的那本《古今爱国抒情诗词选》的出版之时的事了。

今天重提这个话题，不过是在乏善可陈的衰迈余年里，重温一下成年以后少有的较为舒畅的岁月，并为你这样的业余诗歌爱好者，提供旧时教会学校生活的一点逸闻罢了。

王知还
２００５年二月十日，北京

当年暑假在师院，我常跟王老师一起吃早饭，听她谈她一生的坎坷和传奇。她最怀念的是大学时代和她大学时代所写的英诗，当时出类拔萃，才气横溢，极受外籍教授和校长吴贻芳的器重。这一篇小诗就是当年她给我回忆记录下来的片断。还记得王老师跟我讲解诗句"He sits and reads the pool"时，说sits是短元音，reads是长元音，相互配合使得诗句抑扬顿挫。并做出鸟儿神情专著盯着池塘的神态，作为此句的演示。

王知还老师早期的另一首诗（片段）：

"The Kingfisher"

He is a flame of emerald,
With a shining ruby breast,
Of all things most beautiful,
By Mother Nature drest;
Inhabits the deep woodland green,
By some water calm and cool,
And on a wayward stretching bough,
He sits and reads the pool.

Then darts he like a light'ning flash
With winning fleeting grace,
Dips his winglets in the pool,
And wrinkles its halcyon face.

Then the flame of emerald
Has vanished out of sight.

王老师平反以后落实政策回到北京，在原单位新华社分配的窄小宿舍里，度过了余生。房子虽然不大，但那是北京的心脏地带，楼下餐厅很不错，离菜市场和地铁都很近。以前去看她，总是差我去菜市场买一些素鸡，去新华社食堂买一些主食一起吃晚饭。无论她在新华社曾有多少屈辱和怨恨，新华社是她最后的归宿，这是"社会主义优越性"的最后体现了。对于一个投奔延安的离休老干部，一个身边没有任何亲人的她，更是如此。

在北京的时候，我的世界语朋友圈子中很有几位女士曾一度跟她走得近，也在生活方面提供了一些帮助，但最终还是由于她的多疑，疏远了。她的多疑和猜忌可能是很多年的牢狱生活的苦难造成的，她几乎怀疑过身边每一个人，这就决定了她最后岁月的孤苦。后来请钟点工，她也总在怀疑，太过挑剔，结果自己的生活就更加受苦。其间生病住院，她也怀疑医院有阴谋，会谋害她，身体没复原就坚持出院。她最大的心病是陈企霞的弟媳，当年是新华社的什么头儿。由于丁陈被打入反党集团之前，王老师曾经提过陈的意见（这些意见多少被利用了，虽然王老师坚持她与丁陈政治事件无关），她觉得陈家怀恨在心（后来看到陈企霞自辩词，确实指控了王老师的意见是导火索之一），所以王老师觉得这个弟媳一直给她穿小鞋，直接导致了她后来的自杀和"叛逃"（去香港找父亲）等事件，最终是10年徒刑，近20年劳改农场的非人生活。这笔旧账在她心中烙印太深，以至于后来回到新华社，她还总在怀疑新华社有人在迫害她。我说，你的对手都死光了，你还怕谁呢？她说，死了并不等于其党羽都清除了。她要这样想，步步惊心，日子自然不好过。她住院几天回来，就坚持说她的东西被人翻过，有物件被偷。诸如此类，每次我去看她，她都要唠叨很多，我也只能听着。

王老师晚年虽然没写回忆或自传，有两年还是找到了一件有意思的事情做，就是翻译中国古典诗词到英文，这是她的长项。那真是几年磨一剑，烂熟于心。翻译完，为了出版折腾了好几年，其间找过陈白尘、叶君健等老人帮忙，也曾联系美国作家和联合国科教文。最终是出版了，也确实在诗歌翻译领域留下了印记。这项成果之后，她就老在怀疑有人要侵犯她的版权，盗窃她的成果。她不明白，盗窃成果是根本不可能的事情，因为有正式出版物在。至于版权，诗歌翻译是赔本的买卖，没有侵权的动机（说老实话，要是有盗版帮助加印分销，流传更广，不是更好么）。但这些道理她是听不进去的。所以，跟王老师交往，基本上只能听，只能附和或打哈哈，不能说。说了不同看法，就会引起她的疑心。

记于2006年九月二十二记

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory, Afternoon Harvest). Original Chinese: 《朝华之十三: 灰烬中的诗篇》.

The Deskmate

I first saw her at the oral exam venue. In the first post-Cultural Revolution college entrance exam for the Class of '77, I had added optional English as a bonus subject and needed to take an oral test after passing the preliminary screening. My father accompanied me by bus from our county town to the oral exam site in W City. She appeared like a Lin Daiyu who had descended from heaven (she was actually a year older than me), and my eyes lit up. Rarely had I seen such a delicate young lady, shyly murmuring with her father as they made last-minute preparations. My father struck up a conversation, hoping to pick up some exam tips for me, and learned that her father was a university professor who happened to be a colleague of my father's old classmate. The girl's father said, "Keep up with the political climate — learn to express everyday political phrases in English, like Chairman Hua's 'Grasp the key link and run the country well.'"

I silently recited the newly-learned "Grasp the key link and run the country well," and thus stumbled into the oral exam room. The examiner, as it turned out, didn't ask anything political — just simple questions about my age and hometown, then had me read aloud a passage about Dr. Bethune. After reading, I was asked to retell it. Boldly, I managed three or five sentences:

Dr. Bai-qiu-en is an old friend of China and Chinese people. He is a communist party member in Canada. He came to China in 1939 to support our anti-Japanese war.

After leaving the exam room, I eagerly searched with my eyes for that girl, but alas, she had vanished like a fading fragrance on the wind, leaving not a trace behind.

Such is the way of the world — you encounter a stunning young girl by chance, are struck as if by a celestial being, and cannot let go for a long time. But the sea of humanity is vast, and you are in different places; there is no possibility of meeting again, only sighs of lament. I deeply envied that celestial girl for having a professor father to carefully nurture her, thinking that surely she would become the campus belle of the Beijing Foreign Studies University or Shanghai International Studies University the following year.

But sometimes life is stranger than fiction — she actually became my classmate, coming to our then-obscure teachers' college. When I saw her on campus during new student orientation, I literally couldn't believe my eyes. When I discovered she was in my class, I was overjoyed. Later, because I was the youngest in the class and she was the youngest among the seven girls, by what stroke of fortune I know not, we ended up as deskmates, sitting side by side for four years. Though we never brushed ears or temples together, her subtle fragrance would drift over, her soft breathing within earshot — a mere mortal like me had long lost all sense of where I was.

Unlike prestigious universities with their many electives, our school's curriculum was rigid — the entire class was always bound together, in the same classroom, taking the same courses, almost like a vocational school. This arrangement gave us fixed seats. I was very fortunate — my deskmate, the Seventh Fairy, sat in the first row with me, the Sixth Fairy behind me, and the Fifth Fairy next to me.

We were the first cohort after the Cultural Revolution, with diverse backgrounds and wide age gaps, yet all carried the old-fashioned habits of a bygone era. Apart from grinding away at our books, the class had absolutely no social life or entertainment. Boys and girls rarely even spoke to each other; everyone was a good student of the late Chairman Mao, consciously restraining themselves and observing propriety. Mind you, this was a group of people aged 18 to 30 in the prime of their youth, yet not a single couple formed in our class. Not until near graduation did a few older guys start looking for partners elsewhere, and even they didn't dare set their sights on the Seven Fairies. Only one bohemian talent from the Chinese Department seemed always trying to cozy up to her, calling her "my Little Rabbit Merry," but even he couldn't find an opening.

My secret admiration for the Seventh Fairy — so near at hand yet as distant as the horizon — accompanied my entire university life. My old notes, poetry manuscripts, along with the four lengthy novels I had written, were all unfortunately lost during my wandering relocations.

— Written on September 22, 2006

Postscript: The poetry manuscript "Ode to the Goddess" from those years was lost during a move, but it did not "turn to dust and vanish." I had printed a copy for my elder brother, and to my surprise, he has kept it to this day.

Ode to the Goddess

(October 1, 1980, Night)

On Self-Cultivation
Man is no plant or tree — how can he be without feeling?
Flesh-and-blood beings — who does not admire excellence?
The modest, gentle maiden — a gentleman's worthy courtship.
The graceful fairy maiden — our generation's dream companion.
Love her, yearn for her — but never defile her.
Admire her, revere her — yet none know my heart!
None know my heart — my heart unseen.
Thinking of her, my heart breaks — tears fall like sleet.

Heart
Your heart, my heart — this heart, that heart.
I exhaust my heart's strength — seeking my soul's companion.
Those who have come from afar — are not the ones who know my heart.
The heart that knows is not distant — it resides in the Goddess.
Should the Goddess depart — perhaps my heart may rest.

Untitled
You climb the eastern peak — how could my west reach you?
Jade lost within the village — what is there but to grieve!
Learning without end — poetry without form.
People without constancy — hearts without wound!

Reverie
Night — already two o'clock,
Near and far, a few dreamlike eyes.
Some green, some yellow,
Flickering — flickering.

The dark-violet vault,
Its outlines faintly traced.
Bearing the cold air,
The spirit of night strokes my face.

All is silent —
Yet I detect a sound:
A buzzing, like bees —
— It is my winged reverie.

In my reverie, she —
Near yet distant.
Whispered words honeyed,
Dimpled smiles shallow.

Dream of the Earthquake
What — the earth trembles slightly,
Could it be an earthquake, visiting while people sleep?
I throw down my pen and leap out the window,
Suddenly remembering she's still inside.

Like black lightning,
I charge back in.
— Alas! She escapes safely,
Yet I suffer a fatal blow.

Thank God!
I die content.
My spirit seems to hear,
Her weeping for me.

Beneath the Nine Springs, I smile in peace:
One perfect goddess,
Is worth how many
Mere mortals like me? Amen!

The Hometown Girl

Through a university alumni network reunion, I reconnected with an old classmate working in Shanghai. This was my iron buddy, who back in the day had quietly won over a female classmate from the Mathematics Department, becoming one of the rare outstanding individuals in our class who successfully "abducted" a fellow university student. During the New Year, I called to wish him well; he had gone back to his hometown, and only his wife from the Math Department was home. As we chatted, my sister-in-law asked: "How is your young hometown girl doing now? Back then, we all thought you two would surely end up together."

I said, "I was close to this hometown girl for nearly two years and felt very comfortable with her, but we never really entered into a romance. I'm embarrassed to say we've lost contact for many years — I don't know where she is now. I once heard she was assigned to H City after graduation."

My sister-in-law sighed: "She was not destined for such fortune." I told her: "Perhaps I was the one without the fortune. She was truly a wonderful girl — so easy to be with, and she knew how to care for others." My sister-in-law concluded: "In the end, it comes down to fate not being enough." I asked: "Though we spent a lot of time together, we were never in a romantic relationship. You were in the Math Department Class of '77, and she was in the Chinese Department Class of '80 — how did you know about us?" She replied: "Our school wasn't that big, and all the girls' dorms were in one building — how could I not know? That hometown girl of yours would often come to our room and talk about you. I even heard about your trip to Zhenfeng Pagoda together. We all thought you two were a sure thing."

This was a plain yet poignant connection, drifting somewhere between love and friendship. No passionate whispers, no clinging devotion, no grand drama or wild swings — just quiet understanding, warmth, and genuine care for each other. To this day, I still don't understand why this relationship withered without cause. Perhaps, deep down, I believed love should shake the heavens, that it must be romantic — and so I lacked the appreciation and commitment for this calm, harmonious affection, letting it drift away like water.

The Hometown Girl was a classmate of my younger sister, not strikingly beautiful but pleasant to look at — the kind of girl who makes you feel comfortable and want to be near. She was probably the only true fellow-towns person I had at our school, coming from the same county seat. She had known I was at this school for a long time but was too shy to properly acknowledge me as a fellow-towns person. Later, she told me that every time she waited in the cafeteria line, she would see me holding a little notebook, reciting words to myself as if no one else existed. Back then, we often had to wait in long queues, and I suppose I was always using those moments to memorize vocabulary.

I was a bit of an oddball at school, and my young hometown girl looked up to me somewhat. In those days, I was writing novels with burning passion, and she became my earliest and most devoted reader. Under the cover of being fellow townspeople, our interactions from the very start were natural — not furtive and secretive like so many boys and girls of that era. When spring arrived, we would play frisbee on the grassy field in front of the dormitory, thoroughly enjoying ourselves without worry of gossip. When her birthday or mine came around, we would arrange to go out to Zhenfeng Pagoda by the river to explore; when tired, we'd go to a restaurant to toast each other, drinking a little wine, returning to campus with flushed cheeks. Only at the campus gate would we realize that walking back together, faces rosy and half-tipsy, might create a poor impression. So we would part ways there, each returning to our own dorms separately.

I remember one winter break — the ground was frozen, snow everywhere. We arranged to take the long-distance bus together from Anqing back home, a seven-to-eight-hour journey, bumping and swaying. I suffered terribly from motion sickness. During a midway rest stop, the Hometown Girl said to me: "Let's race — see who reaches that telephone pole first!" How could I let myself be outrun by her? I ran with all my might. She laughed playfully — she wasn't truly racing me, just trying to distract me from the nausea. Then we had a brief snowball fight. Back on the bus, I indeed felt much better. During holidays, when we returned from home bringing local specialties, we always shared them. She asked me to help her buy a brick-sized cassette recorder, and we often listened to Teresa Teng's tapes together, singing "The Moon Represents My Heart." Yet we never explicitly acknowledged a romantic relationship, never had intimate gestures. Still, we were happy to spend time in each other's company. Having a fellow-towns person of the opposite sex who cared for each other — a warmth suffused everything.

Days passed quietly like this, feeling full and content. Looking back on those two years, the closest physical contact we ever had was, I think, the occasional, half-intentional holding of hands. Then came graduation, and I took the exam to stay on at the university as a teacher. I passed the written test but was eliminated in the oral exam — they said my spoken English had an accent. Among the qualified candidates, I was the only one who received merely a "Pass" in the oral test, while the requirement for staying on was "Good" or above. I felt deeply wronged. When I asked her out, I couldn't hold back my tears. She was somewhat at a loss, silently accompanying me through that heartbreaking night.

Hometown Girl — are you well?

— Written on March 8, 2007

Postscript: Thanks to the Internet and the help of classmates, after 25 years of separation, I have finally reconnected with the Hometown Girl. I learned that she has achieved outstanding success in her career, and I am truly happy for her.

Li Wei:

Hello!

Having read "The Hometown Girl," I feel as if I've returned to our university days. The youth of bygone years, the striving spirit — all have come floating back before my eyes.

Knowing that you are doing well now, I am sincerely happy for you.

I will visit your blog often to read your beautiful essays.

I look forward to more of your writing.

— April 26, 2007

《朝华之十一: 青春恋曲》

同桌的她

第一次见到她是在口试的考场。文革以后第一届77级高考，我加试了英语，初选后需要口试。父亲陪我乘车从县城赶到W市的口试考场。她的出现有如天上掉下来的林妹妹（她其实长我一岁），让我眼睛一亮。很少见如此娇嫩的少女，羞答答地随着她父亲嘀嘀咕咕做临场前的最后准备。我父亲于是搭讪，想为我寻求一些应试技巧，得知这位父亲是大学教授，恰好跟我父亲的老同学是同事。女孩父亲说，要紧跟形势，学用英语说日常政治用语，比如华主席提出的"抓纲治国"：
Grasp the key link and run the country well
我默念着刚学到的"抓纲治国"，就这样糊里糊涂进了口试考场。考官倒没有问什么政治，只是简单问问年龄籍贯，然后让我朗读一段白求恩大夫的故事，念完后要求复述出来。我大胆复述了三五句：
Dr. Bai-qiu-en is an old friend of China and Chinese people. He is a communist party member in Canada. He came to China in 1939 to support our anti-Japanese war.
出考场后，赶紧拿眼睛去寻那个女孩，可惜早已香消影逝，随风而去，不留一丝芳踪。

世界上的事情常常是这样，在一个偶然场合，邂逅一妙龄女郎，惊为天人，久久不能释怀。可人海茫茫，又身处两地，绝无再见的可能，徒增感喟而已。非常羡慕这个天仙一样的女孩有个教授爸爸精心培养，心想来年北外或者上外的校花非她莫属了。

但是，生活也有比小说还巧的时候，她居然成为我的同窗，来到当时不入流的师范。新生入校的时候在校园见到她，简直不敢相信自己的眼睛。及至发现她原来是同班同学，大喜过望。再后来，因为我全班最小，她在班上七个女生中也最小，不知修得什么福分，居然同桌相邻。虽无耳鬓厮磨，却有幽香袭人，娇喘入闻，凡夫俗子的我早已不知身在何处了。

跟名校有很多选修课不同，我们这种学校课程很死板，全班同学总是绑在一起，在同一个教室，上同一组课，跟中专似的。这样的情形使得我们都有固定的座位。我很幸运，我和同桌的七仙女在第一排，六仙女在我身后，五仙女在我隔壁。

我们是文革后第一届，同学背景各异，年龄相差也大，但都免不了前朝遗少陋习。全班同学除了死读书外，根本没有社交和娱乐。男女生也极少谈话，个个是先帝毛主席的好学生，自觉克己复礼，非礼勿视。须知大家都是18-30岁正当年啊，班上居然没有一对谈恋爱的，直到临毕业才有几个年长的哥们开始四外寻找对象，也没敢打七仙女的主意。只有一个中文系的嬉皮才子似乎总想跟她套瓷，称她为 my Little Rabbit Merry，但也无从下手。

对近在咫尺远在天边的七仙女的暗恋伴随了我的大学生活。当年的笔记、诗稿，连同我写的四大本小说，都不幸在流浪搬迁途中丢失。
记于2006年九月二十二记

后记：当年的诗稿《女神赞》已在搬家途中丢失，但并没有"灰飞烟灭"。曾打印留给哥哥一份，没想到他居然保留至今。

女神赞

（一九八零年十月一日夜）

好修篇
人非草木, 安能无情? 血肉之体, 孰不慕英?
窈窕淑女, 君子好逑。娉婷仙姑, 吾侪梦俦。
爱之恋之, 莫之污兮。仰之敬之, 莫我知兮!
莫我知兮, 心弗见兮。念之肠断, 涕若霰兮。

心
尔心吾心, 此心彼心。竭心力兮, 寻吾知音。
迢迢迩来, 非吾知心。其心非远, 在彼女神。
____女神逝兮, 或可安心.

无题
尔东陟兮, 岂吾西及? 里亡玉兮, 惟可悲夫!
学无己兮, 诗无体兮。人无常兮, 心无伤兮!

耽想
夜, 己经两点,
远近几只梦的眼。
有绿色的, 有黄色的,
一闪、一闪。

乌青的穹隆,
轮廓略显。
挟着寒气,
夜神抚我脸。

万籁俱寂,
我却听出了音响:
嗡嗡嗡, 象蜜蜂,
___是我生双翼的耽想。

耽想中的她,
亲近又遥远.
细语蜜蜜,
笑窝浅浅。

望震
怎么, 大地颤微,
敢不是地震来临, 乘着人们熟睡?
我丢下诗笔跳出窗外,
蓦然记起她还在房内。

象黑色的闪电,
我猛冲进去.
__alas!她安然脱险,
我却遭了致命一击。

感谢上帝!
我满意地死去.
魂灵似乎正听到,
她在为我哭泣。

九泉之下我微笑安心:
一个完美的女神,
要抵得多少
我这样的凡人, Amem!

老乡妹妹

大学同学联络网聚，我跟在上海工作的老同学联系上了。这是我的铁哥们儿，当年不声不响搞定了一位数学系的女同学，成为我班少有的两个成功"拐骗"了大学同学的出类拔萃人士。过年打电话拜年，他回老家了，只有数学系的太太在家，聊起来，嫂子问我：你的小老乡现在怎么样？当年我们以为你们应该也成一对了呢。

我说，我和这个老乡妹妹交往了近两年，感到很自在，但没有真正进入恋爱啊。很惭愧，已经失去联系很多年了，不知道她现在在哪里，以前听说她毕业分到H城了。

嫂子叹口气：她是没有福分。我告诉嫂子：可能是我没有福分吧。她人真地很好，让人很舒服，也懂得体贴人。嫂子最后说：说到底还是缘分不够。我问：我们虽然交往很多，但并没有恋爱关系。你是数学系77级，她是中文系80级，你怎么知道我们的关系呢？嫂子说：咱们学校不大，女生宿舍都在一个楼，怎么不知道？你那老乡妹妹还常到我们寝室来谈起你，你们一块到振风塔游玩的事，我也听她说了呢。我们都以为你们肯定能成。

这是一段平淡而又令人回味的交往，游于爱情与友情之间。没有卿卿我我，厮守缠绵，没有轰轰烈烈，大起大伏，有的只是默契温馨，和真心地相互关心体贴。我到现在也不明白，这种关系为什么无疾而终。也许骨子里就认为爱情应该惊天动地，追求浪漫，所以对平实和谐的感情，少了一份珍惜和执着，任其如水流去。

老乡妹妹是我妹妹的同级同学，算不上很漂亮，但受看，是让人舒服愿意接近的那种女孩子。她大概是我们学校唯一一个真正的老乡了，来自同一个县城。她早就知道我在这个学校，一直腼腆没好意思认我这个老乡。后来，她告诉我，她每次在食堂排队时，就看到我手里拿着一个小本本，旁若无人地念念有词。我们当年，常常需要排很长的队，我大概总是利用这个当口在背单词吧。

我在学校有点各别，小老乡对我有些仰视。我当年写小说写得热火朝天，她成为最早最忠实的一个读者。借着老乡的名义，我们一开始交往，就很自然，不象当年很多男生女生那样鬼鬼祟祟。春天来了，我们就在宿舍门前的操场绿地上玩飞碟，很是开心，也不怕人闲话。她的或我的生日到了，我们就约好出去，到江边振风塔上游玩，玩累了下餐馆互相祝福，也喝点葡萄酒，脸色红红地回到校园。到了校园门口，才意识到两人脸色潮红半醉微醺地一块儿回校，影响不好。这才分开，先后各自回自己的宿舍。

记得有一年寒假到了，冰天雪地。我们约好乘坐长途汽车一道从安庆回家，七八个小时车程晃晃荡荡，我晕车的厉害。老乡妹妹在中途停车时，跟我说，我们赛跑，看谁先到前面的电线杆谁赢。我哪好意思落在她后面，拼命跑起来。她嘻嘻哈哈，并不真地跟我比赛，只是想分散我的注意力。接着又打了一会儿雪仗，上车再行，果然感觉好多了。假期回校从家里带来特产，我们总是分享。她托我帮她买了一台砖式录音机，我们常常一起听邓丽君的盒带，唱月亮代表我的心，可就是从来没有挑明恋爱关系，也没有亲热举动，但还是愿意在一起消磨时光。有个异性老乡互相关爱，有一种温暖在弥漫。

日子就这样平平淡淡地过去，感觉很充实。交往两年，仔细想起来，好像最亲密的接触就是有意无意地拉拉手。直到我毕业参加留校考试，笔试通过，却在口试时候被刷下来了，说我英语口语带口音，在达标的候选人中是唯一一个口语得"及格"的，而留校人员口试必须"良"或以上。我感觉很委屈，约她出来时，忍不住哭了。她有点手足无措，默默陪我度过了那个伤心之夜。

老乡妹妹，你还好吗？
记于2007年三月八日

后记：感谢互联网和同学的帮助，在分别25年后终于联系上老乡妹妹。得知她事业有成出类拔萃，很替她高兴。

立委：
你好！
看过"老乡妹妹"一文，仿佛又回到了大学时代。曾经的青春年少、曾经的努力奋进又一一浮现在眼前。
知道你现在很好，由衷地为你高兴。
我会经常上你的博客，阅读你的美文。
期待你有更多的文章。
—— 2007年4月26日

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 《朝华之十一: 青春恋曲》.

The old team leader, who had welcomed us into U Village with gongs and drums, was the one closest to us. He loved managing every affair, large or small, and naturally assumed the role of guardian to the educated youth. When we arrived, the old team leader's extended family was at its zenith: five children — three sons and two daughters — thriving and prosperous. His wife ran the household tirelessly, never complaining, always warm-hearted toward others. Their eldest son, Shanhu, was practically one of our brothers. Slightly older than me, he was even shorter and slighter of build — there may have been some developmental issue — but he was no slouch at farm work. A full laborer, he served as the team's work-point recorder. Shanhu had returned to the fields after finishing primary school and, as the firstborn son, shared the family's heavy burdens alongside his militia-sister. Three breadwinners, plus two younger brothers who gathered manure, herded ducks, and did odd jobs after school — the family earned work points in abundance. This family's flourishing, combined with the old team leader's prestige, rivaled the household of the bald-headed team leader with his four “golden blossoms” (sisters); these two families were the most prominent among the village's sixty or seventy households. The old team leader's home was our home too — we felt as much at ease there as in our own. Everyone in the family was warm-hearted, including the youngest, a six-year-old girl who would wave her arms and jump for joy the moment we arrived. Whenever they cooked something special, the old team leader would call us over. The auntie never complained, always attending to us with a quiet smile as we ate and drank.

Shanhu was lively and sincere, close to us educated youth as a true brother, helping us in countless ways. He always carried his work-point ledger — a notebook full of his scrawls, the point records legible only to himself. I have seen many people with bad handwriting, and my own hand is wretched enough, but to write Chinese characters as ugly, misshapen, and indecipherable as his was a real achievement. After I left U Village for university, we kept in touch. Every letter from him required a long struggle of deciphering before I could make out eight or nine parts in ten. At the end of every letter he would draw little symbols — two hands clasped tight, or a heart with a line attached — a simple, heartfelt wish that our friendship endure forever.

The old team leader was a figure of great prestige in the village — lean, dark-skinned, with a pointed chin, robust of frame, his laughter and talk ringing like a great bell. We never quite knew when he had become team leader, or when he yielded the post to the bald little team leader. What we did know was that he was a veteran, literate and well-traveled, the true heart of U Village. Our arrival thrilled him beyond measure. He bustled about, making arrangements with meticulous care. There was only one thing I found rather comical, inwardly resistant to but never daring to show it: the old team leader, with clockwork regularity, organized weekly political study sessions for us that lasted deep into the night. On these occasions, he would shoo every family member, young and old, out of the house, brighten the kerosene lamp without a thought for the oil it consumed. Deadly serious, sitting ramrod straight, he wore an expression of profound contemplation. I remember him leading us through the Critique of the Gotha Programme, reading word by word with the air of a professor — though he never offered any commentary of his own. As for Marxism-Leninism, I had only dabbled in "political economy" during middle school and understood little of the other works. The things I couldn't grasp, he didn't grasp either — after all, he had only a primary-school education. I often wondered what was going through his mind. Why such fervor for those abstruse Marxist-Leninist texts, and why that perpetual air of deep thought? Back then I saw myself as a mere kid, and the old team leader was a respected, authoritative elder, our pillar of support — even when doubts stirred within me, I never dared question him. These study sessions continued until the day I left U Village.

The old team leader had a magnetic singing voice, tinged with a touch of world-weariness, deeply affecting. I remember the weeding season in the flooded paddies — warm sunshine, emerald-green seedlings, gentle spring breezes. The old team leader would weed and sing in measured cadence, his voice rising and falling like a boatman's chantey, carried by the wind in wave after wave, lingering long in the air. What a scene of color and sound, of harmony and reverie — an idyllic vision of agrarian life.

Many years passed, but the old team leader's song remained lodged in my memory, though I never discovered its origin. Then last year, a new song on my daughter's iPod seized me instantly. It wasn't, of course, the old team leader's song, but its tonal essence bore an uncanny resemblance — it resurrected a long-buried melody in my heart. Whenever the song plays, the old team leader's face and figure reappear before me, along with the clear breezes and gentle sun of those open fields, the simple, unhurried scenes of rural life and labor. I asked my daughter what the piece was. She looked at me as if I were a total bumpkin: "It's Akon — 'Don't Matter,' the song that took the world by storm." This African-American song, released in 2007, quickly dominated the airwaves, holding the number-one spot for two straight weeks. I was amazed — and astonished — that across thousands of mountains and rivers, a mysterious, ancient Chinese folk tune could resonate so perfectly with an African-American song. I could even glimpse in Akon himself the shadow of the old team leader — dark, lean, and capable.

When I returned to the village after graduating from university, the old team leader had already passed away — cancer had taken his life. His daughter had married far away; word came back that her husband was jailed for gambling. The second son had died of hepatitis when treatment came too late. The auntie, battered by blow after blow, had aged into silence. Gone was the laughter from that household; only Shanhu held it together, nearly thirty and still unmarried. When I brought it up, he would give a bitter smile and say there was no hurry — he had to put his younger siblings through school first; his own affairs could wait. My heart sank, heavy with grief at the capriciousness of fate: that once flourishing household, first robbed of its pillar, then ravaged by one misfortune after another, now so desolate. The song buried in my memory grew more achingly bittersweet with the weight of time.

The past drifts like smoke. The day before yesterday, revisiting old haunts, I ran into Sis II— now surrounded by children and grandchildren.

I have only now sorted out the relationships: it turns out the old team leader and the new team leader were the two great intermarried clans of the village. The old team leader, who welcomed us three educated youth with gongs and drums, had two siblings — his younger sister was the barefoot doctor who housed us in those early days and looked after us then. The old team leader's younger brother married the new team leader's second sister (whom I called Sis II). The photograph is their family portrait. The homes of the old team leader and his siblings all stand not far from this pond. Beside the pond was the vegetable plot allotted to us educated youth.

Returning to the old place, I encountered Sis II at the village entrance. She said, "Wei was always the scholarly one — he knew English and was forever at home listening to English radio broadcasts." That was me, having brought my family's transistor radio to the countryside to catch the English-language lecture programs on Anhui and Jiangsu provincial radio. Somehow, during the Cultural Revolution, some official must have approved it, because many provinces launched English radio courses — a rare opportunity for foreign-language study in those years. Sis II told me the third and youngest sisters are both doing well now. Sis III lives nearby, just in town. The youngest works out of town.

朝华午拾 · 第10章：插队山村（下）

敲锣打鼓把我们迎进村的老队长跟我们走得最近。事无巨细，他都爱来管，自然充当了知青监管人的角色。我们插队的时候，正是老队长大家庭最鼎盛的时期：五个孩子，三男二女，人丁兴旺。老伴操持家务，任劳任怨，对人热情有加。大儿子山虎算我们哥们，比我略长，但长得比我还矮小一大截，似乎发育有问题，但干活并不赖，是个整劳力，担任队里的记分员。山虎小学毕业就回乡种田，作为长子，与女民兵姐姐一起，帮助父亲分担家庭重负。三个劳力，加上两个弟弟拾粪、放鸭，放学做点零工，一家人挣足了工分。这个家庭的红火兴旺，加上老队长的威信，可与家有四朵金花的光头队长一比，这两大家是村子里六七十户人家里面的显赫人家。老队长的家也是我们的家，在他家里我们感觉在自己家一样地自在。一家都是热心人，包括最小的六岁女儿，我们一来，就手舞足蹈，欢呼雀跃。家里做了好吃的，老队长就把我们叫去。大娘从不抱怨，总是笑吟吟默默在一旁伺候我们吃喝。

山虎很活跃，实诚热心，跟我们知青亲如兄弟，给了我们很多帮助。他总是随身带着他的记分簿，满本子是他的涂鸦，只有他自己能看懂的那些工分记录。我见过不少字写得差的人，我自己也一手烂字，可把汉字写到他那样难看，那样奇形怪状，不可辨认，还真不容易。我离开尤村上大学期间，我们一直保持着联系，每次读他的信都要辨认老半天才能猜八九不离十。他每封信尾总是画点图示，两只手紧握啊，或者一颗心系上一条线，朴素地表示他对我们友谊地久天长的祝愿。

老队长是村里德高望重的人物，他清瘦黝黑，尖小巴，身子骨健朗，谈笑如洪钟。他哪年当的队长，哪年让位给光头小队长，我们不很清楚。只知道老队长是退伍军人，识文断字，见多识广，是尤村的核心。我们的到来，老队长异常兴奋。他跑前跑后，张罗安排，滴水不漏。只有一件事，我感觉有些滑稽，内心有抵触，却不敢流露：老队长雷打不动，每周要组织我们政治学习和座谈一次，一学就是一夜。每当这个时候，老队长就把家里的大小孩子统统驱离，把煤油灯点得亮亮的，一点不心疼熬油。他不苟言笑，正襟危坐，特别严肃深思的样子。记得他组织学习《哥达纲领批判》，一字一板地阅读，那样子很象个教授，可从来也没见他有自己的讲解。对于马列，我只在中学迷恋过"政治经济学"，对于其他著作不是很懂。我听不明白的，他其实也不懂，毕竟他也就小学毕业的文化程度。当时我就好奇，他心里在想什么。为什么对那些深奥难懂的马列原著那么热衷，而且总摆出若有所思的样子。我当年自觉是个小毛孩，老队长是可敬有威的长者，是我们的依靠，即便心里有疑惑，也从不敢追问。这样的学习一直持续到我离开尤村。

老队长唱歌富有磁性，略带沧桑，很有魅力。记得在水田薅草的时节，暖洋洋的阳光，绿油油的禾苗，春风和煦。老队长一边薅草，一边张池有度地唱起歌来。听上去有点象船工号子，声音高高低低的，随着风，一波一波袭来，抑扬悠长，不绝如缕。那是怎样一种有声有色，和谐无间，引人遐想的农耕图景啊。

很多年过去，老队长的歌声却一直留在我的记忆中，虽然我从未搞清这首歌的来历。直到去年，女儿的 iPod 新增的一首歌，一下子把我抓住了。这歌当然不是老队长的歌，可曲调内蕴与老队长的歌神似，是它复活了我心中掩埋已久的歌。每当歌声响起，老队长的面容身影，广阔天地的清风和日，单纯悠长的田家生活和劳动的场景，就在我眼前浮现。 我问女儿这是什么曲子。女儿一副我是土老冒的惊讶，这是 Akon 啊，那首红透半边天的歌曲 don't matter 啊。这首黑人歌曲2007年一出品，很快在电台热播，连续两周居于排行榜首。我惊喜，也感到诧异，远隔千山万水，神秘古老的中国民间小调居然与带有美国非裔色彩的黑人歌曲如此契合。甚至我在 Akon 本人身上也隐约看到黑瘦干练的老队长的身影。

我大学毕业的时候曾回村探望，那时老队长已经离开人世，是癌症夺走了他的生命。女儿远嫁，传回的消息是女婿赌博被抓进了局子，二儿子肝炎治疗不及时丢了性命。大娘经受这种种打击，显得衰老无语。家庭再也没有了欢声笑语，只有山虎撑着这个家，快30的人了一直未娶媳妇。谈起来，他总是苦苦一笑，说不急，先把弟妹上学供出来，自己的事可以放一放。我的心沉沉的，感伤世事无常，那么鼎盛兴旺的大家先失了顶梁柱，复遭种种不幸，如今如此零落。那记忆深处的歌声在我心中也更加增添了些许沧桑的苦涩和无奈。

补记（2019年三月23日）

往事如烟：前天寻访旧地，遇到了插队时姐妹花中的二姐，如今是子孙绕膝了。

现在才梳理清关系，原来老队长和新队长是村子里联姻的两大旺族。敲锣打鼓欢迎我们三位知青入乡的老队长一共兄妹仨，妹妹是赤脚医生，是我们的东家，当年也对我们很照顾。老队长的弟弟娶了新队长的二妹（我叫二姐）。照片就是他们的全家福。老队长和他姐弟三家都在这个池塘边不远。池塘边还有分给我们知青的菜地。 重返旧地在村口巧遇二姐。二姐说，维当年就是学问人，会英语，老在家听英语广播。那是我把家里的晶体管收音机，带到乡下，为了听安徽台和江苏台的英语广播讲座。文革年代不知道哪位领导批准的 很多省开办了电台的英语讲座，是当年难得的外语学习机会了。二姐告诉我，三妹小妹如今日子都还不错。三妹不远，就在镇上。小妹在外地做工。

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 插队山村.

The story of being sent down to the countryside feels impossibly distant to me now, as if from another life. That is precisely why I have long wanted to write about it yet always felt my heart was willing but my strength insufficient. Even so, fragments of those years keep churning in my mind. Though they cannot be woven into a continuous narrative, these memory shards are etched into the deepest recesses of my mind. The "Up to the Mountains and Down to the Villages" movement was our generation's rite of passage.

I was among the very last cohort sent down after the Cultural Revolution, catching the very tail end. At the time I did not meet the age requirement and could have remained in the city by policy. But the reality then was that staying in the city and waiting for job assignments often meant permanent unemployment — unlike being sent down, where after a few years you might be called back for factory work or even college (as a so-called worker-peasant-soldier student). Besides, under the influence of the era's ethos, those who stayed behind seemed somehow lesser than those who went. I had a close classmate, an only son, who stayed in the city. When we met afterward, he no longer carried himself with the same proud bearing we sent-down youth had.

The Three Brothers of U Village

The place I was sent to was a remote mountain village in southern Anhui called U Village, just beside the town. Three of us were sent to this village together. Brother Chen came from a family of traditional Chinese medicine practitioners — steady and honest, he brought half a trunk full of medical books. Brother Yu was the son of a demobilized soldier veteran, a bit of a slacker with a devil-may-care attitude. I brought along Bo Bing's Concise English Grammar and a transistor AM radio, hoping to keep up with the radio Broadcast English lessons. The moment the three of us got off the bus at the town, Old Party Secretary of U Village led a crowd banging drums and gongs to welcome us in. We were temporarily housed in the home of a commune barefoot doctor for two months. Later the village used the state resettlement allowance issued for the three of us to build three large, warehouse-like rooms — drafty as could be — and only then were we properly settled.

The first month we ate "assigned meals," rotating through every household day by day. The farmers were mostly simple and hospitable. On the day we ate at a given home, the host would usually prepare more dishes than usual. Still, circumstances varied from household to household, and the food was hit-or-miss — some meals were truly hard to swallow. But fearing we'd be mocked as soft city kids, we could only grit our teeth and eat. The worst part wasn't the quality of the food but the hygiene. One evening, as dusk was falling, I pushed open a door to go to dinner and my hand landed on something sticky. Back home, the three of us compared notes and realized it was either snot or phlegm residue. We were all sick to our stomachs.

Eventually the three of us decided to cook for ourselves, dividing up the chores. I still remember rising at dawn to carry water from the pond — my slender frame utterly mismatched with the water buckets — shivering in the early spring chill. Still, cooking for ourselves was far more satisfying. Every day as we worked, we looked forward eagerly to getting off early and enjoying our own dinner. The most common and most delicious dish was salted pork braised with soybeans. The salted pork was sent by my parents to improve our diet. Each time I'd cut off a small piece of fatty meat and slowly render it over the fire — those glistening, oil-soaked soft soybeans were simply irresistible. The soybeans and charcoal were both rations allocated to us educated youth by the production team. I'd fill a small clay pot with soybeans, fatty pork, and water, set it on the charcoal before heading out to work, and by the time we returned, fragrance would fill the air.

Such delicacies could not last, of course. So we started growing our own vegetables. Taking the path of least resistance, we chose the easiest thing to grow and planted two big patches of cucumbers. Cucumbers, once they start producing, are unstoppable — we were drowning in them. No matter how many we picked and ate, we could not keep up with their growth. We'd snack on them raw throughout the day, then make cucumber soup or stir-fried cucumber at night, until the very thought of them made us want to vomit. This left quite an aftershock. For a very long time, I regarded cucumbers as the lowliest of vegetables — fine for an occasional raw nibble, but never as a proper dish. Yet as the years turned, somewhere in my wandering life overseas, cucumbers suddenly became precious. My wife and daughter both love them. Those English cucumbers from heated greenhouses, two or three dollars apiece, have become a staple in our home. Sometimes when there aren't enough vegetables and I worry my daughter isn't getting balanced nutrition, I'll wash a cucumber for her, and she always munches it contentedly, never tiring of it.

Cucumbers indeed don't make great dishes, but if you happen to have eggs, they work well either stir-fried or in soup. On their own they are no proper dish at all — nothing to go with rice. Eggs were extremely precious. We didn't raise chickens so we naturally had no eggs, and we couldn't bear to buy them either. Later someone in the village borrowed money from us educated youth in an emergency but couldn't pay it back, so they scrounged some eggs from under their hens to repay us — that's how we finally got a taste of them. One day the bald team leader came to inspect, saw our cucumber patch, and gave us a ferocious scolding. "You lazy bums, who told you to grow cucumbers? You haven't planted a single proper vegetable — what the hell are you going to eat?" By "proper vegetables" he meant peppers and eggplants — the kind that, with just a bit of rapeseed oil and without eggs or meat, could be made mouth-wateringly delicious. But tending those was no easy task. Besides watering, you had to fertilize — ideally with manure diluted in water, which made things grow best.

When we could no longer stomach cucumbers, with nothing else good to eat, we turned to stir-fried sweet potatoes. This trick, I should say, was taught to me by the village cowherd boy. This cowherd was a sharp one; ever since we educated youth arrived, he always found excuses to hang around. He was the one who told me sweet potatoes could be cooked as a dish, prepared just like stir-fried shredded potatoes. Sweet potatoes were our staple ration, so we had no shortage of them. We tried shredding and stir-frying them with oil and salt, and the result was much more palatable with rice than cucumbers had been. One difference from potatoes, though: the heat had to be just right — overcook them and they'd turn to mush, which was no good at all.

From the cowherd boy I also learned to ride an ox. The old ox may have looked clumsy, but its gait was steady and sure, every step deliberate. At first, looking down at the narrow paths along the field ridges, I kept thinking the ox would slip and topple into the ditch or paddy at any moment — but the old ox never made a mistake. The cowherd let out a shout, and the ox obediently leaned forward and lowered its horns. With the cowherd's help and encouragement, I stepped onto the horns and swung myself onto the ox's back, then began my trembling, fearful ride. The biggest impression was how uncomfortable it was — the ox's spine was all creaking bone, with no flesh to speak of, nothing but hardness against my backside. It was nothing like the idyllic joy of a shepherd boy riding an ox that I had imagined.

Working the Land with the Female Militia

Not long after being sent down, we hit the "Double Rush" — the frantic harvest of early rice and planting of late rice. It truly worked people to the point of collapse. The Double Rush was the prime season for earning work points — double points were given, sometimes even triple — for over twenty straight days, rising before dawn and returning only at midnight. Even the strongest men would be flattened before getting a half-day's rest. The People's Commune's deployment of double work points — this disguised bourgeois "material incentive" — was brutally effective. No matter how exhausted, no one dared slack off. If you feared the exhaustion and showed up less, those work points would be earned by someone else, and when accounts were settled at year's end, your share of rice, sweet potatoes, and fragrant oil would be correspondingly reduced. In truth, the wool comes from the sheep's back — every year the production team's total harvest was a fixed quantity. Giving out more or fewer work points was simply a method of redistributing wealth. If they had relied purely on the peasants' socialist zeal, keeping the Double Rush at the same work-point rate as usual, the total work points would drop, the unit price per point would rise, and the material incentive that drove such frantic effort would be gone. Who says economics had no use in the "one big, two public" People's Commune?

The production team took care of us city kids by giving us higher work-point ratings. So the three of us educated youth were each assigned seven and a half points — the equivalent of a woman's full-labor rating — which included two hours of early-morning work before breakfast. Without that it would have been only six and a half. That year, ten work points were worth 0.65 yuan. I worked among the women for over half a year, and at the year-end settlement, I earned back all my grain rations plus half a bed's space of sweet potatoes and four or five jin of fragrant oil.

The full-labor women were mostly young unmarried girls or recently married wives, every one of them a skilled hand at farm work. The dozen or so young women of U Village in their prime had formed a "Female Militia Squad" — restless and spirited, their activities had been lively and impressive, once quite famous in the area. By the time I arrived, however, they had already passed their peak, since most of the core members had reached marriageable age, with matchmakers near and far making the rounds, and collective activities could no longer continue. Even so, growing up together with the female militia in the vast world of fields and sky still carried a certain revolutionary romanticism that was intoxicating and exciting. It took away more than half the hardship of farm labor.

Our village head was shrewd but hot-tempered, and bald to boot — I both feared and disliked him. Yet his family's four sisters were each as lovely as flowers. I never recall meeting the eldest; she must have already married out. The second and third sisters were both mainstays of the Female Militia Squad. The youngest, just fourteen or fifteen, had fair, tender skin and blushed whenever she saw anyone; she worked in a commune-run workshop. The second sister — I called her Sis II — had just married the younger brother of our village's Old Team Leader, a tall, handsome young man with a slightly reckless air. It was a love match, making her the luckiest among the girls. Not long after my arrival, Sis II was assigned to thresh grain on the drying ground rather than working in the paddies. I worked alongside her — just the two of us on the threshing ground — and she always looked after me. That was when I first developed the habit of letting my thoughts wander, until one day I noticed her belly growing larger and only then realized she was different from the other militia girls: she was already a married woman. Later, working in the paddies with Sis III and a group of young women, pulling weeds with rakes to keep the paddies clear, Sis III was always encroaching on my territory, reaching her rake over to help me. Without her help I probably couldn't have managed even half the pace. I kept scolding her: "No trespassing!" She would only smile and say nothing, continuing as she pleased. Sis III was very pretty, slightly plump, sturdy like an Iron Girl, but perceptive and considerate — her temperament was gentler than Xue Baochai's. She was the one I was most fond of. At the time a matchmaker was arranging her marriage. Not long after I left the village she was married off. When I heard the news, a deep unease settled in my heart.

To me, all these farm girls were celestial maidens. Raised in such harsh conditions from childhood, they were nonetheless each in the full bloom of youth, spirited and valiant, yet never losing the simple kindness and crystalline intelligence of country girls. I felt no local man was worthy of them. They themselves tried to resist fate and the matchmakers, but in the end, one by one, they all married away and vanished into the sea of humanity.

朝华午拾·第十章：插队山村（一）

插队的故事对我是太久远了，恍如隔世。这也是我一直想写，却感觉心有余而力不足的原因。虽然如此，插队的片断却不时在心中翻腾。虽然连不成篇，这些记忆残片却是刻印在脑海最深处的。上山下乡是我们这辈人的成年礼。

我是文革后最后一批插队的，算是赶上了末班车。当时年龄不达标，按照政策可以留城，可是当年的情形是，留城待业常常是永久失业，不象插队，几年之后，还有上调招工或者升学（工农兵学员）的前途。另外就是，由于时代风尚的影响，留城的好像比下乡的矮人一截似的。我有一位同班好友，独子，留城以后，见面说话就没有我们下乡知青那样器宇轩昂。

尤村三兄弟

我插队的地方是比较偏远的皖南山区，叫尤村，就在镇子旁边。当时一起下到这个村子去的一共三位，陈兄是中医世家，人很老成憨实，带来了大半箱子医书。俞兄是退伍军人的子弟，有点吊儿郎当玩世不恭的样子。我随身携带的是薄冰《简明英语语法》和一台晶体管中波收音机，希望还能继续电台《广播英语》的学习。我们三人从镇上一下车，就被尤村的老书记带领一伙人敲锣打鼓迎到了村里，暂时安置在一位公社赤脚医生的家里，住了两个月。后来村子利用国家发给我们三人的安家费，盖了三大间仓库一样透风凉的屋子，我们才算独立安家落户。

第一个月是挨户吃"派饭"，每天各家各户轮流转。农民大多朴实好客。我们吃饭的那天，东家往往要比平时多预备一些菜肴。可是，各家家境不同，伙食还是参差不齐，有些确实难以下咽，但又怕人笑话知青娇气，只好硬着头皮吃。最糟糕的不是伙食的质量，而是卫生状况。有一天天擦黑，推门去晚餐，手上黏黏糊糊摸了一手，回来后我们几个一合计，发现不是鼻涕就是浓痰的残迹，都恶心得要吐。

后来决定哥仨自己开伙，分工合作。还记得清晨起来到河塘担水，身子骨瘦小的我与水桶不成比例，在早春的冷风中瑟瑟发抖。不过，自己开伙还是受用多了，每天干活就满心盼望早早收工去享用自己的晚餐。最常做也最美味的菜肴是咸肉炖黄豆。咸肉是父母捎来改善伙食的，每次割一小块肥肉，慢火烧化，那泛着油光的软黄豆实在太诱人了。黄豆和木炭都是队里照顾知青配给的，弄个小瓦罐盛上黄豆、肥肉和水，上工前置于炭火上，收工回来就四香飘溢。

这样的美味当然不能长久。于是自己种菜。我们图省事，挑最容易的菜，种了两大片黄瓜。黄瓜这玩意儿，一旦结起来，就不得了，瓜满为患。怎么摘怎么吃也赛不过它生长的速度。平时没事就摘了生吃，到了晚上再做黄瓜汤，或者炒黄瓜，直吃得想吐。这个后遗症不小。很久很久，我都把黄瓜当作最贱的菜，偶然生吃一点可以，从来不拿它当菜。可是斗转星移，不知流浪海外的何年何月，黄瓜忽然金贵起来。太太和女儿都爱吃。暖房子里面出来的英国黄瓜，每根两三块美元，一样成为我们家的必备。有时伙食中蔬菜量不够，怕孩子营养不平衡，就洗根黄瓜给她，她总是美滋滋地啃它，从不厌烦。

黄瓜确实不好做菜，但要是赶上了鸡蛋，炒菜也好，做汤也好，都不错。单做就不成菜，不下饭。鸡蛋是非常珍贵的，我们不养鸡自然没有鸡蛋，也舍不得买。后来还是村子里有人从我们知青这里借钱急用，可又没有钱还，就从鸡屁股下抠出一些鸡蛋来偿还我们，我们才有了些口福。有一天秃头队长来巡视，看见我们的黄瓜地，就狠狠剋了我们一顿。说，你们这帮懒虫，谁让你们种黄瓜来着，一点正经菜也不种，你吃个屁。他所谓正经菜，是指辣椒茄子一类，那样的菜只要有点菜籽油，不用鸡蛋不用肉，就可以做得让人垂涎欲滴。可是拾叨起来不容易，除了浇水，还要施肥，最好是粪兑水浇了才好长。

黄瓜吃腻了，后来没的好吃，改吃炒山芋（北方叫红薯）。这一招说来还是村里那个放牛娃教给我的。这个放牛娃很机灵，自从我们知青来了，就总找机会来套瓷。是他告诉我，山芋也一样可以做菜，就跟炒土豆丝一样做法。山芋是口粮，我们不缺，于是我们尝试切丝红炒，添上油盐，做出来比黄瓜好吃下饭多了。不过，有一条与土豆丝不同，炒菜的火候一定要适可而止，否则烂成糊就不好吃了。

从放牛娃那里学会了骑牛。别看老牛笨乎乎的，走起路来却非常稳妥实在，一步一个脚印。起初我看田埂头的羊肠小道，老觉得那老牛一不小心就会折到沟渠或水田里，其实老牛从不出差错。放牛娃吆喝一声，那老牛就乖乖地倾前身，低下犄角，我在牛娃的帮助和鼓励下，蹬着牛角，翻身上了牛背，开始胆战心惊的骑牛前行。骑牛的最大感受是不舒服，那老牛的脊背咯咯吱吱的，感觉不到皮肉，满屁股都是骨头，根本不象我以前想像中的牧童骑牛之乐。

与女民兵并肩修地球

下放不久赶上了"双抢"（抢收早稻，抢种晚稻），真地把人往死里累。双抢是一年挣工分的好季节，给双份工分，有时甚至给三倍，连续20多天，天不亮起床，到半夜才回，再壮的汉子都要累趴下才能休息半天。人民公社给双倍工分这种变相的资产阶级的"物质刺激"很厉害，不管多累，人都不敢懈怠。你怕累少上工，工就给别人赚去了，到年底分红，你分的稻谷、红薯和香油也相应减少了。其实，羊毛出在羊身上，每年生产队的收成是一个定数，工分多给少给不过是一种财富再分配的方式而已。如果单纯依靠农民的社会主义干劲，双抢跟平时同等工分数，工分总量下来了，单位工分的价格提高了，就没有物质刺激出来的积极性了。谁说经济学在一大二公的人民公社没有用处？

生产队照顾城里娃，工分给高些。于是给我们三个知青各开七分半工，相当于一个妇女全劳力的工分，包括早饭前上早工两个小时，否则只有六分半。那年十分工值RMB0.65元。我在妇女堆里干了半年多，年底分红，赚回了所有的口粮，外带半床红薯和四五斤香油。

妇女全劳力多是年轻的姑娘或媳妇，个个都是干农活的好手。尤村的十几位风华正茂的姑娘组成了一个"女民兵班"，不甘寂寞，活动有声有色，曾名噪一时。不过到我去的时候，已经式微，因为其中的骨干大都到了嫁人的年纪，近亲远媒各处张罗，集体活动不能继续。尽管如此，跟女民兵在广阔天地一道成长，在当时是充满了革命浪漫主义的色彩的，让人沉迷和兴奋。干农活的辛苦也去了大半。

我们村村长人很精明，但脾气暴躁，又是光头，让我既怕又厌。倒是他家四个姐妹一个个如花似玉，大妹妹记不得见过，应该是外嫁了。二妹三妹都是女民兵班的主力，小妹妹刚14-15岁，皮肤白嫩，见人脸红，在社办一个作坊里做工。二妹（我叫二姐）刚嫁给本村老队长的弟弟，一个高个帅气的小伙子，感觉有些愣头青的样子。自由恋爱的，算是姑娘们中最幸运的了。刚去不久，这位二妹被照顾在场上打谷，没有下水田。我跟她一起干活，场上就两个人，总是她照顾我。从那时就落下了心猿意马的毛病，直到有一天发现她肚子越来越大，才意识到她跟其他民兵姑娘不同，原来是媳妇级的了。后来跟三妹及一帮姑娘媳妇一道，在田里薅草（就是用耙子在水田里把杂草掀翻，不让杂草长出来），三妹总是侵犯我的领地，把她的耙子探过来帮我。没有她帮忙，我大概一半的速度也赶不上。我老指责她，"不许侵犯"，她总笑而不答，我行我素。三妹模样很好，稍微有些胖，很壮实，象个铁姑娘，但善解人意，脾气性情好得赛过薛宝钗，是我最心仪的。当时媒婆正在给她提亲，我离开村子不久，她就嫁了，听到消息后心里很不是滋味。

这些农家女在我看来都是仙女。从小在那样的艰苦环境中，却一个个风华正茂，英姿飒爽，而且不失农家女的善良朴实和冰雪聪明。我觉得当地没人配得上她们，她们自己也企图跟命运和媒人抗争，不过最后都一个个嫁走了，消没在人海中。

From Morning Glory at Noon (朝华午拾) series. Original Chinese: 朝华之十: 插队山村.

Youthful Memories 

Sometime around 1974 or 1975, probably in our third year of junior high, the school organized us for military training — a long-distance march of over a hundred li on foot to visit Yunling and Maolin in southern Anhui, the former sites of the New Fourth Army. I was on the weaker side, and that grueling trek nearly did me in. I had never walked so far in my life, and the road seemed to stretch on without end. The line of students stretched for several li. Limping along, I counted every utility pole as I dragged myself forward, one by one. Finally, a classmate reported that our destination was in sight — just that hill up ahead. I summoned my last reserves of courage. But as the saying goes, the mountain that looks close can run a horse to death — even though it appeared right before us, we still walked for another hour or two, not arriving until nearly dark.

After dinner, the school settled us into a large auditorium to rest. The moment I sat down, I collapsed completely and, to my own amazement, could not get up again. Without even washing my feet, I was helped by classmates onto a makeshift bed and fell asleep fully dressed. The next morning, not a single muscle or bone in my body was free of pain, though I could just barely stand.

Rough as it was, life on the march still felt fresh and exciting. What I remember most vividly was visiting the New Fourth Army exhibition, pressed close to a female classmate — and the pounding heartbeat, the bewildered confusion that came with it.

In our era, an invisible line separated boys and girls, and they rarely mingled on campus. Still, as the academic monitor, I did have work-related contact with the female class president and the League branch secretary through class committee activities, and we held each other in good regard. Though academic subjects were no longer the school's main business, by force of habit, students who did well in their studies still drew natural admiration. But both girls were two years older than me, and they felt more like older sisters. The class president was a tomboy with a dark complexion and a brisk, no-nonsense manner — easy to get along with. The League secretary was poised and graceful, capable and seasoned yet quiet and refined. On my way to swim in the Houqiao River outside town, I would pass her house, and she was always sitting in the doorway knitting, her bearing serene and elegant. She would greet me with open ease whenever she saw me, but I always felt awkward and tongue-tied, never knowing how to respond.

Mark Twain's adventures contain a brilliant description of a boy's first stirrings of romantic feeling — how a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy will pull out every trick he knows to catch the attention of the girl he fancies. Chinese kids matured later, and the strict separation of the sexes meant that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Yet out on the march, boys and girls grew closer than they ever would on campus — and that was precisely the most thrilling part of those work-study-military training programs. On the second day, while touring the New Fourth Army exhibition, I somehow found myself paired with the League secretary. She was slightly taller than me, standing right behind, pressed close — I could feel the warmth of her breath near my ear. The two of us lingered at the back, studying and discussing each photograph and artifact with great care. In perfect unspoken accord, we advanced step by step, our bodies brushing together — sometimes deliberately, sometimes by chance. My heart itched like ants crawling over it, but I steeled myself to stay composed and never dared look back at her.

I was 14 that year. The Recluse of West Hill composed a poem:

What is field march training like?
A racing horse, a distant hill — a tender soldier's ordeal.
The aim of learning war is not war alone —
Li Wei's heart takes flight, caught in clouds and rain.

The summer jobs popular in those days were another occasion for boys and girls to meet. In high school, I went to work as an "assistant" at a rural grain station, where I met a girl who captured my heart. The mindset of a callow youth is a subtle thing. I had become obsessed with Dream of the Red Chamber, reading it five or six times, and I launched into animated discussions of the novel with her — I talked until the sky went dark and the earth spun, and talked the girl into a daze as well. Our friends, a little jealous, nicknamed me "Brother Red" and her "Sister Red" behind our backs. It was an entirely innocent friendship — we chatted for a whole summer and never even held hands. When summer ended and it was nearly time to leave, the ache in my heart was beyond words. That year there were earthquake scares and makeshift quake shelters were built everywhere, and I found myself hoping the earthquake would come soon. I thought: if the earthquake hits, wouldn't it be wonderful? Everyone would gather in that enormous community shelter and live a kind of commune life, and I would have the chance to keep talking about Dream of the Red Chamber with her, day and night, without pause.

Since the hoped-for earthquake never arrived, I had to leave the town grain station at summer's end and return to my home in the county seat. The day before I left, I was downcast and reluctant, but utterly helpless. Near the grain station flowed a small river, crystal-clear to the bottom, where we would frolic every evening. That last evening, as I played in the water one final time, who should appear but "Sister Red" at the riverbank, come to wash clothes. We had already said our goodbyes during the day, so her arrival felt like a lifeline — I wanted to seize this last moment, but had no idea how. So, heedless of what teasing I might invite from my friends, I slowly sidled up to her to make small talk. She, being young and naive, had no notion of what was in my heart and answered as casually as if nothing were amiss. Years later, she told me it was fortunate I hadn't confessed my feelings — by her understanding at the time, any middle-school student involved in romance was nothing short of a hooligan. Had I recklessly declared my love, I might well have been scolded roundly.

When she rose to leave, I panicked. I stood up, bare-chested, water still dripping from my shorts, and found some excuse — I no longer remember what — to follow her back to the grain station. She walked ahead and I followed behind, wanting to strike up a conversation but not knowing where to begin, acutely aware that someone might be watching and mocking me. To hide my embarrassment, I walked half-bent at the waist, every step of that arduous journey awkward and self-conscious, and in the end, I couldn't even muster the courage to call out to her one last time. And so we parted.

That was the summer of 1976. I was a high school sophomore, 16 years old.

Back home, I still thought of her constantly, as if in a dream. Two or three months later, I had just woken from an afternoon nap, still groggy, when she appeared at my door. I had been thinking of her that very morning, and now here she was in the afternoon — I could scarcely believe it and secretly pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. She had come to visit her aunt in the county seat (who also worked at our hospital) and thought to look me up for a chat. She even borrowed two books and promised her aunt would return them. What an innocent country girl — she had no concept of the boundaries between boys and girls, while my heart already held a hundred rabbits leaping at once.

As Li Shangyin wrote: "This feeling might become a memory to be cherished — if only I had not been so bewildered at the time."

— Written on February 19, 2007 (the second day of the Lunar New Year)

I had a classmate from Suzhou — a girl of delicate, ethereal beauty — who gave me a taste of the magic of the Suzhou dialect. How beautiful it sounded. What a pity she so rarely spoke her hometown tongue.

Once, by coincidence, we arranged to visit the Mao Zedong Memorial Hall together. Standing in the long queue, I asked her to teach me a little Suzhou dialect — the kind that makes you melt when you hear it.

Though she seemed almost too frail to withstand a breeze, she was a girl of genuine talent.

Last night, I went to visit this "younger school sister" of mine. We had only just reconnected after twenty years apart. Before meeting, I told her I had aged and that she probably wouldn't recognize me on the street. Her voice hadn't changed — still as lovely as ever. She said, "We've all grown old. When I went back to China and saw my university classmates, I couldn't believe it."

Yet when we met, she was still so slender and petite, untouched by the years, and she insisted I hadn't changed much either. We listened to old songs together, ate hot pot, and sighed at how life passes like a dream. Her boyfriend from back then, now her husband, still remembered the favors I had done him: I had helped him copy the Chinese operating system CCDOS and the Chinese version of WordStar (in those days, nobody had any notion of software copyright — the developers at the Academy of Sciences' Computing Institute who created CCDOS had no idea how to make money from an operating system). What's more, I was on especially good terms with Teacher Han, who ran the computer lab — when she wasn't around, she authorized me to manage the lab for her (which housed a single IBM PC-XT), and she even gave me a private room next to it. The young couple back then would get the key from me to enter the lab and play games all night, all under my protection.

The feeling of seeing an old classmate again is truly wonderful. After I returned, I sent her an email:

"We are now in an age when memories and life mix together all the time. Time flies. Life is short. Moments are treasured. Thanks are given."

She felt the same as our generation does, and replied:

"We were very happy to have you over. Old friends take on new significance as we age. The other day, as we could hear Christmas carols in the air, I was telling my son those were the first English songs I learned to sing at college. Guess what he had to say? 'Mom, when your memories exceed your ambitions, you know you're going downhill.' Gosh, he's brutally honest with me. Now I have to hide the fact that I keep thinking back in time, refuse to be on the downhill yet."

— Written: a forgotten month, 2006

青涩少年记事 & 吴语软侬20年

上个世纪74-75年左右，大概是初三的时候，学校组织我们学军，长途拉练，步行100多里路，去皖南新四军旧址云岭和茂林参观。我比较弱小，那次长途跋涉，真把我坑苦了，一辈子也没有走过这么远的路程，似乎没有尽头。学生队伍前后拉了好几里路长。我一瘸一拐，一根一根电线杆数着往前挪动。终于，有同学报信说，目的地已经在望，就是前面的那座小山。于是，鼓作最后的勇气。可望山跑死马，看着就在眼前的山，还是走了一两个小时，直到天快黑了才赶到。

吃罢晚饭，学校把我们安排在一个大礼堂里面休息。一屁股坐下去，就瘫软在地，居然再也起不来了。脚也没洗，在同学帮助下，挪到临时搭起的铺子和衣睡下。第二天早上，全身没有一块筋骨不疼，勉强可以站立。

虽然很狼狈，对于拉练在外的生活还是感到新鲜兴奋。特别难忘的是参观新四军事迹展览时和女同学耳鬓厮磨的经历，连带当时的心跳和惶惑。

我们那个年代，男女生有一条无形的界限，在校园很少交往。不过，我是学习委员，在班委会活动中还是跟女班长和女团支书有工作往来，彼此印象都不错。尽管文化课已经不是学校主业，大概是惯性，学习好的同学还是自然受到青睐。不过她们都比我大两岁，感觉是姐姐一样的形象。女班长是个假小子，面色黝黑，作风泼辣，相处很愉快。团支书端庄秀气，能干老练而不失文静。我平时到城外后桥河去游泳，每次经过她家门前，总见她在门口坐着织毛衣，仪态娴雅。她见到我也总落落大方地招呼一声，可我总自我感觉灰溜溜的，不知如何回应。

小男孩情窦初开的表现，记得在马克吐温的历险记里有精彩描述，说的是十二、三岁的男孩，总是使出全身解数吸引心仪女生的注意。国人晚熟，男女界限也分明，只能是心有余而力不足。可拉练在外，男女生就比较亲近起来，不象在校园那样拘束，这是当年学工学农学军最让人兴奋的地方。第二天参观新四军展览，不知怎的，跟团支书混在一起。她个头比我略高，站在身后，挨得很近，耳边是她温热的气息。我们两个人拉在最后，仔细切磋揣摩那些展示的图片和实物。两人很默契，一步一步向前挪动，有意无意身子碰到一起。我心痒如蚁，强作镇定，不敢回视。

那一年我14岁。西皮居士有诗云：

野营拉练知何似？跑马望山苦嫩兵。 学军之意不惟军，立委心飞云雨情。

当年流行的暑假打工，也是少男少女接触的场合。高中时我去了一家农村粮站当"协助员"， 遇到一个心仪女生。青涩少年的心态很微妙。我当年看《红楼梦》入迷，看了五六遍，就跟她侃红楼梦，直侃得天昏地暗，把那女孩也侃晕了。小伙伴们在旁多少有些嫉妒，背后给我起外号叫"红大哥"，叫那个女孩"红大嫂"。那真是纯洁地交往，侃了一夏天，连手都没有拉过。暑假结束快要离开的时候，心里那份难受，就甭提了。当年闹地震，到处搭防震棚，我当时就盼望地震早点来到。心里想，地震一来，该多好，大家就都集中到那个硕大的防震棚里面过共产主义生活，我也就有机会跟那个女孩不分昼夜地继续侃红楼梦了。

由于盼望的地震没有来临，暑假结束我不得不离开小镇粮站回县城的家。回家前一天，郁闷不舍，可又无可奈何。粮站附近有一条小河，清澈见底，是我们每日傍晚戏耍的所在。那天傍晚最后一次玩水，没想到"红大嫂"也来到河边洗衣。白天已经说过再见了，她这一来，我感觉是看到救命稻草，想抓住这最后一刻，可不知如何是好。于是，我不顾同伴可能的取笑，慢慢蹭到她面前搭讪。这个妞也怪，少不更事，根本不懂人家的心事，没事人一样答话。多年以后她告诉我，当时我幸亏没有挑破，按照当年她的认识水平，任何中学生谈恋爱都是流氓行为。倘若我冒失示爱，保不准会臭骂我一顿。

后来她起身要回，我急了，站起来，光着膀子，短裤衩滴着水，不知找了个什么借口，就跟着她回粮站。她在前面走，我跟在后面，想答茬也不知从何说起，老觉得有人在盯着取笑我。为了遮掩，我只好半弯着腰，枝枝杈杈地走完这段艰难的路程，最后连再招呼她一声的勇气也没有了，就此别离。

那是1976年的暑假，我高二，16岁。

回到家，还做梦一样时时想着她。两三个月后，一天下午睡午觉刚醒，懵懵懂懂的，她居然登门来访。早上还在想她，下午真来了，简直不敢相信，暗自掐自己，发现不是做梦。原来她到县城姑姑（也是我们医院的）家来，想起来找我聊一聊，还借了两本书，答应看完让她姑姑还我。这真是个淳朴的乡镇姑娘，根本没有男女界限的概念，而我的心里却早已揣了100只兔子。

李商隐有诗："此情可待成追忆，只是当时已惘然"。

记于2007年二月十九日（阴历大年初二）

我有个女同学是苏州人，人长得秀气轻灵，让我见识了苏州话的魔力，真是好听。可惜的是，她很少说家乡话。

有一次赶巧，约好一起去看毛主席纪念堂，排着长长的队，我就请她教我点苏州话，听了让人发酥那种。

虽然弱不禁风的样子，这可是个才女。

昨天晚上去拜访这位"表师妹"。刚联系上，分开已经20年了。见面前我说我老了，要是在街上碰到大概认不出来了。她的声音未变，还是那样动听，说："我们都老了。上次回国见大学同学，简直无法相信。"

可是，见面一看，她还是那样纤弱小巧，岁月无痕，她坚持说我也无大变化。我们一起听着老歌，吃着火锅，感叹人生如梦。她当年的男友，现在的丈夫，还记得我的好处：当年我帮助他拷贝中文软件CCDOS 和 汉化的 WordStar 帮了忙（当年根本不懂软件还有版权一说，CDDOS的开发者科学院计算所根本不知道如何从操作系统上赚钱）。另外，当年我跟机房韩老师关系特好，她不在的时候，由我管理机房（只有一台IBM-PC-XT），还给我在机房旁边配了一个单间。同学夫妇当年从我处拿钥匙进机房通宵玩游戏，全仗我的掩护。

老同学见面的感觉真好。回来后我发了个伊妹儿：

"We are now in an age when memories and life mix together all the time. Time flies. Life is short. Moments are treasured. Thanks are given."

同辈人感受相同，她回道：

"We were very happy to have you over. Old friends take on new significance as we age. The other day, as we could hear Christmas carols in the air, I was telling my son those were the first English songs I learned to sing at college. Guess what he had to say? "Mom, when your memories exceed your ambitions, you know you're going downhill." Gosh, he's brutally honest with me. Now I have to hide the fact that I keep thinking back in time, refuse to be on the downhill yet."

记于2006年忘月

From Morning Glory at Noon (朝华午拾). Original Chinese: 《朝华之九: 青涩少年》.

Morning Glory at Noon — Ch.9: A Callow Youth (Part 1) 

Spring Feelings 

My "first love" was a girl like the elder-sister Bao Chai. Strictly speaking, it doesn't count as love — most would agree that love must be mutual. A one-sided childhood crush isn't love; if you drew a dependency tree diagram, it would be an asymmetrical relation. But during the Cultural Revolution years, if you excluded unrequited infatuations, those qualified to speak of first love were remarkably few — perhaps less than five percent, roughly the same proportion as “class enemies”. Most of them were the so-called "bad kids" branded as young hooligans. We revolutionary students, representing ninety-five percent of the youth population, disdained such pursuits. Of course, those people eventually got married when they grew older, but the kind of courtship aimed at finding a revolutionary partner bore little resemblance to "first love" — even less relevant than a secret crush, so let's not speak of it.

Yet Mao Zedong Thought could not govern secret crushes and the stirrings of spring. My crush first sprouted in the first grade, when I was six years old, precisely in 1966 when the Great Revolution erupted. That year our entire family followed our parents from the county seat down to Hewan, a small town, to support the founding and building of a rural clinic. In this remote town surrounded by mountains on all sides, the Little Red Guard rebellion was just as vigorous, determined to overthrow the school's capitalist-roader authorities. Too young to participate in this revolution, I occasionally played the role of paste-bucket carrier, helping the older brothers and sisters put up big-character posters. Since the revolution didn't have much use for me, there was room in my childish heart for petit-bourgeois tenderness, and it all began with the arrival of Elder Sister Bao.

Elder Sister Bao was brought over by a neighbor auntie, who said she was the daughter of a cousin from the county seat, coming to the countryside for a few days' visit. The first time I saw her, it was less Elder Sister Bao than a Sister Lin who had fallen from heaven. But she truly was two years older than me, and unmistakably carried the poise of an elder sister. Elder Sister Bao looked nothing like the snot-nosed, timid country girls around us — you could tell at a glance she was a city child. She wore her hair in little braids, delicate and elegant, well-mannered and poised, and what amazed most was her many talents. When the auntie asked her to recite Chairman Mao's quotations, she rattled off "Serve the People" in flawless standard Mandarin, word for word. Then the auntie asked her to perform a model opera piece, and she sang a passage as Grandma Sha, with perfect feeling and flavor. I was transfixed. At this point, it still couldn't be called love — you could only say that such an enchanting girl planted the seed of love in a six-year-old brat's heart. Like countless life encounters, Elder Sister Bao soon returned to the county seat. Although my older brother's rebel organization, the "Dagger Squad," was growing and striking out, with the campus revolution raging full force, the small town in my heart returned to stillness, undisturbed.

A year later, our whole family moved back to the county hospital, just in time for the real, bloody factional fighting. The county elementary school had more days off than on. By the time the armed struggle subsided and the nation was all red, with the various revolutionary factions in great unity, we muddled our way up to third grade. I've searched my memory, and for the life of me I can't recall how I reunited with Elder Sister Bao at school. It's a bit of a regret, but that's how life is. In any case, one unknown day, I suddenly discovered that Elder Sister Bao was right there beside me, in the same class. She clearly didn't remember me at all, and from the moment I recognized her until we later went on to middle school together, I never once mentioned that we had met in the small town. Though countless times the words reached the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them back in the end. That meeting in the small town had made me look up to Elder Sister Bao, and it was this reverence that kept me from ever having the courage to bring up our earlier encounter. To tell or not to tell, that is a question — over this I fretted and hesitated more than Hamlet ever did. Eight years passed, until I left home for university, and in the end I never spoke of that earlier connection.

Among the girls of the county seat, Elder Sister Bao wasn't actually that beautiful, but she was lively and outgoing, wrote with a bold hand like a boy's, and her artistic talent was universally recognized. Her specialty was playing elderly female roles. During the school's field training marches, around the campfire, it was always she who would sing a cappella as Grandma Sha or Grandma Li — she was truly the star of the propaganda troupe. In fifth grade, when the school organized the propaganda team to stage the full-length "The Red Lantern," she was naturally the only choice for Grandma Li. During open auditions, I got into the cast because word had it I could recite all eight model operas backward and forward, but the director soon discovered that while I could deliver every line, aria, and percussion cue in one seamless flow, I was simply not a performer — no voice, no stage presence. As a makeweight, I was assigned to play a walk-on, Japanese Soldier A, with not a single line in the entire play, merely kicking over a chair or table when I came on. The cast had three stars: a dashing boy playing Li Yuhe, Elder Sister Bao as Grandma Li, and a petite girl as Tiemei. These three not only commanded everyone's attention but also enjoyed special treatment during rehearsals, receiving all kinds of perks that made others envious. Playing a walk-on was somewhat discouraging, but at least I could observe Elder Sister Bao and little Sister Tiemei up close, sometimes holding their coats or bringing them water, earning a "thank you" that felt rather wonderful. This was the only time in my life I ever joined a theater production, and many years later, when I occasionally look in the mirror, I still can't shake the unsightly face of Japanese Soldier A.

My infatuation with Elder Sister Bao grew slowly and stubbornly, spanning my entire elementary and middle school years, but it was an absolute secret buried deep in my heart. Male and female classmates were separated as if by the Chu River and Han border; the distance between Japanese Soldier A and Grandma Li was vaster still — I wouldn't have dared dream of reaching so high. But then in middle school, we enjoyed a little over a year of good times known as the "Revisionist Resurgence," when teachers, parents, and students all began to value academic study once again. Students who did well in their lessons saw their social status soar. As study monitor and math class representative, I began to distinguish myself. My writing was read aloud as model compositions. The homeroom teacher, who also taught math, assigned me to lecture from the podium during self-study periods, tutoring classmates, and even let me grade homework and quizzes — I became something of a little teacher, swelling with pride. Elder Sister Bao, along with the female class president and the female Party secretary, were all on the class committee with me, and we began to interact. The distance between us gradually narrowed; she was now just a step away. Even so, I could only bury my feelings for Elder Sister Bao deep in my heart, until one day I nearly gave myself away. It was during the school sports meet. Seeing her watching the high jump finals, I drifted over to watch her. The universe floated away with the wind; the cheers sounded like voices from another world, flickering in and out. I sank into my own world, studying that face — not stunning, yet I could never look at it enough — acutely aware of my own guilty thoughts, and utterly brazen. Just then, she seemed to sense something and glanced back at me. That one look was sharper than a needle. I felt my secret pierced, found nowhere to hide, and fled in panic. For months afterward, I avoided her, never daring to meet her eyes even once.

By the time I took the college entrance exam in 1977, out of over two hundred classmates in our grade, only three were admitted to undergraduate programs in the first round. My brother and I occupied two of those seats. Classmates streamed to our home to offer congratulations. She came too, giving me a small notebook. On the first page she wrote: "Fly, favored child of heaven!" — a bold, sweeping hand, ethereal as if touched by the immortals.

— Written on October 10, 2013

Disappointed Sunshine 

From elementary school through middle school, I was always a class officer — either study monitor or vice class president. After holding office so long, I took it for granted. When I entered high school, two schools merged, and a batch of students from No. 2 Middle School joined us. The new homeroom teacher was a bald old man — whether I had somehow offended him or he simply hadn't studied my record, the result was that he decided to exclude me from the class committee (the equivalent of the Politburo Standing Committee or senior management) and gave me the title of group leader (roughly equivalent to an alternate Politburo member or a supervisor at the grassroots). A class had four group leaders, each responsible for collecting homework from their group, but unable to participate in class committee decisions unless a major matter called for an "expanded standing committee meeting." At the time, I truly felt the sky was falling. The gloom of adolescent disappointment was something I couldn't share with anyone. Disheartened and listless, with no outlet, I turned somewhat cynical. Now I understand — politics is exhausting. No wonder those who flounder in officialdom seem so anguished.

In this time of political difficulty, one warm remark has stayed with me, never forgotten. There was a new female classmate from No. 2 Middle School, with two thick, dark braids, a poised and graceful manner, and a brilliant smile. She was the newly elected arts and culture committee member of our class, able to sing and dance, and all the boys liked her. Somehow, she sensed my disappointment and said to me: "It's all my fault, I'm the one to blame. I took your slot." To this day I have no idea why she said this — that by becoming the arts committee member, she had taken my place on the class committee. The study monitor position was held by a brat from No. 2 who was decent at Chinese; but the vice president post, an honorary role, could certainly have accommodated a six-term veteran like me if I had been admitted. Yet it was the homeroom teacher's dictatorship — whether I made the cut was entirely his call. In any case, that she could say such a thing truly moved me, especially coming from a girl of such sunny disposition whom everyone adored. She had a wonderful temperament, perceptive and empathetic, putting people at ease. Several later interactions only deepened this good impression.

Once, coming downstairs from the second-floor classroom, I casually spat — and to my horror, it landed right on her sleeve as she happened to be at the bottom of the stairs. In those days, nearly everyone spat wherever they pleased, and no one thought it a bad habit. But spitting on a female classmate's clothes — I was mortified beyond words. Yet she wasn't the least bit annoyed, simply wiped it off herself, and walked past me with the same smiling nod, as if nothing had happened. This small incident made her image towering and luminous in my mind — in my heart, she was like a saint.

— Written on December 7, 2008

朝华午拾 · 第九章：青涩少年（上）

春情

我的“初恋”是一位宝姐姐样的女孩儿。严格地说，不算恋，一般以为，“恋”必须是双向的。初次暗恋不算“恋”，画成树形图的话那是依从关系，不对等。不过，在文化革命年代，如果排除单相思，有资格谈初恋的怕是所剩不多了，大概不到5%，与阶级敌人的比例相当，主要分子多是被称为小流氓的“坏孩子”。占少年人口95%的我们革命学生不屑此道。当然，这些人岁数大了也还是结婚了，但为了结婚找革命伴侣的那种交往，与“初恋”意趣相去甚远，比暗恋更文不对题，不提也罢。

可毛泽东思想管不住暗恋和春情。我的暗恋萌芽于小学一年级，当时我六岁，正是大革命爆发的1966年。那年我们全家随父母从县城下放到何湾小镇，支持乡镇医院的开创和建设。在这个四面环山的偏远小镇，红小兵造反运动一样有声有色，要打倒学校走资本主义道路的当权派。这场革命，我太小无从介入，但也时而扮演那提浆糊桶的角色，帮助大哥哥大姐姐贴大字报。既然革命没多少我的事儿，童心中就有了小资温情的空间，这一切应该从“宝姐姐”的到来谈起。

宝姐姐是邻居阿姨带过来的，说是县城表姐的女儿，来乡下玩几天。第一次见她，与其说是宝姐姐，不如说是天上掉下来一个林妹妹。但她确实大我两岁，而且显然有小姐姐的范儿。宝姐姐长得与身边拖着鼻涕怯生生的乡镇小姑娘完全不同，一看就是城里人。梳着小辫儿，清秀端庄，乖巧大方，最让人赞叹的是她的多才多艺。阿姨让她背毛主席语录，她就伶牙俐齿用标准的普通话背诵《为人民服务》，一字不拉。阿姨又让她表演一段样板戏，她就唱了一段沙奶奶，有滋有味。我看得呆了。事到此，还不能算恋，只能说这样可人的女孩儿，让六岁的小屁孩儿心里种下了恋的萌芽。与无数人生邂逅一样，不久，宝姐姐就回县城了。虽然我老哥发起的造反组织“匕首小分队”成立壮大，不断出击，校园革命正如火如荼，但我心中的小镇却重归平静，不起波澜。

一年后，我们全家回到县城医院，正赶上真刀真枪的武斗岁月。县城小学停课多于上课，等武斗消停，全国山河一片红，各派革命大团结的时候，我们也糊里糊涂地升到了三年级。我搜索记忆，无论如何也想不起来如何与宝姐姐在学校重逢的了。这多少有些遗憾，但生活就是这样。总之，不知何年何月何日，我突然发现宝姐姐就在身边，与我同班。她显然完全不记得我了，而我从认出她那一刻起，直到后来一起上了中学，一直也没有跟她提起我们曾经相识于小镇。虽然很多次话到了口边，终于还是咽回去了。小镇上的邂逅让我对宝姐姐仰视，是这种仰视使得我一直没勇气提起我们以前曾经相遇。To tell or not to tell, that is a question, 为此比哈姆雷特还苦恼犹疑。一去就是八年，直到离乡上大学，终于未曾提起这段前缘。

在县城的女孩子中，宝姐姐其实并没有那么漂亮，但她活泼大方，写得一手男孩子一般的好字，文艺天赋是公认的。她最拿手的是老旦。学校组织拉练野营在外，围着篝火，清唱沙奶奶李奶奶的准是她，算是宣传队的腕儿了。五年级的时候，学校组织宣传队排演整场的《红灯记》，她自然是李奶奶的不二人选。海选时，我由于据传可以把八个样板戏倒背如流，也进了剧组，可导演老师很快发现我虽然道白唱段连锣鼓歌门儿均能一气呵成倒背如流，但实在不是文艺人，要嗓子没嗓子，要扮相没扮相。滥竽充数被指派跑龙套，扮鬼子甲，整台戏没一句台词，就是上场踢翻一两桌椅而已。剧组的明星有三：一个英气袭人的小子扮的李玉和，宝姐姐扮的李奶奶，还有一个小巧女孩儿演铁梅。这三位不仅千人瞩目，而且在排练中吃小灶，有种种优惠，让人羡慕。跑龙套多少有些让我气馁，但好在可以近距离观察宝姐姐和铁梅小妹妹演戏，有时给她们拿个衣服，递个水什么的，博得一声谢谢，感觉颇不赖。这是我一辈子唯一一次参加剧组，后来很多年以后，我偶然照镜子看自己，依然不改鬼子甲的不雅面相。

对宝姐姐的痴迷缓慢而倔强地增长，涵盖了我整个的小学和初中时代，但那是一个深藏心底的绝对秘密。男女同学楚河汉界，鬼子甲与李奶奶间更有天壤之遥，做梦也不敢高攀。可是到了初中，赶上了一年多“修正主义回潮”的好时光，一时间老师、家长和同学都开始重视文化课的学习。功课好的同学，社会地位就扶摇直上。我作为学习委员和数学课代表，开始在班级崭露头角。我写的东西作为范文被朗诵。班主任兼数学老师指派我每天自习课时间，上讲台讲解习题，辅导同学，还放手让我批改作业和测验题，俨然成了小老师，令我春风得意。宝姐姐、还有女班长和女支书和我都是班委会成员，开始有了接触。两人的距离逐步拉近，伊人只在一步之遥。尽管如此，我对宝姐姐的恋慕也只能深藏心底，直到有一天差点露馅儿。那是学校举行运动会的时候，见到她在观看跳高决赛，我也围过来观看她。宇宙随风飘去，欢呼声有如天外来音，时隐时现。我沉浸在自己的世界里，端详着这张并不艳丽却总也看不够的脸，自我感觉心怀鬼胎，而且放肆。就在这时候，她似有察觉，下意识地与我对视一眼，这一眼比针刺还厉害。我感觉天机被戳穿，无地以自容，赶紧仓皇逃离。此后的几个月，我总躲着她，从来不敢正眼瞧她一次。

到我77年考大学的时候，全年级200多同学，第一批只考取本科三人，我家兄弟占据两席，同学纷纷登门祝贺。她也来了，送我一个小笔记本，开篇写道：飞翔吧，天之骄子！龙飞凤舞，飘逸似有仙气。

记于2013年10月10日

失意阳光

从小学到初中，一直是班干部，不是学习委员就是副班长。这官当长了，就觉得理所当然。升高中，两个学校合并，加入了一批“二中”的人。新班主任是个秃老头，不知道哪里得罪了他，还是他没有研究我的履历，总之是他决定把我排除在班委会（相当于政治局常委或高管）之外，给了我一个小组长的头衔（相当于政治局候补委员或基层管理人员）。一个班有四个小组长，管本组收作业，但不能参与班委会决策，除非遇到大事召集“常委扩大会议”，才介入决策过程。当时真觉得天要塌了。少年失意的心情无法跟任何人叙说，心灰意懒，无所排解，转而很有些玩世不恭的样子。现在理解了，搞政治是很辛苦的，难怪见官场不顺的人显得那么痛苦。

在这仕途艰难之时，有一句温暖的话，让我至今感怀不忘。有一位二中新来的女同学，梳着两条又粗又黑的长辫子，为人落落大方，笑容很灿烂。她就是我们班新当选的文娱委员，能唱会跳，男生都很喜欢她。不知怎么，她察觉了我的失意，跟我说：“都怪我，都是我不好。是我占了你指标。” 我至今也不知道她怎么会有这样的说法，觉得是她当了文娱委员，把我的班委会入围指标占用了。学习委员的位置是二中来的一个语文不错的臭小子占据的，倒是副班长这个虚职，如果我入围，应该可以安置我这样的六朝元老。可是那是班主任独裁的体制，入围与否他老人家说了算。无论如何，她能这样说话，真地让我感激得很，尤其是出自这样一个性格阳光和人见人爱的女孩。她的性情特别好，善解人意，让人舒服。后来几次交往也加深了这种好印象。

有一次从二楼教室下楼，我随口一啐，没想到她正好在楼梯口，不偏不倚落在她袖口上。当年不懂五讲四美，几乎人人都随地吐痰，并不觉得是恶习。可口水吐到了女同学身上，还是羞得我无地自容。可她一点不恼，自己擦去，一样笑吟吟地从身边点头走过，好像什么事也没发生。这件小事使女孩的形象高大光辉起来，在我心目中有如圣女。

记于2008年12月7日

From 朝华午拾: Morning Glory at Noon. Original Chinese: 《朝华之九: 青涩少年》.

Morning Glory at Noon — Ch.8: Bits of Morning Glory (Part 2)

"Never Forget Class Struggle"

I remember it was around 1970, when I was in fourth or fifth grade. Our teacher led us to visit a "Class Struggle Exhibition Hall" to give students a living education. The exhibition hall had explanatory panels, diagrams, and physical objects, all designed to make us feel that class struggle was right beside us — something that needed to be talked about every year, every month, every day.

The first thing we saw was a landlord's "heaven-changing ledger." It was an old land deed that had been dug out from a landlord's cellar. Keeping the deed, naturally, meant he was waiting for the day heaven would change so he could settle accounts with the poor and lower-middle peasants. The guide's script said this old landlord, who normally nodded and bowed before everyone, was in fact old and crafty, his crimes deserving of death ten thousand times over.

There was also the diary of a so-called "rightist who slipped through the net." The commentary said this outwardly respectable teacher had a dark psyche. The several thick volumes of diaries seized from his home were filled with the cloying, decadent sentiments of the bourgeoisie — the diary recorded the author's experiences of romantic love. Even more despicable, it contained poems longing for the Kuomintang reactionaries. The item on display was a poem titled "Yearning for the Sea." What I saw was a lyrical prose poem in elegant handwriting. The parts I vaguely remember went something like: "Oh sea, my homeland, my destination, my longing, my hope!" The entire piece revolved around the theme of the sea. The guide's script asked: why would this rightist who slipped through the net so nauseatingly extol the sea? Obviously, he was yearning for the Kuomintang bandits across the sea in Taiwan, hoping they would launch a counterattack on the mainland. At the time, none of us doubted that the sea in "Yearning for the Sea" symbolized the unnameable Kuomintang. He was one of the "Stinking Ninth Category" of intellectuals, with bourgeois sentiments — surely he was dissatisfied with reality, and his class nature determined that he yearned for the Kuomintang reactionaries. Wasn't this the kind of ill-concealed intention that everyone could see?

The most explosive item in the exhibition was the material of an active counter-revolutionary case: a draft party platform for an underground counter-revolutionary organization called the "Democratic Justice Party." The two principal culprits — the party's chairman and vice-chairman — had just been sentenced to death at a public trial, paraded through the streets, and publicly shot. The party's platform was to overthrow the Communist Party and establish democratic politics. This was, of course, a heinous and unforgivable heresy — nothing less than execution would satisfy the people's righteous anger.

On the day of the annual public sentencing, under a blazing sun, our small county town in the mountains of southern Anhui buzzed with a festival-like excitement. The public trial was held at the town's largest athletic field, grandly known as "Zhongshan Park." Several thousand people packed the field so tightly not a drop of water could seep through. The criminals, heads shaved and heavy placards hanging from their necks, were escorted onto the stage. After sentencing, the placards of those condemned to death were marked with a red cross before the parade through the streets. What interested everyone most was the death penalty — the kind of event that could thrill a crowd. Seven or eight criminals were sentenced to death on the spot, including the two young counter-revolutionaries, several murderers, and a production team leader convicted of "seriously undermining the Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside campaign" — a crime that referred to using one's position to rape or seduce young women sent down to the countryside. Each time a death sentence was announced, two burly men behind the condemned man on stage would force his head down and stuff something into his mouth to prevent him from struggling at the last moment or shouting counter-revolutionary slogans. The death-row prisoners' varied reactions were a major spectacle. Some collapsed into a heap on the ground and had to be kicked and dragged before they could just barely kneel onstage for the public shaming. Others struggled with all their might — their heads forced down, then raised again. It was said that these were the type most likely to shout counter-revolutionary slogans if not gagged.

After the public sentencing concluded, the parade through the streets began. Four or five criminals were pressed against the front railing of each truck as it slowly rolled down the county's main street. Nearly everyone who could leave their home came out. Those who hadn't made it to the field to watch the trial live had long since staked out good spots along the main street near their homes, waiting for the parade convoy. The young people, bursting with energy and excitement, simply followed alongside the trucks. The clever ones brought bicycles so they could catch up with the best part — the execution scene. Although these were public executions and onlookers were tolerated, the execution site was kept secret, presumably to prevent overcrowding that might interfere with official business. Executions were generally carried out within an hour after the parade. Based on past experience, there were two or three likely execution sites about ten li outside town, and people were stationed at each one, waiting like the proverbial farmer who saw a rabbit dash into a tree stump and decided to wait there for the next one. I was not so clever. Carried along by the crowd, I rushed east then west, and by the time I finally made it to the scene, there was nothing but heads upon heads — the proceedings were already over. People formed circles, listening to those who had witnessed the execution with their own eyes describe every detail. After the execution, a medical examiner in a white coat would verify the death on site and sign the death report. Later, a rumor spread that the dictatorship authorities demanded that the families of executed counter-revolutionaries pay for the cost of the bullet. At the time, we thought this was perfectly reasonable. A bullet might not be worth much, but this was a just punishment for the counter-revolutionary's family.

Many years later, I still wonder whether a thirst for blood is rooted in human nature. How else to explain the excitement and frenzy of the spectators at the execution ground? There was a saying back then: the revolutionary masses' day of carnival is the class enemy's day of suffering.

Speaking of bloodthirst, I'm reminded of La Espero ("The Hope"), by L.L. Zamenhof, the creator of Esperanto. This poem became the anthem of Esperantists worldwide — their "Internationale." I once had my master's machine translation project translate this song into English and Chinese:

(099) LA ESPERO : ESPERANTISTA HIMNO ( POEMO FAR ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) EN LA MONDON VENIS NOVA SENTO ,
TRA LA MONDO IRAS FORTA VOKO ;
(101) PER FLUGILOJ DE FACILA VENTO ,
NUN DE LOKO FLUGU GHI AL LOKO .

(102) NE AL GLAVO SANGONSOIFANTA ,
GHI LA HOMAN TIRAS FAMILION ;
(103) AL LA MOND' ETERNE MILITANTA ,
GHI PROMESAS SANKTAN HARMONION .

(099) THE HOPE : ESPERANTIST'S HYMN ( POEM BY ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) INTO THE WORLD CAME NEW FEELING ,
OVER THE WORLD GOES STRONG VOICE ;
(101) BY WINGS OF EASY WIND ,
NOW FROM PLACE LET IT FLY TO PLACE .
(102) NOT TO SWORD BLOODTHIRSTY ,
IT PULLS THE MAN FAMILY ;
(103) TO THE WORLD EVER FIGHTING ,
IT PROMISES SACRED HARMONY .

(099) 希望: 世界语者的颂歌 (柴门霍夫所作的诗歌)。

(100) 新感觉来到了世界,
有力的声音走遍世界;
(101) 用顺风的翅膀,
现在让它从一个地方飞到另一个地方吧。

(102) 它不把人的家庭
引到渴血的刀剑;
(103) 向永远战争着的世界,
它允诺神圣的和谐。

— Written on May 18, 2006

Homespun and Factory Cloth

When I was a child, in the 1960s and 1970s, I still wore clothes made of tubu — "homespun" cloth. This was fabric hand-woven by farmers, bought and then sent to the dyeing workshop to be dyed blue or black. It was coarse, not sturdy, and tore easily, so you had to patch it to wear it for long. There were no patterns, of course. The dyeing workshop was like a giant bathhouse, thick with steam. The dyed cloth bled color badly, often staining other clothes black.

Later, in the late 1960s, state-supplied machine-woven khaki fabric — which required ration coupons — began to appear. It was much nicer-looking and sturdier. Since it required coupons, homespun didn't immediately exit the market. Still later, synthetic fabrics like diqueliang (Dacron) and nylon began arriving. I remember the first time my parents bought Dacron cloth to make shirts for us brothers — around 1970 — I flatly refused to wear it, thinking it was too revisionist, so shiny, like what a bourgeois young master would wear. From childhood we were taught to learn from Lei Feng's example of hard work and plain living: "three years new, three years old, another three years of mending." Wearing nylon socks for the first time also felt too extravagant, yet they felt wonderfully comfortable once on. (Only later did I discover they weren't breathable and caused foot odor.)

Synthetic fabrics became popular in the 1970s. Their greatest advantage was durability — Grandma no longer had to spend the whole year mending the family's clothes, shoes, and socks. Around that time, Japan began exporting a chemical fertilizer called "Urea," and the farmer brethren discovered that the fertilizer sacks were excellent synthetic fabric. They eagerly turned urea sacks into bed sheets and blankets — and they worked surprisingly well. The only drawback was the giant Chinese characters reading "UREA" that accompanied people into their dreams every night. Later, when reading about the history of DuPont's invention of nylon in the 1930s, I learned that American GIs in places like the Philippines used nylon goods as gifts to woo local girls — enormously popular.

By the late 1970s, you could still occasionally see homespun cloth, but as the price of factory cloth fell and ration coupons were abolished after the Cultural Revolution, homespun simply couldn't compete.

How times change. Today in the West, handmade products of pure cotton, pure linen, or pure silk have become fashionable — things only bourgeois young ladies and gentlemen can afford, while the impoverished proletariat must make do with cheap, shiny, durable synthetics. My online friend Xiaoshan tells me that homespun-style products are now quite expensive. There's a children's clothing brand called Hanna Andersson that touts its "organic cotton" and charges a premium for it. At Whole Foods, a shirt of the most ordinary linen design sells for nearly two hundred dollars. Xiaoshan says: "I think clothes made from handwoven cloth — rough cotton shirts, casual pants, women's skirts — would be absolutely cool. No one else would be wearing the same thing as you." What was once an unavoidable hardship has now become a trend.

— Written in October 2011

The Art of Arguing

One of the pleasures of being online is watching the "old-timers" argue. Old-timers don't like to argue, but once they get going, their sharpness never loses its humor, and you often can't help but laugh. Some of the young folks' arguments, on the other hand, leave much to be desired — foul language, zero technical content, let alone humor — worse than a fishwife's street brawl. The times have changed, heaven and earth have turned upside down, yet the quality of arguing has not improved. Maybe I'm just a cranky old man, but I always feel today's young people can hardly reach the "self-oblivious" realm of arguing that we attained back in our day. Old ginger is still the spiciest. Yesterday, online, I saw our elder brother talking nonsense — probably a bit drunk. I couldn't resist jumping in with a jab, fully expecting him to come after me. Unexpectedly, the old fellow was quite receptive, humbly accepting my opinion, and ended with: "Looks like I'll have to argue with myself now." Brilliant — now that's a realm! When arguing reaches such a state, it truly does justice to the brothers and sisters gathered around to watch. In my youth I was even more extreme — I argued so hard I actually changed my sex. Such self-oblivious passion could truly move heaven and earth and make ghosts weep.

I've loved to pick arguments since I was little — from elementary school through college, it never stopped. In elementary school I was a shrimp, not really able to get a word in edgewise. Still, having been through the revolutionary baptism of the Great Cultural Revolution, I especially loved going to the streets to listen to the young Red Guard debaters, and I admired the masters of debate with all my heart.

I remember in high school, during one of our "Learn from the Peasants" sessions, we were all staying at a farm when a great debate erupted in the dormitory one night: "Are humans animals?" Having thoroughly studied Marxism-Leninism, I knew that humans are the sum total of social relations, that humans use tools, and that this is the fundamental characteristic distinguishing humans from animals — and so on. I thought anyone who insisted that humans are animals must have water in their brain — practically mentally deficient. Armed with truth, righteous and stern, I never imagined my opponent would also be a fiercely competitive type who simply would not admit error. I was absolutely furious. Wave after wave, the debate went on the entire night. By daybreak, I already felt my breath failing, no longer knowing what I was shouting, still less able to hear what the other side was saying. Like holding a position, I felt the moment I let up, the enemy would seize the opening and pour in.

The next day, the debate finally stopped — not for any other reason, but because I had completely lost my voice. My throat was congested and inflamed, the pain unbearable. Classmates suggested I gargle with salt water, but it didn't help. For an entire week, I became a mute. Later, when I finally regained my voice — no one could have guessed — I had gone from a male voice to a female voice. Not the kind of pleasant, melodious female voice, mind you, but one closer to the old witch in Disney's Snow White.

I've loved music all my life. When I hear something that moves me, I can't help but sing along — I have to let it out to feel fully satisfied. I quickly discovered that my satisfaction was built on other people's suffering. Fortunately, I'm fairly self-aware. I voluntarily keep my distance from karaoke and only occasionally let loose at home. I'm deeply grateful to my wife and daughter, who are quite tolerant. "As long as we see you're happy," they say.

Now, whenever I'm on the phone and the other person says, "Yes, Madam," I'm reminded of my youthful, headstrong days.

— Written on December 11, 2008

Work-Study

Work-study during summer vacation was already popular when I was in middle school. My first job was helping sell pears at the collective supply-and-marketing co-op, at one yuan a day. The old clerk criticized me for being too honest, saying you had to size up the customer and shortchange them appropriately. Roughly speaking, for a jin the customer asked for, giving them eight liang was about right — and you had to make the scale beam look high, so the customer felt satisfied. This kind of petty swindling was the norm in a small-time collective enterprise like the supply-and-marketing co-op. I found that most customers were easy to fool; only a few were sticklers. If you got caught, you just pretended it was an honest mistake, smiled and made it right. That was my first lesson in life. Looking back, the old masters who taught me to shortchange customers were fundamentally good people, yet they carried out these deceptions as if they were perfectly natural and justified.

Later I worked twice as a "helper" at a rural grain depot, always doing the least skilled work, called daicang — leading peasants who had just had their grain weighed to the designated spot in the designated warehouse. I also helped the warehouse keeper shuffle the grain around. Grain in storage had to be regularly turned — the bottom brought up, the top sent down — to prevent mildew. This was fairly exhausting work. The air inside the warehouse was foul, thick with dust and haze.

My work-study experience after going abroad was following the herd during my studies in the UK — working in a restaurant, still doing the least skilled job of washing dishes. Weekend shifts ran from 4 p.m. to one or two in the morning, at fifteen pounds a shift. By the time I got home, I was falling apart. Anyone who has washed dishes in a restaurant will never again believe in restaurant hygiene, especially on weekends. Sometimes the water in the dishwashing sink wouldn't be changed the entire evening. When it got too dirty, you'd just pour in massive amounts of detergent until it was full of foam, then wipe things glossy with a dry cloth. It wasn't that we were lazy — we simply had no choice. Dirty dishes came flooding in like a mountain; there was no time to change the water. Some restaurants had dish-drying machines with a sanitizing cycle, which made things relatively more hygienic.

— Written on October 1, 2011

The Art of Drinking Beer

Twice in my life I have had beer that was unforgettable — truly fine brew. The first time was in 1989, when I went to Munich, Germany for a conference (see "Morning Glory at Noon: A Journey to Europe"). The conference organizers took us to the outskirts of the city for an outdoor beer festival. Before this, I had scarcely touched alcohol, but Munich's draft beer — such wonderful taste, and not intoxicating either — captivated me instantly. I also loved the atmosphere: beer mugs the size of buckets, and the meat that accompanied the drinking — roasted whole or half pigs and sheep — you couldn't ask for anything more magnificent. The utensils used to cut the meat were like the great swords our ancestors once swung at the Japanese devils' heads. You held out your plate and one swing of the blade sent two jin of meat onto it. Half-tipsy, half-dreaming, I was always reminded of the heroes of Mount Liang, weighing out silver by the scale and drinking wine by the bowl. On that midsummer night, fair-skinned girls in brightly colored, elaborately layered traditional dress wove through the crowd, all smiles. What night was this? I no longer knew where I was.

The second time was a few years ago in Hokkaido, also for a conference. An old Japanese friend took me to an antique-style beer house, where we savored Sapporo beer alongside simple snacks like boiled edamame. Sapporo is famous for two things: beer and king crab. Sapporo's dark draft was dry, mellow, and refreshing. Two large mugs down, I returned to the hotel with blurry, drunken eyes. Undressing and collapsing onto the bed, I felt my body floating upward, as if I'd just come out of a sauna — steaming all over, vapors rising, as though every impurity in my body was being purged. An indescribable sensation, as if about to take flight — "drifting as though having left the world behind, sprouting wings and ascending to the immortals."

A friend once asked: how exactly do you beer drinkers get a buzz out of it? My answer is: it's far more than a buzz — drinking beer is conducive to world peace. Every time I reach a mild tipsiness, I feel that all people are my family. Mild tipsiness, that floating sensation, is the optimal state. Li Bai, the great immortal poet of the Tang Dynasty, probably composed his timeless masterpieces like "Drinking Alone Under the Moon" in precisely this state:

A jug of wine among the flowers,
I drink alone, no friend close by.
I raise my cup to invite the moon,
Who with my shadow makes us three.
The moon, alas, knows not to drink;
My shadow follows me in vain.
With moon and shadow, friends for now,
Let's seize the joy before spring ends.

— Written in October 2011

朝华午拾 · 第八章：朝华点滴（下）

"千万不要忘记阶级斗争"

记得大概是1970年左右，小学四五年级的时候，老师带领我们参观一个"阶级斗争展览馆"，对学生进行活生生的教育。展览馆里面有讲解、图示和实物，让我们感觉到阶级斗争就在身边，需要年年讲，月月讲，天天讲。

首先看到的是地主份子的变天账。这是从一家地主家地窖里面搜查出来的老地契。保留地契，当然是想变天，将来好对贫下中农反攻倒算。讲解词说，这个老地主，平时见人点头哈腰，其实是老奸巨猾，罪该万死。

还有另外一份"漏网右派"的日记。解说词说，这个道貌岸然的教师，心理阴暗，查抄出来的几大本日记，充满了卿卿我我的资产阶级腐朽没落的情调（日记记录了当事人的恋爱感受），更可恶的是还有向往国民党反动派的诗词。展出的部分就是这样一首题目叫做"海恋"的诗歌。我看到的是字迹娟秀的一首抒情散文诗，隐约记得的部分有，大海啊，我的故乡，我的归宿，我的向往，我的盼望！通篇就是大海这个主题。解说词说，漏网右派为什么如此肉麻地讴歌大海呢？很显然，他是向往大海那边的台湾国民党蒋匪，盼望他们反攻大陆。当年我们毫不怀疑《海恋》作者的大海象征着不能明说的国民党。他是臭老九，又有资产阶级情调，肯定对现实不满，阶级本性决定他向往国民党反动派。这难道不是「 司马昭之心」路人皆知么？

展品中最具有爆炸力的是一份现行反革命的材料，地下反革命组织"民主正义党"的党纲草案。两名主犯就是前不久公审宣判死刑被游街示众、当众枪毙的该党的主席和副主席。党纲宗旨是推翻共产党，建立民主政治。这当然是十恶不赦的异端，罪大恶极，不杀不足以平民愤。

一年一度的公审那天烈日炎炎，我们这个皖南山区的小县城，象过节一样热闹。公审在本城最大的操场（号称"中山公园"）举行。几千人把操场挤得水泄不通。罪犯们剃光头，挂着大牌子被押上来，死刑犯的牌子上在宣判后游街时被划上红叉。大家最感兴趣的还是死刑这种可以给公众带来兴奋的事件。有七八个罪犯被当场宣判死刑，其中包括那两个年轻的现行反革命，还有其他杀人犯和一个严重破坏上山下乡的生产队长（破坏上山下乡罪是指利用职权强奸或诱奸下乡女青年）。每当宣判一个死刑，台上那个死刑犯就被身后两个彪形大汉摁住头颅，并往口中塞进物件，防止他们临死挣扎，呼喊反动口号。死刑犯表现各异，是一大看点。有的软瘫在地上，需要连踢带拉，才能勉强跪在台上示众。也有的竭力挣扎，头摁下去，又抬起来。说是这种人如果不封口，最可能呼喊反动口号。

公审大会结束后，是游街示众，每辆卡车前端押四五个罪犯，缓缓从县城大街上通过。全城能出来的人几乎都出来了，没有机会来操场看公审实况的，早早在家附近大街边上找好位置等待游街的车队。对于精力充沛、兴奋莫名的年轻人，干脆随着车队前行。有聪明的带上自行车，好赶上最精彩的执行枪毙的现场。虽然是公开处决，允许围观，但枪毙现场保密。大概是怕人满为患，影响公务。一般在游街以后一小时内执行枪决。根据以往经验，城外十里地左右，有两三个最可能的行刑现场，各处都有人守株待兔。我比较笨，随着人流东赶西赶，最后好不容易来到现场，除了人头还是人头，而且过程已经结束。人们围成一圈一圈，听亲眼目睹枪决现场的人描述每一个细节。行刑之后，有穿白大褂的法医现场验尸，签署死亡报告。后来有传言，说专政机构要求向被枪毙的反革命分子家属收取子弹费。我们当时觉得理所当然，子弹虽然不值钱，但这是对反革命家属的正当惩罚。

很多年过去，我一直怀疑，嗜血是否源于人的本性，否则如何解释行刑场上看客的兴奋和疯狂呢。当年就有这么个说法，革命群众的狂欢之日，就是阶级敌人的受难之时。

提到嗜血，想起世界语创始人Zamenhof的《希望之歌》。这首诗歌成为全世界世界语者的《国际歌》，我曾经在我的硕士机器翻译项目中把这首歌自动翻译为英语和中文：

(099) LA ESPERO : ESPERANTISTA HIMNO ( POEMO FAR ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) EN LA MONDON VENIS NOVA SENTO ,
TRA LA MONDO IRAS FORTA VOKO ;
(101) PER FLUGILOJ DE FACILA VENTO ,
NUN DE LOKO FLUGU GHI AL LOKO .

(102) NE AL GLAVO SANGONSOIFANTA ,
GHI LA HOMAN TIRAS FAMILION ;
(103) AL LA MOND' ETERNE MILITANTA ,
GHI PROMESAS SANKTAN HARMONION .

(099) THE HOPE : ESPERANTIST'S HYMN ( POEM BY ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) INTO THE WORLD CAME NEW FEELING ,
OVER THE WORLD GOES STRONG VOICE ;
(101) BY WINGS OF EASY WIND ,
NOW FROM PLACE LET IT FLY TO PLACE .
(102) NOT TO SWORD BLOODTHIRSTY ,
IT PULLS THE MAN FAMILY ;
(103) TO THE WORLD EVER FIGHTING ,
IT PROMISES SACRED HARMONY .

(099) 希望: 世界语者的颂歌 (柴门霍夫所作的诗歌)。

(100) 新感觉来到了世界,
有力的声音走遍世界;
(101) 用顺风的翅膀,
现在让它从一个地方飞到另一个地方吧。

(102) 它不把人的家庭
引到渴血的刀剑;
(103) 向永远战争着的世界,
它允诺神圣的和谐。

记于2006年5月18日

土布洋布

我小时候，1960－1970年代，还穿"土布"衣服，"土布"是农民手工纺织的，买回家，送进染坊去染成蓝色或者黑色。很粗糙，不结实，容易破，所以要补补丁才能穿久。当然没有花样。染坊象个大澡堂，热气熏天。染出来的布掉色得厉害，往往把其他衣服也带黑了。

后来，60年代后期，开始有需要布票的国家供应的机织咔叽布，漂亮结实多了。由于需要布票，所以土布没有立刻退出市场。再后来，化纤制品"的确良"和尼龙开始来了。记得第一次父母给我们兄弟买的确良做衬衫，大约是1970年左右，我坚决拒绝穿，觉得这太修正主义了，那么光亮，象资产阶级少爷。我们从小觉得要学习雷锋艰苦朴素，新三年，旧三年，缝缝补补又三年。第一次穿尼龙袜子也觉得太奢侈，可是感觉穿上以后，特别舒服。（后来才发现不透气，有臭脚的毛病。）

化纤制品的流行是1970年代，最大优点是结实，奶奶再也不用一年到头给全家缝补衣服鞋袜了。当时开始进口日本化肥"尿素"，农民兄弟发现化肥袋子是很好的化纤制品，就纷纷拿尿素袋子做床单和被子用，还真好使。就是袋子上的硕大的汉字"尿素"每天伴随着人进入梦乡。后来，读30年代 DuPont 发明尼龙的历史，说美国大兵当年到菲律宾等处，就以尼龙制品作为礼物在当地泡妞，极受欢迎。

70年代末，偶然还看见有土布，但是因为洋布价格下降，文革后布票又取消了，土布就无法竞争了。

斗转星移，时事变迁，如今在西方，纯棉、纯麻或者纯丝的手工制品开始时髦，只有资产阶级小姐少爷才穿得起，而贫苦的无产阶级只能将就使用便宜、光鲜又结实的化纤制品了。网友小闪告诉我，现在"土布"制品可贵着呢，有一种品牌的童装HANNA ANDERSSON号称用"土布"（organic cotton）把价格提上去。WHOLEFOODS里卖的衣服，一件最普通样式的麻布上衣就卖近两百刀。小闪说：俺觉得自己织的布做粗布衬衫，休闲裤，女裙绝对cool，没人跟你穿一样的。过去无奈的事情现在变成时髦了。

记于2011年10月

掐架的境界

上网的好处之一是看"老人"掐架。老人不爱掐架，一旦掐起来，锋芒里不失幽默，常令人忍俊不住。不过，有些小年轻的掐架却不敢恭维，污言秽语，没有一点技术含量，更谈不上幽默，比泼妇骂街还不如。时代变迁，天翻地覆，可是掐架的水平却不见长。也许我是九斤老夫，总觉得现在的年轻人很难达到我们当年掐架的"忘我"境界。生姜还是老的辣，昨天在网上看到老大哥胡言乱语，许是喝多了，忍不住上去抢白他一句，自以为他要跟我急了，没料他老兄还很服气，虚心接受我的意见，最后来一句："看来我得自己和自己掐了"，绝啊，那是什么境界！掐架要是掐到这种境界，才不愧待围观的众兄弟姐妹们。我年轻时更绝，掐架甚至能掐到改变了性别，其忘我热忱，可谓惊天地，泣鬼神。

我从小就特别爱抬杠，从中小学到大学，一直如此。小学阶段我是班上小不点儿，不大插得上嘴。可还是经过了大革命的战斗洗礼，特别爱到大街上听小将们大辩论，对辩论高手佩服得五体投地。

记得是上高中的时候，有一次学农，大家住在农场，晚上在寝室爆发了一场"人是不是动物"的大争论。我因为熟读马列，知道人是社会关系的总和，人会使用工具，这是人区别于动物的根本性特征，等等。觉得坚持人是动物的同学，脑子被灌水了，简直是弱智。我真理在握，义正词严，没想到对手也是一个争强好胜的主儿，就是死不认错。简直气坏了，于是一浪高过一浪，辩论了整整一夜。到快天亮的时候，我已经感觉气接不上来，也不知道自己在嚷些什么，更听不进对方在说什么。象坚守阵地一样，感觉一旦松懈，敌人就会乘虚而入。

第二天终于停止争论了，不是为了别的，而是我完全失声了，嗓子充血，疼痛难忍。同学建议我用盐水漱口，也不管用。整整一个礼拜，我成了哑巴。后来好不容易恢复发声了，谁也想不到，我竟然从男声变成了女声－不是那种悦耳动听的女声，而是比较接近迪斯尼动画片"白雪公主"里面那个老妖婆的声音。

我一辈子爱好音乐，听到高兴处，忍不住要随曲而歌, 抒发一下才痛快。很快发现，我的痛快是建立在别人的痛苦之上。还好，我比较自觉，自觉与卡拉OK保持距离，只是偶而在家里抒发，很感激太太和女儿，她们比较谅解，说看到你高兴就好。

如今，每当我打电话听到对方跟我说："Yes, Madam"，我就想起我当年的年轻好胜来。

记于2008年12月11日

勤工俭学

中学生暑假勤工俭学，当年就很时兴。开始是去集体供销社帮助卖梨子，每日一元工钱。老店员批评我太老实，说要看顾客，适当克扣才好。大体是一斤，给八两就不错了，还要看上去，秤杆高高的，让顾客高兴。这种小的坑蒙拐骗，在小本生意作为集体企业的供销社，是常态。发现大部分顾客很容易上当，只有少数较真的。露馅了，就假装不小心弄错了，陪笑脸补足摆平。这是在生活中学的第一课。回想起来，传授责令我们克扣斤两的老师傅也都是善良的人，但是做起这些事情却理所当然天经地义的样子。

后来做了两次农村粮站的"协助员"，一直做其中最没有技术的活，叫"代仓"，就是领着农民把过完磅的稻子带到指定仓库的指定位置。平时也帮忙仓库保管员倒腾仓库。粮食在仓库要定期来回倒腾，底下的翻上来，上面的翻下去，防止霉变。这个活比较累人。仓库里面空气污浊，尘土飞扬，灰雾蒙蒙的感觉。

出国以后的勤工俭学是在英国留学时候随大流，去餐馆打工，仍然是最没有技术含量的洗碗工作。周末从下午4点干到夜里一两点，工钱是15英镑，回到家散架了一般。凡是干过洗碗工的人，再也不会相信餐馆的卫生，特别是周末。有时候洗碗池子的水一个晚上不换，实在太脏了，就使劲往里面倒洗涤剂，满是泡沫，用干布一抹就光洁起来。不是我们偷懒，实在没有办法，脏碗象山一样涌来，根本没有换水的时间。有的餐馆有烘碗机，多了一道消毒工序，才相对比较卫生一些。

记于 2011年10月1日

喝啤酒的境界

我一辈子有两次喝啤酒，难以忘怀，好酒啊。第一次是1989年，去德国慕尼黑开会（见《朝华午拾：欧洲之行》）。大会把我们拉到一个郊区，参加一个室外的啤酒节狂欢。此前，我几乎不沾酒，可是慕尼黑的生啤酒，口感真好，也不醉人，一下子就迷上了。也很喜欢那个场景，啤酒杯子海大，那助酒的肉食，是烤熟的或整条或半条的猪啊羊啊，别提有多大气。切割肉食的用具，跟当年向鬼子头上砍去的大刀似的，你端过盘子去，一刀就是两斤肉下来。微醉微醺之间，总使我联想起梁山好汉大秤分金银，大碗吃酒肉的痛快。仲夏之夜，有身着艳丽繁缛的传统民族服装的白人姑娘在身边穿来穿去，笑容可掬。今夕何夕，不知身在何处。

第二次喝啤酒，是前几年到北海道，也是开会。跟日本老朋友到一个古色古香的啤酒屋，就着煮毛豆之类的特色小菜，品尝扎幌啤酒。扎幌两大宝：啤酒和大毛蟹。扎幌的黑生啤，干醇爽口。两大杯啤酒下肚，醉眼迷蒙地回到旅馆。脱衣上床，感觉人直往上飘，象刚从桑那浴出来一样，全身蒸腾，呼呼地向上冒气，仿佛要把身体里面所有杂质清理尽净。不可言传的感受，好像要飞起来，"飘飘乎如遗世独立，羽化而登仙"。

有朋友问：你们喝啤酒的, 倒底是怎么喝出快感的？我的回答是，岂止是快感，喝啤酒有利于世界和平。每次喝到微醉时，感觉所有人都是亲人。以微醉为度，飘飘欲仙是最佳状态，唐代大诗仙李太白大概就是在这个状态下写出他的《月下独酌》等千古名作的：

花间一壶酒，独酌无相亲。
举杯邀明月，对影成三人。
月既不解饮，影徒随我身。
暂伴月将影，行乐须及春。

记于2011年10月

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 朝华之八: 朝华点滴.

After middle age, old memories drift through the mind like scattered fragments, yet they refuse to coalesce into a complete picture. In the ocean of memory, every wavelet carries sweetness and bitterness, surging and swirling without order.

My ten years of primary and secondary school coincided exactly with the ten years of the Cultural Revolution. Our studies were neglected, our foundations weak. Out of more than 200 students across four classes in our grade, only seven or eight managed to leap through the dragon gate of the college entrance exam (including junior colleges). The rest slowly found employment in local factories, replacing retired parents or being recruited. In terms of educational advancement, our generation was sacrificed to the times.

The aftershocks of the Great Revolution's factional fighting persisted all the way to our primary school graduation. As soon as classroom windows were fitted with glass, they would be shattered; in winter we had to cover them with plastic film or pasted newspaper to block the wind. The brightest period came during what was called the "bourgeois line resurgence" (our first and second years of junior high), when good students like us were particularly valued. As a subject representative, entrusted by teachers, I would stand at the podium during morning self-study sessions to lead the whole class through exercises — this cultivated a confidence in handling public occasions.

Among our middle school classmates was a small group of "aristocrats" — children of military families sent down with the 127th Military Preparedness Hospital. Four students from the 127th came to our class, all girls, each more beautiful than the last. These "modern sisters" from the army compound stood in sharp contrast to us local kids. They spoke standard Mandarin, were dazzlingly clever, and carried themselves with grace. One of them, a fair-skinned girl called Z, had a gentle disposition and could answer teachers' questions with eloquence and poise — the envy of everyone. When Z raised her hand to answer the teacher's question about Ye Ting's poem "The Door Through Which One Enters and Exits Is Tightly Locked," she spoke with assurance and concluded: "We revolutionaries must have our own integrity. We would rather rot in prison than beg to 'crawl out through the dog's hole.'" Z's performance earned the fervent praise of our Shanghai-born female teacher, who appointed her Chinese language subject representative.

I remember in the first semester of ninth grade attending a tearful testimony by Basang, a Tibetan former serf who had been "liberated" (and later became vice-chairman of the Tibetan Autonomous Region Revolutionary Committee), denouncing the evils of Tibet's slave system before liberation. He described torture methods like flaying people alive and gouging out eyeballs — it made our hair stand on end. That was the most successful class education lesson of those years. Every student's heart ached with shared grief and righteous fury. Even the most mischievous troublemakers in class were moved, united in common hatred.

That year, our "learning from the peasants" program sent us to a mountain village to live and eat with farmers for two weeks. At night, boys and girls sat together on floor mats playing cards; since it was cold, everyone shared the same quilt, which felt especially thrilling. At school there were strict boundaries between boys and girls, but away from campus these rules relaxed. The hazy mutual curiosity and attraction between teenage boys and girls found its fullest expression during that time.

Every morning we rose early and braved the cold to wash our faces by the river — the water was bone-piercingly icy, our hands could barely open. I remember racing a male classmate to cut rice in the fields. We cut faster and faster until my sickle sliced off the tip of my little finger — so much blood, and it took two or three months to slowly grow back new flesh. The mountain nights were pitch black, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. We often got lost, and with dogs barking everywhere, there was a real sense of terror — yet also great excitement. When I return to China and see today's children, burdened with heavy backpacks, pushed to their limits for the college entrance exam, I naturally think of how we spent our days — learning from the peasants, the workers, and the army, always roaming outdoors. I remember one evening when our intern teacher led us to a hillside near the chemical fertilizer plant for a field exercise (learning from the army). Under a bright moon and scattered stars, we used pine branches as camouflage, ambushing the enemy, confusing the enemy — looking back, it all feels impossibly romantic. There was also the long-distance march to the former New Fourth Army site at Maolin; we walked an entire day, as if the road would never end. I was slight and frail, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. Yet the ecstasy when we finally arrived remains vivid to this day. Later, for "learning from the workers," we entered a walking-tractor factory, where I learned lathe work under a beautiful female master in work clothes — I was utterly captivated by her gallant poise.

In the second semester of ninth grade, the political climate veered further left. Over the next two years of high school, academic classes existed in name only; learning from the peasants, workers, and army consumed ever more of our time. During high school, everyone had to learn a "revolutionary skill." I chose to learn how to operate a walking tractor. Many classmates chose the acupuncture skills of the "barefoot doctor." Day after day they'd hold a needle and jab it into their own wrists. The quick learners soon dared to cover their wrists and heads with silver needles — a terrifying sight.

Those were the days of promoting revolutionary "newborn things." Reports appeared of PLA medical personnel using traditional Chinese acupuncture to cure deaf-mute patients — miracles of iron trees blooming and the mute speaking. The first words most of the mute spoke were invariably "Long live Chairman Mao." In the documentary films of the time, you could see the touching scenes of the formerly mute, tears streaming down their faces, thanking their beloved People's Liberation Army. Soon came more happy tidings: acupuncture anesthesia had been successfully tested, and compared to conventional anesthesia, it had the advantage of no side effects. Radio stations began broadcasting revolutionary songs praising the tiny silver needle, and for a time the needle was touted as something almost miraculous.

Barefoot doctors, sunflowers blooming, putting down roots across the vast land…
The thousand-year iron tree is about to bloom… the deaf-mute daughter is about to speak.
The east wind brings warmth, red flags reflect the rosy clouds — Chairman Mao has sent his dear PLA soldiers to my home.
A tiny silver needle in hand — spring thunder explodes in the silent world…
Grateful for Chairman Mao's boundless kindness.

Amid this fervor, one of my classmates happened to need an appendectomy and it was performed entirely under acupuncture anesthesia. I will never forget the horrific account he later gave me of his suffering. He still believed acupuncture anesthesia might work, explaining that it probably varied from person to person — it simply didn't work for him. He said that at first, the silver needles in his ears distracted him from the surgery, but soon the pain in his abdomen became unbearable. He howled like a pig or sheep being slaughtered through the entire procedure; no amount of heart-rending screaming made any difference. The story made my hair stand on end.

— Written on October 12, 2006

The North Wind Blows

An old friend online recommended I watch the sent-down youth drama The North Wind Blows. Fragments of memories from the Great Revolution era drifted back — hazy and disjointed, yet among them were scenes of startling clarity and sounds of transcendent beauty.

I was about seven, during the fiercest period of factional fighting between the "Criticism United Headquarters" and the "Sweep the Black Line" factions in our county town. Gunshots were heard nightly. The two factions held separate territories, each with its own strongholds. At its worst, machine guns and even mortars were deployed. Beyond the command headquarters, each organization had departments for logistics, security, medical care, arts and culture, internal liaison, and foreign affairs, each performing its designated function — it was like a communist utopia in miniature, where the masses' ingenuity found full expression.

The Criticism faction's headquarters was set up inside the building materials factory on the east side of town. My impression is of concrete pipes everywhere — perfect for children playing hide-and-seek. The faction's commander-in-chief was Uncle P, our neighbor — tall and imposing, in military uniform, with a pistol holstered on each hip, radiating an intimidating authority. They said he was an expert marksman. And then one night, something went wrong. The story goes that he was out on night patrol when a dark figure appeared ahead. Commander P shouted, "Password!" The figure stammered something unintelligible. The password was wrong, and the commander, thinking it was an enemy scout sneaking up, fired a single shot and dropped him. Only later was it discovered that it was one of their own — young, inexperienced, and inarticulate, he became a wrongful death in the blink of an eye.

As factional skirmishes grew more frequent, casualties mounted and often couldn't receive timely medical care. The county hospital was in the Sweep faction's territory on the west side of town. To strengthen the Criticism faction's medical capacity, Commander P summoned my parents to help establish a mobile field operating theater. He dispatched operatives to secretly infiltrate our home and relocate our entire family to the Criticism faction's headquarters, where we were treated with the utmost courtesy. From then on, we began our life within this revolutionary commune.

My father's memoir records this:

"One evening, a 'plainclothes female fighter' from the Criticism faction burst through our back door straight into my inner room. From the sole of her shoe she extracted a slip of paper — a handwritten order from Commander P, demanding I rush immediately to the headquarters to 'save a life.' It was, of course, a 'heavenly command.' Heaven's command could not be defied; saving a life brooked no delay; and self-preservation left no alternative. I set out at once. But our home was deep in Sweep faction territory — how could hostile forces tolerate such an act? My journey that night was an adventure in itself. Fortunately, the moment I stepped outside, a plainclothes escort detail was there to guard against ambush, and we reached our destination at top speed."

I remember how bitterly cold that winter was — I still shiver thinking about it. One day, a few of us children were playing outside until our hands and feet were swollen and red from the cold. Both our parents were too busy working to look after us. Eventually an older sister led us into a small room with a charcoal brazier. I couldn't wait to huddle close to the fire, stretching out my red, swollen hands and feet. I never imagined that frozen limbs, suddenly exposed to warmth, would produce an unbearable, bone-deep itching — as if ten thousand arrows were piercing the heart. Later, when I read Tracks in the Snowy Forest, I felt a deep resonance. The book explained that frostbitten hands and feet must never be warmed up immediately. First you must slowly massage them with snow, wait until the blood circulates and the fingers can move again, and only then gradually increase the temperature.

As New Year approached, the Revolutionary Propaganda Team under the Arts and Culture Department rehearsed The White-Haired Girl in the assembly hall — my favorite place to be. The propaganda team was full of talent. A full-scale production, scene by scene, polished to perfection — it was the cultural feast of the revolutionary era, an inexhaustible delight. The young man playing Dachun was a family acquaintance, a strikingly handsome fellow. In the corner of the stage, a sister with a voice like a lark provided vocal accompaniment. She wore a military uniform — valiant yet alluring — and held a grass-green megaphone shaped like an army trumpet, singing "The North Wind Blows, the Snowflakes Drift." This song was already the most artistic and humane gem of the revolutionary era, and that female voice — pure beyond purity, drifting out from the megaphone — was so transcendentally beautiful it moved the soul. In my young heart, I always believed that such heavenly music could not possibly be a human voice; it must be the magic of that wondrous megaphone. For a long time afterwards, I regarded the megaphone as a box that could turn stone into gold. The image of that uniformed girl holding the army megaphone, accompanied by the melody of the north wind and drifting snowflakes, settled deep in my consciousness — the ultimate aesthetic experience. The "North Wind Blows" in the ocean of my heart is perfect, irreplaceable. Guo Lanying's original recording, distinctive as it is, feels rustic by comparison, not light or ethereal enough. I've sought out and compared many versions; only Zhu Fengbo's delicate voice comes close to my childhood memory.

— Written on New Year's Day, 2010

朝华点滴（上）

人过中年以后，陈年往事象碎片一样徘徊心头，可就是拼接不出完整的图画。在记忆的海洋里，每一朵浪花伴随甜蜜咸涩，聚散无序，翻腾萦回。

我的中小学十年，恰好与文化革命十年重合。学业荒废，同学基础都很薄弱，结果同级四个班200多学生，总共高考跳龙门成功者（包括大专）不过7－8个，其余同学大多在本地顶职、招工慢慢就业。就升学而言，我们这代是时代的牺牲品。

大革命武斗的余震一直影响到我们小学毕业。教室一有玻璃就被打碎，冬天只好用薄膜或糊报纸挡风。最风光的时候是所谓"资产阶级路线回潮"那阵（初一、初二），我们学习好的特别吃香。作为科代表，受到老师委托，在早自习课上上讲台当小老师，带领全班做习题，培养了应对场合的自信。

中学同学中有一小批"贵族"，随军队备战医院（127医院）下放来的子女。我们班一共来了四名127同学，全是女生，一个赛一个靓丽。部队大院出来的"洋姐儿"，与我们本地孩子形成对比。她们讲普通话，冰雪聪明，举止优雅。其中一位皮肤白嫩的女生Z，性格温善，回答老师问题出口成章，让人羡慕。Z举手回答老师关于《叶挺：为人进出的门紧锁着》的提问时，侃侃而谈，最后说， 我们革命者应该有自己的骨气，宁愿牢底坐穿，也不能祈求"从狗的洞子爬出"。Z的表现获得了上海女老师的激赏，指派为语文科代表。

记得初三上学期听过藏族翻身农奴巴桑（后来成为藏族自治区革命委员会副主任）的血泪报告，控诉解放前西藏奴隶制度的罪恶。提到活剥人皮、挖眼珠等酷刑，听得毛骨悚然。 那是当年最成功阶级教育课了，全班同学无不心痛如绞，满腔仇恨。甚至平时最调皮捣蛋的学生也都被感动了，同仇敌忾。

那年学农去一个山村跟农民同吃同住两周。晚上男女同学一起围坐在地铺上打牌，因为天冷，大家盖同一个被子，觉得特别兴奋。在学校有男女界限，人在外就放松一些。少男少女蒙蒙胧胧的相互好奇和吸引，在学农时表现得最充分。

每天清晨起床，冒着寒冷去河边洗脸，水凉刺骨，手展不开。记得在田里跟一位男同学比赛割稻。越割越快，镰刀把小手指头割掉了，流了好多血，两三个月才慢慢长回新肉。山村的夜晚那个天黑，伸手不见五指。经常迷路，加上狗叫，真有恐怖感，又感觉很刺激。我回国探亲看现在孩子，背着沉重的书包，为高考超负荷运转，就自然想到我们当年学工学农学军，整天在外面野。记得有一天晚上，实习老师带领我们去化肥厂附近的山坡上搞野营（学军）。月明星稀，用松树枝打掩护，偷袭敌人，迷惑敌人，现在想起来还是充满了浪漫。还有长途拉练到茂林新四军旧址，走了一整天，好像路永远没有尽头。我比较体弱瘦小，几乎累垮。可是到达目的地时候的狂喜，至今历历在目。后来学工进了手扶拖拉机厂，跟一个很漂亮穿工装的女师傅学车工，被她的飒爽英姿完全迷住了。

初三下学期，形势进一步转左，后来高中两年，文化课形同虚设，学农、学工、学军占了更多的时间。高中阶段，每个人都要学一门革命的本事，我的选学项目是开手扶拖拉机。不少同学选的是学习"赤脚医生"的针灸技能。整天拿一跟针，在自己手腕上扎下去。学的快的很快就敢把银针插满自己的手腕和脑部，看上去很吓人。

那是提倡革命"新生"事物的时代，于是有解放军医务人员，运用中医针灸治疗聋哑病人，使铁树开花哑巴说话的奇迹报道。多数哑巴开口说的第一句总是"毛主席万岁"。当时的专题纪录片，也能看到哑巴说话以后，热泪盈眶，感谢亲人解放军的动人场面。紧接着，又传来喜讯，针灸麻醉试验成功，比较传统麻醉，具有无副作用等优点。电台开始播送歌颂小小银针的革命歌曲，一时间银针被吹得神乎其神。

赤脚医生向阳花, 广阔天地把根扎……
千年铁树要开花……聋哑女儿要说话。
东风送暖红旗映彩霞，毛主席派来亲人解放军到了我的家。
小小银针手中拿，无声世界春雷炸……
感谢毛主席的恩情大。

在这样的热潮下，我的一个同学赶上阑尾炎需要手术，完全采用针灸麻醉。我永远不能忘记他事后对我描述其痛苦的惨状。他还是相信针麻可能有效，解释说可能因人而异，对于他是无效的。他说，刚开始时候，耳朵上插上银针，分散了对手术的注意力，但很快腹部的疼痛变得不可忍受。他象被宰割的猪羊般吼叫了整个过程，撕心裂肺也无济于事（可能是中途换成传统麻醉等于宣告针灸麻醉失败，当时的医生可能担当不起这个罪名）。说得我毛骨悚然。

—— 记于2006年十月12日

北风那个吹

网上有老友推荐看知青电视剧《北风那个吹》，大革命时候的一些往事片段飘忽而来，断续朦胧之中，也有清晰明丽的场景和绝美动人的音响。

我大概七岁，是我们县城"批联部"和"扫黑线"两派武斗最激烈的时候，夜间常听到枪响。两派割据，各有自己的地盘和大本营。最严重的时候机关枪和迫击炮都用上了。组织内部除了司令部外，下面设有后勤、保卫、医疗、文艺、内联、外交等部门，各司其职，俨然是个共产社会大家庭，人民群众的才智得到充分发挥。

批派的大本营设在城东的建材厂里面。印象里面到处是水泥管道，很合适孩子躲猫猫用。批派总司令是邻居P叔叔，魁梧高大，着戎装，腰间左右别了两只手枪，威风逼人。据说他枪法很准，终于有一天晚上出事了。说是那天夜里出外巡视，前方闪现一个黑影，P司令喝到："口令！" 那小子支吾一声，口令不对，司令以为是敌方的探子摸过来，随手一枪，撂倒了对方。后来发现原来是自己人，年轻无经验，口齿不清，一不小心就做了冤死鬼。

当时两派常有武斗摩擦，死伤人渐多，常不能得到及时救护。县医院在城西扫派的地盘上，P司令为了加强批派的医疗力量，请我父母出山，帮助建立战时流动手术台。他派手下秘密潜入我家，把我们全家转移到批派大本营，礼遇有加，从此我们开始了革命大家庭里面的生活。

老爸的回忆录里对此有记载：

一天傍晚时分，"批"派一个"便衣女战士"从我家后门直冲我内室，从鞋底里抠出一张纸条，是该派P司令的手令，让我火速赶去大本营"救人"。当然是"天命"了。天命不可违抗，二则救人不得迟疑，再则保己也无二选，立马出家。可我家是"扫"派阵地，敌对双方，哪能包容此举。所以我的这一出诊，也是一次冒险。好在一出门，就有"便衣"一队护卫，以防堵截，火速抵达目的地。

记得那年冬天真冷啊，现在想起来还打寒颤。有一天我们几个孩子在外手脚都冻红肿了，爸爸妈妈都忙着工作，顾不上我们。后来是一个大姐姐把我们领到一间生了炭火盆的小屋子去。我迫不及待挨近火盆取暖，把红肿的手脚伸上去，没想到，冰冻的四肢乍一热和，从肉到皮，奇痒无比，万箭穿心。后来我看《林海雪原》，深有同感。里面说了，在冰天雪地冻伤的手脚切忌立即回暖，要先用雪漫漫搓揉，等冻僵的手脚血液循环，指头可以伸展了，然后才能慢慢增加温度。

新年快到了，文艺部下面的革命宣传队在礼堂彩排《白毛女》，是我最爱去的地方。宣传队能人很多，一台大戏从头到尾，一幕一幕，精益求精，是革命年代的文娱大餐，美不胜收。演大春的小伙子是我家熟人，很英俊漂亮的小伙子。舞台角落有一位百灵鸟一样的姐姐在伴唱，她穿着军装，英气又妩媚，手里拿着草绿色的象军喇叭一样的扬声器，清唱《北风那个吹，雪花那个飘》。这歌本来就是革命年代里最富有艺术性和人情味的极品，那女声纯而又纯，从喇叭飘出来，是那样超凡脱俗，打动人心。在我幼小的心灵里面，总以为这样的天籁非人声可为，许是那神奇的喇叭的魔力。那以后很久我一直把喇叭看成是点石成金的匣子。那位军衣少女手执军喇叭的形象，伴随着北风吹雪花飘的音乐声，积淀在心，成就美感体验的极至。我心海里的《北风吹》是最完美的，不可替代。郭兰英的原唱尽管很有特色，但显得土气，不够轻盈灵秀。寻觅对比过多种版本，就朱逢博的细腻嗓音，似乎与我儿时的记忆较为接近。

—— 记于2010年元旦

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory at Noon). Original Chinese: 朝华点滴 & 北风那个吹.