Discover a new translation of the correspondence of author Wang Xiaobo by XINNING SHAO.
Translator’s Note
For a long time, my most conspicuous quirk was to watch people sleep: a stranger next to me nodding away on a train, a security guard on night shift, hand-on-chin, giving in to exhaustion, a friend snoring on a sofa amidst booming party music. They curl up and soften, like a wild cat that has finally decided to surrender her taut posture, her dignified stride. In their sleep, people exhibit a physical sense of trust. They are rendered somehow secure in their vulnerability.
I used to believe Wang Xiaobo (1952-1997) was an author who would never sleep (or, at least, would never let people watch him sleep), until I read the letters he wrote to his wife, Li Yinhe. Wang was born into a family of logicians. Two months before Wang’s birth, his father Wang Fangming, a renowned professor of logic, was identified as a dissident and persecuted. His mother named the newborn Xiaobo — “small wave” — hoping the family could ride the political turmoil just like that. But the New China’s societal frenzy carried Wang further along the unruly waters. After spending twelve years in a rural village in Yunnan as an “educated youth,” Wang came back utterly disillusioned with the sheer chaos produced by human irrationality. Partially due to this experience, Wang writes extensively about the absurdity plaguing the Chinese 1970s. He portrays real irrationality with feigned irrationality, his critical attitude masked by his apparent light-hearted humor and play on logic. Within Wang’s effortless irony, his eyes are wide open, taking in everything, silently judging.
In Wang’s correspondence with his wife Li Yinhe, however, his gaze softens. To Li, Wang is just “like the child in The Emperor’s New Clothes: he shouts when he needs to.” Li was one of the few who appreciated Wang’s work before his sudden death and subsequent rise to posthumous literary fame. She was also the only one that saw, comforted, and brought out the child in Wang. Their first private meeting — which didn’t qualify as a “date” in the China of the seventies — was proposed by Wang around the pretense of returning to Li a Russian novel he’d borrowed from her (he lost it on the way to see her). Halfway through their chat about life and literature, Wang suddenly blurted out: “Do you have a boyfriend?” A little startled, Li said no. Wang then asked, rather innocently: “What about me? ” We don’t know how Li responded on the spot, but apparently, she thought it was an interesting idea. After four years of dating, the couple got married in 1980, the same year Wang made his lukewarmly received literary debut with Earth Forever. In 1984, Wang followed Li to the University of Pittsburgh: Li pursued a sociology PhD, while Wang studied Comparative Literature. They spent four years in the United States, traveling across the country before returning to China in 1988, both to teach at Peking University. In October 1996, Li Yinhe traveled to the University of Cambridge as a visiting scholar, and their brief embrace at the airport was the couple’s last meeting. Wang died of a heart attack in April the next year, alone in the couple’s apartment.
The collection of letters I’m translating was compiled by Li after Wang’s death. It dates from 1977 to 1980, the years when Wang was pursuing Li. In these letters, readers see Wang both as a learned liberal humanist and a young man passionately—sometimes almost childishly—in love. It is the natural synergy between Wang’s various identities that render his writing here particularly mesmerizing: we witness a thoughtfulness conveyed through forthright innocence. There’s a spontaneous, jazzy rhythm in his letters to Li. His tone is never formal, but an artistic sensibility is maintained throughout. Most strikingly, we catch a glimpse of Wang’s literary posture with his guard down, his piercing ironies retracted. From forceful social commentaries, Wang’s pen drifts to a more restful place. He speaks without defense, even though these letters are simultaneously personal and political — poignantly political, because they are meant to be personal. It is in Wang’s expressions of love that he manifests a fundamental, life-giving conviction in individual freedom, an adamant renunciation of top-down narratives. He is not in the posture of an armed-to-the-teeth warrior, but an unguarded lover, a literal humanist.
The one thing above all that I wish to convey in my translation is the grounded elegance in Wang’s expression of vulnerability. To this end, I tried to preserve Wang’s colloquial expressions and his whimsical turns of phrases by bringing readers closer to the author, rather than “foreignizing” Wang’s tone. That is, I sought to convey the lovely combination of playfulness, sincerity, and intelligence of Wang’s correspondence. However, I have kept the Chinese geographical and historical references as intact as possible to keep the couple rooted in the time and space that shaped their relationship. I hope these letters will appeal to readers’ intellects as well as to their emotions, to make them both think and feel about a topic as mundane and profound as love — how it thrives in time, how it resists time.Please don’t hesitate to contact me at xinning.shao@yale.edu if you have any thoughts, questions, or suggestions about my translation. I would love to hear from you, and I don’t mean this as a mere formality. In fact, you will be doing me a great favor in letting me know the unique ways you’ve engaged with my translation. Until then — thank you, and happy reading.
Love of a Poet
诗人之爱
I didn’t realize until we parted ways that the whole process of loving you was completed in parting. That is, every time you walk away, the impression you leave on me makes my addled brain conjure up all the ways I might call out to you for the rest of time. For example, this time I keep thinking: Ah, Love, love. Please don’t blame me for this peculiar thought: Love, that is you.
When you’re not here, I see before me an ocean fogged over with gloom. I know you are on one of those islands out there, so I shout: “Ah, Love! Love!” And almost hear you respond: “Love.”
In the past, knights had to shout their war cries before entering combat. Knight of Sorrowful Countenance that I am,[i] how can I not have a war cry? So, with a silly air, I shout: “Ah, love, love.” Do you like people with a silly air? I’d like you to love me and like me.
Did you know? There was a road that knew me in the countryside. Once upon a time, clouds were as white as bulging fists in the deep azure sky, then down that road came an innocent, clumsy kid. He looked just like the photo I gave you. Then came a teenager, dark and thin. Then came a guy, tall and skinny and ugly, fatally slack in disposition, extraordinarily fond of fantasy. Then, after a few decades, he would never walk that road again. Did you like his story?
诗人之爱
我和你分别以后才明白，原来我对你爱恋的过程全是在分别中完成的。就是说，每一次见面之后，你给我的印象都使我在余下的日子里用我这愚笨的头脑可能想到的一切称呼来呼唤你。比方说，这一次我就老想道：爱，爱呵。你不要见怪：爱，就是你啊。
你不在我眼前时，我面前就好像是一个雾沉沉、阴暗的海，我知道你在前边的一个岛上，我就喊：“爱！爱呵！”好像听见了你的回答：“爱。”
以前骑士们在交战之前要呼喊自己的战号。我既然是愁容骑士，哪能没有战号呢？我就傻气地喊一声：“爱，爱呵。”你喜欢傻气的人吗？我喜欢你爱我又喜欢我呢。
你知道吗，郊外的一条大路认得我呢。有时候，天蓝得发暗，天上的云彩白得好像一个个凸出来的拳头。那时候这条路上就走来一个虎头虎脑、傻乎乎的孩子，他长得就像我给你那张相片上一样。后来又走过来一个又黑又瘦的少年。后来又走过来一个又高又瘦又丑的家伙，涣散得要命，出奇地喜欢幻想。后来，再过几十年，他就永远不会走上这条路了。你喜欢他的故事吗？
The following letters were written when Li was attending a meeting in southern China. Li was an editor at GuangMing newspaper, and Wang, a worker at a street factory in Xi Cheng district, Beijing.
One
Li Yinhe, Helloooo! Since you left, I’ve been rather gloomy, like Don Quixote longing for Dulcinea del Toboso every day. God forbid, I’m not making fun of you, and I’m definitely not comparing you to Dulcinea. I’m just saying I’m like that lovesick Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance. Do you remember how Cervantes described our old man going through those trials and tribulations in the black mountains? That’s how ridiculous I am right now.
I’ve developed a new habit: every few days I need to tell you something that I wouldn’t say to anyone else. Of course, there’s more that I don’t tell you, but as long as I bring those thoughts to you, I’m satisfied when I leave, and they don’t bother me anymore. It’s weird, right? I torture others when I vent my odd ideas, but I torture myself when I don’t.
I think I should march on now. Someday I will try creating something beautiful. I will try every path until you come and say — “Forget it, Mr Wang. You can’t.” I feel hopeful, though, because I’ve gotten to know you — I really need to make some progress.
I’ve realized that I’d been a bit of a loser. Your dad wasn’t wrong at all. But I’m not anymore. I’ve got a conscience now. My conscience is you. Seriously.
I’ll remember what you said. I promise I’ll show you my true self one day. Why not now? Ah, the future me is going to be better. I’m already sure about that. Please forgive this bit of young man’s vanity, but don’t make me tell you my flaws. I’ll try to get rid of them on my own. I’m going to start improving myself. For you, I want to be the perfect man.
I’m afraid the weather in Hangzhou now isn’t very pleasant. I wish you a happy day in “paradise.”[ii] Please excuse my handwriting — which is as good as it gets.
20th May
Wang Xiaobo
Two
Li Yinhe, helloooo! I concocted a “poem” today. For you. It’s not exactly presentable as a gift — I’m starting to feel very self-conscious now.
Today I feel especially dreary
I think about you
When darkness dawns
Walking with you on bright stars
When light falls onto the leaves
Walking on dancing light-shadows
When words linger on my lips
When I’m with you：
My comrade in arms
I think of you
When I step over all the drift
and declare war on the eternal
You are the flag of my army
When I was with you, I might have come across as pretty standoffish. I have a sort of split personality. I might be aloof and flippant, but only on the outside. It’s rather embarrassing to admit this. As to what’s on the inside? Naivety and goofiness. Aha, I realize that you never showed me your poems, either. You might have a split personality too, who knows? A fantastic conversation in Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion gets to the crux of the matter:
HIGGINS Doolittle, either you’re an honest man or a rogue.
DOOLITTLE A little of both, Henry, like the rest of us: a little of both.
Of course you are none of either. I admit that I’m a little of both: remove the “rogue” part and I become a moderately kind “honest man”; remove the “honest man” part and I become a cynical rogue who hurts people with words. To you, I’ll be an honest man. Hope you have a good day.
21st
Wang Xiaobo
以下书信写于1978年李银河去南方开会期间，当时李银河在光明日报社当编辑，王小波在西城区某街道工厂当工人。
一
你好哇，李银河。你走了以后我每天都感到很闷，就像堂·吉诃德一样，每天想念托波索的达辛尼亚。请你千万不要以为我拿达辛尼亚来打什么比方。我要是开你的玩笑天理不容。我只是说我自己现在好像那一位害了相思病的愁容骑士。你记得塞万提斯是怎么描写那位老先生在黑山里吃苦的吧？那你就知道我现在有多么可笑了。
我现在已经养成了一种习惯，就是每三两天就要找你说几句不想对别人说的话。当然还有更多的话没有说出口来，但是只要我把它带到了你面前，我走开时自己就满意了，这些念头就不再折磨我了。这是很难理解的，是吧？把自己都把握不定的想法说给别人是折磨人，可是不说我又非常闷。
我想，我现在应该前进了。将来某一个时候我要来试试创造一点美好的东西。我要把所有的道路全试遍，直到你说“算了吧，王先生，你不成”为止。我自觉很有希望，因为认识了你，我太应该有一点长进了。
我发觉我是一个坏小子，你爸爸说的一点也不错。可是我现在不坏了，我有了良心。我的良心就是你。真的。
你劝我的话我记住了。我将来一定把我的本心拿给你看。为什么是将来呢？啊，将来的我比现在好，这一点我已经有了把握。你不要逼我把我的坏处告诉你。请你原谅了这一点男子汉的虚荣心吧。我会在暗地里把坏处去掉。我要自我完善起来。为了你我要成为完人。
现在杭州天气恐怕不是太宜人。我祝你在“天堂”里愉快。请原谅我的字实在不能写得再好了。
王小波 5月20日
二
你好哇，李银河。今天我诌了一首歪诗。我把它献给你。这样的歪诗实在拿不出手送人，我都有点不好意思了。
今天我感到非常烦闷
我想念你
我想起夜幕降临的时候
和你踏着星光走去
想起了灯光照着树叶的时候
踏着婆娑的灯影走去
想起了欲语又塞的时候
和你在一起
你是我的战友
因此我想念你
当我跨过沉沦的一切
向着永恒开战的时候
你是我的军旗
过去和你在一块儿的时候我很麻木。我有点双重人格，冷漠都是表面上的，嬉皮也是表面上的。承认了这个非常不好意思。内里呢，很幼稚和傻气。啊哈，我想起来你从来也不把你写的诗拿给我看。你也有双重人格呢。萧伯纳的剧本《匹克梅梁》里有一段精彩的对话把这个问题说得很清楚：
息金斯：杜特立尔，你是坏蛋还是傻瓜？
杜特立尔：两样都有点，老爷。但凡人都是两样有一点。
当然你是两样一点也没有。我承认我两样都有一点：除去坏蛋，就成了有一点善良的傻瓜；除去傻瓜，就成了愤世嫉俗、嘴皮子伤人的坏蛋。对你我当傻瓜好了。祝你这一天过得顺利。
王小波 21日
How Lonely is a Solitary Soul
孤独的灵魂多么寂寞啊
Hello, Yinhe![iii]
I received your letter.
I think I get you now. You have a soul that’s whole, a bright, inspiring model. Beside it, mine seems a little dingy.
Let me answer your question. You already know my love for you is a little selfish. Really, who could have such a jewel and not want to hold on to it forever? I’m no different. I know very well how amazing your love is (and how hard it is to find such a thing!). How could I bear to let you go?
That said, there’s an overarching belief of mine, it’s my secret, I’ve never told anyone about it: namely, one can’t know oneself easily, because our senses are all turned outward, in a way that lets us see others but not ourselves. We can have the most sensitive perceptions of others, but only fuzzy ones of ourselves. One can control one’s thoughts, but as for the sources of those thoughts — who can control them? Someone might be able to write fantastic novels or music, but not be able to tell you the reason why he can write them. No matter how great or humble a man is, when it comes to his deepest, most intricate “self” — he remains oblivious. This “self” stays silent in most people, and so do they themselves. They repeat the same lives on and on, living today just like the day before. In other people, though, the “self” foams and seethes, bringing ceaseless suffering to its owner. What would you say drove the blind Milton to labor on and on at his poetry? Nothing other than the “self.” You see, many people have made promises about it. Undershaft says he’d sworn, when he was still hungry, that nothing could stop him except a bullet. But what happened after he became a rich guy? His heart went quiet, and he stopped caring.[iv]
As for me, I hope my “self” will never be silent, whatever suffering it brings me. We’re all alive right now, but soon, when we look back, our “self” will only once have been living. I would rather keep it foaming and seething until my very last second. I would never wish for my heart to grow quiet, never to stop caring. I know — life and death; these are supposed to be each person’s own business. No one can save another’s soul, and in fact how fantastic it would be if everyone had a ceaseless soul! I really wish my soul could be, as you said, a source, an inexorable one (of course that’s impossible). I wish for my “self” to sizzle forever, to toss and turn, like a drop of maltose on charcoal.
I hope there will never be a day when I feel I have had enough wisdom to get by, enough to tell right from wrong.
You already know I hope everyone has their own wisdom; you also know I believe people can only save themselves. That’s why I never want to seize souls that don’t belong to me. I only hope that our souls can interflow, like a shared body doubled in size. Do you know how lonely a solitary soul is, how much weakness humans carry (weakness that makes us weep) — and how much strength, how much warmth a soul like yours can impart? Open the gate to your soul, and let me in!
Based on such beliefs, I want absolute freedom for you. I want your soul to soar. Of course, if you were to fall in love with someone else someday, wouldn’t that darken my soul further? Aside from being jealous, wouldn’t it also declare that I’m doomed? If that day ever came, how could you still ask me to be in high spirits? No one would sing “Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman”[v] after realizing he’s doomed, so, I mean, your request is kind of too much. Nonetheless, from my currently rational point of view, you’d better leave me alone when that day comes. If I change my mind then, that would just be me being bad. Just walk away — don’t give it another thought.
I ask for only one thing: if that day does come and I’m still who I am today, don’t turn your back on me, stay friends with me, and be tender with me. Try not to hurt me.
I don’t like being quiet and just “living a life”. Neither do I like being shameless and clinging on to other people. As for marriage and that sort of thing, I don’t even think about it. I need nothing deemed necessary by worldly standards. To “love” or be “indebted” or whatever, that all seems pretty trivial. I only want you to be with me. I only hope for us to be together, without suspicion, without having to worship each other: we’ll live, just that. You’ll talk to me as if you were talking to yourself. I’ll talk to you as if I were talking to myself. Talk — talk to me, will you?
Xiao Bo
Wednesday
And yes, about joining the Party, I’m afraid that I won’t. If I want to join, I’ll have to do some … stuff. Well, anyway, in our factory,[vi] Party members are either fifty-ish old women with unbound feet, or little girls who like to make a fuss over everything. Neither category will be easy for me to fit into, especially because, I’m afraid, it’s fundamentally impossible to change genders. Talking this way sounds frivolous, but what I’m saying is completely true. I’ll stop talking because if not I’ll want to tell you something else — so, until next time.
孤独的灵魂多么寂寞啊
银河，你好！
你的来信收到了。
我想我现在了解你了。你有一个很完美的灵魂，真像一个令人神往的锦标。对比之下我的灵魂显得有点黑暗。
我来回答你的问题吧。你已经知道我对你的爱有点自私。真的，哪一个人得到一颗明珠不希望它永远归己所有呢？我也是。我很知道你的爱情有多美好（这是人们很少能找到的啊！），我又怎能情愿失去它呢？
可是我有一个最高的准则，这也是我的秘密，我从来也不把它告诉人。就是，人是轻易不能知道自己的，因为人的感官全是向外的，比方说人能看见别人，却不能看见自己；人可以对别人有最细微的感觉，对自己就迟钝得多。自己的思想可以把握，可是产生自己思想的源泉谁能把握呢？有人可以写出极美好的小说和音乐，可是他自己何以能够写这些东西的直接原因却说不出来。人无论伟大还是卑贱，对于自己，就是最深微的“自己”却不十分了然。这个“自我”在很多人身上都沉默了。这些人也就沉默了，日复一日过着和昨日一样的生活。在另外一些人身上，它就沸腾不息，给它的主人带来无穷无尽的苦难。你说，是什么使双目失明的弥尔顿苦苦地写诗呢，还不是它。你看，好多人给它许下了诺言，安德谢夫说他是个穷鬼时下定了决心，除了一颗枪子儿什么也挡不住他。可是他成了阔佬以后呢？心安理得了。
至于我呢，我情愿它永远不沉默，就是它给我带来什么苦难都成。我们都活着，将来我们都活过。我情愿它沸腾到最后一秒钟为止，我永远不希望有一天我心安理得，觉得一切都平稳了。我知道，生和死，这是人们自己的事。谁也救不了别人的灵魂，要是人人都有个不休不止的灵魂才好呢。我真希望我的灵魂像你说的，是个源泉，永远汲取不干（当然这是不可能的事）。我希望我的“自我”永远“滋滋”地响，翻腾不休，就像火炭上的一滴糖。
我真不想有一天我自己觉得我有了足够的智慧，可以够用了，足够明辨是非了。
你知道我希望人人都有自己的智慧，你也知道了我以为大家的灵魂只有自己才能救得了。所以我永远不会想把别人的灵魂据为己有。我只希望我们的灵魂可以互通，像一个两倍大的共同体。你知道吗，孤独的灵魂多么寂寞啊，人又有多少弱点啊（这是使自己哭泣的弱点）。一个像你这样的灵魂可以给人多么大的助力，给人多少温暖啊！你把你灵魂的大门开开，放我进去吧！
本着这些信念，我很希望你绝对自由，我希望你的灵魂高飞。当然，你将来爱上别人，不就说明我的灵魂暗淡了吗？除了嫉妒，不是还宣告了我完蛋了吗？到了那一刻，你怎么能要求我兴高采烈呢。谁也不会完蛋了还高唱“大海航行靠舵手”的，所以你这要求过当了呢。不过，从我这时的理智看来，那时你还是离开我好。要是到那时我变了主意，那就是我变坏了，你就丢开我好啦。
我只有一个要求，要是到那时我还是我，你不要拒我千里，还和我做朋友，并且还要温存一点，不要成心伤害我。
我不喜欢安分过什么“日子”，也不喜欢死乞白赖地搅在一起。至于结婚不结婚之类的事情我都不爱去想。世俗所谓必不可少的东西我是一件也不要的。还有那个“爱”“欠情”之类，似乎无关紧要。只希望你和我好，互不猜忌，也互不称誉，安如平日，你和我说话像对自己说话一样，我和你说话也像对自己说话一样。说吧，和我好吗？
小波 星期三
对了，还有入党的问题。我恐怕入不了。要入就要做一些……事情。总之，在我们这个街道厂，党员不是五十几岁、解放脚的老大妈，就是咋咋呼呼的小女孩。我恐怕要做到哪一种都不容易，尤其改变性别恐怕根本办不到。这种说法虽近嬉皮，却千真万确。再说下去就想和你说别的了，于是——住笔。
I’ll light a firecracker that rocks all of Beijing
我就要放个震动北京城的大炮仗
Hello, Yinhe!
I’ve been busy dealing with my midterm exams and waiting for you to return. How have you been? I saw you in my dreams a few times.
Beijing is getting really cold. It must be warmer down there in the south, right? Sometimes I wish we were migratory birds, so I could fly south with you when winter comes, or to a tiny island in the Southern Pacific.
If I were a composer, I could write a funeral march with overflowing inspiration right now. I’m miserable all day every day.
If you come back though, I’ll be happy right away. I’ll light a firecracker that rocks all of Beijing.
I heard from our teacher in class today that Wuxi is the highest-income rural town in China. Hmph, you guys are in a good place indeed. I bet you must have seen a lot of quaint little houses and fancy, wood-carved beds by now. Something much less pleasing awaits you when you go to Henan later.
Sooner or later China will drown in its sea of a rural population. I know some young people nowadays want changes, but they’re being, in my opinion, a little reckless, like rats in a sinking ship. They want revolutions to save themselves and everyone else. But the captains want everyone to stay on that sinking ship like loyal sailors. Alas, loyalty can’t save you from drowning. People say that China’s ecosystem has all been disrupted. Eventually the day will come when there’s no fish in the pond, no firewood in the stove, and all the soil will be salinized, and all Chinese people will have to pile up on top of each other. [1] There must be a change indeed.
Yinhe, I guess all this will only happen after we die. I love you, Yinhe, let’s live a happy life together! Yinhe, come back soon.
我就要放个震动北京城的大炮仗
银河，你好！
我现在忙着应付期中考试和等你回来。你在外面过得好吗？我梦见过你几次了。
北京好冷啊，还是南方暖和吧？我有点羡慕候鸟的生活：到了冬天就和你一起飞到南方去，飞到南太平洋的小岛上去。
我要是个作曲家，我现在的心境作起“葬礼进行曲”来才叫才思不绝呢。我整天哭丧着脸。
你要是回来我就高兴了，马上我就要放个震动北京城的大炮仗。
今天上课我听老师说，无锡是全中国农村收入最高的地方。哼，你们可算找了个好地方呢。小楼和雕花大床看见了不少吧？我猜你们到河南就该看见些不妙的事情了。
终有一天中国会在农村人口的大海里沉下去。现在有些青年有点冲动，就像沉船上的耗子，渴望变革，也是为了救自己和救大家。头头们很怒，希望大家在一艘沉船上做忠于职守的水手。唉，忠于职守也得淹死。人家说中国的生态平衡已经被彻底打乱，总有一天水里没有鱼烧饭没有柴土地全部盐碱化地上人摞人。总得有个变革才好。
银河，我猜这一切要到我们死后才发生呢。银河，我爱你。我们来过快乐的生活吧！银河，快回来。
Arrogantly, Self-sufficiently In Love
目空一切的那种爱
Hello, Yinhe!
You’ll be back on Saturday, right? That is, only two days left. Ah, I’ve been waiting for that day for too long!
Your reply last time was really interesting. You spelled all the English words wrong — “Bye-bye,” “fool,” neither were correct — except “Party”. That’s pretty funny.
I’m drifting further and further away from the Party’s standards, Yinhe. Really, I’ve almost become a rebel. How do I put this? I’m more and more convinced that a mundane life, where everyone plays a role in this entire societal performance, will suck all the energy out of us. Every single thing we do is to fulfill a duty. Our personal values are already written out for us and carved in stone. Isn’t that pathetic — how little fun we can have being a person? No wonder some people would rather be a mad dog.
The most hideous thing of all is that one will then sink into a state of numbness. If everything you do has been done a million times by others, isn’t it nauseating? Let’s say you and I are a twenty-six-year-old man and woman, and by society’s standards, twenty-six-year-old men and women ought to do this and that. And so, we do this and that, leaving no stone unturned. What’s the point of being human then? It’s like licking a plate that a million people have already licked before. Disgusting to even think about.
These days, whenever I pick up my pen I want to write about people in love — arrogantly, self-sufficiently in love. This kind of love is anti-social. George Orwell was right, but his intuition was off. He thought it was just sexual drive. More often than not, “to love” is a basic sort of behavior of our fundamental selves, and we can only see people’s true colors when they love. All the rest they do is hollow, incapable of revealing anything. Perhaps it’s also because I’m too much of an imbecile to see it. Perhaps one day I’ll understand what human beings truly need. That is, what kind of life can we build for ourselves, away from that dusty societal order (the damned repetitions, the boring and pointless disruptions), away from any religious devotion. If a person could reach a state where there aren’t any constraints, no tinge of worry about anyone’s judgment — just look at how wild he could be! My guess is that he would experience a kind of ecstasy, but of course whether they could reach that state is a matter of talent, too. For love, people can do the most beautiful things, a million times better than what could be done by the loveless.
To think that you will be back soon — what wonderful news! I miss you so much it’s killing me now. Now the wait is finally over. I will be with you soon.
I haven’t been writing novels for a while, because of the exams. And I feel it’s pretty dangerous to write novels just now. We should be focusing on the “Dou, Pi, Gai”[vii] and purging remnants of capitalist elements from our society. If I keep writing and somehow else is creating my own thought system, wouldn’t I be imprisoned and shot? And I write poorly. I don’t have the necessary talent — I’ve regressed. Nobody in the entire world thought highly of my novels, except you.
Love,
Xiao Bo
I won’t write you letters anymore. I’ll tell you all about it when you come back.
目空一切的那种爱
银河，你好！
你星期六就要回来了吧？那么说，只差两天了。啊，我盼望了好久了！
你的信真好玩，你把所有的英文词都写错了。Byebye, fool，都不对，只有“党员”写对了，这件事儿真有趣。
银河，我离党的要求越来越远啦。真的，我简直成了个社会生活中的叛逆。怎么说呢？我越来越认为，平庸的生活、为社会扮演角色，把人都榨干了。我们做的每一件事都是尽义务，我们自己的价值标准也是被规定了的。做人的乐趣不是太可怜了吗？难怪有人情愿做一只疯狗呢。
最可憎的是人就此沉入一种麻木状态。既然你要做的一切都是别人做过一千万次的，那么这事还不令人作呕吗？比方说你我是二十六岁的男女，按照社会的需要二十六岁的男女应当如何如何，于是我们照此做去，一丝不苟。那么我们做人又有什么趣味？好像舔一只几千万人舔过的盘子，想想都令人作呕。
我现在一拿笔就想写人们的相爱——目空一切的那种相爱。可以说这样爱是反社会的。奥威尔说得不错，可是他的直觉有误，错到性欲上去了。总的来说，相爱是人的“本身”的行为，我们只能从相爱上看出人们的本色，其他的都沉入一片灰蒙蒙。也许是因为我太低能，所以看不到。也许有一天我会明白人需要什么，也就是撇开灰色的社会生活（倒霉的机械重复，乏味透顶的干巴巴的人的干涉），也撇开对于神圣的虔诚，人能给自己建立什么生活。如果人到了不受限制的情境，一点也不考虑人们怎么看自己，你看看他能有多疯吧。我猜人能做到欢乐之极，这也看人的才能大小。出于爱，人能干出透顶美好的事情，比木木痴痴的人胜过一万倍。
我一想到你要回来就可高兴啦，我想你想得要命。现在可该结束了，就要和你在一起了。
我好久不写小说了，要考试呢。再说，我觉得这样危险——应当努力搞好“斗批改”，反对资产阶级思想。再这样下去要成了体系了，还不该枪毙？写得又很坏，没有才能——能力退化。全世界除了你没有一个人说好。
爱你,
小波
不写信了，等你回来和你说。
[i] Wang calls himself “the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance” after Don Quixote on multiple occasions.
[ii] Likely referring to the idiom praising the heavenly beautiful scenery in Hangzhou and Suzhou: “There is Paradise above and Suzhou and Hangzhou below. (上有天堂，下有苏杭)”
[iii] Yinhe (银河) means “galaxy” in Chinese.
[iv] UNDERSHAFT “I was an east ender. I moralized and starved until one day I swore that I would be a fullfed free man at all costs—that nothing should stop me except a bullet.” (Major Barbara)
[v] Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman（大海航行靠舵手）is a Chinese revolutionary song that was commonly sung by the public during the Cultural Revolution in praise of Mao Zedong Thought.
[vi] Wang put “街道厂“ which most likely refers to, according to this article, 二龙路街道工厂（Er Long Street Factory) where Wang worked at during the Cultural Revolution. http://ny.zdline.cn/h5/article/detail.do?artId=37649 the name was omitted here due to a lack of precise record and to not disrupt the reading.
[vii] “斗Dou, 批Pi, 改Gai (To battle, to criticize, to change)” are the three main tasks of the Cultural Revolution proposed by Mao in 1966.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following persons for their incredible literary sensibility and generosity: Professor Peter Cole, Spencer Lee-Lenfield, Baylina Pu, Elizabeth Raab, Adrienne Zhang, Eunsoo Hyun, Forrest LaPrade, Shi Wen Yeo, Adin Feder, Will Sutherland, Daevan Mangalmurti, Anne Northrup, and Grace Blaxill. Without these brilliant souls, this translation would have been impossible.