The 64 grand street

Recently, I went to No. 64 Wangfu Street.

This is actually an old sign, but now it's no longer called that. It was the former site of the China Writers' Association and the All-China Federation of Literary Societies, known as the "Wenlian Building", and was also converted into the office of the Commercial Press many years ago. What I went to do, I do not remember. I only remember that I was driven by an inexplicable force, and I hunched up the steps of the first floor and a half, and gently pushed open the long-lost door. The moment the door opened, I almost felt dizzy. I peered fearfully, searching, hoping that it had better be different, that it was no longer some small auditorium. But it still seemed to be the same, the layout hadn't changed, the new owner hadn't even done the bare minimum of renovations, and a familiar old-fashioned aura came over me. The hall was empty, very empty, and I even felt very desolate. Suddenly, my ears rang with the sound of roars and growls, and then, something fell heavily on the floor with a loud thud. I quickly fled and jumped down the stairs, rushed out the door, straight to the busy street. The street was as calm as ever. The traffic and people were moving senselessly, like time without beginning or end. But this did not reduce my nervousness, my heart was still pounding.

What was going on? I was vaguely aware that the loud noise was a hallucination and came from a distant time and space, but I jumped up reflexively. I tried to organize my thoughts, and it took me a long time to calm down, remembering many past events associated with this auditorium, and the origin of the loud noise.

I was assigned here in 1965, when I was 22 years old. When I was still looking through the magazines in the school library, I was amazed at how many authoritative literary publications, such as "Literary Art Newspaper", "People's Literature", "Poetry Journal", "Script", "Drama Newspaper", "People's Music", "Qu Yi", "Folk Art", etc., all had their editorial offices marked with "No. 64 Wangfu Street "? There were only a few publications in those days, so what kind of a grand and mysterious place was it to bring together the best of so many? I imagine that the people who came and went there must have been very distinguished, and how many famous works had been issued from their hands. For a student in the northwest, studying Chinese and dreaming of being a writer, I really wanted to go there, but I couldn't reach it. However, as fate would have it, I never expected that my graduation assignment would be at 64 Wangfu Street.

In fact, I was not really assigned to work in this building, but to a small association under it, the China Photographic Society. At that time, as the home base of the China Writers' Association and the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles, not all the associations were together, like the Art Association and the Photographers' Association, which were outside, but not far away. On the day I checked in, I caught a glimpse of the building and felt a sense of awe as its steel and green body looked extraordinarily tall and sacred against the blue sky. A fat and tall middle-aged female comrade in the personnel office of the Federation looked at my application card and immediately said, "Yes, yes, the Photographic Society is looking for people these two days, so you can go there. I am a Chinese language student suddenly to engage in photography, naturally tight heart. I hurriedly mumbled, I did not study this ...... voice before the end, the female comrade will be stern, how can you disobey the organization's assignment na? At that time, the "organization" is an order, not to mention that I was too much like a country bumpkin that day. I felt that her tall body had a kind of pressure that people could not resist. My fate was decided in less than 10 minutes. Afterwards, I talked to a few college students who came in the same year, and realized that whoever was assigned there was a headache for the personnel department. The slicker ones will hold up the frame of their glasses, pretending to stutter and say, I am highly nearsighted, can not focus ah, either hooked head very mute, I am a study of oracle bones, so that people can do nothing, so the slide will pass. Unfortunately, I do not have such an IQ. How frustrated I was at that time. The good thing is that my sense of loss soon became meaningless. Within a year, the "Cultural Revolution" broke out, and everyone was involved in the endless struggle. What creation, art, all became evidence of sin, and those who engaged in this line of work were no longer graceful, but all suspicious, and all had to be pushed to the criticism seat, only the degree and the time was different.

In those days, the status of the small auditorium of the Literary Federation suddenly became prominent. It is said that it was once called the Literary Arts Club, and during the difficult times, when the political air was once relaxed, this place also used to open cafes, sing criticism, yell Sichuan opera, hold dances, and sing songs. But since 1965, two instructions have been issued, the wind is getting tighter and tighter, the small auditorium endless meetings, entertainment activities then gradually to extinction. I came here almost once or twice a week, either to listen to Zhou Yang's transmission or to listen to Lin Mohan's inspection. The speakers all had bad luck on their faces, and the listeners were apprehensive, as if they had a premonition of a big disaster coming, and were in a state of panic. Sure enough, in July and August 1966, the storm arose, like a wild ride, the Red Guard flood to every corner, invincible, the auditorium was naturally the first to lift the wave, completely turned into a big fighting arena. I don't believe it, but at that time, inside and outside the small auditorium, every day, a sea of people, shoulder to shoulder, large-character posters all over the place, much like today's temple fairs, expositions, commodity fairs, open the doors to meet the four sea tandem visitors. Large, medium and small-scale criticism sessions were constantly held, as if several shows were being staged at the same time in a temple fair. Bing Xin was being fought here because her alma mater was Beiman Girls' High School, a nearby Deng Shi Kou high school, and the "young generals" fought with extra vigor, catching her answering questions with the old word "newspaper house" and cursing her reaction. The dancer Sheng Jie, who was already shaved, was pushed and shoved and rolled down the stairs, injuring herself. The "little generals" certainly believe in the "revolution", but also to meet the curiosity of the side, usually only in the language textbooks to see the name, suddenly not only to see the person, and can be carried at any time to observe, criticism, is not a very exciting thing.

Years later, I still vividly remember that one day, a battalion of men and women dressed in green uniforms, with wide belts around their waists and red armbands, broke in and surrounded several "gangsters" to criticize them, ordering them to "declare themselves They were told to "declare themselves": their names, titles, origins, and crimes. One old dramatist, holding up a crime card, after reporting his capitalist origins, never paused, and then added loudly, "My wife is a poor peasant! .". At that time, no one expected him to be so "dishonest", and all froze. I think there was a subtext to the silence for a few seconds, which meant that since my wife was from a poor peasant background, you would be fighting me as a "poor peasant's husband". Unexpectedly, a female Red Guard immediately rebuked: "Bastard, who asked your wife!" I think this girl must be spoiled at home, usually no big and small, otherwise the reaction would not be so quick. Now that the old-timer has passed away, his instinctive self-defense in a panic created a cold humor that is still bitterly funny to think about. At that time, or a little later, a female comrade posted a small print defending her "gangster husband", using the logic of attacking the son with the son's spear, starting with the "red kid", saying all the most revolutionary words, making the rebels Although they were extremely annoyed, they could not find many strong words to refute them, but cursed their arrogance, or chanted "what can be tolerated is not tolerated" and so on. Years have passed, but I still admire her for being a woman who dared to stand up for herself when the black cloud was overhead. Sometimes, the weak is just as strong.

The list of the "cow devils and snake gods" here is indeed too spectacular: in addition to Zhou Yang, Lin Mohan, Liu Baiyu, etc., who can be brought up for criticism from time to time in outside units, like Tian Han, Yang Han-sheng, Guang Weiyan, Shao Tsuenlin, Guo Xiaochuan, He Jingzhi, Li Ji, Bing Xin, Zang Kejia, Chen Baichen, Zhang Tianyi, Yan Wenjing, Hou Jinjing, Wu Xiaobang, Lv Ji, Li Huanzhi, Wu Xiaobang and others. Lv Ji, Li Huanzhi, Feng Mu, Ge Luo, Han Beiping, Dai Bufan, Tu An, Tao Blunt, Zhang Lei, etc., are all people of this building. That is the same as being in prison, it is difficult to fly. After the end of each noisy day, they will have a moment to breathe, wash off the face full of dirt, but locked in the basement, how many of them can sleep peacefully?

I recall how I felt at that time. As a 22-year-old young man from the provinces who loved literature, I thought I was lucky to see so many people who had looked up to the literary world for a long time, but when I met them on such an unpleasant occasion and saw them all as prisoners, I had the feeling that precious porcelain had been broken in rows.

At that time, the sufferings were by no means limited to the so-called "gangsters", some of the most flawless people were considered to have a sudden fall of bad luck in one morning. I heard that he was the son of a martyr and was assigned to such a good unit, I really envied him and thought he was too happy. One day I watched him lock his bike and walk into the building, and if I could turn the corner, I would keep watching. At that time he was busy with the "rebellion", but unexpectedly someone secretly reported that he was engaged in "Mao's election" on the "eyebrow criticism". This is too appalling, in the words of the time, called the dog's courage. And the fact is, when he studied Mao's works, he loved to write some thoughts in the margins, and about a few sentences showed a questionable frame. The problem of his "reactionary annotations" was quickly reported to the Public Security Bureau, saying that he would be arrested immediately, but in fact, the Public Security Bureau did not really want to accept, because there were too many to arrest. So a female comrade guarded him. He excused himself to go to the toilet, went in and never came out again, and when he rushed in to take a look, his watch was resting on the windowsill and he was gone. At the same time, people who were eating lunch felt a big bird-like thing falling from the sky outside the window, making a loud noise. Everyone went out to see him struggling on the ground, still looking for his glasses. Seeing him rolling around in pain, some people said, "He deserved it, counter-revolutionary," while others advocated an emergency hospital. When he arrived at the hospital, no one dared to treat him, because he was a "suicide by fear" person. In a short time, he died. Life, as humble as a falling leaf, landed silently.

There is another scene that I shudder whenever I think about it. That was the criticism of Liu Zhiming, vice chairman of the Chinese Federation of Literary and Art Circles. Liu was already a dying old man, standing languidly, hanging his head and listening quietly to the criticism, when suddenly, a man rushed in from outside the venue, whose name and appearance I don't remember, but only saw him holding two things: a newspaper and a pair of shoes, as if he had mastered a major secret with great authority. He rushed straight to the microphone and announced in a loud voice: It has been discovered that Liu's latest and most important crime is that he dared to use the glorious image of our greatest leader to "wrap his shoes"! With these words, the room was almost in chaos, with slogans rising and falling, like a boiling pot. I saw this man without saying a word, rushed to Liu's front, swung the sole of the shoe, according to the head and face left and right, bang bang bang slapping sound for a long time. I can't bear to look, but can't help but listen. To this day I still hear the sound of this bang bang hit, as if it was yesterday. Sometimes I wonder: I wonder what that hitter is doing now, is he also like all the kindly old grandfather is syrupy grandchildren? Did I chant along with the slogans that day? I think I did, no, I definitely did.

The most memorable thing is the criticism of Tian Han, the pioneer of the Chinese left-wing literary movement and a great figure in the theater. The denouncer seemed to be someone close to Tian Han, and his cold, hoarse voice and sharp, knife-like gaze behind his lenses were enough to make the critic crumble into a pile of mud. He revealed one by one how Tian Han had poisoned the youth, how bitterly reactionary, like peeling the skin of a human being layer by layer, and the criticism was so thick that he could not finish reading it in a lifetime. The accusation is approaching its climax, the crowd is agitated, someone suddenly arms shouting "kneel down, tell him to kneel down!" Perhaps because of the suddenness of the problem, the first quiet field for a breath, and then the "kneel down" sound became a continuous piece. But Tian Han actually did not kneel, stalemate, someone to press his head, he still stiff neck not kneel. People are annoyed, roar up, sound shocked four walls. After that, the whole room was as silent as death, as if there was something to wait for. Only to hear a "thud", Tian Han finally automatically kneeled down! Kneeling very suddenly, the sound is very loud, like a building, or even a mountain-like collapse, really shocking. This sound shattered my young mind. This sound has been etched in my memory forever.

Yes, Tian Han knelt down, the man who encouraged us to "march against enemy fire" knelt down, the lyricist of the national anthem, the solemn song that has resounded in the skies of the motherland for half a century, knelt down, the man who took up a long chapter in modern literature. The lyricist of the national anthem, the solemn song that has resounded in the sky of our country for half a century, knelt down. To whom was he kneeling? Perhaps it was not until much later that we realized that the moment he knelt, time wedged deeper into the night, darkness overshadowed light, and ignorance overwhelmed civilization. Was Tian Han the only one who was humiliated? No, he was humiliated by the people who made him kneel down, and by our own history.

Now I, that is, more than fifty years old, gray hair creeping up on my temples, standing on the street, staring fixedly at the old door sign Wangfu Street No. 64, the rectangular brick building. It is really like this, how can people be embarrassed. It is said that when the building was newly built at the end of the 50's, it was still a magnificent building, although it was reduced in scale due to funding compression, but now, it has been faded by the storm steel green color, it looks gray, like a green silk in the eyes of the gray hair. It is mixed in today's cluster of high-rise buildings, no matter the tone or architectural style, all look so old. Yes, it has gone too far, it is old, in my vision, it gradually transformed into a lone boat trapped in the huge waves, constantly being thrown up and down. Now the Writers' Association and the Literary Federation have moved to a new building, so No. 64 Wangfu Street can only be anchored here as a historical relic. It is perhaps appropriate to consider it as a symbol of the Chinese literary scene at a particular time. It certainly has research value. Sooner or later, someone should reflect on its history and its merits and demerits in the history of Chinese literature and art.

However, the confusion in my heart is not completely solved, I do not want to ask which specific person or which specific thing, I want to ask the human heart, is the spiritual secret of people, including myself. I recall that the "little generals" were certainly abominable, and many of them went through a long spiritual ordeal later on, some of them only know how to repeatedly state the hardships of youth life, but some of them dare to reflect on this perverted life, but we intellectuals, cadres or certain people known as the literary family, it seems to be very taboo to mention these things again. But some of us intellectuals, cadres or literary artists seem to be very shy about talking about these things; and there are many things that I am afraid cannot be ended by "superstition" and "impulse". It is said that "everyone has a hidden heart", but why is it that yesterday they called each other "comrades" and hugged each other with great affection, but in the blink of an eye they turn blue and stare at each other with hostility and even bloodlust, without any sympathy? Why do people think of harming others while victimizing themselves? Why is such a cold "drama" being staged in the highest literary hall in China? Is this tendency to violence latent and present, or is it the result of a momentary frenzy? It is true that the fighter often sincerely believes that the person being fought is guilty, and the person being fought also often believes that he or she is indeed guilty, but after the rain has passed, should we assume that the fault is all in history, and that we have not made any mistakes? Is it absolutely sincere for those who beat people and reporters as well? Or is it out of fear, out of anger, out of profit, or even out of the dark psychology of tormenting others and chewing their pain for fun? I am not convinced that everyone knows the saying "half of man is an angel, half of the devil", and at this moment it has surfaced. I'm thinking, there is a fire, there is no big pile of dry wood underneath how can not burn a big fire.

As people passed by, I noticed that today's men and women are no longer the haggard, confused, frightened and unpredictable looks they were thirty years ago, but have replaced them with healthy, nervous, focused and impatient faces. People seem to be staring at a single, very real goal, and they are in a hurry. The era of "man against man" brutal aggression has subsided, and it will not be replaced by an era of "man against thing" frenzied possession, right?

A great nightmare ended with the end of that era, but did the spirit of that era also disappear forever? I read from foreign news or sporadic reports that there are not people who are nostalgic for the Cultural Revolution and long for a repeat of that inhuman way. I can see from the numerous embezzlers nowadays that they are no less crazy to loot money than they were to persecute others and seize power during the Cultural Revolution. I can't help but feel depressed: Is there really a gap between yesterday and today? Are the hearts of yesterday and the hearts of today really different? Can the progress of external civilization really replace the progress of internal culture? One day, I happened to read Camus's "The Plague", and there was something in it: Rieu listened to the loud cheers in the city, but pondered in his heart that what threatens joy is always there, but the cheerful crowd is not visible. The plague bacillus is immortal, it can sleep in furniture and clothes for decades, it can lurk patiently in rooms, kilns, suitcases, handkerchiefs and wait ......

I look back again at this old building at 64 Wangfu Street and think to myself that there are some things that should be forgotten and some things that cannot be forgotten, ever.