A Garden of One’s Own: A Collection of Modern Chinese Essays, 1919–1949

26. Wu Boxiao

qr Wu Boxiao Wu Boxiao (1906–1982) was born in Shangdong and entered Beijing Normal University in 1925. He made his fame as an essayist, but also pursued a tireless career in language education. =VLMZ \PM QVÆ]MVKM WN \PM 6M_ +]T\]ZM 5W^MUMV\ ?] PIL [\ZWVO communist inclinations, which led him to Yan’an in 1938. He joined the Chinese Communist Party in 1941 and participated in propaganda work with the army during the war. The experience of those years is partly ZMÆMK\MLQV¹+WV^MZ[I\QWV[I\6QOP\º As a writer with leftist leanings, Wu explores the experiences of \PM KWUUWV XMWXTM QV PQ[ _WZS 0M Q[ ILMX\ QV LMZQ^QVO [QOVQÅKIV\ meaning from ordinary events. His plain narration is imbued with XZWNW]VL [MV\QUMV\[ ¹+WV^MZ[I\QWV[ I\ 6QOP\º LM[KZQJM[ [M^MZIT SQVL[ of such conversations, some restful, some romantic, some secretive, some with one’s family and friends, some with strangers, and yet some with comrades-in-arms, in the process giving a cross-sectional view of Chinese society. 226 A Garden of One’s Own Conversations at Night (1934) I might well be a melancholy character. Otherwise, why would I have come to prefer the dark hours of the night? I like the overlapping shadows of people on the street at night, and I TWVM ÆQKSMZQVO TIUX QV I Y]QM\ PW][M 1 TQSM \PM XI[[QVO _QTL OMM[M screeching across the cool autumn sky. I like the knelling of bells deep in the night to which the traveler distressed at sleeping on a riverboat far from home listens so intently. I like the crashing of waves on the shore, and the nighttime echoes from the hills far and near. I like the crowing of roosters coming in waves, which must have roused Zu Di from his bed to practice his sword.1 I like the continuous barking of dogs in the dark, on back streets and in bleak alleys. I like the sound of a gunshot at midnight, the down-and-outers who stagger down the alleyways, the jazz that comes blaring from dance halls until daybreak. I like the brightly lit painted candles in the nuptial chamber, and seeing the abashed bride under their light. I like it when, deep into the night, there are still people in the hotel calling out to attendants to bring tea. I like to stretch languorously, drowsily open my mouth wide, and sneeze. Because I like the night, I like all the things that come with it. That’s right, I like the night. That’s why I also like talking deep into the night. The scorching part of the day is when people are busy tripping over themselves ordering others around or being ordered around themselves. While peasants toil in sweat and dirt with ploughs and hoes, J][QVM[[UMVÆQKS\PMJMIL[WN\PMIJIK][[XQ\\TMJ]JJTQVOI\\PMKWZVMZ[ of their mouths as they calculate each fraction of a cent and try to second-guess and trick each other. The hands and hearts of the workers PI^MJMKWUMUIKPQVM[1V\PM[KPWWTZWWU\PM\MIKPMZ[XWV\QÅKI\MVW\ caring whether they make sense or not. Students fool around, looking forward to a respite when the teachers go for a short nap. Amidst all of this bustling about, how could anyone really talk, even if they wanted to? If you want to talk, better to wait until evening. It’s the best time by far. On summer nights in the villages, no sooner have you put down your chopsticks from supper than you can see stars scattered all over the 1 Zu Di (266–321 AD), a general of the Eastern Jin, who subjected himself to a regimen of rising when the rooster crowed to hone his skills with the sword. Wu Boxiao 227 sky. There are many mosquitoes in the yard and it is a bit muggy, so you pick up the dogskin cushion and the water pipe for Grandpa and walk to the edge of the village to the threshing ground surrounded by willow trees. A crowd of people is already sitting on the ground there chatting. Some have wrapped their reed capes around them. Some sit on stools, others take off their shoes and sit on them like cushions, and still others spread grass mats on the...