开一挺机关枪

Thursday, Oct. 25, 2007 By SIMON ELEGANT

 

Six friends out on a Friday evening, the seafood plentiful, the conversation flowing. Maria Zhang--big hoop earrings, tight velvet jacket and a good deal of meticulously applied makeup--starts to describe an island that everyone is talking about off the east coast of Thailand. It has great diving, she says, and lots of Chinese, so you don't have to worry about language. Her friend Vicky Yang is hunched over a borrowed laptop, downloading an e-mail from a pesky client on her cell phone. An actuary at a consulting firm, Vicky needs to close a project tonight. While she phones a colleague, the dinner-table conversation moves on to snowboarding ("I must have fallen a hundred times"), the relative merits of various iPods ("Shuffle is no good") and the sudden onrush of credit cards in China. Silence Chen, an account executive with advertising heavyweight Ogilvy & Mather in Beijing, tells the group he recently received six different cards in the mail. "Each one has a credit limit of 10,000," he says, laughing. "So suddenly I'm 60,000 yuan richer!" The talk turns to China's online-shopping business before it is interrupted by the arrival of razor clams, chili squid and deep-fried grouper.

 

The one subject that doesn't come up--and almost never does when this tight-knit group of friends gets together--is politics. That sets them apart from previous generations of Chinese élites, whose lives were defined by the epic events that shaped China's past half-century: the Cultural Revolution, the opening to the West, the student protests in Tiananmen Square and their subsequent suppression. The conversation at Gang Ji Restaurant suggests today's twentysomethings are tuning all that out. "There's nothing we can do about politics," says Chen. "So there's no point in talking about it or getting involved."

 

There are roughly 200 million adults in China under age 30, a demographic cohort that serves as a bridge between the closed, xenophobic China of the Mao years and the globalized economic powerhouse that its becoming. China's twentysomethings are the drivers and chief beneficiaries of the country's current boom: according to a recent survey by Credit Suisse First Boston, the incomes of 20-to29-year-olds grew 34% in the past three years, by far the biggest increase of any age group. And because of their self-interested, apolitical pragmatism, they could turn out to be the salvation of the ruling Communist Party--so long as it keeps delivering the economic goods. Survey young, urban Chinese today, and you will find them drinking Starbucks, wearing Nikes and blogging obsessively. But you will detect little interest in demanding voting rights, let alone overthrowing the country's Communist rulers. "On their wish list," says Hong Huang, a publisher of several lifestyle magazines, "a Nintendo Wii comes way ahead of democracy."

 

The rise of China's Me generation has implications for U.S. foreign policy. Sinologists in the West have long predicted that economic growth would eventually bring democracy to China. As James Mann points out in his new book, The China Fantasy, the idea that China will evolve into a democracy as its middle class grows continues to underlie the U.S.'s China policy, providing the central rationale for maintaining close ties with what is, after all, an unapologetically authoritarian, regularly brutal regime. But China's Me generation could shatter such long-held assumptions. As the chief beneficiaries of China's economic success, young professionals have more and more tied up in preserving the status quo. The last thing they want is a populist politician winning over the country's hundreds of millions of have-nots on a rural-reform, stick-it-to-the-cities agenda.

 

All of which means democracy isn't likely to come to China anytime soon. And that poses challenges for Western policymakers as they try to engage China without condoning the Communist Party's record of political repression and its failure to improve the lives of the country's rural poor. China watchers say the Me generation's reluctance to agitate for reform is driven in part by an unwillingness to tarnish China's moment in the sun. "They are proud of what China has accomplished and very positive about the government," says P.T. Black, who conducts extensive marketing research for a Shanghai-based company called Jigsaw International. The political passivity of China's new élite makes sense while the good times roll. The question is what will happen to the Me generation--and to China--when they end.

 

For anyone who visited the workers' paradise when it was still the land of Mao suits and communes, trying to reconcile that China to the one that young élites live in today is disorienting. When I first visited China in 1981, I went to the People's Park in Shanghai with two traveling companions. Our obligatory Foreign Ministry "guide" ushered us through a special gate reserved for "foreign friends." A knot of young Chinese had gathered outside. As we passed, a few made loud comments about the unfairness of having parts of the People's Park reserved for foreigners. One of my companions, a Mandarin speaker, agreed volubly in Chinese. Immediately a group of young Chinese men and women surrounded us and peppered us with questions that mixed naiveté and aspiration: Are there still slaves in America? Where did you learn to speak Chinese? Do all American families really have three cars? Can you help me go to America?

 

That discussion took place a quarter-century ago, the span usually allotted to a single generation. The naive, wary Chinese I met that day could be the parents of the group gathered for the seafood feast in Beijing. But there is almost nothing about the appearance, attitudes, life experience, education or dreams for the future that those young people in the Shanghai People's Park share with the likes of Vicky and her friends.

 

The most obvious change is demographic. Because of China's one-child policy, instituted in 1978, this is the first generation in the world's history in which a majority are single children, a group whose solipsistic tendencies have been further encouraged by a growing obsession with consumerism, the Internet and video games. At the same time, today's twentysomethings are better educated and more worldly than their predecessors. Whereas the so-called Lost Generation that grew up in the Cultural Revolution often struggled to finish high school, today about a quarter of Chinese in their 20s have attended college. The country's opening to the West has allowed many more young Chinese to satisfy their curiosity about the world: some 37 million will travel overseas in 2007. In the next decade, there will be more Chinese tourists traveling the globe than the combined total of those originating in the U.S. and Europe. Rather than fueling restlessness among the Me generation, however, the ease of travel seems to provide more evidence that the benefits of globalization can be had without radical change.

 

There's another reason for the lack of political ferment: it's exhausting. Like anyone else, members of the Me generation are shaped by their experiences and those of their families. When their parents talk about the Great Leap Forward (a disastrous Mao campaign in the late 1950s that left 20 million to 30 million dead of starvation) and the subsequent chaos of the Cultural Revolution, they mostly tell horror stories that would put anyone off politics forever. That chapter in Chinese history, which officially ended with Mao's death in 1976, is ancient history to today's twentysomethings. They have known little but peace and an ever increasing economic boom. "We have so much bigger a desire for everything than [our parents]," says Maria, 27. "And the more we eat, the more we taste and see, the more we want."

 

One event that the Me generation does remember is the crackdown on student activists in Tiananmen Square in 1989. But to young Chinese like Maria and Vicky, the Tiananmen protests are less a source of inspiration than an admonishment. Were popular uprisings like Tiananmen allowed to continue, Vicky believes, they would have provoked a counterreaction by conservative forces and led to a return to fortress China: no more iPods, overseas shopping trips or snowboarding weekends. "I think that the students meant well," says Vicky, who was 11 at the time and has only vague memories of what happened. But the crackdown that ended the demonstrations "certainly was needed."

 

Vicky embodies the shift in the priorities of young Chinese. She's a purposeful 29-year-old who rarely smiles but loves nothing better than a party. She and her friends meet so regularly for dinner and at bars that she says she never eats at home anymore. As the pictures on her blog attest, they also throw regular theme parties to mark holidays like Halloween and Christmas and last year vacationed in Egypt. Encouraged by her new boyfriend Da Ning, a keen snowboarder, she has decided to take up the sport as well. On a recent afternoon, she visits a mall in south Beijing that specializes in pricey imported skiing gear. When asked about the wisdom of spending a small fortune on equipment for a sport she may never take to, she says, "I believe you have to be fully prepared and equipped before you decide to start a new hobby."

 

She chooses a gleaming new snowboard made by the Colorado company Never Summer, emblazoned with colorful, psychedelic paintings of butterflies. Along with gloves, goggles and other paraphernalia, the new gear will set her back about $700. She barely notices. "It's so beautiful," she says. "Even if I don't like skiing, think how nice it will look in the hallway of my apartment. Guests won't know that I don't use it." She smiles to signal she's joking. Later, over coffee at Starbucks, she explains her lack of interest in politics. "It's because our life is pretty good. I care about my rights when it comes to the quality of a waitress in a restaurant or a product I buy. But when it comes to democracy and all that, well ..." She shrugs expressively and takes a sip of her latte. "That doesn't play a role in my life."

 

People like Vicky and her friends represent the leading edge, the trailblazers for a huge mass of young, eagerly aspirant consumers. All over China, twentysomethings like these banter about blogging, travel and work-life balance. ("Work hard, play harder," says Vicky several times, repeating it in case she isn't heard.) If they can't afford to blow $700 on skiing gear, they want to be able to soon.

 

And so for China's communist leaders, placating the Me generation is seen as critical to ensuring the party's survival. By 2015 the number of Chinese under 30 is expected to swell 61%, to 500 million, equivalent to the entire population of the European Union. From issues of grave consequence to trivialities, the government has made clear that it will do whatever it takes to keep the swelling middle class happy. In Beijing, for example, newly prosperous residents are snapping up automobiles at a rate of nearly 1,000 a day. The number of vehicles on the capital's sclerotic roads has doubled in the past five years, to almost 3 million. (By comparison, there are about 2 million vehicles registered in New York City.) But despite a grim pollution problem (Beijing's air quality is among the world's worst) that could embarrass China during next summer's Olympic Games, the central government has made only token efforts to curb vehicle purchases. And that, in turn, has made it harder for governments in the developed world to make progress in getting Beijing to do more to fight climate change.

 

That's just one example of the long-term impact of the government's focus on the Me generation. In an article published in the official mouthpiece, People's Daily, in February, Prime Minister Wen Jiabao stressed that economic growth should take precedence over democratic reforms for the foreseeable future, a period that he appeared to indicate could stretch to 100 years. And yet for all its machinery of control, the party is vulnerable. Senior cadres from Wen on down have acknowledged in public that growing unrest in the provinces, as farmers clash with police over expropriated land or official corruption, could threaten the party's grip on power.

 

As a result, China's rulers face a dilemma: the very policies that cater to the urban middle class come at the expense of the rural poor. So far, the government is erring on the side of the rich. In mid-October, President Hu Jintao reiterated pledges to address problems plaguing the country's peasants, such as access to medical treatment and schooling, health insurance and the disparity between urban and rural incomes. Yet a relatively small portion of government spending is set aside to address the concerns of the peasantry, with the bulk of spending still concentrated on stoking the booming economy.

 

Even more telling was the passage of what was widely viewed as one of the most important pieces of legislation to be put forward in several decades of reform: the revised law on property ownership. Pushed through despite objections from old-line conservatives, the law for the first time gave equal weight to both state- and private-ownership rights. But a look at the fine print shows that the law protects only things dear to the rising middle class: real estate, cars, stock-market assets. Farmers, on the other hand, will still be unable to purchase their land and instead will be forced to lease plots from the government.

 

If left unchanged, such policies could exacerbate China's rich-poor divide and create conditions for tumultuous social upheaval. The test for China--as the Me generation grows bigger, richer and more powerful--will be whether it begins to push for the social and political reforms that are necessary to ensure the country's long-term prosperity and stability. How likely is that? Though they're not exactly clamoring for free elections, members of the new middle class have shown a willingness to stand up to authority when their interests are threatened. Last October police in Beijing attempted to enforce rules limiting each household to a single registered animal no taller than 14 in. (35 cm). The drive sparked a rare public demonstration by hundreds of well-heeled Chinese, mostly young dog owners. Within a month, Chinese newspapers reported that President Hu had intervened, ordering the Beijing authorities to back off. It was the first time most Beijingers could remember a public protest drawing a direct intervention by China's top leader.

 

It was hardly Tiananmen, but a small triumph for free expression nonetheless. And if the West hopes to see China become democratic as well as prosperous, it will have to find ways to encourage modest breakthroughs like these rather than expect sweeping change. At the Gang Ji Restaurant, where the dishes have been cleared and fresh fruit and more tea brought in, the mood is reflective. "We are lucky compared with our parents," says Maria, who works as a membership manager in one of the capital's most exclusive clubs. "My parents had nothing themselves. They lived for me." Da Ning, the snowboarder, who runs his own successful advertising company, agrees: "We are more self-centered. We live for ourselves, and that's good. We need to have the strength to contribute to the economy. That's our power. The power to contribute. That's how our generation is going to help the country." China's future will be defined by whether that generation realizes that democracy can help China too.

当读到这本的时候，突然意识到，Haruki其实比Kafka还要荒谬。我向来是不喜欢荒诞派的。所以我迷惑了，究竟喜欢的是Haruki，还是林少华？或者，其实各种译文之间的区别并不大，只是我还没有具备欣赏英语译文的能力，哪怕Philip和Jay都用极其plain的英语翻译Haruki。唯一能让我absorb的大概只有Stephen King？不过，对比Kafka on the Shore的中、英译文，会发现在一些英文版让人捉摸不透的地方，中文版同样不知所云。

 

总之，这是一个让我一时半会儿消化不了的故事。只能消化其中的句子，但是难以理解Haruki为何费尽心思写这么一个复杂而荒谬的故事，他究竟想通过这两条主线、这几个人物，告诉我们什么？也许他不过是要让这个故事，和故事里经常出现的一个词一样，成为一个labyrinth。

 

P113: It's like Goethe said: Everything's a metaphor.

 

P155: Closing your eyes isn't going to change anything. Nothing's going to disappear just because you can't see what's going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That's the kind of world we live in, Mr. Nakata.

 

P166: There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said, Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.

 

P303: I just wanted to be somewhere else, that's all. Anywhere but there.

 

P312: But beyond any of those details of the real, there are dreams. And everyone's living in them.

 

P328: Having an object that symbolizes freedom might make a person happier than actually getting the freedom it represents.

 

P336: He wasn't all that hungry, but since he couldn't think of anything else to do he decided to have dinner.

 

P339: Life's crappy, no matter how you cut it.

 

P352: Taking crazy things seriously is -- a serious waste of time.

 
“卡夫卡”的隐喻

去年十月，我应日本国际交流基金会的邀请来东京大学任一年Fellowship(特别研究员)。来时正值村上新作《海边的卡夫卡》面市不久，无论去大书城还是去小书店(日本书极多)，迎门最醒目位置无不摆有上下卷两本《海边的卡夫卡》，不由让我想起15年前留学大阪时所见上下卷《挪威的森林》热销的情景。我对朋友开玩笑说，如今惟有村上是日本经济的一个亮点，是无为而无不为的成功范例。其实“卡夫卡”在捷克语里边意思是“乌鸦”，而东京又满城乌鸦，不时叫着掠过头顶———天上乌鸦，地面“乌鸦”，颇有京城无处不乌鸦的味道。

 

说起来，乌鸦是一种蛮有趣的动物，一般分宽嘴和尖嘴两种，日本多为前者，我国北方常见的是后者。我国古代视乌鸦为带来幸福的瑞鸟，把它看成喜鹊的对立面则是后来的事。阿拉伯人称乌鸦为“预兆之父”，见其往右飞为吉，往左飞为凶。日本古来视之为灵鸟，以其叫声占卜吉凶。现在也受到保护，无人捕杀，尽管为其聒噪声所困扰。在这个意义上，可以说乌鸦是一种悖谬的绝妙象征。卡夫卡者，乌鸦也，我想这应该是《海边的卡夫卡》的第一层隐喻(metaphor)。

 

当然，主要还是第二层隐喻，即《海边的卡夫卡》隐约叠印出奥地利籍犹太血统作家弗兰茨·卡夫卡及其作品的面影。正如布拉格人习惯以“卡夫卡式”比喻生活的荒谬，卡夫卡的生活和他的作品确实是诸多悖谬的密集体：命运的偶然与必然、内省与冲动、不安与执著、懦弱与顽强、绝望与救赎。而《海边的卡夫卡》同样充满无数的悖谬和荒诞：因憎恶父亲(卡夫卡亦谴责父亲是“暴君”，几乎终生与父亲不和)离家出走而最后又返回父亲留下的居所；心理上向往男人而生理上偏偏是女人；最爱儿子而又把儿子抛弃的母亲；最爱母亲而又报复母亲的儿子；出口与入口、暴力与温情、昏迷与清醒、现实与梦幻、坚定与彷徨；猫讲人语、鱼自天降；识字者不看书，看书者不识字……而人的精神和心智便在这无比矛盾、离奇和复杂的过程中不断蜕变、伸张和成长。这也要求我们阅读时放弃对外部依据的追索，而彻底深入自己的内心以至潜意识王国，甚至需要懂一点所谓心灵魔术，才能跟随作者在这座迷宫里完成各种大幅度跳跃，从而逐渐逼近宇宙和生命之谜的核心。

 

总之，乌鸦、卡夫卡与《海边的卡夫卡》之间似乎有一条若有若无的游丝，循此可以窥见作品的深层结构，而那，未尝不是作者的灵魂结构。作者的灵魂不再依傍外界而直探意识的底层，在那里自由游弋。其中充满神秘、感悟、暗示、哲理、机警、教养，富有张力与力度而又不失细腻与舒缓，咄咄逼人而又不乏喜剧性温馨，笔锋冷峻而又含带激情。无数读者在网上诉说他们的感想、感动、感慨和许许多多的疑问———我上村上网站看过，一天有几百个伊妹儿进来。村上对伊妹儿回复相当认真，这次一气回了一千多个。

 

 

一些读者朋友以为我这个“村上专业户”跟村上很熟，其实我也是今年1月15日才见到他(1993年至1996年我曾在长崎执教3年，那时他几乎一直旅居美国)。村上这个人极其低调，一般不接受媒体采访，但我毕竟是译者而不是记者，况且村上本身也搞翻译即也是译者，也跑去见过原作者，自当理解译者的心情。

 

当我见到这位著名作家，总的感觉和我想像中的差不许多：灰白色牛仔裤，三色花格衬衫，里面一件黑T恤，挽着袖口，小男孩发型，再加上没发胖的中等个儿，的确一副“永远的男孩”形象(村上认为“男孩”与年龄无关，具备三个条件即可：1，穿运动鞋。2，每月去一次理发店而不是美容室。3，不一一自我辩解。并认为自己基本符合，尤其1、2两条)，就连当然已不年轻的脸上也带有几分小男孩见生人时的拘谨和羞涩。这种男孩气还表现在签名上。他在日文版《海边的卡夫卡》上写完名字后，盖了两个印章，一个是趴在草地上的小兔，一个是一对红蜻蜓。于是我想，难怪他的作品多少都带有孩子气和童话意味，不仅男主人公，还包括一些比喻。

 

村上把女助手介绍给我。因为是两个女孩，我自然好奇地多看了两眼，两人既没像《且听风吟》里的缺一支小手指，又不大像《寻羊冒险记》中耳朵漂亮得“摧枯拉朽”的耳模特。开句不太礼貌的玩笑吧，颇让我想起《一九七三的弹子球》中的208和209。我们隔桌坐下交谈。他问我路上如何，我开玩笑说东京的交通情况可就不如您的作品那么风趣了，气氛随之放松下来。交谈时，村上不大迎面注视对方，眼睛更多的时候向下看着桌面。声音不高，有节奏感，语调和用词都有些像小说中的主人公，同样一副若有所思的神情。笑容也不多，很难想像他会开怀大笑。给人的感觉，较之随和，更近乎自然。全然没有大作家派头，也不像“初次见面请多关照”式的一般日本人。他大约属于他所说的那种“心不化妆”的人——他说过最让人不舒服的交往对象就是“心化妆”的人——他的外表应该就是他的内心。

 

 

我们谈起翻译。我说翻译他的作品始终很愉快，因为感觉上心情上文笔上和他有息息相通之处，总之很对脾性。他说他也有同感，倘原作不合脾性就很累很痛苦。闲谈当中他显得兴致很高。一个小时后我以采访的形式集中问了几个问题。他回答得很有新意。关于《海边的卡夫卡》，因为他在中文版序言中谈得更全面，这里就不说了。此外几点简单归纳在下面的引号内。

 

(4)关于获诺贝尔文学奖的可能性。“最重要的是读者。获奖不获奖对于我实在太次要了。何况一旦获奖就会打乱自己的生活节奏和‘匿名性’，非常麻烦。再说诺贝尔文学奖那东西政治味道极浓，不怎么合我的心意。”

(5)关于小说中流露出的对中国(中国人)的好感和中国之行。“我是在神户长大的。神户华侨非常多，班上就有很多华侨子女，就是说从小我身上就有中国因素进来。短篇《去中国的小船》就是根据那时候的亲身体验写出来的。关于去中国，由于中国有那么多读者，去还是想去一次的。问题是去了就要接受采访和宴请什么的，而我不擅长在很多人面前讲话和出席正式活动，以致逃避至今，倒是很抱歉的。”

 

我起身告辞，他送我出门。走几步我回头看了他一眼。村上这个人没有堂堂的仪表，没有挺拔的身材，没有洒脱的举止，没有风趣的谈吐，衣着也十分随便(他从不穿西装)，即使走在中国的乡间小镇上也不会引起任何人的注意。但就是这样一个人却创造了一代文学神话；在人们为物质生活的光环所陶醉、所迷惑的时候，独自发掘心灵世界的宝藏；在大家步履匆匆急于向前赶路的时候，不声不响地拾起路旁遗弃的记忆，不时把我们的情思拉回某个夕阳满树的黄昏，某场灯光斜映的细雨，某片晨雾迷蒙的草地和树林……这样的人多了怕也麻烦，而若没有，无疑是一个群体的悲哀。

 

Pajamas have been the standard sleepwear in the west for generations. So much so that in American parlance the word "pajamas" has come to mean any clothes one sleeps in, not just the standard loose pants and button down shirt the word still refers to elsewhere in the English speaking world. From flannel to cotton, plaid to little pink hearts, the fashion possibilities of pajamas are endless. And those possibilities have begun to extend even past questions of cut and style and into questions of place. These days in the States pajama pants have left the bedroom and entered the world of student fashion. Particularly near major universities, it’s not unusual to see students trudging to class or around town in brightly colored pajamas. Chinese cities then, especially Shanghai, have either a very high concentration of fashion conscious university students, or something else is going on when people stroll through the streets in their pajamas.

 

The evolution of pajamas (or pyjama if you please) begins in 19th century India when British colonists borrowed the local manner of dress but changed the context: whereas originally pajama pants were daily wear for local Indian men, the British appropriated pajamas -- with added button down shirt -- as sleepwear. Pajamas quickly became universally popular throughout the western world, eventually extending to women’s wear as well as men’s.

 

There are a couple of theories floating around the Internet about why Shanghainese so love to wear their pajamas as daily wear: some say it’s too hot for anything else (3) and others have more complex theories – that because of Shanghai’s tight living quarters people expanded their idea of what constituted the home to include neighborhood sidewalks and streets, thus allowing them to wear pajamas "in the home" while in the street(2).

 

Perhaps this theory has some truth to it; perhaps Shanghainese people do see the entire neighborhood as "home" rather than just the actual buildings in which they live. But then again, this theory may be altogether too complex. If the British can borrow Indian dress but change how it’s worn to suit their own tastes, why can’t it simply be that the Chinese have done the same with Western dress?  Ordinary people wear pajamas while they’re out and about, plumbers wear full suits and dress shoes to bang away at the pipes and female Chinese tourists wear stylish cocktail dresses to the Temple of Heaven at two o’clock in the afternoon in the height of summer. And who are we pajamas-in-the-bedroom types to say nay?

 

Reference:
1) Answer.com

2) Chinadaily.com.cn

3) cbw.com