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Oracle Bones
Random Speculations on China’s Future

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Monday, Nov 1, 1999
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All conjecture on the future of China by even the most far-seeing of experts involves, of necessity, tremendous simplifications. It would appear that the human intellect is simply not equipped to deal with the unimaginable complexities of a nation that is not only the world’s largest in terms of population, but also the oldest, in terms of a continuous history. The fact that it is the world’s last major totalitarian power compounds the intellectual disorientation of those trying to understand that country — and divine the direction in which it is headed.

Having an understanding of China based in the main on random reading (in translation) of Chinese histories, novels and folk-tales, it would perhaps be best if I were to observe the injunction that Wittgenstein laid down near the end of Tractatus, that: “Of those things of which he cannot speak man must remain silent.” But this would probably not go down too well with the organisers of this conference. So, for someone with such crippling limitations, I feel it would put the least strain on my own credibility and also the credulity of the listener, if I were to restrict my discourse to a less exacting and unquantifiable area of Chinese studies where, if nothing else, empathy could perhaps prove more discerning than expertise.

This untidy, elusive realm, not too often featuring in discussions on the future of China is, for want of a better word, the psychological one. To even begin to probe this, especially as it relates to people on a collective level, as in a nation, I feel that it is imperative to understand the cultural values of that society. And this I feel is most accessible, even for the not-so-expert, through the national literature.

Isaiah Berlin observed that one of the most reliable criteria for grasping the intellectual and moral vitality of a nation was the quality of its literature. 2 This yardstick is particularly applicable to China, since it is a nation with the oldest continuous literary tradition in the world. I am probably influenced in the choice of this criteria by the fact that I am a writer of sorts, but I am convinced that an appreciation of contemporary Chinese literature, even in translation, and even by someone so ignorant of the subject as myself, would permit us a glimpse of the inner health of the nation. Furthermore, a comparison with the evolution of literature in the Soviet Union should provide some clues as to the divergence in the paths of these two nations in the last few decades, and maybe reveal something of their futures.

Seven years before the Chinese Communist Party took power, Mao Zedong had decided on the fate of writers in China with his “Talks at the Yanan Forum On Literature and Arts”, [2] in 1942. With the outbreak of the war with Japan in 1937, many leftist intellectuals and patriotic students left their universities and homes to join the Communists at their headquarters at Yanan. Among these were nationally famous writers such as Zhou Yang, Ding Ling and Xiao Jun, the young Manchu writer who was a protégé of Lu Xun. But soon these writers were discovering that all was not as Communist propaganda had represented at Yanan, and that many cadres were insensitive, corrupt and enjoyed a range of special privileges denied to the ranks.

Gradually, the intellectuals began to question these anomalies, especially in the pages of the Yanan paper, Liberation Daily, edited by Ding Ling, who stimulated such debate with criticism of her own on the lack of sexual equality in Yanan. Of these critics probably the most acerbic was Wang Shiwei, a translator and writer of fiction, who, in a two-part essay “Wild Lily”, denounced the selfishness of some leaders, the suppression of free speech, and the alienation of young people from the Party. [3] Initially these critics had been encouraged by Mao’s own “Rectification Campaign” where he had singled out for condemnation: bureaucratism, dogmatism, sectarianism, and a failure to cherish the masses. The Yanan intellectuals accepted this campaign at its face value and failed to see it as a political ploy to destroy “the right opportunist” tendency led by the CCP’s main Stalinist, Wang Ming, and to strengthen Mao’s own position as Party Leader. [4]

The writers in their own campaign of criticism received much support, especially from young people in Yanan. The Party leadership, surprised at the force of the criticisms and the unexpected support for the critics, decided to clamp down hard on the writers. The Party fired its opening guns with Mao’s famous “Talks On Arts and Letters”, [5] the main thesis of which was the need to subordinate art and literature to political requirements. These talks were the main turning-point in CCP cultural policy. All the writers were criticised, “struggled” and underwent thought reform. Most, including Ding Ling, disavowed their earlier views, and many gave up writing altogether. Only Wang Shiwei stuck to his guns. He was tried as a “Trotskyist” spy, and eventually executed in 1947.

In Russia, on the other hand, the magnificent flowering of Russian literature and poetry in the 1890s, far from being arrested by the Bolshevik revolution, continued to derive vitality and inspiration from the vision of a new socialist world. Despite the conservative tastes of the Bolshevik leadership, anything that could be represented as a “slap in the face” to bourgeois taste was approved and encouraged; and this opened the way to a great outpouring of excited manifestos and audacious, controversial, often highly gifted experiments in all the arts and in criticism, which in due course was to make a powerful impact on the West. [6]

Some of the most original among the poets whose works survived the revolution were Alexander Blok, Andrey Bely, Vyacheslav Ivanov, Valery Bryusov, and in the next generation Mayakovsky, Osip Mandel’shtam, Anna Akhmatova and Boris Pasternak; among painters Benois, Chagall, Kandinsky, Soutine, Bakst, Goncharova, Malevich, Tatlin, Lissitsky and Roerich (who not only painted those Martian landscape-like depictions of Shambala that annoy certain Tibetan aesthetes, but also created the sets for the first production of Stravinsky’s Firebird); novelists as Aleksey Tolstoy, Babel and Pil’nyak; and the pioneering movie-makers Pudovkin, Meyerhold, Vakhtangov, Tairov, and the incomparable Eisenstein.

Under Stalin this genuine movement of revolutionary creativity was crushed by the dead weight of state-controlled orthodoxy. Mayakovsky committed suicide, others were shot or imprisoned. [7] But eventually Stalin called an end to this terror, and with the advent of World War II and the German invasion, poets and writers, even those not approved of by the Party, and whose works had been unpublished or banned, began to receive public accolade. Their works were widely read, learnt by heart, quoted by soldiers, officers and even political commissars.

After the war and till the end of their lives, such poets as Pasternak and Anna Akhmatova remained heroic figures in the eyes of the Russian people, and vast audiences packed halls to hear them read their works. In the bleakness of the Russian political landscape all throughout these years it cannot be doubted that it was the power and integrity of such poets, writers and artists, and in later years of such writers as Solzhenitsyn, Leonid Borodin, Yury Dombrovsky, Andrei Bitov and others, that preserved the essential humanity and hope of the Russian people.

After the establishment of the People’s Republic of China all the leading figures of modern Chinese literature fell into almost total silence and sterility; [8] Lao She, Mao Dun and others producing only a few trite occasional pieces, or works of Communist propaganda. Ding Ling’s novel The Sun Rises Over the Sanggan River (Taiyang zhaozai Sangganhe shang) was a propaganda paean to the brutal Land Reform campaign and received the 1952 Stalin Prize for literature. In the wake of this success Ding Ling became a powerful literary functionary, even taking part in the anti-intellectual campaigns of the early 1950s, and having a hand in more purges of intellectuals than party norms required. [9] There has been some marginal writing of value from dissidents such as the Li-Yi-Zhe Manifesto, and the short stories of Chen Jo-hsi of the Cultural Revolution, [10] written after the writer was allowed to leave China. She wrote nothing while she lived in the PRC for seven years.

After the fall of the “Gang of Four”, manifestos and magazines, published unofficially but openly, called for a variety of political and social reforms. Short stories exposing the horrors of the recent past, and poems in praise of freedom and democracy featured in these publications, though most could not avoid the clichéd stridency and melodrama of official propaganda writing. The exception was the work in Today, edited by Bei Dao [11] and Mang Ke, though the magazine was proscribed in 1980.

The category of writing about the horrors of the Cultural Revolution known as “wound literature” (shang-hen wenxue) has continued, as it does not altogether contradict the official line. But even though this does seem to be an improvement on the past, I feel that in literary terms it is a deception. It is not only a literature of self-pity, but essentially serves as a prop to official dogma, which seeks to lay the blame for all of China’s past horrors solely on the Cultural Revolution. For the writer, such a literary form, consciously or unconsciously, limits examination of the past to what is convenient in terms getting along with authority or demonstrating some misguided sense of patriotism.

One question Chinese writers never seem to ask is who the victims of the Cultural Revolution really were, and whether these victims themselves had not in some way been involved in, or been responsible for, the sufferings and deaths of millions of people prior to the Cultural Revolution — or had at least been party to condoning it? Milan Kundera provides a partial answer to this question: “When I was a boy, I used to idealize the people who returned from political imprisonment. Then I discovered that most of the victims were former oppressors. The dialectics of the executioner and his victim are very complicated. To be a victim is often the best training for an executioner.”

A book that came out last year, Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China, though written in English, provides a case in point. Written by Jung Chang, a Chinese woman now living in Britain, it describes the horrors of the Cultural Revolution in which her parents were caught up as victims, especially her father, an important Communist official, who was hounded to insanity and eventual death. Though the description of this period is presented with conviction and accuracy, the earlier period of her father’s role in the guerrilla war against the Kuomintang is straight out of a Revolutionary opera like Shachiapang, replete with wicked landlords and e-ba “ferocious despots”.

Of course, a girl’s idealisation of her father is understandable, but some of her statements do not square with facts. She talks of the peasants’ ferocious desire for vengeance against landlords, and the efforts by Communist cadres like her father to restrain the people from killing all landlords; and how because of her father’s intercession the Party ordered that Land Reforms be conducted without undue violence.

The truth is, of course, somewhat different. The late Lazlo Ladany, editor of China News Analysis and “the most exact and consistently correct observer of the political and social scene in the PRC” [12] has clearly pointed out that the Party insisted on the Land Reforms being a “violent struggle”:

The procedure was the same everywhere. The first step was to arouse the masses against the landlords. It might have been thought that the peasants, if given a free hand, would seize the land, but this did not happen. The peasants obviously became suspicious when they saw that huge numbers of Party cadres and even soldiers had been sent to stir up anger against the landlords. In Guangdong province alone, 62,000 Party officials and soldiers were sent to the villages to mobilise the peasants. This was done on the instructions of the Party Central Committee’s South China Bureau. The peasants had to be disciplined into discontent and revolt against the landowners.

A report presented to the Military-Political Committee of Central-South described the difficulty of “arousing the masses”. Many peasants were reluctant to act; in some places they sympathised with the persecuted landowners. [13]

The Land Reform campaigns were not only extremely bloody and “an extremely violent struggle which reached every corner of the country” but “a lesson in terror” as well. Liu Binyan, the well-known dissident and former reporter of The People’s Daily, provides a firsthand account of the land reform in his autobiography, A Higher Kind of Truth; which confirms Ladany’s researched report. No official figures have ever been released of the victims but a pamphlet circulated internally thirty years later, in 1980, stated that the number of landlords and kulaks had fallen by 10.5 million. [14] This may or may not be indicative of the exact number of those killed during the land reform, but it gives us a substantial idea of the magnitude and ferocity of the campaign.

What if the daughter of a Nazi official had written a book extolling her father’s role in benevolent Nazi programmes to deal with the problems of socialists, gypsies and Jews? What if the happy tone of her account only changed to one of grief and outrage when the SS tortured and executed her father for, let us say, involvement in the army bomb plot against Hitler?

Nowhere, too, in all the recent and past literature that has come out of China has there been any sense of national shame or sense of responsibility for the crimes committed by the Chinese on neighbouring people like the Tibetans and Uighurs. “We did not know” is the common answer to this, “the Communists kept us ignorant”. But the Chinese in Taiwan and elsewhere in the free world knew what was happening in Tibet. Why the silence?

The only Chinese in the West to write about Tibet has been Han Suyin, and her book is far more demeaning and mendacious of the Tibetan people and issue than official Communist propaganda. [15] According to Han Suyin, Tibetans were so incredibly backward that Tibetan farmers used “wooden ploughs, not iron tipped, for iron was not only expensive but ‘malefic’. I noticed that the ploughs were now iron-tipped, and instead of pushing them (as was done before when the yaks pushed the plough forward with their lowered heads, surely a most inefficient way of making a furrow not more than four inches deep) the yaks were now pulling the plough. This was already innovation.”

Furthermore, when there was a modicum of freedom in the PRC for magazines and newspapers to publish original observations, what did Chinese writers come out with? I quote from a translation of Jigme Ngapo’s article that appeared in the Center Daily News in October 1987. [16] “I have read the story by Ma Jian (“Show the Coating on Your Tongue or All Void”) originally published in People’s Literature, and reproduced in a Hong Kong magazine. It is disgusting. The author uses rumours about Tibet and mixes them with elements of his imagination, producing a nauseating picture. The story is not the first of its kind to attack the Tibetan people.” The editor of this magazine was dismissed for publishing this story as well as for an editorial of his own. But according to Ngapo, this did not reflect a new sensitivity on the part of the authorities to give justice to the Tibetan people, but was based on its anti-bourgeois campaign which was at its peak around the time (February 1987). In this article Jigme Ngapo also comments on the attitudes of Chinese students, even those in universities in the United States, towards Tibetans and their aspirations. “They want independence? Give them a good lesson!”

I read Ma Jian’s story translated somewhat differently as “Stick Out Your Furry Tongue, or Fuck-all”, [17] and was not impressed. His ignorance of Tibetan religion and customs, about which he writes so blithely, makes Lobsang Rampa seem erudite and profound in comparison. Though Ma seems to regard himself as modern and artistic, his attitude to Tibet is no different from that of all other Chinese, past and present — condescending and exploitative. What is most striking about Ma Jian’s writing is its self-conscious artiness; as if he had gone about highlighting passages of his story with different coloured marker-pens, signifying “dadaism’, “surrealism”, “magical realism”, or whatever.

Another writer with similar avant-garde aspirations is the officially approved Tibetan author Zhaxi Dawa (Tashi Dawa), who claims he does not write in Tibetan as his message is too sophisticated for non-Chinese reading Tibetans. I have been told by Tibetans from Lhasa that he not only cannot read or write Tibetan, but cannot speak it either. In Tibet: Soul Tied to a Leather Buckle, [18] his ostentatiously magical-realist novella is essentially a vehicle for the recapitulation of age-old Chinese racist calumnies about Tibet: about people barely more civilised than beasts, clinging superstitiously to a dark and savage religion. It is no wonder that this essentially trite, posturing and derivative piece of writing should have become a great hit with the Chinese some years ago.

No work by any author from China — or, for that matter, a Chinese writer anywhere on the globe — has in any way dealt intelligently or sensitively with Tibet — with its people, religion, history and customs. On the whole they have been uniformly and offensively racist, often with an ill-concealed vein of hostility towards even the mildest of Tibetan aspirations for freedom.

In 1863, when Russia was choking the life out of Poland, the liberal socialist writer Alexander Herzen cried “I am ashamed to be Russian”. [19] Tolstoy, in a story, “What For?” (1906) gives a sympathetic presentation of Poles involved in the insurrection of 1830–31. [20] Though it must be pointed out that the ultra-nationalist Dostoyevsky, and also Pushkin could hardly be said to have been sympathetic to Polish aspirations.

Even a wretched Russian zek in a concentration camp in the nineteen fifties admitted to shame at Stalin’s oppression of other peoples. Such were the feelings of Alexander Solzhenitsyn when the tenth anniversary of the “liberation” of the Baltic States was celebrated at his prison camp:

I found the Estonians and Lithuanians particularly congenial. Although I was no better off than they were, they made me feel ashamed, as though I were the one who had put them inside. Unspoiled, hard-working, true to their word, unassuming — what had they done to be ground in the same mill as ourselves? They had harmed no one, lived a quiet, orderly life, and a more moral life than ours — and now they were to blame because we were hungry, because they lived cheek by jowl with us and stood in our path to the sea. [21]

We also know that Andrei Sakharov and other Russians suffered official reprisals when they openly protested the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. [22] We must also remember the demonstration by Moscow students against the Russian action in Hungary in 1956, which was sharply put down by Khrushchev.

On 18 September 1990, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, in the Komsomolskaya Pravda and the Literaturnaya Gazeta made a plea to the Russian people and leaders to give up the empire, to let the Baltic Republics, Armenia, Georgia, Moldavia, and the Central Asian Republics that so desired, secede. He was convinced that clinging to the empire prevented the regeneration of Russia itself and the upliftment of her people. “We have no need for the empire, for it destroys us,” Solzhenitsyn said. [23]

A Chinese, to whom I pointed this out, retorted that Solzhenitsyn had spoken less out of conviction than convenience, for by 1990 it was quite obvious that the Soviet Union was going to break up one way or the other. But a reading of Solzhenitsyn’s earlier works easily dispels any such doubts as to his integrity. His massive and monumental work on the Soviet concentration camp system, The Gulag Archipelago, was begun in 1958 and finished in the mid-sixties; though only published in 1973. In the book, he talks of meetings in the camps with Ukrainian nationalist prisoners many of whom had sided with Nazi Germany against Russia. He has this to say of their dreams:

Why are we so exasperated by Ukrainian nationalism… why does their desire to secede annoy us so much? Can’t we part with the Odessa beaches? Or the fruit of Circassia? For me this is a painful subject. Russia and the Ukraine are united in my blood, my heart, my thoughts. But from friendly contact with Ukrainians in the camps over a long period I have learned how sore they feel. Our generation cannot avoid paying for the mistakes of generations before it.

Nothing is easier than stamping your foot and shouting: “That’s mine!” It is immeasurably harder to proclaim: “You may live as you please”… We must prove our greatness as a nation not by the vastness of our territory, not by the number of peoples under our tutelage, but by the grandeur of our actions. And by the depth of our tilth in the lands that remain when those who do not wish to live with us are gone.

It is my conviction that Solzhenitsyn’s observations about the Soviet empire and the solutions he advocates are equally applicable to the Chinese empire. In China, more than anywhere else, the nexus of imperial triumph on the one hand and repression and cultural regression on the other has been a long and enduring one. In fact Qin Shihuang, founder of the first Chinese empire, also has the distinction of being the architect of the first totalitarian system of government in the history of humankind.

On the other hand, China’s feudal age, the Spring and Autumn Period (Chun Qiu), 770–476 b.c., and the Period of the Warring States (Zhan Guo), 475–221 b.c., when China was split into many disparate states, small duchies and kingdoms, was the most glorious age in the history of Chinese thought. It was a period when ethical and philosophical systems like Confucianism, Taoism and others arose which have exercised a lasting influence on the culture of the Far East, similar to the influence of classical Greece on European civilisation.

The Song dynasty is unique in Chinese history, not only for its conscious renunciation of imperialism, but also for the consistent humanity and efficiency of its rule. Song rule was based on general acquiescence and constitutional rule to an extent never achieved in Chinese history. It never made any attempt to extend its borders beyond the Great Wall, and was never threatened by internal rebellions of any importance. In the opinions of many, Chinese civilisation reached its apogee in these years, and in later centuries never recovered the level to which the Song had attained.

In modern cultural development, especially literature, China can look back to the 1920s and 1930s, certainly not as a period of imperial advancement — rather the reverse — but nevertheless as an era whose creative dynamism has not been equalled since. In 1924, the eminent German Sinologist Richard Wilhelm observed: “Chinese intellectual life today is at the forefront of our epoch. Its leading lights in the arts and sciences are working together in the most thorough manner on the universal problems of our age in the technical, scientific, philosophic and artistic spheres.” [24]

All this has been noted and discussed before by Sinologues such as Simon Leys who, in an article, asked the question: “What if, unhappily, there is some necessary link in China between political ineptitude and cultural flowering? The former always seems to be the atrocious price of the latter, and conversely the re-establishment of imperial order usually goes with a dramatic intellectual impoverishment.” [25]

Bertrand Russell, who visited China in the early 1920s, though accepting this intimate relationship between cultural and political questions in China, was in no doubt as to which was crucial, even for the development of the other: “For my part, I think the cultural questions are the most important, both for China and for mankind; if these could be solved, I would accept with more or less equanimity any political or economic system which ministered to that end.” [26]

Rabindranath Tagore, when he visited China in 1924, also had a message for the Chinese people. The major thrust of it was that China’s hope lay in man’s eagerness to seek freedom from “the servitude of the fetish of hugeness, the non-human”. [27] Though his lectures were well attended by the public he also drew taunts and protests. Chinese reacting to their own hurt racial pride found it “particularly distasteful in being preached to by an Indian, even if he had won the Nobel Prize”. [28] His message of love and humanity was jeered at, even by the writer Mao Dun, who suggested in an article “a much better slogan” to Tagore’s appeal. “Reply to our enemies’ machine guns with Chinese machine guns; answer their cannons with our cannons.” [29]

The maintenance of empires and colonies by force is not only culturally and spiritually demoralising to the tyrant, but potentially a source of considerable political upheaval within the oppressor state itself. According to a study of viceregal government in Sichuan under the Zhao brothers, Zhao Erfeng and Zhao Erxun, the province overextended itself by the imposition of direct Chinese rule into Eastern Tibet, and the invasion of Tibet proper in 1909, which among other factors like tax rises in the province caused the rebellion of September 1911 in Sichuan. This in turn caused the Wuchang Uprising, bringing about the downfall of the Manchu Empire and the formation of the Republic. Of course, the fall of the dynasty had other and more underlying causes, but the Sichuan revolution, caused in part by Chinese overextension in Tibet, was, in the words of the author of this study, “the fuse of the double ten revolution and part of its explosive force”. [30]

Empires, when maintained by force and intimidation, without even partial consent of the subject peoples — which wasn’t always the case in such empires as the Roman or the British — can, I am convinced, only lead to the brutalisation and degeneration of the ruling nation itself. Whatever apparatus of repression one devises to control one’s colonies: informers, the secret police, thought control, a brutal army, can also be easily turned against one’s own people. Political violence is a two-edged sword.

In Britain, the democratic rights of the people have considerably eroded over the past years by the insistence of the Conservative government in dealing with the question of Northern Ireland in a harsh and undemocratic manner. The long-standing reputation of the British legal system and the reputation of its police force have been extensively damaged over the past couple of decades by its overreaction to the threat of the IRA. So, too, in India with the violence in the Punjab and Kashmir. Now, if problems of this magnitude affect mature democracies when dealing with separatist movements, how can democracy possibly begin to take root in China, when even the fledgling Chinese democracy movements-in-exile are not only unwilling to give up a square inch of the empire, but are even demanding more territory — Taiwan, the Spratleys et al. And of course, the Chinese empire can only be maintained by employing the entire apparatus of repression and control; for without it, Tibetans, Uighurs and others would not hesitate to rise up violently for their freedom.

I think those Chinese who desire democracy and peace for their country should take their lead from General Charles de Gaulle’s reversal of policy towards French colonies in North Africa. Emotionally, de Gaulle was committed to the greatness of France, but he was a realist enough to see that not only were France’s military efforts to hold on to its colonies becoming an economic drain on France, but that the brutality involved was demoralising an army that he loved, and promoting a very dangerous neo-fascist movement that threatened French democracy. [31] Against tremendous opposition, he decisively divested France of Algeria and other colonies. That decision brought about ruin, suffering, and dislocation to many thousands of French colons who had settled for generations in Algeria. De Gaulle’s decision also brought about considerable danger to his own life and virtual civil war in France itself; but history has shown that the General was right.

It is now vital for intelligent and right-thinking Chinese to put aside misplaced ideas of face and patriotism, and seriously consider the liability of empire, not only for the cultural and spiritual regeneration of the Chinese people but for the birth of democracy in China as well. It is not enough for the Chinese to reluctantly acquiesce to Tibetan demands for independence. They must actively participate in the dismemberment of the Chinese empire and the unshackling of subject nations, before their own individual freedoms can be truly realised.

Tibetan Review, November 1999

* * *

Reference notes

1. Based on a paper presented at the Conference on Sino-Tibetan Relations, 5 – 6 October 1992, at Washington DC.

2. Isaiah Berlin, 1979, “The Hedgehog and the Fox”. In Russian Thinkers, London: Penguin Books.

2. Mao Zedong, 1985, Selected Works Vol. III Beijing: People’s Publishing House.

3. Gregor Benton, 1982, “Writers and the Party: The Ordeal of Wang Shiwei, Yanan 1942” In Wild Lilies, Poisonous Weeds, edited by Gregor Benton. London: Pluto Press.

4. Merle Goldman, 1967, Literary Dissent in Communist China, Cambridge, Mass.

5. Mao’s talk was presented as his original doctrine but, according to Merle Goldman, much of it could have been translated from the speeches of the Soviet literary czar, Andrei Zhdanov.

6. Isaiah Berlin, 1982, “Meetings with Russian Writers”. In Personal Impressions, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

7. For the best account of the life of the intelligentsia during this period see Nadezhda Mandelstam’s memoirs. Hope Against Hope and Hope Abandoned, London: Collins Harvill.

8. For a quick sampling of writing in the PRC during this period (accompanied by a very naive but sympathetic analysis) see: Kai-Yu Hsu, 1976, The Chinese Literary Scene, London Penguin Books.

9. Jonathan Mirsky, 26 October 1989, “Stories From the Ice Age”, The New York Review of Books.

10. Chen Jo-hsi, 1979, The Execution of Mayor Yin and Other Stories from the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

11. Bei Dao, 1989, Waves, Translated by Bonnie MacDougall and Susette Cooke. London: Sceptre.

12. Jurgen Domes, in a preface to Laszlo Ladany’s Law and Legality in China, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu, 1992.

13. Laszlo Ladany, The Communist Party of China and Marxism 1921 – 1985. A Self Portrait, 1988, Hoover Institution Press, California.

14. Kan-pu hsueh-hsi ts’an-k’ao (Cadres Study Material), People’s Broadcasting House, no. 1. 1980, (for internal circulation only). From Law and Legality in China, by Laszlo Ladany, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu. 1992.

15. Han Suyin, 1979, Lhasa, The Open City. London: Triad Panther Books.

16. Translated and reprinted in Lungta, no. 6. Geneva.

17. 1988, Geremie Barme & John Minford, Seeds of Fire; Chinese Voices of Conscience, Hill and Wang, New York.

18. ibid.

19. Alexander I. Solzhenitsyn, 1979, The Gulag Archipelago. Translated by Harry Willetts. New York: Perennial Library.

20. Ronald Hingley, 1967, Russian Writers and Society, 1825 – 1904, World Universal Library, McGraw Hill, New York.

21. ibid.

22. George Bailey, 1989, The Making of Andrei Sakharov. London: Allen Lane the Penguin Press.

23. Alexander Solzhenitsyn, 1991, Rebuilding Russia. translated by Alexis Klimoff. London: Harvill.

24. Richard Wilhelm, 1924, Aus Zeit und Leben: Abschied von China, Beijinger Abende.

25. Simon Leys, 1979, Broken Images. New York: Saint Martin’s Press

26. Bertrand Russell, 1922, The Problem of China, London.

27. 1981 Jonathan D. Spence, The Gate of Heavenly Peace ; The Chinese and Their Revolution 1895 – 1980, Viking, USA.

28. ibid.

29. ibid.

30. S. A. M. Adshead, 1984, Province and Politics in late Imperial China. Viceregal government in Szechwan, 1898 – 1911. Scandinavian Institute of Asian Studies Monograph Series. London and Malmo: Curzon Press.

31. Philip M. Williams and Martin Harrison, 1973, Politics and Society in de Gaulle’s Republic. New York: Doubleday Anchor.

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