Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

Yan’s story is to be believed, Lan Jiefang’s madness was real, Ximen Jinlong’s was feigned. Feigning madness is like a red veil that masks shame; when worn, it effectively covers up all scandals. Once madness appears, what else is there to say? By then, the Ximen Village pig farm enjoyed a far-flung reputation. Taking advantage of the short break before the harvest began, the county administration organized another round of activities to observe and learn from the Ximen Village pig-raising experience. Residents from other counties would also be participating. At this critical moment in local history, Jinlong and Jiefang’s madness effectively cut off both of Hong Taiyue’s arms at the shoulder.
    A telephone call from the Commune Revolutionary Committee informed him that a delegation from the Military District Logistics Department, accompanied by local and county officials, was on its way to observe and study. So Hong Taiyue called together the best minds of the village to devise ways of dealing with the situation. In Mo Yan’s story, Hong suffered from fever blisters around the mouth and had eyes that were bloodshot day and night. He also wrote that you, Lan Jiefang, lay on your kang staring into space like a crocodile with severed nerves and frequently weeping, muddy tears falling like condensation from the rim of a pig-feed wok. Meanwhile, Jinlong sat in the next room, looking transfixed, like a chicken that’s barely survived poisoning. He looked up each time someone entered the room and giggled like an idiot.
    According to Mo Yan, as the leaders of the Ximen Village Production Brigade were bemoaning their anticipated fate, feeling utterly helpless, he entered the scene with a plan. But it would be a mistake to take him at his word, since his stories are filled with foggy details and speculation, and should be used for reference only.
    Mo Yan wrote that when he walked into the room where the meeting was being held, Huang Tong tried to bum-rush him back outside. But rather than leave, he jumped into the air and landed on the edge of the conference table in a seated position, his stumpy legs swinging back and forth like loofah gourds on a trellis. Panther Sun, who by then had been promoted to captain of the local militia and head of security, jumped to his feet and grabbed Mo Yan by the ear. Hong Taiyue waved Sun off.
    “Have you gone mad too, young man?” Hong mocked Mo Yan. “I wonder what kind of feng shui this village has to produce a great citizen like you.”
    “I am not crazy,” Mo Yan wrote in his infamous “Tales of Pig-Raising.” “My nerves are as thick and tough as gourd vines, which won’t break even when supporting a dozen gourds that swing back and forth in the wind. The rest of the world can go mad, and I’ll keep my sanity” He added humorously: “But your two esteemed members have lost their sanity, and I know that’s what’s got you all scratching your heads, like a bunch of monkeys trapped in a well.”
    “That’s exactly what has us concerned,” Mo Yan wrote. “Hong Taiyue said, ‘We’re worse off even than monkeys. We’re like a bunch of donkeys stuck in the mud. What can you do to help us, Mr. Mo Yan?’ “Mo Yan’s story continued:
    With his hands clasped in front of his chest, Hong Taiyue bowed like an enlightened lord showing respect to a smart man, though his intention was to ridicule me, to mock me. The best way to deal with ridicule and mockery is to feign ignorance and turn the so-called wit into a matter of playing a zither to an ox or singing to a pig. So I pointed a finger at the bulging pocket in the tunic Hong had worn for at least five winters and six summers without coming in contact with soap and water. “What?” Hong asked as he looked down at his pocket. “Cigarettes,” I said. “You’ve got a pack of cigarettes in your pocket. Amber brand.” In those days Amber cigarettes cost as much as the renowned Front Gates, thirty-nine cents a pack, and even a commune Party secretary smoked them sparingly. Thanks to me, Secretary Hong was forced to pass them around. “Don’t tell me you have X-ray vision, young fellow. Your talents are undervalued here in Ximen Village.” I smoked one of his cigarettes, just like a longtime smoker, blowing three smoke rings and linking them with a smoke pillar. “I know you all think I’m beneath contempt,” he said, “seeing me as no smarter than a dog fart. Well, I’m eighteen years old, an adult, and