Preface

In my youth, I was blessed with a multitude of dreams, most of which have now faded from my memory, and I harbor no regrets over their loss. Memories, while capable of bringing joy, can also lead to a sense of desolation, as the threads of our spirit remain tethered to the silent moments of the past. What significance does this hold? Yet, I am haunted by the fragments that refuse to fade, and these remnants have become the genesis of “Call to Arms.”

For more than four years, I was a frequent visitor—almost daily—to the counters of pawnshops and pharmacies. My age at the time escapes me, but it suffices to say that the pharmacy counter was at my height, while the pawnshop’s was twice as tall. From beyond the towering counter, I would hand over clothing or jewelry, receive money with disdain, and then proceed to the counter of my own height to purchase medicine for my ailing father. Upon returning home, I was immediately swept up in other tasks, for the renowned physician who prescribed the medication demanded peculiar ingredients: reed roots from winter, sugarcane frosted for three years, crickets in pairs, and the fruit of the flat wood tree… all were difficult to procure. Nevertheless, my father’s condition worsened with each passing day until he ultimately succumbed to his illness.

Has anyone ever experienced a descent from affluence to destitution? I believe that along this journey, one can truly see the true countenance of humanity. I was on my way to enroll in the K Academy in N, as if seeking a divergent path, an escape to a different realm, in search of a different kind of people. My mother, with no other options, provided me with eight yuan for the journey, leaving the decision to me; yet she wept, which was only natural, for at that time, pursuing an education and taking exams was the conventional route. To study foreign affairs was seen by society as a desperate act, akin to selling one’s soul to the devil, and was met with ridicule and ostracism. Moreover, she would not be able to see her son again. Despite these concerns, I proceeded to N and enrolled in the K Academy, where I discovered the existence of subjects such as physics, mathematics, geography, history, drawing, and physical education. Physiology was not taught, but we were exposed to woodblock editions of “New Treatise on the Human Body” and “Treatise on Chemical Hygiene.” I recall the previous doctor’s theories and prescriptions, and comparing them with my current knowledge, I gradually came to the realization that traditional Chinese medicine is, at best, an intentional or, at worst, an unintentional deception. This epiphany stirred within me a profound sympathy for the deceived patients and their families. Furthermore, from translated historical texts, I learned that the Japanese Restoration was largely initiated by Western medicine.

Armed with this naive understanding, I later found myself enrolled in a medical school in a rural area of Japan. My aspirations were lofty; I envisioned myself graduating and returning to alleviate the suffering of patients misled like my father, serving as a military physician during times of war, and simultaneously fostering a belief in reform among my countrymen. I am unaware of the current methods of teaching microbiology or the advancements that have been made since my time. In those days, we utilized films to illustrate the forms of microorganisms. Occasionally, when a lecture segment concluded before the class period ended, the instructor would screen scenic or current events footage to fill the remaining time. It was during the Russo-Japanese War, and naturally, there were more films related to the conflict. In one such session, I was startled to see many familiar faces of my fellow Chinese in the footage. One was bound in the center, surrounded by others, all physically robust yet exuding a numb expression. The narrator explained that the bound man was a military spy for Russia, about to be beheaded by the Japanese forces as a public spectacle, while the onlookers were there to witness this gruesome display.

Before the academic year concluded, I had already relocated to Tokyo, for after that incident, I felt that medicine was not the most pressing concern. A nation of ignorant and weak individuals, no matter how physically fit or robust, could only serve as inconsequential subjects and spectators in a public display, and the death of many was not a misfortune. Our foremost task, therefore, was to transform their spirit, and I believed that literature and the arts were the most effective means of doing so. Thus, I resolved to advocate for a literary and artistic movement. There were many students in Tokyo studying law, political science, chemistry, and even police and industrial studies, but none were engaged in the study of literature or the arts. However, in the midst of this indifference, I was fortunate to find a few like-minded individuals. After inviting a few more necessary participants and deliberating, we decided that our first step would be to publish a magazine, which we named “New Life,” inspired by the concept of “new life” and reflecting our somewhat nostalgic inclinations.

As the publication date for “New Life” drew near, several individuals who had initially committed to contributing text disappeared, followed by the withdrawal of financial support. Ultimately, only three of us remained, penniless. Having started against the current, we had no one to turn to when we failed, and even these three individuals were eventually driven apart by our respective fates, unable to discuss our once hopeful future dreams together. This marked the end of our “New Life” that never came to be.

The unprecedented sense of boredom I experienced was a novel feeling for me. Initially, I was unaware of its cause; later, I pondered that any opinion, if met with approval, propels one forward, and if met with opposition, incites one to fight. However, to cry out in the midst of the living, only to be met with silence—neither agreement nor disagreement—was akin to standing in an endless wasteland, with no direction to turn, a profound sorrow indeed. I thus identified this feeling as loneliness.

This loneliness grew day by day, like a venomous serpent coiling around my soul.

Despite my inexplicable sorrow, I did not harbor resentment, for this experience prompted self-reflection, allowing me to see myself clearly: I was not a hero capable of rallying a crowd with a single call to action.

However, my loneliness was unbearable and had to be dispelled, as it caused me great pain. I resorted to various methods to numb my soul, immersing myself among the people and retreating to ancient times. I also personally experienced or witnessed several instances of profound loneliness and sorrow, which I prefer not to dwell upon. I am content to let these memories, along with my own, be buried and forgotten. However, it seems that my attempts at numbing my soul have been somewhat successful, and I no longer possess the fervor of my youth.

In the S Society, there are three rooms, rumored to be haunted by the spirit of a woman who once hanged herself from a locust tree in the courtyard. The tree has since grown too tall to reach, and the rooms remain uninhabited. For many years, I have resided in these rooms, transcribing ancient steles. Few visitors come, and the steles themselves pose no questions or ideologies, yet my life has quietly slipped away, which is my sole desire. On summer evenings, when mosquitoes abound, I would sit under the locust tree with a cattail fan, gazing at the slivers of blue sky through the dense foliage, while the late-emerging locust silkworms would often fall coldly onto my neck.

Occasionally, an old friend named Jin Xinyi would come to visit. He would place his large leather portfolio on the dilapidated table, remove his long robe, and sit opposite me. He seemed to be nervous due to his fear of dogs, as if his heart was still pounding.

“What’s the point of transcribing these?” he asked one night, flipping through my copies of the ancient steles.

“No point at all.”

“Then, what’s the purpose of transcribing them?”

“No particular purpose.”

“I think you could write some articles…”

I understood his implication; they were in the process of establishing “New Youth,” but at that time, it seemed that not only was there a lack of support, but also a lack of opposition. I suspected they were feeling a sense of loneliness, but I replied:

“If there is an iron house without any windows, utterly impenetrable, with many people inside who are sound asleep, soon to be suffocated to death. Yet, they are not aware of the impending doom, and their transition from slumber to death is devoid of sorrow. Now, if you were to raise your voice and awaken a few of the more conscious individuals, only to have them endure the irreversible agony of their final moments, do you believe you would be doing them a service?”

“However, since a few have awoken, one cannot dismiss the possibility of dismantling the iron house.”

Indeed. While I hold my own convictions, the concept of hope cannot be dismissed, for it resides in the future and cannot be swayed by my own certainty of impossibility. Thus, I agreed to contribute articles, which led to the creation of my first piece, “A Madman’s Diary.” From that point on, I was unstoppable, and I began to write various novel-like articles to fulfill the requests of my friends, eventually amassing over a dozen.

In my own view, I no longer felt the urgent need to speak out as I once did, but perhaps I have not yet forgotten the loneliness and sorrow of that time, and so I occasionally find myself shouting out, if only to comfort the valiant souls who run through the desolation, encouraging them to forge ahead without fear. Whether my cries are brave or sorrowful, detestable or laughable, is of little concern to me; however, since they are indeed shouts, they must be obedient to the command. Consequently, I have often employed a more circuitous approach in my writing, adding a wreath to the grave of Yu Er in “Medicine” for no apparent reason, and in “Tomorrow,” I chose not to depict Dan Si’s sister-in-law fulfilling her dream of seeing her son, as the prevailing sentiment at the time was against negativity. As for myself, I have no desire to inflict the bitterness of my own loneliness upon the young dreamers of today, who are reminiscent of my own youth.

Given this perspective, the vast gap between my stories and the realm of art is self-evident. Yet, to this day, my work continues to be categorized under the umbrella of fiction and has even been afforded the opportunity to be compiled into a collection. Regardless of the circumstances, this cannot be considered anything less than fortuitous. Although this stroke of luck unsettles me, the notion that there may still be readers in this world, even temporarily, brings me a sense of joy.

Thus, I have decided to compile my short stories and have them published, and for the reasons mentioned earlier, I have chosen to title this collection “Call to Arms.”

Recorded by Lu Xun in Beijing on December 3, 1922.