Preface to the Torrent Trilogy

Several years ago, after I finished reading Leo Tolstoy’s Resurrection with tears in my eyes, I wrote on its title page, “Life itself is a tragedy”. However, that is not how things are, for life is not a tragedy, but a “struggle”. What do we live for? Or why do we live this life at all? The answer given by Romain Rolland is “to conquer life”. I think he is right. Ever since I was born, I have passed no more than twenty odd summers in this world, but this short period of time has not been spent for nothing at all. I have since seen a lot of things and come to know a lot of things. Though it is all darkness around me, I have never felt lonely, nor have I ever given up hope. Everywhere I go, I always see the torrent of life tumbling along to open up its way through a confused mass of mountains and rocks. This torrent is always surging ahead; it has never stopped for a single moment and will never stop. Nothing whatever can hold it up. While on its way, it sometimes throws clouds of spray into the air embodying love and hate, and happiness and sorrow. All that makes up the tumultuous torrent rushing with terrific force towards the only sea. No one knows for sure what that only sea is and when the torrent is going to empty into it. Like everybody else, I live in this world for the purpose of conquering life. I have also taken part in the “struggle”. I have my own love and hate, and happiness and sorrow. But I have never lost my faith—a faith in life. There is still some way to go before my life runs out, and I do not know what the future has in store for me. Nevertheless, I am not without some idea of what the future is like because the past, being no silent mute, will give me some hint. What I unfold here in the Trilogy before my readers is a picture of life of the past ten odd years. Of course it reflects only a small section of life, but enough, however, to afford a glimpse of the turbulent torrent of life with its love and hate, happiness and sorrow. I am no religious preacher, so I cannot point out a definite way out. Readers may here find a way out for themselves. Some say that there is at first no road at all and that a road is created simply by the treading of passers-by. Others say that there is at first already a road available before more and more people come to walk on it. I do not want to judge who are right or who are wrong. I am still young, I want to live on, I want to conquer life. I know the torrent of life will never stop. Let’s see where is it going to carry me!

Carpenter Lao Chen

Lots of things are apt to fade from memory as one’s life experiences accumulate. But some memories will withstand the wear and tear of time. Those houses and streets in my home town still remain engraved on my mind. I still can recall how every day on my way to school I would invariably walk past Carpenter Lao Chen’s shop. Carpenter Lao Chen was then only about forty years old, with a longish face like that of a donkey, a scar under his left eye, and a wispy moustache on his upper lip. People said he looked ugly, yet they praised him for his good temper.
He usually worked in his own shop. But from time to time he was employed by some
rich people he knew well to work at their residences, either as a hired hand on contract or
as an oddjobber. Whenever my family needed a carpenter, he was always the man we
wanted. That was how I got to know him. While he was in our home, I would come out to
watch him work in my spare time.
What attracted my attention, however, was not the man himself, but the tools he used,
such as the saw with toothed blade, the plane with two ear-like handles, the revolving drill
– things entirely strange to me. A piece of coarse wood, after being processed with the
hatchet, saw and plane, would become pieces of smooth and tidy wood, square or
rectangular in shape. After further treatment with the chisel, drill, etc., they would end up
as various kinds of exquisite articles, such as beautiful window lattices, ornamental
engravings on wooden partitions.
The work which Lao Chen and his apprentices did was a real eye-opener to me. I was
then studying at home under the tutorship of an old scholar of Qing Dynasty whom my
grandfather had engaged. The ild scholar knew nothing about teaching methods. All he did
was make me learn some Chinese characters and do some dull reading. Apart from that, he
had me cooped up in my study and sit bolt upright doing nothing while time was slipping
through my fingers. Because of this monotonous life, it was no wonder that I developed a
particular liking for Carpenter Lao Chen.
He was often bent over drawing something on a plank with a ruler and an ink marker.
And I would stand by and watch quietly and intently, my eyes riveted on him. After
making the line with the ink marker, he would pick up the saw or the chisel. Sometimes,
when something puzzled me, I would ask him questions out of curiosity, and he would
explain patiently everything in detail. He was much more agreeable than the old scholar.
My folks, however, showed no sign of disapproval when they found me so much
interested in Lao Chen’s work, but only teasingly called me an apprentice of his. Father
even said jokingly that he was going to apprentice me to Lao Chen. All that was the well-
meaning remarks of an affectionate father. Once I even believed that father had meant
what he said, and I even told Lao Chen that that was exactly what I had in mind.
“You want to learn carpentry?” said Lao Chen immediately with a smile. “No kidding!
A wealthy young master like you should study and grow up to be a government official!
Only poor people’s kids learn carpentry.”
Somewhat annoyed by the c=way he shrugged off my words as childish nonsense, I
argued heatedly, “Why not become a carpenter? What’s the good of being a government
official? It’s great fun to build houses and make furniture. If I’m a carpenter, I’ll climb
high up, very high up, to build a house for myself.”
“You may fall down if you climb high,” said he casually, the smile on his face fading
away.
“Fall down? You’re fooling me! I’ve never seen a carpenter fall down.”
Shooting a glance at me, he continued with undiminished patience.
“A carpenter often has to risk his own life in building a house. One careless slip, and
you fall down. You’ll be disabled for life, if not reduced to pulp.”
Thereupon, he bent his head and forcefully pushed his plane over a plank, the
shavings of which fell continuously onto the ground amidst the screeching sound. Then he added after a moment’s silence.
“That’s how my father died.”
I just could not bring myself to believe it. How could a man die like that? I had never
seen it happen, nor had I ever heard of it. If his father had died of an accident as a carpenter,
why should Lao Chen himself still be carpenter now? I just couldn’t figure it out.
“You’re fooling me. I don’t believe you! How come you’re still a carpenter? Can you
be unafraid of death?”
“Lots of guys are in this trade,” he went on gloomily. “it doesn’t follow that
everybody meets with such a violent death. Carpentry is my trade. What else could I rely
on to make a living?”
He looked up at me, some teardrops visible from the corners of his eyes. He was
crying!
I was at a loss when I saw him in tears, so I went away quietly.
Not long afterwards. My grandpa fell ill and died, and I was enrolled in a school, on
longer under the control of the old scholar. Lao Chen never came again to work in our
household after grandpa’s death. But every day on my way to school, I would pass his
small shop.
Sometimes he beckoned me from his shop. Sometimes he was absent, leaving a
couple of his apprentices there hammering nails into a stool or making some other articles.
At first, he could somehow scrape along. Soon street fighting broke out in the provincial
capital, lasting three days until the dispute between two warlords was settled through the
mediation of third party. In the course of fighting, soldiers looted Lao Chen’s shop until it
was empty of everything. After that, nevertheless, he still managed to keep his shop open
though business was bad. I often saw him working in his shop with a saddened look on his
face. Dejected as he was, he worked on as usual. I heard that he often went drinking at a
small wine shop in the evening.
Several months later, his shop closed down for good and I lost all trace of him. Some
said he had gone soldiering, others said he had gone to another county to seek a livelihood.
One day, however, I ran into him in the street. He was carrying a basket filled with some
carpenter’s tools.
“Lao Chen,” I yelled out in joy, “you’re still here in the provincial capital! People say
you’re joined up!”
“I’m good at noting else but carpentry! One should be content with one’s lot,” he
shook his head, wearing a faint smile with a touch of sorrow. There was not much change
in him except that he was thinner, his face darker and his clothes more dirty.
“Young master,” he continued smilingly,” “you should study hard. Let me build a
house for you come day when you’re a government official.”
I took hold of his sleeve, unable to utter a word. He said goodbye to me and went
away. He had told me that he was now working at the shop of former apprentice of his.
The apprentice was doing quiet well while Lao Chen was now his hired hand.
Thenceforth I never saw Lao Chen again. Much as I liked him, I soon forgot him. It
was not until the sedan-chair bearer of a rich household passed on me the news that I
remembered him again.
What news did the sedan-chair bearer tell me?
He told me: tighter with other carpenters, was building a mansion for a rich household
at the southern city gate. When it was nearing completion, it suddenly came to pass that he fell off building and died.
Why did Lao Chen, of all carpenters, die such a violent death like his father? All that
seems accidental, and also seems predestined. In short, an honest man has thus passed out
of existence.

The speech of President Reagan

I like to think that my own relationship with President Reagan and the efforts I made to try to
establish common ground between the United States and the Europeans helped to prevent
disagreements over the pipeline and other trading issues from poisoning western co-operation at
this critical juncture. Certainly, the summer of 1982 saw some useful international diplomacy.
Between 4 and 6 June the heads of government of the G7 countries met amid the splendid opulenceof Versailles.

President Mitterrand, who chaired the summit, had prepared a paper on the impact of new technology on employment. It quite often happened that the country in the chair at summit meetings felt that they must introduce some new initiatives even at the cost of extra government intervention and increased bureaucracy. This was no exception. For my part, I had no doubt about the attitude to take to technological innovation: it must be welcomed not resisted. There might be “new” technology but technological progress itself was nothing new, and over the years it had not destroyed jobs but created them. Our task was not to make grand plans for technological innovation but rather to see how public opinion could be influenced in order to embrace not recoil from it.Fortunately, therefore, President Mitterrand’s paper was kicked into touch in the form of a working group.

But my most vivid recollection of the proceedings at Versailles is of the impression made by President Reagan. At one point he spoke for twenty minutes or so without notes, outlining his economic vision. His quite but powerful words provided those who did not yet know him with some insight into the qualities which made him such a remarkable political leader. After he had finished, President Mitterrand acknowledged that no one would criticize President Reagan for being true to his beliefs. Given President Mitterrand’s socialist policies, that was almost a compliment.

This is my first time here

Hello everybody!