In the stillness of the night, my father often sat alone at his desk, writing. The ashtray beside him would be filled with cigarette butts, each one extinguished in haste. As the smoke curled upward, so did his gaze, deep in thought. This solemn yet meticulous demeanor was something I could never fully comprehend—until one day, I came across a small notebook he had once kept. Its faded cover bore the title of Xiangjiang Literature Journal.
The notebook, no larger than the span of a hand, was filled with familiar handwriting—hurried, passionate, almost urgent, as if each word had been captured in a fleeting moment of inspiration. Within those lines lay profound reflections and a range of emotions. My father’s notes revealed not only his pursuit of literary perfection but also his mission to engage with history and explore the complexities of human nature through his writing.
In one entry, he wrote: “Soldiers with no real power cancel each other out, desperately trying to expose a conspiracy.” These few words encapsulated his creative intent: to unveil the absurdities of history and restore the struggles of humanity, too often overlooked.
I was reminded of Peng Qi, the artillery commander in The General’s Chant. His decisiveness and resolve were admirable, yet his loneliness and despair in the face of political strife were equally undeniable. My father once wrote, “Why did the masses erupt so suddenly? This question requires deeper exploration.” Perhaps Peng Qi’s fate itself was an answer. Standing atop the storm, he saw everything clearly, yet he was ultimately consumed by the raging tide. Behind him, the mountains and turbulent waters became the most poignant imagery in my father’s writing.
The Original Title: The General’s Dream
The novel’s original title was The General’s Dream. My father once wrote, “What is a dream? At least dreams are good.”
Dreams symbolize hope and pursuit, but they also carry the weight of disillusionment and destruction. In my father’s vision, the dream served as a central metaphor—not only for the personal ideals and destinies of characters like Peng Qi and Chen Jingquan but also for the collective faith and disillusionment of an entire era. The Cultural Revolution, as a storm carried out in the name of ideals, ignited the passions of countless individuals but crushed many lives and beliefs in its wake.
On another level, the dream embodied both a reflection on the past and a yearning for the future. My father noted, “To write about the Cultural Revolution’s place in Chinese history is not to simply expose it or glorify it, but to create something complex.” He envisioned The General’s Dream as an exploration of the Cultural Revolution’s duality—where aspirations for fairness and reform clashed with the movement’s extreme descent into human and societal devastation. This duality imbued the “dream” with profound tension.
Later, upon the suggestion of his publisher and fellow writers in Hunan, the title was changed to The General’s Chant. Compared to Dream, Chant more clearly conveyed an air of historical reflection and poetic sorrow—a distant and profound sigh. Yet the essence of the dream persisted throughout the work.
The Trilogy Vision for The General’s Chant
In his notes within Xiangjiang Literature Journal, my father outlined a trilogy structure for The General’s Chant. This plan was not merely a multi-faceted observation of the Cultural Revolution but also a deeper inquiry into human nature and societal conflict.
Book One:Focusing on the early days of the Cultural Revolution, this volume depicts the gradual escalation of power struggles. Through the experiences of key figures like Peng Qi and Chen Jingquan, the story examines the movement’s impact on the military and grassroots officials. This book centers on the “eruption” of the Cultural Revolution—the masses’ swift mobilization and the clash between power and humanity. My father wrote, “Why did the masses erupt so suddenly? This question requires deeper exploration.” The actions of the rebel faction within the art troupe serve as an artistic manifestation of this inquiry.
Book Two:Shifting to the period surrounding the Lin Biao incident, this stage of the narrative was described by my father as “the disillusionment of hope.” He wrote, “The Lin Biao incident was a disillusionment of hope, but also a beginning.” This volume aimed to explore how the Lin Biao affair marked a turning point in power struggles, exposing corruption and division within the leadership. The characters, having experienced initial fervor and zeal, would gradually confront a crisis of faith and identity.
Book Three:Set in the final days leading up to the Tiananmen Incident, this volume would weave together the intertwined fates of various characters to portray the oppression and introspection at the movement’s conclusion. My father noted, “Every character suffers in the novel. Even Jiang, who seems unscathed, lives as though sitting atop a volcano, unable to find peace.” This phase would focus on the dissection of human nature—depicting those harmed by the movement, the silent observers, and the survivors of the political tides.
The third volume was also intended to address the struggles of farmers. “Farmers endured countless hardships, reminding us of the revolution’s original motives,” my father wrote. He was the son of farmers and deeply empathetic to their suffering. Through their stories, he hoped to rekindle reflection on the revolution’s initial pursuit of justice and equality—a pursuit that ultimately deepened the plight of the most vulnerable.
Though the trilogy offered a profound reflection on Chinese society and humanity, only the first book of The General’s Chant was completed. The plans for the subsequent volumes, meticulously recorded in his notes, remained unrealized.
The Fractures of History and the Complexities of Humanity
My father’s notes reveal his acknowledgment of the Cultural Revolution’s “necessity,” not as an endorsement but as an attempt to comprehend its origins. He wrote, “Portray both the necessity and the disasters of the Cultural Revolution.” It was an era riddled with fractures—deep-seated societal tensions, economic challenges, and mounting anxieties over power created the conditions for an inevitable storm. However, my father was acutely aware of the catastrophic consequences of this movement—where idealism spiraled into extremism, dragging humanity into the abyss.
In this turbulent context, humanity became fragile and volatile. In The General’s Chant, Chen Jingquan embodies this fragility. As both an observer and participant, he recognized the absurdity of the movement yet could not escape being swept into its current. This struggle was my father’s attempt to portray the raw authenticity of history.
The tragedy extended beyond individuals to collective disillusionment and societal rupture. “Why did the masses erupt so suddenly? This question requires deeper exploration,” my father noted. The fervor and naivety of the rebel faction and ordinary soldiers reflect this explosive release of social repression and ingrained ideologies. These figures were both victims and enablers. My father refrained from simplistic condemnation or glorification, instead revealing the duality of their passion and blindness—the anguish of their reality.
Through such a meticulous exploration of history, The General’s Chant transcends conventional historical fiction. It is not merely a record of the Cultural Revolution but a profound inquiry into the depths of human nature.
A Legacy of Literary Reflection
Today, as I revisit The General’s Chant, I see how his thoughts, etched in those pages, permeate the narrative. My father sought not to provide easy conclusions about the Cultural Revolution but to embed his questions and reflections within the story. Through Peng Qi’s solitude and Chen Jingquan’s inner turmoil, he captured the fractures of an era.
“Literature is not about solving problems but about raising questions,” my father once told me. His work embodies this ethos, provoking thought, evoking pain, and conveying the immense weight of history.
In the quiet hours of the night, I open that small notebook, and it feels as though my father’s gaze lingers on the pages. His handwriting may have faded, but his reflections remain vivid, growing sharper with time. He was not just my father but a writer who bore witness to history through his words. With The General’s Chant, he teaches us that engaging with history requires not only unveiling its truths but embracing its complexities with understanding and introspection.
Mo ZhuweiDecember 23, 2024, Melbourne
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