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Orange Crush
Orange Crush
The execution of Theo Van Gogh
By BRENDAN BERNHARD
The basic story of Ian Burumas Murder in Amsterdam: The Death of Theo Van Gogh and the Limits of Tolerance is fairly well-known. In 2004, Van Gogh, a heavy-drinking, chain-smoking Dutch filmmaker, television personality and all-purpose provocateur imagine a cross between Christopher Hitchens and Michael Moore teamed up with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a beautiful Somalian immigrant and Muslim apostate who originally came to Holland fleeing an arranged marriage, to make a short film titled Submission about the mistreatment of Muslim women at the hands of tyrannical husbands and, ultimately, Islam itself. The 10-minute film was shown once on Dutch television, and caused outrage, particularly because words from the Koran were projected on the lightly veiled flesh of naked women. On November 2, 2004, Mohammed Bouyeri, a disaffected 26-year-old Dutch-Moroccan who got off on videos of infidels being slaughtered, took his carefully plotted revenge. Ambushing the film director on an Amsterdam street, he shot him, then cut his throat, practically beheading him. Finally, he attached a very long, handwritten letter to his chest with the aid of a firmly planted butchers knife. Van Gogh died, Bouyeri was arrested, and Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who wrote the films script, went into hiding.
The effect of this sensationally grisly murder was enhanced by the fact that Van Gogh was the great-grandson of Vincent Van Goghs brother, to whom the celebrated letters of the film Dear Theo were written. It would be difficult, in other words, to find a more purely Dutch figure, at least in terms of lineage, to assassinate in the name of Islam. As for Hirsi Ali, she was surely as close to the perfect immigrant as Holland could hope for. She learned the language, studied the countrys history and respected its laws. Once a radical Muslim herself, she made a complete about-turn after September 11, disavowing Allah and embracing atheism. She became a member of the Dutch parliament, allying herself with what were seen in bien-pensant circles as reactionary, anti-immigration forces. But she knew the dangers that Islam posed to Europe and was determined to wake up its comatose political elites. Most of her fellow immigrants, burrowed deep in victim culture, hated her with a passion, as did many leftists. Buruma quotes DHC, a Hague-based hip-hop band: Fuck Hirsi Ali Somali/Just two months in Holland and already so knowing/Cancer whore, shit stain, Ill smash your face. The three Moroccan rappers promised to cut [her] up in two and crafted a refrain celebrating the ritual genital circumcision shed suffered as a child.
Readers of Murder in Amsterdam are likely to close the book with a heavy heart. One reason is that the problem it addresses, the emergence of militant Islam as a divisive political/religious force in the West, is not going to go away soon. Another is that, though full of learning and skilled if tepid reporting, Burumas book often feels muddle, ungenerous and confusing. There is plenty of scholarship on display, but no compelling point of view.
There is, however, an off-putting strain of snobbery. Buruma, an Asia specialist and the author of Inventing Japan, Anglomania and, most recently, Occidentalism: The West in the Eyes of Its Enemies, grew up in Holland but left it as a young man in the 1970s. Now a New Yorker, he clearly feels he’s gone on to bigger and better things. He rarely misses a chance to take a swipe at some aspect of Dutch life, whether it’s the “dank and gray” area of the Hague he was raised in or the “arrogance” of the great national soccer teams of the 1970s and ’80s.
Van Gogh’s murder followed the assassination two years earlier of Pim Fortuyn, Holland’s flamboyantly gay, and very popular, anti-immigration politician who had also railed against the Islamicization of the Netherlands. Fortuyn was killed not by a Muslim, but by a white, left-wing vegan “activist,” who didn’t like the fact that the flashy politician wore fur collars and criticized immigrants. “The sobering truth,” wrote Rod Dreher in National Review shortly after Fortuyn’s death, “is that Europe — democratic, gun-controlling Europe — is a place where questioning the immigration status quo will not only get you branded a fascist by the news media, it will get you shot dead.”
You won’t find that kind of straightforward statement in Buruma’s book, even though Fortuyn — or “the divine baldy,” as Van Gogh called him — is given a chapter all to himself. Though both Van Gogh and Fortuyn are dead, and Hirsi Ali is never without a bodyguard, Buruma is pretty severe with all three. He calls Fortuyn a “populist,” a “reactionary” and a “social climber” who, though not a racist like Austria’s Jörg Haider or France’s Jean-Marie Le Pen, “to a confused people, afraid of being swamped by immigrants . . . promised a way back to simpler times . . . when everyone was white, and upstanding Dutchmen were in control of the nation’s destiny. He was a peddler of nostalgia.”
But what exactly is Buruma peddling? He wonders how it was possible for a politician like Fortuyn — “a gay man who talked openly of sexual adventures in bathhouses and ‘backrooms’ ” — to become “so popular in a country known for its Calvinist restraint,” when he has already explained that the Netherlands ditched all that Calvinist stuff back in the 1970s, going on to become the world’s most progressive country in terms of personal and sexual freedom. (Red-light district, anyone?) He dutifully notes that Amsterdam is likely to be a majority-Muslim city in nine years’ time, but unlike the voters Fortuyn appealed to, he is not “confused,” let alone worried, by this. He writes, rather, like a man who is above such “petit-bourgeois” concerns, as they were recently termed in The New Yorker. And while his criticisms of Fortuyn, Van Gogh and Hirsi Ali are occasionally interspersed with praise, the latter is usually fleeting.
On the other hand, he is happy to inform readers that “perhaps the most impressive young woman I ran across during my time in Holland . . . wore a black chador that left only her round, friendly face, with a touch of lipstick and mascara, open to the eyes of the world.” According to Buruma, this woman, Nora, is in favor of the separation of church and state, against the imposition of sharia law in Holland — this is supposed to be a great achievement, apparently — and “would never even think” of living in a country like Saudi Arabia, even though — as any sane reader will immediately recognize — she chooses to dress as if she were already there.
Though Nora is known for her “big mouth” — she is president of an Islamic students’ union — September 11 predictably left her “speechless.” Or not quite: “She felt that all Muslims were being blamed, especially after the same frightening images were shown over and over on the television news, not only of the smoking towers in Manhattan, but of young Muslims dancing with joy in a small Dutch town called Ede.” Buruma swallows this evasive junk whole.
There’s worse. In Amersfoort, “in the shadow of the Church Tower of Our Lady,” he has tea with Bellari Said, “a small, trim man, born in Morocco,” who works as a psychiatrist. Bellari’s politics “are a mixture of leftist Third Worldism, with a particular animus against Israel and the United States.” He believes that “the West will only be reconciled with the Islamic world once Israel ceases to exist.” (Exeunt Jews.) With a remarkably
straight face, Buruma calls this anti-Semitic moonbat “another Moroccan success story.”
Learned and informative as it is, there is something distinctly feeble about this book. It draws to a close with a description of Dutch soccer fans on a train, decked out clownishly in nationalist orange garb, jumping up and down “with a fervor that blurred the borderlines between ecstasy and fury.” Buruma buries his face in a newspaper and tries to pretend he’s not there. “Don’t you love Holland?” one boorish fan bellows at him. (An honest answer might have been “Actually, no, dude. I’m an International Man of History.”) But of this World Cup–style bellicosity, Buruma then goes on to say, “It was a return to an invented country, no more real than a modern Dutch Muslim’s fantasy of the pure world of the Prophet. Both fantasies contain the seeds of destruction.”
Well, yes. But are those “seeds” at quite the same stage of development? (And what are all those Islamist ones doing in a Dutch garden anyway?) The patriotism of the soccer fans, Buruma admits, is largely “a festive holiday from postwar political pieties.” And it is precisely those pieties that Van Gogh, Fortuyn and Hirsi Ali were fighting, and two of the three have already paid with their lives. Buruma knows all this, but he doesn’t quite seem to feel it. Nor does he escape those pieties himself. On November 2, 2004, “the violent fantasies of a Dutch Muslim ended in the murder of a fellow citizen,” he states in the closing paragraph. But was Bouyeri “Dutch” in any meaningful sense? Did he regard Van Gogh as a “fellow citizen” or simply an infidel? At any rate, Buruma’s closing sentence leans less to Van Gogh than to his murderer: “What happened in this small corner of northwestern Europe could happen anywhere, as long as young men and women feel that death is their only way home.”
How about just buying them a plane ticket?
Writers From the Other Asia
The most wicked woman in history Queen and harlot, dark and fair, heroine and murderer, she has been an object of fascination for writers, artists and film directors down the centuries. Lucy Hughes-Hallett examines the many faces of Cleopatra Saturday August 19, 2006 Cleopatra and Antony had formed a partnership that was as much a political alliance between two mutually useful potentates as it was a love affair. But the story, as Roman poets and historians tell it, was that Antony had become so besotted with the queen of Egypt that he was willing to give up his chance of ruling Rome in order to enjoy the pleasures of her bed. So Antony, the canny politician and commander with empire-building ambitions to rival Alexander’s, was reinvented as a degenerate hedonist and a traitor to Rome. As a by-product of that successful exercise in news manipulation, Cleopatra was cast as the woman for whose love’s sake the world would be well lost. Cleopatra – the gratification of every conceivable desire – has been repeatedly reimagined by writers, artists and film-makers in accordance with desires of their own. She was one of the most powerful women in the ancient world, and she was defined by the Romans and their heirs as the foreigner – at once the menacing stranger and the temptress, offering the chance of escape from the tedious limitations of one’s own known world. So sexual and racial politics have shaped the variations on her story, transforming her from serpent to dove and back again to suit her public’s yearnings and fears. Her morl status fluctuates. Cecil B de Mille offered the leading role in his sumptuous movie about her to Claudette Colbert with the words: “How would you like to play the wickedest woman in history?” His question anticipated the answer: “Very much indeed, please.” “Wicked” was already, in the 1930s, a term of approbation meaning sexy, edgy, thrilling, an infinitely more alluring epithet than boring old “good”: the hypocrisy at the heart of our culture has been part of Cleopatra’s legend for most of 2,000 years. But back in 1380, Geoffrey Chaucer made Cleopatra the first heroine of his Legend of Good Women. To him and his contemporaries she was the paragon of feminine virtue, the proof of her goodness being that she didn’t wish to outlive her man. In an age when love-matches were rare and widowhood the only condition in which a woman could be truly independent, men, it appears, found it hard to trust their wives. The emphasis of her story wavers as often as her claim to virtue. To the Renaissance painters, it was about sex and money. They produced quasi-pornographic images of her suicide. Although all the ancient historians agree that Cleopatra had herself dressed in all her royal robes before applying the asp to her arm, artists almost invariably picture her dying in the nude, with the snake at her breast. Or they show her presiding over a magnificent banquet, in the act of demonstrating her prodigality and her wealth by drinking down a pearl dissolved in vinegar. To the English and German dramatists who took up the theme after Shakespeare, it was about the relative status of wives and mistresses. In the Protestant cultures of post-Reformation Europe there was a lively debate about the new ideal of companionate marriage, one which spilled over into Cleopatra’s story: the reason Dryden’s Cleopatra feels so feeble is that she lacks a wedding ring. Next, in versions written in the period leading up to the American and French revolutions, the story became about the clash between rival systems of government. In some dramas (notably those produced under Louis XIV and his successors), Cleopatra and Antony represent the feudal nobility as opposed to Octavius’s centralising and modernising regime. In others, Cleopatra stands for the decadence (and romance) of ancient monarchy contrasted with Roman republicanism. The storyline shifts. So does Cleopatra’s appearance. For several hundred years she was blonde. She was a famous beauty, and so medieval poets ascribed all the conventional attributes of beauty to her: hair like spun gold, sky-blue eyes and breasts “as white as ivory billiard balls”. The tradition was persistent. Shakespeare’s Cleopatra may have been darkened by “Phoebus’s amorous pinches”, but in Tiepolo’s magnificent frescoes in the Palazzo Labia in Venice she is as pearly-pale as the earring she is about to drop into her gilded cup, with albino eyelashes and opalescent breasts. It wasn’t until the very end of the 18th century, the period when Napoleon sent his troops and his scholars to Egypt, that Cleopatra’s exoticism became once more (as it had been in her lifetime) the most important thing about her. Delacroix painted her as a kind of Gypsy fortune-teller, dark-eyed and tousle-haired. Over the next century, as the European powers scrambled for territory in Africa and the Middle East, Cleopatra’s legend became the vehicle for theories about racial difference and justifications of imperialism. Artists represented her as an enticing Turkish dancing girl in gauzy harem pants and sparkly bra; lolling indolently on a divan, she became representative of a terminally decadent culture ripe for annexation by a benignly energetic western power. In the latter pose, she is usually surrounded by slaves bearing cups of sherbet and peacock-feather fans. Or, in many cases, writhing in agony on the floor. Romantics and decadents alike adored the story. Cleopatra was reborn as the femme fatale, the personification of the bourgeois male’s sexual guilt and the realisation of his most deliciously painful self-castigating fantasies. Plutarch had recorded that, in preparation for her own death, she tested poisons on her household slaves: the scene was represented repeatedly on canvas and on the stage, while Pushkin’s scenario became the basis for dozens of later versions. The tragedy of Cleopatra in which Sarah Bernhardt starred repeatedly over three decades (doggedly continuing even after she had lost a leg) was not Shakespeare’s, but one written to the actress’s order by Victorien Sardou, in which the queen is a sadistic voluptuary given to performing elaborate striptease. Meanwhile, the bestselling novelist H Rider Haggard came up with a new twist when he revealed that the youth Cleopatra took to bed was actually her own son. Cleopatra had become the personification of vice, flouter of every convention, breacher of every taboo. She was barely human. Algernon Swinburne, in an essay that is part art criticism, part masochist reverie, enthused about Michelangelo’s drawing in which queen and asp seem to fuse into one Medusa-like being, while Gustave Flaubert called her “the pale creature with a fiery eye, the viper of the Nile who smothers with an embrace”. Ruthless, beautiful, bestial, this fantastic Cleopatra seemed to offer Europeans, feeling cramped in an increasingly regulated society, an escape into a Nietzschean wonderland of moral irresponsibility and violent pleasure. By the time the Ballets Russes staged Fokine’s Cleopatra in Paris in 1909, she had become the figure of death. The dancer who played her, Ida Rubinstein, was carried on in a sarcophagus, wrapped mummy-fashion in yards of multicoloured gauze from which she was gradually unwound, her face chalk-white, her hair bright blue. The fantasy of the death-dealing vamp flourishes in peacetime. In the face of the 20th century’s wars it came to seem a bit of a joke, and a sick joke at that. In 1917 the movie Cleopatra, starring Theda Bara (described by the Fox publicity team as the “Ishmaelite of femininity” and the “torpedo of domesticity”), bombed at the box office. In a world where young men were being slaughtered en masse, the femme fatale was redundant. Bernard Shaw scoffed at the idea of sublime passion, and wrote a Caesar and Cleopatra in which the queen of Egypt is a petulant teenager. Claudette Colbert played her as a flirty good-time girl and, in 1945, Vivien Leigh brought to the part, in Kenneth Tynan’s words, “the daintiness of a debutante called upon to dismember a stag”. Cleopatra had become camp. In the notorious 1963 movie she arrives in Rome on a mobile sphinx as high as the Senate house, accompanied by belly dancers, whirling dervishes, wheeled pyramids that open up to release flocks of white doves, scores of chariots, archers and armies of well-oiled, buff attendants in fetching pink loincloths. Arriving before Caesar, Elizabeth Taylor, heavily made up in early 1960s style with lots of eyeliner, false lashes and pale lipstick, bows deeply, her bosom looming large around th edges of her deeply cut gold-lamé bodice. And then, looking up at Antony, she winks. The scandal generated by Taylor’s on/off-screen affair with her Antony, Richard Burton, was gleefully welcomed by the film’s producers. To the 19th-century Romantic, the wages of sin might be death. To the 20th-century entrepreneur, it was good publicity. To a postwar generation avid for life and pleasure, Cleopatra offered not a fatal passion, but history’s best ever holiday romance. In the last three decades of the 20th century, Cleopatra got serious again. She was allotted a role in a debate about race relations. Afrocentrist historians, led by Martin Bernal, argued that the culture of ancient Egypt had been played down by racist scholars unwilling to acknowledge that Greek civilisation, and therefore all subsequent western civilisation, had African origins: it became fashionable to describe the pharaohs as black. But whatever colour the pharaohs were, Cleopatra was not one of them. She was the direct descendant on her father’s side of one of Alexander’s generals, a Macedonian Greek. We do not know who her mother was: her ethnic inheritance can’t be fully established. But we do know that when the director of a 1990s production of Shakespeare’s play, who had cast a black actress in the role of Cleopatra, talked about emphasising her “earthiness” and “the kind of non-European regality which allows someone to sit on the floor”, she was imposing yet another set of anachronistic preconceptions on to the image of the Hellenistic queen. Already, only a few years later, that director’s remarks sound insulting: we do not now think of “earthiness” and a reluctance to use the furniture as particularly “black” traits. In fact, Cleopatra shocked the republican Romans by sitting not on the floor, but on a throne of solid gold. More recently, Cleopatra’s Middle Eastern identity has come to seem even more interesting than her African one. In 1929 the Egyptian dramatist Ahmad Shawqui, a campaigner against the British authorities, made her a nationalist heroine struggling to defend her country’s independence. The theme is ready for further development. No one retelling her story today could do so without an awareness that she was the ruler of what is now an Islamic state, at the moment of its invasion by a western superpower. In Cleopatra’s lifetime, racist Roman propaganda characterised Egyptians as self-indulgent, sex-fixated and unmanly in their readiness to treat women as their equals, while Romans congratulated themselves on their abstemiousness, the austerity of their religion and their readiness for war. The stereotypes are still recognisable, but their ascription has been reversed. A militant Islamicist from the region that Cleopatra and Antony once ruled must now think of the west much as Rome once thought of Cleopatra’s Egypt. Cleopatra is still changing, and she will continue to do so as long as her name is remembered. The forces that have repeatedly transformed her image, the forces of anger and anxiety and covert desire, are still at their lethal work in the world. · Giulio Cesare is at Glyndebourne (01273 813813) until August 26. Antony and Cleopatra is at Shakespeare’s Globe, London SE1 (020-7401 9919), until October 8, and at the Swan, Stratford-upon-Avon (0870 609 1110), until October 14. · Lucy Hughes-Hallett is the author of Cleopatra: Queen, Lover, Legend (Pimlico). 记者无国界 2006年9月8日 记者无国界今日发布消息，表示支持新加坡“海峡时报”香港记者程翔对为期五年徒刑的间谍罪判决提出上诉。 该新闻自由组织加入了香港记者协会，呼吁立即释放程翔。“我们坚信重判程翔旨在一个惩罚记者进行调查并在香港新闻界制造恐慌。 程翔的律师何培华向法新社证实9月8日已向北京一家法庭提出起诉。律师说“他和他的家人认为判决太严厉并且不公正。” 一直坚持自己清白的程翔给家人传出信息，说判决不公正。 记者无国界对法庭居然把程翔在香港一家报纸上发表文章的内容作为证供表示震惊。 所谓间谍罪的指控完全是基于程翔与台湾基金会研究人员业务上的接触，而即便程翔真的接受台湾基金会资金而写作关于海湾战略的文章，也根本不能构成间谍罪。 整个审讯荒谬且保密，所引用的证据是所谓程翔的招供和学者的观点，而获取这些证据的程序违反了国际司法标准。 此外，把程翔发表的此类新闻称为的“国家机密”显示了北京当权者的偏执，目前中国已经有多名记者、异议人士和大学教授因为泄露所谓“国家机密”而入狱。 台湾当局1日否认程翔为台北的间谍。不过当局也证实的确有香港记者与台湾研究基金会有业务往来。 除了监禁，法庭还对程翔判处30万元(30,000欧元)及31万港元(30,000欧元以上)的罚金。程翔的一些家属在中国的财产被扣押。程翔的夫人刘敏仪对此大额罚款表示惊讶：“他们似乎以为我们有很多钱。” 记者无国界授权六四天网翻译,请以法、英文版本为准 【2006年9月9日狱委讯】中央社报道/程翔的律师何培华告诉法新社，他已为程翔提交上诉书，抗议中国当局的判决不公平。 何培华表示：“今晨，我们向北京法庭提交上诉书。家属以及他本人，均认为这项判决过分严厉且不公平。” 他建议程翔的家属，如果上诉遭到驳回，他们可以医疗为由要求中国政府释放程翔，但是他表示，目前仍不是提出这项要求的时刻。 新加坡《海峡时报》首席中国特派员程翔涉因间谍罪于八月底在北京被判处入狱5年。 作者题记：本文写于将近二十年前，原载香港《解放月报》（现更名为《开放》）1988年11月号。1989年6月24日《北京日报》指控我为”黑手”， 这篇文章被作为主要的证据之一，称为”反共反人民”的”重磅炸弹”.并指控文中提的”四个代替”是我的”纲领性主张”. 时逢毛泽东死忌三十年，中共媒体又在大肆怀念暴君的亡灵。故而，特重发此文。 不论从什么角度看”文化大革命”，它都是中国历史上、也是世界历史上的前无古人、也许还是后无来者的一大奇观，而这场革命的发动者毛泽东也成为一个神秘的人物。因为，在毛泽东生前，中国无人能够对他进行哪怕是猜测性的评价，而他死后，仍然以幽灵般的魔影徘徊于中国大地上。 历史过去后，不会再给人以第二次选择的机会，即使后悔万般，也无可奈何。再也不会有一个毛泽东生于中国土地上，再也不会有十亿人对一个人如此虔诚的相信、如此狂热的崇拜，再也不会有一个人的形象、声音、动作、文字，能够具有毛泽东式的绝对权威，以至于，在毛泽东的生前，无人敢向他说一个”不”字；他死后，也只能以七分成绩、三分错误来盖棺论定。对于他，中国人都没有公开鞭尸的勇气，在对他的否定时，一副羞答答的样子。 一 毛泽东令历代帝王黯然失色 “毛泽东情结”已成为当代中国人的先天遗传。这一方面说明了中国人的愚昧已经到了受尽蹂躏还要三呼”万岁”的程度，另一方面也说明了作为个人的毛泽东的成功已经使中国历史上的所有帝王黯然失色。 本世纪初，毛泽东这个来自湖南乡间的土里土气的农民刚进北京城时，曾受到当时许多颇有声望的文化名流嘲弄和蔑视；即使他参加共产党后，也一直被党的高层所排斥，直到”遵义会议”，无人敢挺身而出收拾长征后的烂摊子时，毛泽东才以他的魄力与冒险精神，征服了这个排挤他的党，并使另一中共强人张国焘被边缘化。而且，那些文化人和共产党的高级官僚们万万没有想到，一九四九年以后，他们一个个成为毛泽东手中的玩物。毛泽东在”与人奋斗”和做政治游戏时的手法之高明，已达到”无法之法，乃为至法”的最高境界。 如果仅仅限于中国的范围内，从中国历史的角度评价毛泽东，他无疑是到目前为止最成功的一个人。没有人比他更了解中国人的性格，没有人比他更熟悉专制政权内部的相互倾轧的艺术，没有人比他更心狠手辣、善于应变、流氓成性，更没有人能够把自己装扮得像红太阳一样光辉灿烂。中国传统的民本思想在毛泽东的手中变成了”人民万岁”和”全心全意为人民服务”，而他又能通过一系列运动使人民一无所得。他似乎以一个人的力量与整个中国对抗，就像一个高大强壮的男子汉和一个柔弱顺从的小女子的关系一样。 中国历史上的哪一个皇帝的权力和威望能够与毛泽相媲美呢？他把中国传统的专制政体、把中国人的愚昧和软弱推向了前无古人的极端。在一次次的权力角逐中，他充分利用了中国人的性格弱点，打击对手犹如猫捉老鼠，多少曾经在共产党内权力比他大、职位比他高的人，都一个个地拜倒在他的脚下。”问苍茫大地，谁主沉浮？”的早年野心，果然在几十年后变成现实。他一旦登上权力的宝座，便终身受用。 在中国，他可以蔑视一切，他的每一个动作都有合理的依据，他的每一句话都是神的启示，他创造了一种独一无二的艺术：不讲理就是唯一的真理。 二 毛泽东并未影响世界历史进程 但是，如果就整个世界的范围而言，从世界历史的进程上看，毛泽东彻底失败了。他没能把一个全新的中国推向世界，没能改变世界历史的进程，没能成为左右国际事务的全球性政治领袖。他仅仅是在重复数千年延绵不绝的中国历史，陷入那个轮回式的恶性循环而无法自拔。他不是没有称霸世界的野心，否则的话，他不会与苏联决裂，更不会迫不及待地制造”中国是第三世界革命的中心”的政治神话，也不会为了个人的国际地位而去慷本来就一穷二白的国家之慨，将大把大把的钱白白送给那些落后的国家。 想成为美国和苏联之外的超级大国的超级领袖，确实是毛泽东的野心。无奈他野心有余而能力不足。他没有力量和智慧创造一个强大的中国，以与美苏对抗，也就自然没有力量把自己提升到国际领袖的位置。毛泽东的所作所为，无一不符合传统中国独裁者的一切，却没有丝毫走向现代世界的迹象。他被人类的先进文化抛到远远的地方，只能封闭起来，龟缩在自己的躯壳内，在对内的整肃中发泄他的无限权力占有欲。玩中国，毛泽东易如反掌；而玩世界，他却像个只知道死守二亩三分地的土财主，唯恐被什么人抢去。这完全是一个农民起义首领的性格。 三 毛泽东把中国人降格为奴隶 在国内，从他在天安门上宣布中华人民共和国成立的第一天开始，他就不停地折腾，一次比一次精彩，一次比一次开心，直到”文革”达到他一生的最高潮。毛泽东不仅利用了中国人的愚昧，还利用了中国人被长期压抑、无处渲泄的攻击欲和破坏欲，他所建立的制度和所发动的革命，不是把人的生命力导向创造性和建设性的方面，而是导向破坏性和毁灭性的方面，而且是大破坏和大毁灭。 “文革”也是中国人生命力的一次爆发，特别是青春的激情和过剩精力，通过无所顾忌的打、砸、抢，也通过一次次盛大的革命庆典，使参与者们得到酣畅淋漓的宣泄，从中感到一种生命力释放的满足。但是面向世界，毛泽东一次又一次的失败，甚至虚弱到不敢正视自己的程度。 毛泽东的确有资格去嘲笑秦始皇、汉武帝、唐太宗、宋太祖以及驰骋欧亚大陆的成吉思汗，这些帝王与他相比，确实有智慧上、人格上的低能之处。但他没有资本去与那些世界性的政治领袖相比，因为这些人所创造的政治体制是属于全人类的，而毛泽东只属于中国，且罪孽深重。在这点上，我以为毛泽东也极为可怜，因为在中国他所面对的对手素质太差，甚至就根本构不成对手。毛泽东与一个总是输给他二十一比零的选手在打乒乓球。这种对抗，固然可以使他飘飘然，但也使他的胜利变得毫无正面价值。 在毛泽东的统治下，每个中国人都是零，十亿个零加起来仍然是零，因而毛泽东最后也变成了零。 毛泽东的这种处境，与整个中华民族的处境完全一样。关起门来看自己，真觉得艳美无比，俨然仪表堂堂的男子汉，几千年悠久的文化灿烂得令人目眩；打开门再看自己，顿时相形见绌，非但谈不上艳美，反而倒像个满脸皱纹、拄着杖却又要吃母乳的老小孩，源远流长的文化就像一身俗不可耐的古装，除了作为陈列品之外，便毫无用处。说得挖苦点，中国人在近现代世界史上不是作为人，而是作为奴隶而生活的。毛泽东所一手发动的一系列政治运动，在满足了他的个人欲望的同时，却把自己连同所有的中国人从人类中开除出去了。 毛泽东所能做的一切，一方面是他个人的魅力所致，另一方面是中国文化的恩赐。愚昧的软弱的中国人和千古不变的专制政体，为毛泽东提供了一展才华的最佳舞台。他在这个舞台上所导演的戏剧，固然有”反右”、”大跃进”、”四清”等轰动一时的剧目，但是这些都是模仿之作，完全是另一个专制魔王斯大林手法的翻版。属于毛泽东个人独创的杰作是”文革”.这是一部以全民族的巨大牺牲为代价而创造的作品。它的独一无二就在于把专制主义发展到了前无古人的境地。因而，对于中华民族来说，毛泽东不啻千古罪人。由否定”文革”到否定毛泽东是历史的必然。 四 不能只反昏君不反专制 但是，对于有几千年的封建传统的中国来说，彻底否定毛泽东并不容易，正像中国近代史上的一次次反封建运动都以失败告终一样。在当代的中国，我以为，难以彻底否定毛泽东的主要原因有以下两点： 首先，只反昏君、贪官而不反专制、皇权是中国人的文化遗传。在历次改革之中，人们都把腐败归结为某个统治者的道德人格的堕落和思想上的错误。寻找”明主”和”清官”是中国人做了几千年、至今仍然在做的梦。否则的话，人们怎么会在1949年以后一直把希望寄托在毛泽东等人身上呢？换言之，只要人们还相信只有专制文化的社会主义和教条的马克思主义才能救中国，那就是相信政治专制和思想独裁才能够救中国，即便毛泽东被否定后，还会有第二、第三个毛泽东。 不是昏君、贪官使专制政体腐败，而是专制政体先天性地产生着昏君、贪官。如果没有民主政治的保证，任何人在专制政府中都将成为昏君、贪官，这甚至与个人品质无关。最卑鄙的政治家也无法在民主政治中为所欲为，而最高尚的政治家在专制政体中也将为所欲为。没有宪政制度的保证，任何掌权者都将走向独裁。 因而，如果仅仅把毛泽东作为一个昏君暴君来否定，而不是把他作为腐朽的专制主义的当代代表来否定，那么就等于什么也没做，其结果只能是以新的独裁者代替旧的独裁者。幸运的话，是以一个开明的独裁者代替昏庸的独裁者。 但是，无论怎样，专制还是专制，它决不会因为独裁的开明而变成民主制。从这个意义上讲，最重要的不是否定作为个人、作为昏君的毛泽东，而是否定作为整个专制政体的总代表的毛泽东。但改革以来对毛泽东的批判，仍然停留在”只反昏君而不反专制”的水平上。更可笑的是，人们在对昏君和贪官的否定中都争相标榜自己是”明主”和”清官”. 五 中国人要敢于自我否定 其次，只否定少数当权者而不否定大众和每个人自身，也不是对以毛泽东为代表的专制主义的真正否定。如前所述，”文革”的发生是专制主义的极端化所致。专制主义的极端化，一方面是因为以毛泽东为代表的当权者们极端化独裁，另一方面是因为广大的被统治者的极端化愚昧和软弱。毛泽东再有力量，也不能一个人进行”文革”.毛泽东的力量来自于人民的愚昧和软弱，他是十亿中国人之愚昧的集大成者。 也就是说，任何一个专制政体的产生和延续，都是统治者和被统治者共同创造并加以维持的。没有顺从独裁的被统治者，也就不会有专制统治。具体到中国的历史和现状，没有深厚的封建主义传统所培养起来的中国人的奴性，中国的专制主义决不会如此长久、如此肆无忌惮。 在”文革”中，没有亿万只手臂高呼”毛主席万岁！”，没有覆盖中华大地的红色语录本，没有遍布每一个角落的”早请示，晚汇报”，没有十亿人齐声高唱《东方红》，毛泽东的名字怎么会成为永远不落的、普照人间的红太阳呢？所以，否定毛泽东也就必然要否定把毛泽东视为”大救星”、”红太阳”的十亿中国人，否定十亿中国人必然要从每个人、特别是从那些有文化的知识分子的自我否定开始。 过去，我们的理论一直把反对建的革命仅仅理解为推翻皇帝或统治者，因而也就把中国历史上无数次大大小小的农民起义称之为推动历史前进的革命。但是，事实证明，农民推翻皇帝的革命，只造成了中国历史的封闭循环和专制主义的长命百岁。 而真正的反独裁革命，必须是对以专制主义为代表的整个社会（所有的人的生存方式、思维方式）的革命。这个革命不仅要打倒皇帝，更要消灭皇权赖以生存和维持的小农文明：专制与小农的生存方式是一个有机整体——农业文明，现代化就是要从生存方式上消灭农业文明，如果做不到这一点，那么任何企图推翻专制主义的革命都将失败。 六 否定毛是全民族的一次脱胎换骨 只反皇帝而不反小农生存方式的运动，只能是动乱而不是改革。对于中国来说，打倒一个皇帝、否定一个毛泽东都不困难，人为不行时，还有天助（毛泽东总要死），困难的在于消灭汪洋大海般的小农意识。也就是像早期的鲁迅那样无情地批判国民劣根性。然而，中国当代史上的启蒙者们，大多数都是骂皇帝的英雄，一旦面对大众，便是一脸媚态，向愚昧微笑、鞠躬。而这种现象表面上看是站在与专制主义相对立的人民大众一边，而实际上是想在骂倒皇帝之后自己当皇帝，当人民的救世主。得志时，自奉为上帝；不得志时，人民是上帝。毛泽东就是用玩弄”人民崇拜”来奠定其至高权威的高手。 这种把戏中国人玩得纯熟、玩得心花怒放，从先秦时代的”民本思想”一直玩到毛泽东的”人民万岁”、”全心全意为人民服务”，服装可谓花样翻新，却永远裹着一个臭皮囊。 “文革”结束后，又有多少被誉为改革先锋的人物仍然高举着”为人民服务”的金字招牌招摇过市呀！又有多少在”文革”中写过最最革命的大字报的人把自己标榜为反”四人帮”的英雄啊！又有多少被平反的”右派”、”走资派”变成了新时期的”极左派”呀！除了”四人帮”、毛泽东及其少数死党外，其余的中国人个个都是”文革”的受难者和”反文革”的英雄。 中国人逃避责任、进行自我美化的本领真是举世无双。笔者作为中华民族的一员，真该为此而骄傲、自豪和光荣。 类似上面所列举的民族劣根性还很多，诸如”愚忠”、”群体至上”、”平均主义”、”民族主义”等等。但是，就中国的现实而言，所有这些都可以归结为这样一点：即不能从专制主义的内部来寻找否定专制主义的力量。 具体地讲就是：在政治上不能从一党独裁内部寻找力量来反一党独裁；在经济上，不能从公有制、计划经济内部寻找动力来改革经济；在思想上，不能从教条化的马克思主义内部寻找新的思想；在广义的文化上，不能从中国传统文化内部来寻找所谓的精华。而只能用多党并存的民主制代替一党独裁，用私有制、市场经济代替公有制、计划经济；用多元化的言论、思想的自由来代替思想一元化；用世界的（西方的）现代文化来代替中国的传统文化。 否定毛泽东，在最根本的意义上是否定中国人几千年来的小农式生存，是一次全民族的脱胎换骨。尽管，这种否定不会一蹴而就，很可能是个极为漫长的历史过程；但中国人必须从现在开始启动这一进程。 我以为，这也许是世界历史上最漫长、最艰难的否定过程，因为中国专制主义的生命力之顽强堪称世界之最。尽管，在这个漫长的过程中，痛苦之巨大甚至可能是难以忍受的，但是，除了忍受痛苦的煎熬之外，当代中国人别无选择。 否则的话，尽管毛泽东已经魂归西天，但他所代表的专制主义仍然是永远不落的红太阳。 写于1988年10月 ── 原载 香港《解放月报》1988年11月号 中国的政治清明，社会有序有赖于做出许多努力和牺牲。 2002年12月11日北京晴，武汉晴，潜江多云。<
文坛巨匠遭遇晚年信誉危机 年届八十的诺贝尔文学奖得主、德国作家君特·格拉斯再次成为媒体关注的焦点。 格拉斯参加党卫军的受审记录。 上个世纪末最后一次诺贝尔文学奖的得主、德国著名作家君特·格拉斯，近日来又一次成为德国各大新闻媒体竞相报道的焦点，然而与以往歌功颂德的情景不同，这一次的抛头露面却让这位创作了《铁皮鼓》、《猫与鼠》、《我的世纪》、《蟹行》等众多名篇巨作的文学大师颜面丧尽，濒临身败名裂的边缘，昔日德国战后文学的楷模几乎一夜之间，从荣誉的巅峰跌至声名的谷底。 这一德国文坛的地震性事件起因于今年8月12日德国《法兰克福汇报》对格拉斯进行的一次采访，话题是其即将正式出版的一部名为《剥洋葱皮时》的自传体回忆录。不想格拉斯在问答对话中竟自爆猛料，首次道出写入书中的一个隐瞒了60多年的秘密：他16岁曾加入过臭名昭著的德国法西斯精锐之师党卫军的特种部队。此言一出，立刻在德国文化、新闻、出版界掀起了轩然大波，舆论哗然，群情激愤。文人学者群起而攻之，纷纷指责格拉斯隐瞒个人历史，欺世盗名，愚弄读者，大有彻底倒格之势。现在，原本定于9月份推出的这本书已提前摆在了各大书店的摊头。 二战结束后，德国政府和人民一直通过追悔罪责和行善积德来消除纳粹的影响，摆脱历史的阴影，格拉斯恰恰就是其中功名显赫的重要成员。作为小说家、诗人、画家和雕塑家，多才多艺的他不仅通过文学艺术创作来教育广大受众，而且时常利用自己的声望涉足政坛，指点江山，针砭时弊，声张正义，影响舆论，因而在德国上至官府下至庶民中，享有“民族的良心”和“道德法庭”的崇高美誉。也正因为如此，他如今的自白才让德国民众难以接受，从而引来四面谴责、八方抗议，使得这位当代德国文学的形象代言人，今天自己不得不站在道德法庭上，面对公众的质问。虽然纷至沓来的批评视角、观点甚至用意各不相同，但不管是怒骂斥责还是埋怨遗憾，众口一声的问题是：格拉斯究竟为何将此难言之隐，积压心中长达半个多世纪而闭口不谈。波兰前总统、诺贝尔和平奖获得者瓦文萨，已要求格拉斯主动申请取消其出生地但泽市荣誉市民的称号，否则他自己将退回这一荣誉，以示不与为伍，波政府近日将对此进行议会讨论；更有义愤填膺之人士，力主撤销格拉斯诺贝尔文学奖的资格。不过对此，瑞典皇家科学院的发言人已表明，鉴于无此规则和先例，将不会采取类似措施。而格拉斯本人亦刚刚亲笔手书一封长信致波兰但泽市市长，态度诚恳感人，以挽回影响，求得宽容。 格拉斯本人似乎没有太强硬的声辩和解释，只是一方面埋怨别有用心者落井下石、借机整人，必欲置他于声名扫地之境而后快，另一方面则称自己对青年时代的事情已记不太清，当时的行为纯属年幼无知、天真盲目之举，而且本人虽戎装在身，但并未发射过一枪一弹，更没参与过任何罪行暴举，同时强调要说的话已尽在书中，欲知来龙去脉，还是开卷后再言是非曲直。 眼下，关于格拉斯诚信的讨论在德国舆论界方兴未艾，耐人寻味的是，舆论媒体大有将此事件演绎成一场重温二战历史的大讨论之势，不少电视台竟像纪念战争结束日一样，又将尘封已久的专题片、文献资料翻出，配以新的主持和编导，一时间银屏上战火纷飞、尸横遍野、残垣断瓦的画面又不断涌现，无论节目的内容长短，形式简繁，在介绍了党卫军诸多暴行后，主持人总少不了画龙点睛的一句话：格拉斯当年就是该法西斯组织其中的一员。 然而，君特·格拉斯这座德国文学的丰碑是否会就此轰然倒下，还需静观事态的发展，当然格拉斯本人反省认错的态度也会起到重要作用。同时，在一片愤怒声讨之中，失望、同情甚至惋惜之声亦不乏其音。无论如何，格拉斯卷帙浩繁的作品仍不失为德国当代文学宝库中的重要组成部分。只是即便这位文学大师能够在某种程度上得到人们的谅解，渡过此关，也难再拥有昔日的大拿风范和威望。也许格拉斯几年前就对这一结局有了某种思想准备，预感到自己的坦白会结束他在文坛上的辉煌生涯，所以提前给他的抒情诗画集、也是此前推出的最后一部文学作品，取名为《最后的舞蹈》。 事情发展到今天，人们的注意力似乎都集中在格拉斯对自己的这段履历缄口不言60年之久这一事实。实际上，也许更应该提的一个问题是：为什么那些熟悉此事的人能对此无动于衷地沉默了半个多世纪？ □宋健飞（发自法兰克福） ■相关阅读 回忆录披露参加党卫军往事 格拉斯新作剥开痛苦的“洋葱” 格拉斯最新出版的回忆录《剥洋葱》，记录了自己从12岁到32岁的生活经历，全书共有十一章，从1939年二战爆发写起，一直写到他在巴黎的简陋条件下完成他的成名作——长篇小说《铁皮鼓》，记录了一个年轻人的成长经历。格拉斯之所以只选取了这段生活来写回忆录，他本人声称：12岁和战争的爆发，对他意味着童年的结束，此前的童年记忆往往是靠不住的，而他在《铁皮鼓》之后的经历，已经为人们熟知，无需写入回忆录。 格拉斯为他的回忆录取名为《剥洋葱》，他说：《剥洋葱》这个书名是一个比喻，因为在回忆和写作的过程中，总是会在一层皮的下面又出现一层新皮，不由得产生一种新的阅读方式。他把记忆比作洋葱，把回忆往事比喻为“剥洋葱”，每一层洋葱皮的下面都隐藏着许多经历乃至秘密。他在书里首次披露自己年轻时参加武装党卫队这段经历，而迄今为止，他一直声称自己在二战后期当过高射炮兵。 “这事令我心情沉重。我这么多年来的沉默是我写作本书的原因之一。这事必须讲出来，终于讲出来了。”可以想象，剥洋葱对作者也是一个“痛苦的”过程，格拉斯是留着眼泪回忆伤心历史的心路历程。□蔡鸿君 《碧奴》作者苏童接受专访谈神话创作之路 虽然是一次命题创作，但苏童说，写《碧奴》不是一个负担，而是愉快的创作过程。 关于神话 神话给我带来的是启发 新京报：“重述神话”这种半命题创作和从前自由创作有什么区别？ 苏童：最大的区别是它属于“重述神话”，一个是和“神话”有关，一个是和“重述”有关。我没感到束缚，因为“重述神话”在我的文学观念当中是非常正常的创作活动，神话本来就是一个资源，这样的创作给我的不是束缚，而是启发。这与写《武则天》完全不同，这个是待定的。尽管这是一个带有命题色彩的东西，但在写作过程中它带给我的是巨大的创作愉快，而不是一个负担。 新京报：为什么不选大禹这个神话属性争议小的题目，而选择了孟姜女？ 苏童：我曾经特别想写大禹治水，但后来比较起来，我还是不忍心放弃孟姜女，眼泪哭倒长城，这个太奇幻了，越琢磨越好，几乎入魔了，它的诱惑远远超出了大禹治水。在我看来，大禹治水说起来恰好没有那么极端，但他和孟姜女只是在最后的指向不同，我看得见孟姜女哭长城的动人之处。我一直不太同意神话在划分上的严格界限。我也不太确定什么是神话、什么是传说，我只是觉得只要是民间的文化就都可以。 新京报：中国当代文学中“重述神话”的个案非常少，原因何在？ 苏童：鲁迅先生的《故事新编》是他小说创作中非常优秀的部分。我们的小说从魏晋起有了志怪小说，但进入现代小说后，左翼时期文学的口号是去关注民生，很少有人回身去看我们的小说资源有多丰富，从来都是号召生活和小说的关系，哪怕它的关系是痉挛的变态的。 有的资源不在你前边，不在你身边，恰恰是在你后边很遥远的地方，它们是非常好的东西。大家所谓的“民族的就是世界的”，其实神话真的是民族的，孟姜女哭长城这个故事，一个再富有想象力的民族，它也不拥有这个神话，而我们拥有，这也是我写它的意义。 新京报：为何中国神话普遍没有众神群像和英雄情结？ 苏童：中国神话在我看来是非常随意的，它对英雄的事业是不感兴趣的。孟姜女和大禹治水的故事在我看来超越了善恶因果的东方大众思维，中国神话很少宣扬英雄主义。在底层没有我们现在所说的哲学观念，它考虑的深层问题和哲学问题有局限。苦难的来源，苦难如何摆脱，它是解决这个问题的。孟姜女的事业是哭倒长城，但不是为神延续它的光辉。神话从某种意义上说是飞翔的现实，每一个神话背后都潜藏着世道人心，但写作过程中如何去把握这种微妙的尺寸，是很有讲究的，换句话说就是怎么用神话来拥抱现实，有的东西必须用隐喻象征去完成，这是没有办法的。 关于《碧奴》 眼泪是一个形象 新京报：怎么看待眼泪的形象和碧奴的命运？ 苏童：我写碧奴很大程度上是在写眼泪。眼泪其实是一个非常大的形象，我在塑造碧奴形象的时候，必须要塑造眼泪的形象。人和眼泪在写作过程中我几乎没法分清楚到底谁是人物形象。碧奴的命运不仅仅是一个底层女子的命运。碧奴的形象之所以有意思，是因为她有最后的使命，要用眼泪去哭断长城。这就要琢磨眼泪在碧奴一生中的重要性。 眼泪在我看来是一个最底层的阶级唯一的财富，她用这个唯一的财富对现实发言。她没有别的斗争的武器，依靠的是用眼泪摆脱自己的命运。这个说起来非常阿Q，非常无助。再贫贱的分泌物，它也是有力量的，它对自己是有信心的。碧奴的命运是在讲述一个阶级的命运。在这样一个前提下，眼泪能哭倒长城，也就是说它对自己精神上是一个极大的安慰和解脱。 新京报：在虚化的背景下，如何把握写作过程中人物语言和细节的描写？ 苏童：在这个小说中，它本身的特点是时代不确定。 在写之前，我看顾颉刚关于孟姜女的书，她哭的应该是齐长城而不是现在的明长城。如果我写齐长城，事实上它是非常不壮观的，哭起来会让大家觉得非常失望。但我又不太愿意存心去改历史，那最好的做法就是我不说，不说这是什么长城，后来我写大雁岭这都是虚构的名字。把时间地点都虚化掉，这也是我一贯的做法，我觉得小说中最动人的是哭长城，而不是哭哪个时代的长城。 这个东西比较意味深长。 新京报：小说中有很多原始神话意象，如青蛙、葫芦等，创作时是如何考虑的？书中遍布的水意象是否无意中显现了你的内心世界？ 苏童：小说里有一只青蛙，但它不是渲染神秘色彩，也不是制造气氛。我把它当一个人物来写。在写到发水的时候，我脑子里突然蹦出了青蛙的形象，我想干吗不让青蛙变成一个老妇人的幽灵，仅有的出发点就是这个。 另一个观念是我对这个遥远的蛮荒时代的社会生活的想象。那个时候人不可能按照一种人生哲学来生活，他只是在比照他和大自然之间的种种联系来看待自己的生命。比如小说写到的，女孩子都是一种东西变的。大自然中的生物，在碧奴看来，可能就是一个人的转换，所以在小说里我很自然地就用了葫芦这类东西。至于水，我以前的一篇散文《河流的秘密》充分写了我对水的感情，写我小时候在水边的生活。我在水下去看水，以为那样能看到水的核心，但我看到的是一片混黄，我意识到我无法到达水的核心、水的秘密。 关于创作 写作是孤独的事情 新京报：在西方学界，很早就有人宣称“小说死了”，神话是否可以成为小说的“活血汤”？ 苏童：所谓小说死了这种观念，其实并不是一种悲哀情绪，它是强调了小说或小说家的生存方式，已经彻底被传统抛弃了。它强调的其实是孤独，强调的是职业的孤独和写作本身的孤独。 当然更多强调的是文学对人类的影响，抱一种非常绝望的态度。至于小说会不会死，小说在多大程度上影响人们的生活，好多都是借鉴于历史。神话对我真的是有启发，在写作过程中，我发现马尔克斯的《百年孤独》其实就是在仿神话，这样的小说思维就是如何把现实生活一脚抛开，它不落在实处，它的秩序是完全非现实生活的秩序。 新京报：怎么看待现在言必称长篇小说的现象？ 苏童：把长篇过度神圣化不光是外界，也吻合作家的心理。“一部伟大的小说，势必是一部长篇小说”也是每个作家的愿望。问题是我们现在在文学上没有所谓的真知、正确，真知正确当然是多元化，谁也不能说因为短篇小说篇幅短，所以它的寓意就是短的，价值就是短的。把大众的评判观念引入这个死胡同，其实是不公平的，对于契诃夫这样的一系列的大师是不公平的，对目前的创作也有一些不良的影响，这是需要检讨的。 这和出版环境也是有关的，不光是中国，全世界的出版界都欢迎长篇小说。 新京报：作家与其小说的关系怎样？ 苏童：一个作家没有能力去真正统治一部小说，一部小说要能真正囊括作家的情调、世界观也不一定就是成功的，我认为一部好小说最好的状态是大于我。 采写/本报记者曹雪萍/实习生何潇 摄影/本报记者郭延冰 「书评」 神话时代的百科全书 重庆出版社2006年9月出版定价：25.00元 □书评人阿子 孟姜女哭倒了长城，早在唐代就已经是众所周知的故事，所以喜欢探寻结尾的人并不适合看。在《列女传》里，这个“十日而城崩”的故事有极简而又极深长的况味，而当苏童把已经被符号化的孟姜女换一个名字碧奴的时候，这个人们已经提前知道结果的故事，则好似一副谁也认不出没有名字的骨架，突然肉身返来，魂灵重现，变成一个有血有肉有别人无可替代故事的人。 一开始是需要耐心的，这样才能看到眼泪是在碧奴的哪些祖先那里开始成为禁忌，也才能进入苏童用极度奔逸的想象力营造的属于碧奴的那个离我们似乎很远，又似乎很近的世界。热爱跌宕故事的人，在展开“桃村女子哭泣史上最大秘密”之前的铺垫当中，可能会感到失望，不过喜爱细细观察语言用怎样的脉络来流淌的人就有福了。 而跟随碧奴上路之后，在好似神话时代公路片一样的故事里，各种各样光怪陆离的人兽鬼带着他们前世今生的故事都来了，热热闹闹，好似嘉年华游行。但热闹属于衡明君的百春台，属于詹刺史的五谷城，甚至还属于拒绝芹素的七里洞，偏偏不属于碧奴，不属于背负复仇宿命的少信，不属于寻子的北部山地女子的魂灵化作的瞎眼青蛙，和伴随碧奴一直旅行的眼泪。在这场旅行之中，需要很仔细地看每一句话，每一个字，因为苏童简直是编织了不知道有几维的网，围绕着碧奴几乎要写出一部我们所不知道的年鉴派著作来。 自然碧奴所经历的一切被写得那么密那么细，是要满满地写出“一颗纯朴的心”、“一种久违的情感”，但是这其中飞翔的想象力让人不得不瞪大了眼睛，叹为观止。而所有的环节又有着苏童一贯的绵密严缜，让所有的细节和旁枝都变成可以让碧奴和她的眼泪越来越有杀伤力的完美背景。 眼泪在苏童的笔下，已经不仅仅是人眼中的分泌物，而是变成了好像碧奴的影子、或者魂魄一样有独立人格的角色。碧奴是村里最不会哭的女子，其他女孩会用耳朵、脚趾甚至乳房流泪，碧奴就只会用浓密的头发流泪，正因为她不会最好的流泪方法，她才嫁给了孤儿岂梁，这才有了后来的万里寻夫——眼泪一开始就是命定要和碧奴一起旅行的生灵。眼泪成了“女子是水做的”这句话最好的注脚，碧奴一路上哭啊哭就会用身体的其他部分流泪了，再哭啊哭她的眼泪就有感染其他人感情的力量，再哭啊哭她的眼泪就能引来天上让人说实话的雨水，一直哭到她的眼泪能够锈蚀金属、腐烂箩筐，让每一块石头都渗透了苦涩的泪水，把埋葬在断肠崖下的岂梁哭出来。苏童说“她用眼泪解决了一个巨大的问题”，当祖先们都来一起哭泣，所有禁锢的情感迸发出来的时候，那是将曾经极简的景象变为了极繁多极壮阔，想来古代人如果亲眼得见，应该也是满意的。 苏童曾经说自己写的人物都是不正常的人物，在《碧奴》里，除了没有出场的岂梁，其他形形色色的鹿人、马人、山地女子、估衣铺女子……无数的人似乎也都有种种的不正常。他们都集合到了碧奴的旅程中，于是在他们的眼中，碧奴就变成了一个不正常的人。而越是这样一个人，就越能看到光怪陆离的世界中所有的怪异和荒诞——被官员邀功谎言欺骗的国王，乘着人力拖动的黄金楼船在尚不存在的运河里巡视，终于被气死；詹刺史征求五味眼泪来治病；芹素这个苏童最满意的人物不为任何世俗见识所累，只为了一些死后的温暖而从容赴死……碧奴就这样成了一个神话时代的观察者，一个神话时代的愚人，一个神话时代揭穿“皇帝新衣”谎话的小孩。 《碧奴》则用她和她的眼泪，变成了一部苏童的神话时代百科全书。The most wicked woman in history
The Guardian 
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