流動，近四十年最主要的中國經驗

先說一個小故事。

故事發(fā)生在我寫這篇發(fā)言稿的前一天。一位三十年沒有聯系過的初中同學加了我的微信，他說當年他也是文學的狂熱愛好者，每次語文老師將我的作文當范文讀時，他都暗暗地不服，認為老師沒眼光。他甚至偷偷藏了我的一個作文本。后來，他和我一樣，初中沒有畢業(yè)就離開家鄉(xiāng)，長江中游，江漢平原南岸一個算不上富與算不上窮的小村。和我一樣，到廣東。在東莞的工廠打工，做過各種苦逼的工作。但是，他對我說，在當下的中國，生于1970年之后的這一代人是最幸運的。我們不像父輩那樣，縱有天大本事，也只能面朝黃土背朝天地過一輩子。出生在城里的，進工廠，經歷下崗，或者在一個廠里工作到老也很難升職到處長，廳長。我們這代人面臨著更多選擇，更加自由，有更多機會。當然，他最后沒有忘記告訴我，說他現在做生意做得還可以。

他特別強調了一句，說比我想象的可能會更成功一些。

我告訴他，我對他生意做多大并沒有想像。他說，他在一個行業(yè)的細分領域，做到了全球老大，一年營業(yè)額有七個億。他前年將工廠從東莞搬到湖北，建占地幾百畝的工廠，有上萬員工。公司正在IPO。我對他說，作為一名苦盡甘來的成功者，你當然可以說我們遇上了最好的時代，那些沒有成功的人，遇上了這么好的時代都沒有成功，是因為他們笨。但在我看來，少數他這樣的成功人士背后，是無數人在血汗工廠里打工，付出全部努力，青春，最后一無所有。我的富豪同學說，這是經濟學的規(guī)律。只有大量人的付出無所得，才會造就少數人的成功，才會推動社會經濟發(fā)展。

對于經濟學我是外行，也許，我的富豪同學是對的。作為作家，我觀察的立場和角度，顯然和他不一樣。他關注的是時代帶給了我們這代人機遇，造就了許多如他的成功者，而我關注的是這時代車輪滾滾背后，那失敗的大多數。我想起了我的同事，詩人鄭小瓊的一首詩。許多年前，我還在深圳當自由撰稿人，年輕的鄭小瓊還在東莞一間五金廠打工。一次偶然的聚會，我讀到了她的一首詩，《黃麻嶺》，當時淚奔，嚎啕大哭，把聚會的朋友們嚇壞了。后來，我在散文《尋親記》中，引用了她的這首詩，以表達敬意，同時，也是向千千萬萬的打工者們致敬。

現在，我想再讀一讀她的這首詩：

我把自己的肉體與靈魂安頓在這個小鎮(zhèn)上 

它的荔枝林，它的街道，它的流水線一個小小的卡座 

它的雨水淋濕的思念，一趟趟，一次次  

我在它的上面安置我的理想，愛情，美夢，青春 

我的情人，聲音，氣味，生命 

在異鄉(xiāng)，在它的黯淡的街燈下 

我奔波，我淋著雨水和汗水，喘著氣 

——我把生活擺在塑料產品，螺絲，釘子 

在一張小小的工卡上……我的生活全部 

啊，我把自己交給它，一個小小的村莊 

風吹走我的一切 

我剩下的蒼老，回家 

有人衣錦榮歸，有人只余下蒼老回家。有人生活鮮花著錦烈火烹油，有人兩手空空一無所有。

接著講故事。我的這位同學和我的爭論沒有結果。我們觀察社會的角度不同，結論自然不一樣。富豪同學告訴我，當年的初中同學建了一個微信群。群里的同學們時常聊起我。他把我拉進了群。三十年前的同學，大多數我已記不起名字，沒有一絲印象。同學們熱情歡迎了我這個所謂的大作家。我驚奇地發(fā)現，當年湖北石首調關鎮(zhèn)一所普通鄉(xiāng)村中學，一個班五十個同學，現在群里聚集了近四十七人。這四十七人中，身家過億的富豪居然有十多位。我發(fā)現一件很有意思的事，當年這批同學，初中畢業(yè)就出門打工的，大多成了富豪，而當年學習成績好，上高中大學的，現在或者當普通教師，或者在政府某個部門混個小處長。我突然理解了富豪同學所說的，我們這代人是幸運的。1987年，我們初中畢業(yè)，那些早早離開農村到廣東打工的，在經歷磨難之后，抓住改革開放之初的機遇，實現了他們的財富夢。

似乎可以換個角度來看中國的這三十年。

說完富豪同學，我再說另外一個人的故事。這個人是我的叔叔。我曾經在散文《四十年來丹青夢》中寫過他。我把這篇文章中叔叔的一段讀讀：

當作家，是許多年以后的事，我少時的夢想，本是想當畫家的。

這夢想，大抵源于我幺叔的影響。我幺叔是鄉(xiāng)間少有的才子，寫一筆漂亮的趙體字，會許多種樂器：月琴、口琴、琵琶、二胡、手風琴、腳風琴、笛子、吉他……幺叔講過，他童年時，一次放學路上，聽見有人吹口琴，那是他第一次聽人吹口琴，聽得入了迷，跟著那人走了很遠，天黑了，他迷了路。后來，我以此為原型，寫成了短篇小說《口琴，獐子和語文書》，那小說，是幺叔的故事與我的故事的結合體。

幺叔還會寫鵲體字，用一塊橡皮，沾了廣告色，幾筆就畫出一只喜鵲、蝴蝶，再添幾枝梅花、竹枝、蘭草，組合成字。過春節(jié)時，別人門前貼墨筆字春聯，幺叔家門前貼神奇的鵲體字。我在南方的工業(yè)區(qū)和一些旅游景點見過寫鵲體字的，給人寫一條姓名收費三十元，全是一些彎彎繞，一只鵲也沒有，比起我幺叔，相差遠矣。

幺叔還會作畫，常畫迎客松和桂林山水。天知道，他怎么會那么多！

我父親說，這些都是他瞟學的。

所謂瞟學，瞟一眼就會了。我父親說這話時，很是驕傲。父親從未因我而驕傲，卻常為我幺叔驕傲。

我的整個童年和少年時期，幺叔是絕對的偶像，我無限崇拜他，喜歡聽他坐在月光下用二胡拉《天涯歌女》，“小妹妹唱歌郎奏琴，郎呀咱們倆是一條心……”

幺叔本有極好的前程，他學習成績好極了，從來都是老師們的寵兒，但“文革”開始了，幺叔扎根新農村，一扎，就是一輩子。

我曾偷偷翻看過幺叔的畢業(yè)留言冊，上面寫滿了同學們真摯豪邁的祝福，“翠竹根連根，學友心連心，我們齊努力，扎根新農村。”幺叔回家后進了大隊小學當民辦教師，教了一輩子書，大隊變村，后來，村里的孩子越來越少，村小撤了，幺叔下崗，拿了國家三千元補貼。幺叔老了，不再吹拉彈唱，不再畫畫，只在春節(jié)寫春聯時，才拿一下毛筆，也不再寫鵲體字。再后來，年近六十的幺叔出門打工，在佛山、東莞漂泊。年紀大了，不好找工，在陶瓷廠當搬運，那是我當年干了幾天就逃之夭夭的苦力活。

讀到這里，我們不妨假設，如果我叔叔和我一樣，遇上了農民可以自由流動的時代，他會成為怎樣人？比我優(yōu)秀得多的作家？音樂家？大企業(yè)家？他的人生有無數種可能，但是他們這代人只有一種可能。

我甚至想到了我的父親。我父親只上過半年學，可他不是文盲，他能讀書看報，會打算盤，年輕時當過大隊的財經大隊長。我父親在本村農民中有很高的威望。有些人家里遇上糾紛，會請他去主持公道。他有很強的統籌管理能力，鄉(xiāng)親們家有人辦喜事，往往會請他當“都管”。我記得在上世紀八十年代中期，農民沒有自由買賣糧食的權力，生產出來的糧食只能以規(guī)定的低價賣給國家。稱之為交余糧。余糧上交，拿不到現金，只有一張白條。農民沒辦法生存，于是我父親帶領村民抗糧不交，被鄉(xiāng)政府派人捆走，我記得那一夜晚，村里的父老鄉(xiāng)親聚集在鄉(xiāng)政府請愿，地上跪了黑壓壓一片，在他們的壓力下，鄉(xiāng)政府放了我父親。我說這些，是說，我的父親是個有組織能力的人，是個意見領袖。我寫小說《尋根團》時，里面寫至鄉(xiāng)間的意見領袖王中秋時，就想到了我父親。但是，他一輩子的命運只能在鄉(xiāng)間老去。

說了這些人，回到這次論壇的主題：地域，流動和文學。

我想說，一個時代的文學，要關注這個時代最主要的問題。那么，對于中國來說，這幾十年來最主要的問題是什么？或者說，中國最大的改變是什么？是人口不再受出生地域的限制，可以自由流動。當然，改革開放之初，大量人口自由流動，幾千萬人涌入廣東，廣東無法承接這么多的勞動力，許多人找不到工作，招一個工人，往往有上百人搶。勞資關系中，資方處于絕對強勢地位，于是，工人的利益被最小化，而資方的利益被最大化，勞資關系十分緊張。那些在早期開始開工廠做經營的，他們的第一桶金，充滿了原罪。過多的勞動力涌入，給廣東的治安帶來了尖銳的問題，于是，收容遣送，成為反人性但又行之有效的手段。直到那個叫孫志剛的青年大學生被收容遣送致死后，收容遣送條例才廢止。收容，成為我們那一代打工者無法回避的命題，也是無法忘卻的噩夢。而這背后，是復雜的中國問題，中國經驗。這就是中國，我的富豪同學的命運，我的叔叔和父親的命運，無數打工者帶著蒼老回家的命運。這是中國制造背后復雜而糾結的關系。這是我們這個時代最大的改變。

2008年，我的中篇小說《國家訂單》在人民文學刊發(fā)，卷首語曾這樣寫道：三十年來，無數的中國人在這樣的清晨離開了他們的村莊，懷著對外面的廣大世界的夢想開始漂泊與勞作。他們是“中國奇跡”的創(chuàng)造者，他們使中國成為世界工廠，使“中國制造”遍布世界的各個角落。與此同時，他們也在創(chuàng)造著自身的生活和命運，他們夢想著奇跡，而前所未有的機會與自由在這個時代正向著人們敞開。王十月和小說里的那些打工者是一樣的人，和小說里的“小老板”也是一樣的人。他知道他們?yōu)槭裁醋叱鰜恚仓浪麄兪窃鯓訌碗s地酸甜苦辣地走向今天。

流動。

這是中國前所未有的景象，數億農民離開了土地，離開了固守的地域，在大地上流動。而這流動帶來的一系列復雜的改變，這背后的酸甜苦辣，這背后的國家意志與個人夢想，造就了中國神話。這這近四十年來，中國最主要的真實。如果中國作家無視這個巨大的真實，回避它，不去書寫，這代作家是不稱職的。正如，如果唐詩沒有杜甫用他沉郁的詩歌將個人離亂與家國動蕩記錄在案，那一代詩人是失職的一樣。所幸，有許多人在書寫中國這一段經驗，這樣的書寫被稱之為打工文學。打工文學這個叫法自然不科學，我們可以不去管它叫什么文學，我想介紹的是這樣一種文學的存在。在中國，它被認為是低級的，是邊緣的，是登不了大雅之堂的。但我想，這樣的中國經驗，是我們這代作家必需面對和回答的：

我們這個時代，究竟發(fā)生了什么。

Mobility, the Main Chinese Reality in the Past Four Decades

Wang Shiyue

I want to share with you a story first.

Just about one day before I wrote this speech, one of my junior high school classmates, with whom I had been out of touch for nearly 30 years, contacted me on WeChat. During our conversation, he told me that back then, he was just as passionate about literature as I was, and “unconvinced” that our teacher always praised me for my articles and read them aloud to the whole class, because he thought the teacher did not appreciate his writing for its true value. He even secretly hid one of my composition notebooks. Afterward, just like me, after graduating from junior high school he left the hometown, an average village, on the south bank of the Jianghan Plain, in the middle reach of the Yangtze River. He made the same choice as me: leaving for Guangdong. He worked in Dongguan and did toilsome manual work. Even so, he thought Chinese people born in the 1970s were lucky enough, for the generation of our parents, born in rural areas, had no choice but to toil hard in the fields for their whole life, even when they actually might have the ability to do much more. For those who were born in the cities, there were just as few options. They might work in factories as ordinary workers until retirement, with no chance to get promoted. People of our generation have more choices, freedom and opportunities. Of course, he didn’t forget to mention that his business was successful.         

He made a point of saying that he was possibly even more successful than I could imagine.

I told him that I had no idea how big his business was. He explained that his company was a market leader in a specific field of a certain industry, with an annual turnover of RMB 700 million yuan. Two years ago, he moved his factory from Dongguan to Hubei Province. That factory occupies a surface of dozens of hectares, employs more than 10 thousand employees, and the company has launched an IPO. I told him he thought our generation was lucky because he succeeded after all the bitter years he endured and he naturally considered those who still had not succeeded in such wonderful times as stupid. From my perspective, such successful stories represent only a small part of the whole story of this era; behind each of them stand numerous average workers who work in sweatshops and contribute all of their energy and youth, but harvest little in return. My billionaire friend said it was an economic law that many people’s efforts have to fail in order to bring about the success of a few, and to trigger social and economic development.

I’m a layman in economy, and perhaps my friend is right. As a writer, my perspective is obviously different from his. He pays attention to the opportunities the times bring to our generation and create successful people like him; by contrast, what I’m concerned about is the unsuccessful majority who are carried away by the overwhelming tide of the times. I remember a poem written by Zheng Xiaoqiong, my colleague and a poet. Many years ago, when I was a free-lance writer in Shenzhen and she was working in a hardware factory in Dongguan, at a party I happened to read one of her poems, Huangmaling. At that time I was in tears, and crying so loudly that my friends were left speechless. Later on, I quoted a few verses of this poem in my essay Looking for My Kin to show my respect to her, and to all the hundreds of thousands of migrant workers.  

Now please allow me to read this poem to you:

I rest my body and soul in this small town

Among its lychee trees, its streets, on the small seat by the assembly line  

Its rain soaks my nostalgia through, over and over again  

Here I lay down my dreams, my love, my fond dreams and my youth

My lover, my voice, my scent and my life

Far away from home, in the dim street light

I run, drenched in rain and sweat, gasped

I build my life from plastic products, screwdrivers and nails

On this small work card, my whole life stands

Ah, I give everything to it, this small village

And the wind scatters it all away

Only my old age remains—time to go home  

Some people return to their hometowns with fame and wealth; others, only with their old age. Some people lead a life full of glory and abundance, while others gain nothing at all.

I will go on with my storytelling. My classmate and I didn’t come to a common understanding of things during our discussion, for we had different perspectives on society. My rich classmate told me our junior high school classmates had set up a WeChat group, and they often talked about me. He then invited me into the group. Having lost contact with these classmates for 30 years, I couldn’t recall most of their names or faces. They welcomed me warm-heartedly, as in their eyes I was a famous writer. Among the 50 students in our class, 47 of them were present in the group. Our school was just an ordinary school in Diaoguan Town of Shishou City, Hubei Province; but to my surprise, more than 10 of my fellow students possess assets of over RMB 100 million yuan. What I found interesting was that the rich classmates were those who had worked away from our hometown upon graduating from junior high school, and those who had academic abilities and went to high school or even college now were only ordinary teachers or held humble positions in governmental departments. I suddenly realized why my rich classmate believed we were lucky. In 1987, when we graduated from junior high school, those who went to Guangdong to make a living seized the opportunities brought by the reform and opening-up policy, and eventually made a fortune thanks to their efforts.

It seems that we can look upon China’s past 30 years from another angle.

After the story of my rich classmate, I want to talk about my uncle. I depicted him in my essay The Painting Dream of 40 Years, and I want to read an excerpt of it:

To be a writer is a goal I decided upon after I grew up; when I was young, I always dreamed of being a painter.

This dream is probably due to the influence of my uncle. He was a rare talent in such a rural place. He had beautiful handwriting with Zhao Mengfu’s characteristic, and he could play many instruments, including the yueqin, the harmonica, the pipa, the erhu, the accordion, the harmonium, the bamboo flute, and the guitar. My uncle told us that once, when he was a kid, as he was on his way back home from school, he heard someone playing the harmonica. That was the first time he had ever heard anyone playing the harmonica, and he totally lost himself in the melody. So he followed that person for a long way, until it got really dark and he lost his way. When I became a writer, I wrote a short story titled Harmonica, Musk Deer and Chinese Textbook, which was based on a combination of my uncle’s story and my own story.

My uncle could write a special style of calligraphy called “the magpie style.” With a rubber eraser dipped in paint, he could draw characters that were a combination of magpies, butterflies, plums, bamboo branches and orchids—all in just a few strokes. During the Spring Festival, while other people’s doors were framed by new year scrolls written in black ink, my uncle’s doorway was decorated by these mysterious “magpie calligraphies.” I saw other people writing such calligraphy in industrial parks in south China and in certain touristic locations. The painters usually charged RMB 30 yuan for writing a customer’s name. But these “artworks” were actually nothing more than a cluster of curvy strokes without any magpies at all, and were definitely no match for those that my uncle wrote.

My uncle could paint too. He loved to paint The Pine Greeting Guests and Guilin landscapes. How could he be so gifted!

According to my father, my uncle learned all these just by glimpsing.  

What he meant was that my uncle only needed to catch a few glimpses of others drawing or playing instruments to master these skills. My father was very proud when he told me all these. While he never felt proud about me, he often talked about my uncle proudly. 

My uncle was my absolute role model during my childhood and adolescence. I worshipped him so much, and enjoyed listening to him playing the Erhu and singing The Wandering Songstress in the moonlight: “The girl sings while the boy plays music, they are made for each other so wonderfully…”

My uncle could have a promising future, because he was so academically gifted and praised highly by his teachers. But the Great Cultural Revolution changed his fate. My uncle was sent to work in a rural area, and he stayed there until he was old.

I used to secretly leaf through my uncle’s school yearbook. The pages were covered with the sincere wishes and ambitious words by his classmates, such as: “The roots of bamboos grow close to each other; our hearts are linked, and we will strive together to serve the rural places”. My uncle became a primary school teacher in our production brigade, teaching for all his life. Many years later, the brigade was turned into a village. The school children grew fewer and fewer, until the school was closed at last. My uncle lost his job, and received state subsidies of RMB 3000 yuan. He was not young any more. He didn’t play any instruments, nor did he paint. He used a brush only for writing Spring Festival couplets, and he just wrote ordinary characters instead of the “magpie characters”. At the age of nearly 60 years old, he decided to make a living far from home, drifting to Foshan and Dongguan. He was too old to get a good job and had no choice but to become a porter in a ceramics factory, an exhausting job that I did, too, and quit only a few days after I started.

Now let’s suppose that my uncle had been lucky enough to have the same options as me in an era where people from rural areas had the freedom to seek chances wherever they wanted. What could he become? A much better writer than me? A musician? A successful entrepreneur? His life should have had numerous possibilities. But for his generation, there was only one possibility.  

I even think of my father, who only received education for half a year. He isn’t illiterate. He can read, he knows how to use an abacus, and when he was young, he did the financial management for the village. He was highly admired in his village, and people often asked for his help in settling disputes. Because he also possessed strong organizational abilities, the villagers often counted on him to organize wedding dinners. I recall that in the mid-1980s Chinese farmers were not allowed to trade grain, and were ordered to sell agricultural produce to the government at very low prices. This was the so-called “hand in the extra food” policy. Usually, the villagers handed in their “extra food” but received no cash in exchange, only a debit note issued by the government. The villagers struggled to make a living. My father led his villagers to oppose the policy, and was arrested by the local government. On that night, many of his fellow villagers kneeled in front of the government office, petitioning the authorities to release my father. Under the pressure, the government set my father free. What I want to say is that my father is a man with excellent organizational capacity, an opinion leader. When I was depicting the character Wang Zhongqiu, an opinion leader, in my novel Seeking for Roots, I thought of my father. My father spent his lifetime in the village; he had no other choice. 

Let’s return to the topic of this forum: “Region, Mobility and Literature”.

I’d like to say that a writer should pay close attention to the main social reality of his time. What has been the main social reality in China over the past few decades? Or what is the biggest change happening in China? The answer is that Chinese people are no longer constrained to remain where they were born, and are able to move around freely. During the first several years after the reform and opening-up policy was announced, thousands and thousands of people flooded into Guangdong Province to seek for jobs. But the province hadn’t enough “carrying capacity”, many migrants couldn’t find jobs, or hundreds of people had to compete fiercely for a single position. The employers had the absolute upper hand in the labor relations, where the interests of workers were disregarded, and those of the employers overvalued. The relationship between employers and workers was very tense. People who started their own business early earned their first pot of gold by taking advantage of the workers. Besides, the huge migrant population brought the province serious security issues. To respond to such problems, the government adopted the Housing and Sending back policy, which was inhumane but effective. The policy was not abandoned until Sun Zhigang, a college student, was tortured to death after his sending back. The policy was a nightmare that no migrant worker of our generation could ignore. Underlying this was the complex issue of China itself, and of the Chinese experience. This is China. This is the destiny of my rich classmate, of my uncle and my father, and of numerous migrant workers who returned home in their old age. What lies behind the “Made in China” phenomenon is a complicated tangle. This constitutes the biggest change of our times.

In 2008, my novella The Nation’s Order for Goods was published by People’s Literature. In the preface, I wrote: “For nearly 30 years, numerous Chinese have departed from their villages in such an early morning to the vast outside world, and began their journey of dreaming, drifting and striving. They created the Chinese Miracle, making China the “world factory” and making “Made in China” products ubiquitous all over the world. At the same time, they were building their own lives and writing their own fates. They were dreaming of miracles taking place, with unprecedented opportunities open to them. I was the same as the migrant workers and small business owners in my fictions. I know why they chose to leave their hometowns and all the vicissitudes of life they have tasted from the beginning until now.”

Mobility.

This is an unprecedented phenomenon in China: tens of millions of farmers leave their lands and seek opportunities all over the country. Dramatic changes happening everywhere, a huge number of people experiencing ups and downs, the will of the nation and the dreams of individuals—all of these elements, together, have created the “Chinese Miracle”. This is the main social reality of China. If a writer ignores such a reality and refuses to talk about it, he or she isn’t a qualified writer. Similarly, if the Tang-dynasty poet Du Fu had not written verses full of melancholy about people’s misery in the country’s turmoil, he would not be a great poet. I’m glad that there are so many writers recording what is happening in the country. Their works have been called “the migrant worker literature”, which actually isn’t a proper name. I don’t mind what it is called; I just want everyone to know it does exist. In China, such literature is considered rustic, marginal and not worth mentioning. But I think Chinese writers have the responsibility to think about what on earth is happening in this era.