The most important thing, therefore, was to change their spirit, and since at that time I felt that literature was the best means to this end, I determined to promote a literary movement.
There were many Chinese students in Tokyo studying law, political science, physics and chemistry, even police work and engineering, but not one studying literature or art.
However, even in this uncongenial atmosphere I was fortunate enough to find some kindred spirits.
We gathered the few others we needed, and after discussion our first step, of course, was to publish a magazine, the title of which denoted that this was a new birth.
As we were then rather classically inclined, we called it Xin Sheng (New Life).
When the time for publication drew near, some of our contributors dropped out, and then our funds were withdrawn, until finally there were only three of us left, and we were penniless.
Since we had started our magazine at an unlucky hour, there was naturally no one to whom we could complain when we failed;
but later even we three were destined to part, and our discussions of a dream future had to cease.
So ended this abortive New Life.
Only later did I feel the futility of it all; at that time I did not really understand anything.
Later I felt if a man’s proposals met with approval, it should encourage him; if they met with opposition, it should make him fight back; but the real tragedy for him was to lift up his voice among the living and meet with no response, neither approval nor opposition, just as if he were left helpless in a boundless desert.
So I began to feel lonely.
And this feeling of loneliness grew day by day, coiling about my soul like a huge poisonous snake.
Yet in spite of my unaccountable sadness, I felt no indignation; for this experience had made me reflect and see that I was definitely not the heroic type who could rally multitudes at his call.
However, my loneliness had to be dispelled, for it was causing me agony.
So I used various means to dull my senses, both by conforming to the spirit of the time and turning to the past.
Later I experienced or witnessed even greater loneliness and sadness, which I do not like to recall, preferring that it should perish with me.
Still my attempt to deaden my senses was not unsuccessful—I had lost the enthusiasm and fervour of my youth.
In S—— Hostel there were three rooms where it was said a woman had lived who hanged herself on the locust tree in the courtyard.
Although the tree had grown so tall that its branches could no longer be reached, the rooms remained deserted.
For some years I stayed here, copying ancient inscriptions.
I had few visitors, there were no political problems or issues in those inscriptions, and my only desire was that my life should slip quietly away like this.
On summer nights, when there were too many mosquitoes, I would sit under the locust tree, waving my fan and looking at the specks of sky through the thick leaves, while the caterpillars which came out in the evening would fall, icy-cold, on to my neck.
The only visitor to come for an occasional talk was my old friend Chin Hsin-yi.
He would put his big portfolio down on the broken table, take off his long gown, and sit facing me, looking as if his heart was still beating fast after braving the dogs.
“What is the use of copying these?” he demanded inquisitively one night, after looking through the inscriptions I had copied.
“No use at all.”
“Then why copy them?”
“For no particular reason.”
“I think you might write something….”
They were editing the magazine New Youth,3 but hitherto there seemed to have been no reaction, favourable or otherwise, and I guessed they must be feeling lonely.
However I said:
“Imagine an iron house without windows, absolutely indestructible, with many people fast asleep inside who will soon die of suffocation.
But you know since they will die in their sleep, they will not feel the pain of death.
Now if you cry aloud to wake a few of the lighter sleepers, making those unfortunate few suffer the agony of irrevocable death, do you think you are doing them a good turn?”
“But if a few awake, you can’t say there is no hope of destroying the iron house.”
True, in spite of my own conviction, I could not blot out hope, for hope lies in the future.
I could not use my own evidence to refute his assertion that it might exist.
So I agreed to write, and the result was my first story, A Madman’s Diary.
From that time onwards, I could not stop writing, and would write some sort of short story from time to time at the request of friends, until I had more than a dozen of them.
As for myself, I no longer feel any great urge to express myself; yet, perhaps because I have not entirely forgotten the grief of my past loneliness.
I sometimes call out, to encourage those fighters who are galloping on in loneliness, so that they do not lose heart.
Whether my cry is brave or sad, repellent or ridiculous, I do not care.
However, since it is a call to arms, I must naturally obey my general’s orders.
This is why I often resort to innuendoes, as when I made a wreath appear from nowhere at the son’s grave in Medicine, while in Tomorrow I did not say that Fourth Shan’s Wife had no dreams of her little boy.
For our chiefs then were against pessimism.
And I, for my part, did not want to infect with the loneliness I had found so bitter those young people who were still dreaming pleasant dreams, just as I had done when young.
It is clear, then, that my short stories fall far short of being works of art; hence I count myself fortunate that they are still known as stories, and are even being compiled in one book.
Although such good fortune makes me uneasy, I am nevertheless pleased to think they have readers in the world of men, for the time being at least.
Since these short stories of mine are being reprinted in one collection, owing to the reasons given above, I have chosen the title Na Han (Call to Arms).
December 3, 1922, Peking