第一章 序 (Chapter One: Preface)

I had planned to write a True Story for Ah Q for more than a year or two. But while I was about it, I would think twice, which shows I am not one “to establish words,” for from time immemorial, the immortal pen must transmit an immortal person, so the person is transmitted through the writing, and the writing through the person—in the end, who depends on whom for transmission gradually becomes unclear, and finally it all comes down to writing the biography of Ah Q, as if a ghost lurked in my thoughts.

However, when I set pen to paper for this perishable piece, I immediately encountered extreme difficulties. The first was the title. Confucius said, “If names are not correct, words cannot be proper.” This is something to be extremely careful about. There are many categories of biography: collective biography, autobiography, inner biography, unofficial biography, supplementary biography, family biography, brief biography... but unfortunately, none of them suited. “collective biography”? This piece is not to be included among the many eminent figures in the “official history.” “autobiography”? I am not Ah Q. If I call it an “unofficial biography,” where is the “inner biography”? If I use “inner biography,” Ah Q is certainly no immortal. “supplementary biography”? Ah Q has never been ordered by presidential decree to have a “standard biography” established in the National History Museum—though it is true that English official history contains no “collective biography of gamblers,” yet the great writer Dickens once wrote a book called “The supplementary biography of a Gambler.” But that is permissible for a great writer, not for the likes of me. Next, “family biography”: I neither know whether I share the same clan with Ah Q nor have I been entrusted by his descendants. Or “brief biography”: Ah Q has no other “great biography.” In short, this piece is indeed a “standard biography,” but considering my writing, since the style is lowly, being the language of “lowly tradesmen,” I dare not arrogate the term; thus I borrow the phrase “True Story” from the hackneyed saying of those novelists not admitted to the respectable circles—“enough digression, let’s get to the real story”—to serve as the title, even if it is verbally confused with the “True Story” in the ancient work “The True Record of Calligraphy,” I cannot help it.

Second, the common practice in writing a biography is to begin with “So-and-so, styled so-and-so, a native of such-and-such a place,” but I do not know what Ah Q’s surname was. Once, it seemed he was surnamed Zhao, but the next day it became hazy. That was when the son of Zhao Taiye passed the licentiate. As gongs clamored into the village, Ah Q, having just drunk two bowls of yellow wine, began to wave his arms and dance, saying that this also brought him great honor, for he and Zhao Taiye were originally clansman, and if you traced it carefully, he was three generations senior to the licentiate. At the time, a few bystanders did show some awe and respect. But on the next day, the constable summoned Ah Q to Zhao Taiye’s house. When the old master saw him, his face crimsoned, and he shouted, “Ah Q, you rascal! Are you claiming to be my clansman?” Ah Q said nothing. Zhao Taiye, growing angrier with every look, strode forward and said, “How dare you talk nonsense! How could I have a clansman like you? Are you surnamed Zhao?” Ah Q said nothing and tried to retreat. Zhao Taiye leaped over and slapped him across the face. “How could you be surnamed Zhao? Do you deserve to be surnamed Zhao?” Ah Q did not protest that he was indeed surnamed Zhao; he merely rubbed his left cheek and withdrew with the constable. Outside, he was berated again by the constable, and after paying him two hundred cash for wine, he thanked him. Those who knew the story said that Ah Q was too absurd, going out of his way to be beaten; he was probably not surnamed Zhao at all, and even if he really were, with Zhao Taiye around, he should not have spoken such nonsense. After that, no one ever mentioned his clan again, so in the end I never found out what Ah Q’s surname really was.

Third, I do not know how to write Ah Q’s name. When he was alive, everyone called him Ah Quei; after his death, no one called him that anymore, so how then could it be committed to bamboo and silk? As for being recorded on bamboo and silk, this article is the first, so I encountered this first difficulty. I thought carefully: Was Ah Quei “Ah Gui” (meaning cassia) or “Ah Gui” (meaning nobility)? If his style was Moon Pavilion, or if he had his birthday in the eighth month, then it must be “Ah Gui” referring to the cassia tree; but since he had no style name—though he might have had one, just nobody knew it—and had never sent out invitations seeking poems for his birthday, writing it as “Ah Gui” (cassia) would be arbitrary. Again, if he had an elder brother or younger brother named “Ah Fu” (prosperity), then it must be “Ah Gui” (nobility); but he was alone, so writing it as “Ah Gui” (nobility) had no supporting evidence. Other uncommon characters pronounced “Quei” were even more impossible to match. Earlier, I had asked Zhao Taiye’s son, the scholar, but even someone as learned as he was at a loss. According to his conclusion, it was because Chen Duxiu started the New Youth and advocated foreign script, causing the <<<national essence>> to be lost, so there was no way to find out. My last resort was to entrust a fellow townsman to check the case files concerning Ah Q. Eight months later, a reply came saying that there was no one in the files whose name sounded like Ah Quei. I did not know whether there really was none or it had not been searched, but I had no other method. Fearing that the phonetic alphabet was not yet in common use, I had to use foreign script, spelling his name as Ah Quei following the common English practice, and abbreviating it as Ah Q. This is almost blindly following the New Youth, for which I am sorry, but when even the scholar did not know, what better method could I have?

Fourth, there is Ah Q’s native place. If he were surnamed Zhao, then according to the current practice of claiming one’s ancestral home, one might say, per the annotation in the “Provincial Names” section of the Hundred Family Surnames, that he was a native of “Longxi Tianshui.” But unfortunately, this surname is not reliable, so his native place is also uncertain. Although he mostly lived in Weizhuang, he often lodged elsewhere, so he cannot be called a native of Weizhuang. Even if I said he was “a native of Weizhuang,” that would still violate the rules of historiography.

My only consolation is that the syllable “A” is absolutely correct, with no flaw of false analogy or borrowing, and I may present it for correction by the learned. As for the rest, they are beyond the grasp of shallow learning like mine. I only hope that among the disciples of Mr. Hu Shih, who has a “mania for history and textual criticism,” some may in the future unearth many new clues. But by that time, I am afraid my True Story of Ah Q will have long since vanished.

The above may be considered the preface.