6Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)Diary of a MadmanChineseModernismD

6
Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)
Diary of a MadmanChineseModernism
"Diary of a Madman" is a famous short story by Lu Xun, who is
regarded as a great writer of modern Chinese literature. Lu Xun
(surname: Lu, and the pen name of Zhou Shuren) was a short
story writer, translator, essayist, and literary scholar. Although
Lu was educated in the Confucian tradition when he was young,
he later received a modern western education; he studied
modern medicine in Japan and was exposed to western literature
(including English, German, and Russian literatures). In 1918,
"Diary of a Madman" was published in New Youth, a magazine
of the New Culture Movement that promoted democracy,
egalitarianism, vernacular literature, individual freedom, and
women's rights. Inspired by the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol's
story of the same title, Lu wrote this story, which is the first
western-style story in vernacular Chinese. The cannibalistic
society that the madman narrator sees is generally interpreted as
a satirical allegory of traditional Chinese society based on
Confucianism. Although Lu and his works were associated with
leftist ideas (and Mao Zedong favored Lu's works), Lu never
joined the Communist Party of China. The English translations
of this short story include a version by William A. Lyell, a
former professor of Chinese at Stanford University. Consider
while reading:What elements of detective fiction does Borges
include in "The Garden of Forking Paths"?How does having
multiple possible outcomes influence the resolution of the
text?How does Borges use the symbolism of the
labyrinth?Borges is known for his use of magical realism and
his work in the science fiction genre. How does Borges
incorporate magical realism into "The Garden of the Forking
Paths?" What effect does it create?

Kwon, Kyounghye. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World
Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega,
GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.
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THE GARDEN PARTY
License: Public Domain
Katherine Mansfield
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a
more perfect
day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm,
the sky without a
cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it
is sometimes in
early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing
the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where
the daisy plants
had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help
feeling they
understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people a t
garden-parties;
the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.
Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes
bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the
marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave
everything to
you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an
honoured
guest."
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had
washed her
hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green
turban, with a
dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always
came down in a
silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter.
It's so delicious
to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she loved
having to
arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better
than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the
garden path.
They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had
big tool-bags slung
on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that
she had not got
the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she
couldn't possibly
throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a

little bit short-
sighted as she came up to them.
"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that
sounded so
fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a
little girl, "Oh—er
—have you come—is it about the marquee?"
"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky,
freckled fellow, and he
shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled
down at her. "That's
about it."
His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What
nice eyes he
had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the
others, they were
smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed to
say. How very nice
workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't
mention the
morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.
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"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"
And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold
the bread-and-
butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat

chap thrust out his
under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.
"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see,
with a thing like
a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want
to put it
somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you
follow me."
Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it
was quite
respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye.
But she did quite
follow him.
"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's
going to be in
one corner."
"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the
workmen. He was
pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-
court. What was
he thinking?
"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he
wouldn't mind so
much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow
interrupted.
"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over
there. That'll do
fine."
Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden.

And they were so
lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of
yellow fruit. They
were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud,
solitary, lifting
their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour.
Must they be
hidden by a marquee?
They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and
were making for
the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a
sprig of
lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed
up the smell.
When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in
her wonder at
him caring for things like that—caring for the smell of lavender.
How many men
that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how
extraordinarily nice
workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen
for her friends
rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to
Sunday night
supper? She would get on much better with men like these.
It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something
on the back of
an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang,
of these absurd
class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't feel them. Not a
bit, not an
atom... And now there came the chock-chock of wooden
hammers. Some one
whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right there, matey?"

"Matey!" The
friendliness of it, the—the—Just to prove how happy she was,
just to show the
tall fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid
conventions, Laura
took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little
drawing. She felt
just like a work-girl.
"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried
from the
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house.
"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up
the steps, across
the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie
were brushing
their hats ready to go to the office.
"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a
squiz at my coat
before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing."
"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at
Laurie and
gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't
you?" gasped Laura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed
his sister too,
and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old
girl."
The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear.
Come to lunch?
Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch
meal—just the
sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's left
over. Yes, isn't it a
perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. One
moment—hold the
line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat back. "What, mother?
Can't hear."
Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear
that sweet hat
she had on last Sunday."
"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last
Sunday. Good. One
o'clock. Bye-bye."
Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took
a deep breath,
stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment
after the sigh she
sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the
house seemed to be
open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running
voices. The green
baize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut
with a muffled
thud. And now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It

was the heavy
piano being moved on its stiff castors. But the air! If you
stopped to notice, was
the air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase,
in at the tops of
the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of
sun, one on the
inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling
little spots.
Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm
little silver star.
She could have kissed it.
The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of
Sadie's print skirt
on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered,
careless, "I'm sure I
don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan."
"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.
"It's the florist, Miss Laura."
It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide,
shallow tray full of
pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna
lilies, big pink
flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright
crimson stems.
"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan.
She crouched
down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they
were in her fingers,
on her lips, growing in her breast.
"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so

many. Sadie, go
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and find mother."
But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.
"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't
they lovely?"
She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and
I saw them in
the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I shall
have enough
canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."
"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said
Laura. Sadie had
gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her
arm round her
mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear.
"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would
you? Don't do
that. Here's the man."
He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.
"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch,
please," said
Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, I do, mother."
In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last
succeeded in
moving the piano.
"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move
everything out of
the room except the chairs, don't you think?"
"Quite."
"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a
sweeper to take
these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—" Jose
loved giving orders
to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made
them feel they
were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to
come here at
once.
"Very good, Miss Jose."
She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like,
just in case I'm
asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is Weary.'"
Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that
Jose's face
changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and
enigmatically at her
mother and Laura as they came in.
This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,

A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
And then... Good-bye!
But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded
more desperate
than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully
unsympathetic smile.
"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.
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Hope comes to Die.
A Dream—a Wa-kening.
But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"
"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the
sandwiches?"
"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan
dreamily. And
the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me
see." And she
said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in ten

minutes."
Sadie went.
"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the
smoking-
room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope.
You'll have to
write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take
that wet thing off
your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you
hear me, children,
or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home to-night?
And—and, Jose,
pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified
of her this
morning."
The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock,
though how it
had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.
"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because
I remember
vividly—cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"
"Yes."
"Egg and—" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It
looks like
mice. It can't be mice, can it?"
"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.
"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds.
Egg and olive."
They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the
kitchen. She found

Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.
"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's
rapturous voice.
"How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"
"Fifteen, Miss Jose."
"Well, cook, I congratulate you."
Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled
broadly.
"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the
pantry. She had
seen the man pass the window.
That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for
their cream
puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.
"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered
cook.
Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course
Laura and Jose
were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the
same, they
couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive.
Very. Cook began
arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.
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"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura.
"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be
carried back.
"They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say."
"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice.
"Yer ma won't
know."
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The
very idea made
one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura
were licking their
fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from
whipped cream.
"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested
Laura. "I want to see
how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such
awfully nice men."
But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man
and Hans.
Something had happened.
"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her
hand clapped
to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was
screwed up in the
effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying
himself; it was
his story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."
"A man killed! Where? How? When?"
But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from
under his very
nose.
"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them?
Of course,
she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name
of Scott, a carter.
His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this
morning, and
he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed."
"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.
"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish.
"They were
taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the
cook, "He's left a
wife and five little ones."
"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and
dragged her
through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door.
There she paused
and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however are
we going to stop
everything?"
"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do
you mean?"
"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My
dear Laura, don't
be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind.
Nobody expects us to.
Don't be so extravagant."
"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just
outside the
front gate."
That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a
lane to themselves
at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A
broad road ran
between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest
possible eyesore,
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and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They
were little mean
dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches
there was nothing
but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke
coming out of
their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of
smoke, so unlike
the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans'
chimneys.

Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a
man whose
house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages.
Children swarmed.
When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot
there because of
the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since
they were grown
up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked
through. It was
disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still
one must go
everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.
"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor
woman," said
Laura.
"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're
going to stop a
band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a
very strenuous
life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as
sympathetic." Her eyes
hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they
were little and
fighting together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to
life by being
sentimental," she said softly.
"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on
Jose. She said,
just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going
straight up to tell
mother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose.
"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big
glass door-knob.
"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you
such a colour?"
And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She
was trying on a
new hat.
"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.
"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.
"No, no!"
"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with
relief, and took off
the big hat and held it on her knees.
"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she
told the
dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?"
she pleaded. "The
band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're
nearly neighbours!"
To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it
was harder to
bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura
seriously.
"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by
accident we've heard
of it. If some one had died there normally—and I can't
understand how they keep
alive in those poky little holes—we should still be having our
party, shouldn't

we?"
Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She
sat down on
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her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.
"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.
"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying
the hat. Before
Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her
mother, "the hat
is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have
never seen you
look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up her
hand-mirror.
"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself;
she turned
aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.
"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People
like that don't
expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil
everybody's
enjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of
the room into
her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she
saw was this
charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold
daisies, and a
long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could
look like that. Is
mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was
right. Am I being
extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she
had another
glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the
body being carried
into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture
in the newspaper.
I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And
somehow that
seemed quite the best plan...
Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all
ready for the
fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in
a corner of the
tennis-court.
"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for
words? You
ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor
in the middle
on a leaf."
Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight
of him Laura
remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If

Laurie agreed with the
others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him
into the hall.
"Laurie!"
"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round
and saw Laura
he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her.
"My word, Laura!
You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely
topping hat!"
Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't
tell him after all.
Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band
struck up; the hired
waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you
looked there were
couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on
over the lawn.
They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans'
garden for this
one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, what happiness it is
to be with
people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile
into eyes.
"Darling Laura, how well you look!"
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"What a becoming hat, child!"
"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so
striking."
And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't
you have an
ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to
her father and
begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something to
drink?"
And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly
its petals
closed.
"Never a more delightful garden-party... " "The greatest
success... " "Quite the
most... "
Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by
side in the
porch till it was all over.
"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round
up the others,
Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes,
it's been very
successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you
children insist on
giving parties!" And they all of them sat down in the deserted
marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."
"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone.
He took
another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that
happened to-day?"
he said.
"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It
nearly ruined
the party. Laura insisted we should put it off."
"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it.
"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The
chap was
married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and
half a dozen
kiddies, so they say."
An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her
cup. Really, it
was very tactless of father...
Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those
sandwiches, cakes,
puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her
brilliant ideas.
"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor
creature some
of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest
treat for the
children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours
calling in and so

on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!" She
jumped up. "Get me
the big basket out of the stairs cupboard."
"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.
Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all.
To take scraps
from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?
"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two
ago you were
insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—"
Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped
by her mother.
"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are.
No, wait, take
the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by
arum lilies."
"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.
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So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And,
Laura!"—her mother
followed her out of the marquee—"don't on any account—"
"What mother?"
No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing!

Run along."
It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A
big dog ran by
like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the
hollow the little
cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the
afternoon. Here she
was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead,
and she couldn't
realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it
seemed to her that
kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed
grass were
somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How
strange! She
looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it was
the most
successful party."
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and
dark. Women in
shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the
palings; the
children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the
mean little cottages.
In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow,
crab-like, moved
across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She
wished now she had
put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the
velvet streamer—if
only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They
must be. It was a
mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake.
Should she go back

even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of
people stood
outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a
chair, watching.
She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura
drew near. The
group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they
had known she
was coming here.
Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her
shoulder, she
said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and
the woman,
smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."
Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as
she walked up
the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes,
or to be covered
up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave
the basket and
go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.
Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the
gloom.
Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the w oman
answered,
"Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in the passage.
"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave
this basket.
Mother sent—"

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have
heard her. "Step
this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura
followed her.
She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a
smoky lamp.
There was a woman sitting before the fire.
160
165
170
175
"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a
young lady." She
turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. …
5
DIARY OF A MADMAN
Licen se: Pu blic Dom a in
Lu Xun
Translated by Y ang Hsien-yi and G ladys Y ang
Two brothers, whose names I need not mention here, were both

good friends
of mine in high school; but after a separation of many years we
gradually lost
touch. Some time ago I happened to hear that one of them was
seriously ill, and
since I was going back to my old home I broke my journey to
call on them, I saw
only one, however, who told me that the invalid was his
younger brother.
"I appreciate your coming such a long way to see us," he said,
"but my brother
recovered some time ago and has gone elsewhere to take up an
official post."
Then, laughing, he produced two volumes of his brother's diary,
saying that from
these the nature of his past illness could be seen, and that there
was no harm in
showing them to an old friend. I took the diary away, read it
through, and found
that he had suffered from a form of persecution complex. The
writing was most
confused and incoherent, and he had made many wild
statements; moreover he
had omitted to give any dates, so that only by the colour of the
ink and the
differences in the writing could one tell that it was not written
at one time.
Certain sections, however, were not altogether disconnected,
and I have copied
out a part to serve as a subject for medical research. I have not
altered a single
illogicality in the diary and have changed only the names, even
though the
people referred to are all country folk, unknown to the world
and of no

consequence. As for the title, it was chosen by the diarist
himself after his
recovery, and I did not change it.
I
Tonight the moon is very bright.
I have not seen it for over thirty years, so today when I saw it I
felt in
unusually high spirits. I begin to realize that during the past
thirty-odd years I
have been in the dark; but now I must be extremely careful.
Otherwise why
should that dog at the Chao house have looked at me twice?
I have reason for my fear.
II
Tonight there is no moon at all, I know that this bodes ill. This
morning when
I went out cautiously, Mr. Chao had a strange look in his eyes,
as if he were
afraid of me, as if he wanted to murder me. There were seven or
eight others,
who discussed me in a whisper. And they were afraid of my
seeing them. All the
people I passed were like that. The fiercest among them grinned
at me;
whereupon I shivered from head to foot, knowing that their
preparations were
complete.

10
15
I was not afraid, however, but continued on my way. A group of
children in
front were also discussing me, and the look in their eyes was
just like that in Mr.
Chao's while their faces too were ghastly pale. I wondered what
grudge these
children could have against me to make them behave like this. I
could not help
calling out: "Tell me!" But then they ran away.
I wonder what grudge Mr. Chao can have against me, what
grudge the people
on the road can have against me. I can think of nothing except
that twenty years
ago I trod on Mr. Ku Chiu's account sheets for many years past,
and Mr. Ku was
very displeased. Although Mr. Chao does not know him, he
must have heard talk
of this and decided to avenge him, so he is conspiring against
me with the people
on the road, But then what of the children? At that time they
were not yet born,
so why should they eye me so strangely today, as if they were
afraid of me, as if
they wanted to murder me? This really frightens me, it is so
bewildering and
upsetting.
I know. They must have learned this from their parents!
III

I can't sleep at night. Everything requires careful consideration
if one is to
understand it.
Those people, some of whom have been pilloried by the
magistrate, slapped in
the face by the local gentry, had their wives taken away by
bailiffs, or their
parents driven to suicide by creditors, never looked as
frightened and as fierce
then as they did yesterday.
The most extraordinary thing was that woman on the street
yesterday who
spanked her son and said, "Little devil! I'd like to bite several
mouthfuls out of
you to work off my feelings!" Yet all the time she looked at me.
I gave a start,
unable to control myself; then all those green-faced, long-
toothed people began
to laugh derisively. Old Chen hurried forward and dragged me
home.
He dragged me home. The folk at home all pretended not to
know me; they
had the same look in their eyes as all the others. When I went
into the study,
they locked the door outside as if cooping up a chicken or a
duck. This incident
left me even more bewildered.
A few days ago a tenant of ours from Wolf Cub Village came to
report the
failure of the crops, and told my elder brother that a notorious
character in their
village had been beaten to death; then some people had taken

out his heart and
liver, fried them in oil and eaten them, as a means of increasing
their courage.
When I interrupted, the tenant and my brother both stared at me.
Only today
have I realized that they had exactly the same look in their eyes
as those people
outside.
Just to think of it sets me shivering from the crown of my head
to the soles of
my feet.
They eat human beings, so they may eat me.
20
25
I see that woman's "bite several mouthfuls out of you," the
laughter of those
green-faced, long-toothed people and the tenant's story the other
day are
obviously secret signs. I realize all the poison in their speech,
all the daggers in
their laughter. Their teeth are white and glistening: they are all
man-eaters.
It seems to me, although I am not a bad man, ever since I trod
on Mr. Ku's
accounts it has been touch-and-go. They seem to have secrets
which I cannot
guess, and once they are angry they will call anyone a bad
character. I remember

when my elder brother taught me to write compositions, no
matter how good a
man was, if I produced arguments to the contrary he would mark
that passage to
show his approval; while if I excused evil-doers, he would say:
"Good for you,
that shows originality." How can I possibly guess their secret
thoughts—
especially when they are ready to eat people?
Everything requires careful consideration if one is to understand
it. In ancient
times, as I recollect, people often ate human beings, but I am
rather hazy about
it. I tried to look this up, but my history has no chronology, and
scrawled all over
each page are the words: "Virtue and Morality." Since I could
not sleep anyway, I
read intently half the night, until I began to see words between
the lines, the
whole book being filled with the two words—"Eat people."
All these words written in the book, all the words spoken by our
tenant, gaze
at me strangely with an enigmatic smile.
I too am a man, and they want to eat me!
IV
In the morning I sat quietly for some time. Old Chen brought
lunch in: one
bowl of vegetables, one bowl of steamed fish. The eyes of the
fish were white and
hard, and its mouth was open just like those people who want to
eat human

beings. After a few mouthfuls I could not tell whether the
slippery morsels were
fish or human flesh, so I brought it all up.
I said, "Old Chen, tell my brother that I feel quite suffocated,
and want to have
a stroll in the garden." Old Chen said nothing but went out, and
presently he
came back and opened the gate.
I did not move, but watched to see how they would treat me,
feeling certain
that they would not let me go. Sure enough! My elder brother
came slowly out,
leading an old man. There was a murderous gleam in his eyes,
and fearing that I
would see it he lowered his head, stealing glances at me from
the side of his
spectacles.
"You seem to be very well today," said my brother.
"Yes," said I.
"I have invited Mr. Ho here today," said my brother, "to
examine you."
"All right," said I. Actually I knew quite well that this old man
was the
executioner in disguise! He simply used the pretext of feeling
my pulse to see
how fat I was; for by so doing he would receive a share of my
flesh. Still I was
30

35
not afraid. Although I do not eat men, my courage is greater
than theirs. I held
out my two fists, to see what he would do. The old man sat
down, closed his eyes,
fumbled for some time and remained still for some time; then he
opened his
shifty eyes and said, "Don't let your imagination run away with
you. Rest quietly
for a few days, and you will be all right."
Don't let your imagination run away with you! Rest quietly for a
few days!
When I have grown fat, naturally they will have more to eat; but
what good will
it do me, or how can it be "all right"? All these people wanting
to eat human flesh
and at the same time stealthily trying to keep up appearances,
not daring to act
promptly, really made me nearly die of laughter. I could not
help roaring with
laughter, I was so amused. I knew that in this laughter were
courage and
integrity. Both the old man and my brother turned pale, awed by
my courage and
integrity.
But just because I am brave they are the more eager to eat me,
in order to
acquire some of my courage. The old man went out of the gate,
but before he had
gone far he said to my brother in a low voice, "To be eaten at
once!" And my
brother nodded. So you are in it too! This stupendous discovery,
although it

came as a shock, is yet no more than I had expected: the
accomplice in eating me
is my elder brother!
The eater of human flesh is my elder brother!
I am the younger brother of an eater of human flesh!
I myself will be eaten by others, but none the less I am the
younger brother of
an eater of human flesh!
V
These few days I have been thinking again: suppose that old
man were not an
executioner in disguise, but a real doctor; he would be none the
less an eater of
human flesh. In that book on herbs, written by his predecessor
Li Shih-chen, it is
clearly stated that men's flesh can he boiled and eaten; so can he
still say that he
does not eat men?
As for my elder brother, I have also good reason to suspect him.
When he was
teaching me, he said with his own lips, "People exchange their
sons to eat." And
once in discussing a bad man, he said that not only did he
deserve to be killed, he
should "have his flesh eaten and his hide slept on. . . ." I was
still young then,
and my heart beat faster for some time, he was not at all
surprised by the story
that our tenant from Wolf Cub Village told us the other day
about eating a man's
heart and liver, but kept nodding his head. He is evidently just

as cruel as before.
Since it is possible to "exchange sons to eat," then anything can
be exchanged,
anyone can be eaten. In the past I simply listened to his
explanations, and let it
go at that; now I know that when he explained it to me, not only
was there
human fat at the corner of his lips, but his whole heart was set
on eating men.
40
45
VI
Pitch dark. I don't know whether it is day or night. The Chao
family dog has
started barking again.
The fierceness of a lion, the timidity of a rabbit, the craftiness
of a fox. . . .
VII
I know their way; they are not willing to kill anyone outright,
nor do they
dare, for fear of the consequences. Instead they have banded
together and set
traps everywhere, to force me to kill myself. The behaviour of
the men and
women in the street a few days ago, and my elder brother's
attitude these last
few days, make it quite obvious. What they like best is for a

man to take off his
belt, and hang himself from a beam; for then they can enjoy
their heart's desire
without being blamed for murder. Naturally that sets them
roaring with
delighted laughter. On the other hand, if a man is frightened or
worried to death,
although that makes him rather thin, they still nod in approval.
They only eat dead flesh! I remember reading somewhere of a
hideous beast,
with an ugly look in its eye, called "hyena" which often eats
dead flesh. Even the
largest bones it grinds into fragments and swallows: the mere
thought of this is
enough to terrify one. Hyenas are related to wolves, and wolves
belong to the
canine species. The other day the dog in the Chao house looked
at me several
times; obviously it is in the plot too and has become their
accomplice. The old
man's eyes were cast down, but that did not deceive me!
The most deplorable is my elder brother. He is also a man, so
why is he not
afraid, why is he plotting with others to eat me? Is it that when
one is used to it
he no longer thinks it a crime? Or is it that he has hardened his
heart to do
something he knows is wrong?
In cursing man-eaters, I shall start with my brother, and in
dissuading man-
eaters, I shall start with him too.
VIII

Actually, such arguments should have convinced them long ago.
. . .
Suddenly someone came in. He was only about twenty years old
and I did not
see his features very clearly. His face was wreathed in smiles,
but when he
nodded to me his smile did not seem genuine. I asked him "Is it
right to eat
human beings?"
Still smiling, he replied, "When there is no famine how can one
eat human
beings?"
I realized at once, he was one of them; but still I summoned up
courage to
repeat my question:
"Is it right?"
50
55
60
"What makes you ask such a thing? You really are . . fond of a
joke. . . . It is
very fine today."
"It is fine, and the moon is very bright. But I want to ask you: Is
it right?"

He looked disconcerted, and muttered: "No...."
"No? Then why do they still do it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about? They are eating men now in Wolf
Cub Village, and
you can see it written all over the books, in fresh red ink."
His expression changed, and he grew ghastly pale. "It may be
so," he said,
staring at me. "It has always been like that. . . ."
"Is it right because it has always been like that?"
"I refuse to discuss these things with you. Anyway, you
shouldn't talk about it.
Whoever talks about it is in the wrong!"
I leaped up and opened my eyes wide, but the man had
vanished. I was soaked
with perspiration. He was much younger than my elder brother,
but even so he
was in it. He must have been taught by his parents. And I am
afraid he has
already taught his son: that is why even the children look at me
so fiercely.
IX
Wanting to eat men, at the same time afraid of being eaten
themselves, they
all look at each other with the deepest suspicion. . . .
How comfortable life would be for them if they could rid
themselves of such
obsessions and go to work, walk, eat and sleep at ease. They
have only this one

step to take. Yet fathers and sons, husbands and wives, brothers,
friends,
teachers and students, sworn enemies and even strangers, have
all joined in this
conspiracy, discouraging and preventing each other from taking
this step.
X
Early this morning I went to look for my elder brother. He was
standing
outside the hall door looking at the sky, when I walked up
behind him, stood
between him and the door, and with exceptional poise and
politeness said to
him:
"Brother, I have something to say to you."
"Well, what is it?" he asked, quickly turning towards me and
nodding.
"It is very little, but I find it difficult to say. Brother, probably
all primitive
people ate a little human flesh to begin with. Later, because
their outlook
changed, some of them stopped, and because they tried to be
good they changed
into men, changed into real men. But some are still eating—just
like reptiles.
Some have changed into fish, birds, monkeys and finally men;
but some do not
try to be good and remain reptiles still. When those who eat
men compare
themselves with those who do not, how ashamed they must be.
Probably much

65
70
more ashamed than the reptiles are before monkeys.
"In ancient times Yi Ya boiled his son for Chieh and Chou to
eat; that is the
old story. But actually since the creation of heaven and earth by
Pan Ku men
have been eating each other, from the time of Yi Ya's son to the
time of Hsu Hsi-
lin, and from the time of Hsu Hsi-lin down to the man caught in
Wolf Cub
Village. Last year they executed a criminal in the city, and a
consumptive soaked
a piece of bread in his blood and sucked it.
"They want to eat me, and of course you can do nothing about it
single-
handed; but why should you join them? As man-eaters they are
capable of
anything. If they eat me, they can eat you as well; members of
the same group
can still eat each other. But if you will just change your ways
immediately, then
everyone will have peace. Although this has been going on
since time
immemorial, today we could make a special effort to be good,
and say this is not
to be done! I'm sure you can say so, brother. The other day
when the tenant
wanted the rent reduced, you said it couldn't be done."

At first he only smiled cynically, then a murderous gleam came
into his eyes,
and when I spoke of their secret his face turned pale. Outside
the gate stood a
group of people, including Mr. Chao and his dog, all craning
their necks to peer
in. I could not see all their faces, for they seemed to be masked
in cloths; some
of them looked pale and ghastly still, concealing their laughter.
I knew they were
one band, all eaters of human flesh. But I also knew that they
did not all think
alike by any means. Some of them thought that since it had
always been so, men
should be eaten. Some of them knew that they should not eat
men, but still
wanted to; and they were afraid people might discover their
secret; thus when
they heard me they became angry, but they still smiled their.
cynical, tight-lipped
smile.
Suddenly my brother looked furious, and shouted in a loud
voice:
"Get out of here, all of you! What is the point of looking at a
madman?"
Then I realized part of their cunning. They would never be
willing to change
their stand, and their plans were all laid; they had stigmatized
me as a madman.
In future when I was eaten, not only would there be no trouble,
but people
would probably be grateful to them. When our tenant spoke of
the villagers
eating a bad character, it was exactly the same device. This is

their old trick.
Old Chen came in too, in a great temper, but they could not stop
my mouth, I
had to speak to those people:
"You should change, change from the bottom of your hearts!" I
said. "You
most know that in future there will be no place for man-eaters
in the world.
"If you don't change, you may all be eaten by each other.
Although so many
are born, they will be wiped out by the real men, just like
wolves killed by
hunters. Just like reptiles!"
Old Chen drove everybody away. My brother had disappeared.
Old Chen
advised me to go back to my room. The room was pitch dark.
The beams and
rafters shook above my head. After shaking for some time they
grew larger. They
75
80
piled on top of me.
The weight was so great, I could not move. They meant that I
should die. I
knew that the weight was false, so I struggled out, covered in
perspiration. But I

had to say:
"You should change at once, change from the bottom of your
hearts! You
must know that in future there will be no place for man-eaters
in the world . . . ."
XI
The sun does not shine, the door is not opened, every day two
meals.
I took up my chopsticks, then thought of my elder brother; I
know now how
my little sister died: it was all through him. My sister was only
five at the time. I
can still remember how lovable and pathetic she looked. Mother
cried and cried,
but he begged her not to cry, probably because he had eaten her
himself, and so
her crying made him feel ashamed. If he had any sense of
shame. . . .
My sister was eaten by my brother, but I don't know whether
mother realized
it or not.
I think mother must have known, but when she cried she did not
say so
outright, probably because she thought it proper too. I
remember when I was
four or five years old, sitting in the cool of the hall, my brother
told me that if a
man's parents were ill, he should cut off a piece of his flesh and
boil it for them if
he wanted to be considered a good son; and mother did not

contradict him. If
one piece could be eaten, obviously so could the whole. And yet
just to think of
the mourning then still makes my heart bleed; that is the
extraordinary thing
about it!
XII
I can't bear to think of it.
I have only just realized that I have been living all these years
in a place where
for four thousand years they have been eating human flesh. My
brother had just
taken over the charge of the house when our sister died, and he
may well have
used her flesh in our rice and dishes, making us eat it
unwittingly.
It is possible that I ate several pieces of my sister's flesh
unwittingly, and now
it is my turn, . . .
How can a man like myself, after four thousand years of man-
caring history—
even though I knew nothing about it at first—ever hope to face
real men?
XIII
Perhaps there are still children who have not eaten men? Save
the children. . .
.

Compact Anthology of
WORLD
L i t e r a t u r e
PART SIX
The 20th Century and Contemporary Literature
Editor-in-Chief:
ANIT A TURLINGT ON
Publication and Design Editor:
MAT T HEW HORT ON, PHD
Editors:
KAREN DODSON, PHD
LAURA GET T Y , PHD
KY OUNGHY E KWON, PHD
LAURA NG, PHD
Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 20th and 21st
Centuries is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 (CC BY -SA 4.0) I nternational
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Acknowledgments
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Bountyfrom OmerosSeamus Heaney (1939-2013)The Haw
LanternThe Tollund ManMahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)Identity
CardVictim Number 18Hanan al-Shaykh (1945- )The Women's
Swimming PoolSalman Rushdie (1947- )The Perforated
SheetLeslie Marmon Silko (1948- )Yellow WomanHaruki
Murakami (1949- )The Second Bakery AttackJamaica Kincaid
(1949- )GirlFrancisco X. Alarcón (1954-2016)"Mexican" Is Not
a NounPrayerTo Those Who Have Lost EverythingYasmina
Reza (1959- )God of Carnage
The attachments must be mainly used
Write an essay of at least 1000 words, drawing upon what you
learned in Unit 4, Unit 5, and Unit 6. Compare and contrast the
texts, considering the ways in which each text does or doesn’t
adhere to conventions of the era in which it was written.
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6Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)Diary of a MadmanChineseModernismD

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