I
Doubtless there is a large and bustling Beijing. My Beijing, however, is small and quiet. Doubtless there is a Beijing that is populated by great and noble men. My Beijing, however, is populated by honest and peaceful folk. Living in this quiet place, among these quiet people, my soul has begun to find some peace. But such peace has not been fully realized, and I fear that it never will.
My nights are terribly lonely. Alone in my bed I exert myself to sleep and dream. But while my Beijing sleeps very well indeed, I cannot sleep at all.
You see, my Beijing is not a place for dreaming beautiful dreams, but a place for forgetting those dreams that I once had many years ago.
When I think back to my days in Moscow and Tokyo, to those long sleepless nights when my friends and I would frequent plays and concerts and socialist gatherings, I cannot help but sigh. Huddled up under a single blanket with three or four friends, how we thought that we could save society, the nation—the whole human race even—from the clutches of rich and arrogant thieves; how we dreamed our dreams of a free world wrought by our own hands! Ah, when I think back to those times, I cannot help but cry.
At such times, I set a clock beside my head and try to hear in its ticking the familiar voices of my distant friends. (I am, after all, a poet, and can be expected to do such things.)
However, I have yet to hear anything in the ticking of the clock save for the harsh voice of Father Time, who, should he appear in one of his better moods, takes pity on me and speaks to me of many things—though what he tells me is never very happy . . .
Of late I have felt particularly lonely. To be sure, I believe that humanity is marching towards liberty, equality, and fraternity for all; and I pray night and day that our world might escape the persecution of those egoists who would trample on the rights of the vulnerable, and be delivered unto those who truly love mankind. But when I see how the youth continue to imitate their elders, beating their chests and repeating the same mistakes and crimes of their parents and grandparents, I begin to doubt the progress we have made.
Moreover, when I see how the youth continue to repeat the mistakes and crimes of their elders in all aspects of their lives, I fear that after many thousands of years of struggle, we have at last begun a pitiful retreat—a thought that makes me more lonely than anything . . .
The following tale was related to me one night as I lay in bed, trying to comfort myself with the naive thought that our youth would one day come together to correct the mistakes of their parents and grandparents, and atone for the crimes of their elders, and thereby clear the way for happier times.
Resigning myself to another sleepless night, I set the clock beside my head and tried to hear in its ticking the voices of my friends tirelessly working to deliver mankind from the persecution of rich and arrogant thieves.
But I heard nothing save the harsh voice of Father Time . . .
II
“Man is a fool . . . Ticktock . . . Always has been . . . Ticktock . . . Was a fool yesterday . . . is a fool today . . . will be a fool tomorrow . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“He won’t evolve . . . Ticktock . . . Don’t expect him to . . . Ticktock . . . Will beget fool after fool after fool . . . Ticktock . . . Will call it ‘evolution’ . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And you pity him? Ticktock . . . There is nothing to pity . . . Ticktock . . . He hasn’t been made a fool by others, but by himself . . . Ticktock . . . There is nothing to pity . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Man is a fool . . . Ticktock . . . So were his parents and their parents before him . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“He thinks he must respect his elders, no matter how foolish they are . . . Ticktock . . . He can do as he pleases . . . Ticktock . . . Can worship his foolish ancestors for all I care! Ticktock . . . It’s not like he won’t turn out more foolish than they! Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Man is a fool . . . Ticktock . . . He will beget foolish children who will do foolish things and die fools themselves, having worshiped him and his foolish ancestors all their foolish lives. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“He thinks a new curriculum will save his children . . . Ticktock . . . What utter nonsense! Ticktock . . . What would that do? Ticktock . . . Teach them to speak English? Teach them to play billiards, baseball and football? Ridiculous! Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .”
As I listened to Father Time, my eyes filled with tears.
III
“There once was a large old temple, unimaginably large and unimaginably old . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And inside this large old temple were said to live many gods, all unimaginably large and unimaginably old—each with its own shape and color. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And the elderly worshiped the gods, and performed many rituals before them, and the youth assisted them, spending all of their time protecting the gods and the temple, without giving the slightest thought to the lives that were passing them by. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And among the precious offerings to the gods were man’s sweat, blood and tears. But the most precious offering of all were the hearts and minds of the youth. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And the main task of the young stewards of the temple was to prevent sunlight and fresh air from getting into the temple. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“For there was a prophecy that warned: were sunlight and air to enter into the temple, then all those who lived and worked in the temple would suffer the wrath of the old gods. And so the temple was always dark and dank, day in and day out. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Lit by weak candles and shrouded in incense, the old gods appeared to be humongous, mystical giants. And the ritual for offering up the hearts and minds of the youth, which involved the intonation of a holy scripture full of hidden meaning, was an incredibly august affair. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“But due to the sacred music resounding in the heavy air, none could hear the cries of those who were being sacrificed—who wanted to live freely, who leveled curses at the gods. And due to the weak light of the candles and the smoke of the incense, none could see their sanguine tears, ghastly faces and spasmodic muscles made taut by suffering. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And everyone believed that those who had been offered up to the gods were the happiest of men. Indeed, they never thought otherwise. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“That is, until a certain spring . . . Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And what a spring it was! For the sun shone brighter than it ever had before, and the air was clearer and mild. During that spring were the flowers more fragrant, did the birds sing more sweetly than the birds of previous springs. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And holed up in the temple, the young stewards felt the spring more keenly than ever before, and longed for sunlight and fresh air. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And one day the cries of those longing to live freely, those leveling curses at the gods, grew louder, so that everyone could hear them. And the sanguine tears, ghastly faces and spasmodic muscles made taut by suffering became more visible, so that everyone could see them. And for the first time did the young stewards suspect that their gods were mere sculptures brought to life by light and shadow. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“So they opened up a window, only an inch at first. Ticktock . . . And they saw that the sky was bluer than it had ever been before, and that the clouds were more beautiful. And their hearts yearned for truth. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And lo! Lit by the light of the sun slipping through the slightly-open window, were the old gods revealed to be little more than stone sculptures. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Paying no heed to the ancient prophecy that warned of the wrath of the gods to those who would let sunlight and air into the temple, the young stewards opened wide all the doors and windows of the temple at once. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And as soon as the sunlight and the air were let into the temple did the old gods topple over the heads of the young stewards, and crush them. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“For the prophecy was not a lie. And all the young stewards who opened the doors and the windows of the temple were killed. But they were not sorry, even at the moment of their death. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And even at the moment of their death did they look to the remaining youth who gathered round them, whom they had saved from the old gods, and said, ‘Man will not be happy till the old gods are destroyed.’ But under the influence of their newfound freedom, the remaining youth took one last look at the fallen gods and forgot about them entirely. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And under the influence of their newfound freedom did some people begin to drink and gamble, while others obsessed over sports, and still others wrote and sang ballads. And at the height of their play did they forget not only about the old gods, but also about the young stewards who had died for their freedom, and their parting words. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Meanwhile, the elderly, who were stunned but for a moment after the old gods came crashing down, could not forget at all. So they gathered together and raged angrily, saying, ‘Let us rebuild the old gods, and close all the doors and the windows of the temple more tightly than ever before!’ Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“And cursing the sunlight and the fresh air, they repaired the broken gods and repainted them, and so restored them to their former state. And with the windows and doors closed once more, they dreamed of the day when they could resume their sacrificial rituals. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“But the youth who were under the influence of their newfound freedom noticed not a thing. And some of them drank and gambled, while others obsessed over sports, and still others wrote and sang ballads, oblivious to the fact that they would never be happy till the old gods were destroyed. Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Ticktock . . . Ticktock . . .
“Listen, the old gods are now nearly restored! And the sacrificial rituals are about to begin anew! . . .”
“Wait!” I cried out. “Father Time, please wait! You must tell me, what were those old gods you spoke of? And where was that old temple located?”
. . . Dong!
The clock chimed two . . .
IV
I got out of bed, my heart aching, my head spinning, my ears ringing with the cry, Man will not be happy till the old gods are destroyed.
“How I wish I could give my life for the happiness of mankind!” I groaned, and wandered despondently outside.
It was a cold November night in Beijing; a quiet Beijing night in November.
I grabbed the first person I came upon.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “If only my heart were as cold as a November night in Beijing, and as quiet as a Beijing night in November!”