(1893–1976)
Hundreds of millions once hailed him as the “Great Helmsman,” to their ultimate sorrow. Mao Zedong, whose name is nearly synonymous with modern China, was also a writer. The eldest son of a rich farmer in Xiangtan, Hunan, Mao ruled the world’s most populous country from 1949 to 1976 and brought about sweeping social movements, such as the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution, which devastated China. A master calligrapher, Mao composed in brushstrokes many poems in classical form, such as “Changsha,” “Mount Liupan,” and “Snow,” included here. As a revolutionary politician and military strategist, he also penned numerous articles, pamphlets, and books. For decades, selections from Mao’s work were taught in classrooms, making him the most-read writer in China. During the Cultural Revolution, Mao’s Little Red Book of Sayings (also known as Quotations from Chairman Mao) was intended to be a sacred book to every Chinese. Unlike Charlie Chan’s fortune-cookie aphorisms that dispense a mix of wisdom, humor, and racism, Mao’s sayings were in essence policies to be implemented, principles to live by, and sentences to be carried out.
—to the tune of “Chin Yuan Chun”
Alone I stand in the autumn cold
On the tip of Orange Island,
The Hsiang flowing northward;
I see a thousand hills crimsoned through
By their serried woods deep-dyed,
And a hundred barges vying
Over crystal blue waters.
Eagles cleave the air,
Fish glide in the limpid deep;
Under freezing skies
A million creatures contend in freedom.
Brooding over this immensity,
I ask, on this boundless land
Who rules over man’s destiny?
I was here with a throng of companions,
Vivid yet those crowded months and years.
Young we were, schoolmates,
At life’s full flowering;
Filled with student enthusiasm
Boldly we cast all restraints aside.
Pointing to our mountains and rivers,
Setting people afire with our words,
We counted the mighty no more than muck.
Remember still
How, venturing midstream, we struck the waters
And waves stayed the speeding boats?
—1925
—to the tune of “Ching Ping Yueh”
The sky is high, the clouds are pale,
We watch the wild geese vanish southward.
If we fail to reach the Great Wall we are not men,
We who have already measured twenty thousand li.
High on the crest of Mount Liupan
Red banners wave freely in the west wind.
Today we hold the long cord in our hands,
When shall we bind fast the Gray Dragon?
—1935
—to the tune of “Chin Yuan Chun”
North country scene:
A hundred leagues locked in ice,
A thousand leagues of whirling snow.
Both sides of the Great Wall
One single white immensity.
The Yellow River’s swift current
Is stilled from end to end.
The mountains dance like silver snakes
And the highlands charge like wax-hued elephants,
Vying with heaven in stature.
On a fine day, the land,
Clad in white, adorned in red,
Grows more enchanting.
This land so rich in beauty
Has made countless heroes bow in homage.
But alas! Chin Shih-huang and Han Wu-ti
Were lacking in literary grace,
And Tang Tai-tsung and Sung Tai-tsu
Had little poetry in their souls;
And Genghis Khan,
Proud Son of Heaven for a day,
Knew only shooting eagles, bow outstretched.
All are past and gone!
For truly great men
Look to this age alone.
—1936
Quotations from Chairman Mao (excerpts)
A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained, and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.
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If there is to be a revolution, there must be a revolutionary party.
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In class society everyone lives as a member of a particular class, and every kind of thinking, without exception, is stamped with the brand of a class.
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War is the highest form of struggle for resolving contradictions.
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Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.
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All reactionaries are paper tigers.
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The people, and the people alone, are the motive force in the making of world history.
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Serve the people.
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Investigation may be likened to the long months of pregnancy, and solving a problem to the day of birth.
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We have the Marxist-Leninist weapon of criticism and self-criticism. We can get rid of a bad style and keep the good.
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In the world today all culture, all literature and art belong to definite classes and are geared to definite political lines. There is in fact no such thing as art for art’s sake, art that stands above classes, art that is detached from or independent of politics. Proletarian literature and art are part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause; they are, as Lenin said, cogs and screws in the whole revolutionary machine.
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All our literature and art are for the masses of the people, and in the first place for the workers, peasants, and soldiers.
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Let a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend.