In this blog post, we will analyze Lu Xun’s complex identity and the issue of national character reform as depicted in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, while examining the core questions raised by his literature.

Introduction

Research on Lu Xun (魯迅) and his literature has been consistently conducted by numerous scholars from various perspectives. In particular, efforts to define his identity have yet to reach a definitive conclusion, which can be attributed to the intensity and complexity of the messages conveyed by Lu Xun’s literary world.
Research on Lu Xun encompasses a broad range of topics, including interpretations of individual works, literary thought, and scholarly discussions on the formation and influence of modern Chinese literature, as well as non-literary elements such as his life, personal relationships, and family history. His influence is so great that characters and names from his works are used as-is in the real world.
Although evaluations vary depending on the temporal and spatial contexts of the researchers, the view of Lu Xun as a thinker, revolutionary, and literary figure has generally been widely accepted. Mao Zedong regarded Lu Xun as a key figure in the Cultural Revolution and praised him as a great literary figure, thinker, and revolutionary.
There have been various representative attempts to define Lu Xun’s identity. For example, some have viewed Lu Xun’s literary essence as that of a writer, while others have emphasized his revolutionary image; there is also a perspective that views him as an intellectual imbued with ideology. Additionally, some researchers have sought to define his true nature using the concept of a “historical intermediary.” Through these diverse approaches, one can
What is interesting is that, despite these various attempts, Lu Xun’s identity remains undefined. Rather, the fact that one can infer aspects of Lu Xun’s character to some extent even from a single perspective speaks to his complexity. Some even identify Lu Xun as the first step toward understanding 20th-century Chinese intellectual history, which attests to the considerable depth of his literature. Furthermore, as the saying goes, “Heroes are born in times of turmoil,” his work prompts us to reflect on the chaotic historical backdrop of the era in which he lived.
This is precisely the fundamental reason for reading ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. Through this work, we can examine various layers: the social conditions of early 20th-century China, the Chinese mindset, the hope and compassion Lu Xun harbored, the arduous lives of the lower classes, the hypocrisy of intellectuals and those in power, the relationship between the ruling and the ruled, and the hardships faced by intellectuals. Furthermore, it can serve as a lens through which to understand contemporary China.
Lu Xun himself confessed in “Why I Began to Write Novels” that he began writing for the sake of enlightenment and the betterment of life. The purpose of “The Diary of a Madman,” considered his first vernacular novel, was to expose the evils of the family system and Confucian ethics. The slogan “Save the children!” proclaimed in that work clearly demonstrates the direction of Lu Xun’s literature. It aims at the overthrow of outdated traditions and the reform of the national character—that is, the transformation of reality for the sake of China’s future.
China’s weakened state, compounded by the full-scale invasions by Western powers that began in the late 19th century, dealt a severe blow to its long-cherished pride as the leading nation of Eastern civilization. The foreign invasions that followed the Opium War led to the fall of the Qing Dynasty in 1912, and the Chinese people keenly felt a sense of crisis regarding their nation and ethnicity. In response, various modern measures were introduced and tested, and many intellectuals went abroad to study in the West, championing democracy and science.
Lu Xun also set out for Japan in 1902 to study. After learning Japanese at the Hongwen Academy, he entered the Sendai School of Medicine to study Western medicine. His decision to pursue medicine stemmed from his experience of witnessing the limitations of traditional medicine while caring for his ailing father, as well as his observation of the significance Western medicine played in the Meiji Restoration. He was driven by a desire to treat the suffering through medicine and to awaken the consciousness of the Chinese people.
However, his resolve crumbled upon seeing a single slide during a microbiology class. The slide depicted a Chinese man—who had served as a Russian spy during the Russo-Japanese War—being arrested and executed by Japanese troops, while a large crowd of Chinese onlookers stood by and watched. Through this scene, Lu Xun realized the desperation of the Chinese people—physically robust yet mentally paralyzed—and came to the realization that a transformation of the mind was of paramount importance.
Prompted by this incident, Lu Xun concluded that literature and art were the most effective weapons for transforming the mind and resolved to devote himself to the literary movement. From then on, his life unfolded along the path of attempting to reform the national character through literature and art.
“The True Story of Ah Q,” serialized in a newspaper column beginning December 4, 1921, and concluded on February 12, 1922, also took the reform of the national character as its core objective. The issues Lu Xun addresses in the work include the mindset epitomized by Ah Q’s “spiritual victory,” the renaming of government positions that changes only the title while leaving the people unchanged, the bystander mentality that views revolution merely as a noisy spectacle, the uncritical conformity to a hierarchical society, social trends of kowtowing to the powerful and despising the weak, and the behavior of exploiting each other’s weaknesses for personal gain.
In short, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ can be described as an analytical report on Chinese traditions that have persisted for thousands of years and on the Chinese people who have conformed to them without any criticism. However, what we must pay attention to is the self-reflection that not only China and the Chinese people—the subjects of this analysis—but also Lu Xun himself, the critic, was part of that reality. In other words, the very method by which Lu Xun sought to realize the ideal of reforming the national character must also be examined.
To realize this ideal, Lu Xun endured the agony of cutting into his own flesh and blood. Yet such efforts did not guarantee success. Since the dream of reforming the national character entailed the overturning of all fixed and prescribed value systems and perceptions, its realization remained uncertain.
The overturning of value systems and perceptions is possible, above all, through one’s own self-overturning. Lu Xun’s self-overturning was an act of first killing himself with the shards born of an internal rupture; it was like a dangerous acrobatic feat that inflicted wounds on the external world through the death of the subject. He cast himself as the protagonist of the slide that had summoned him into literature, hoping to gather onlookers and bring about a shift in the thinking of those who had begun to awaken.
Even with such sacrifice, the fulfillment of his dream remained uncertain. Lu Xun had to live through the turmoil of Chinese society with his whole being, relying on a dream he could not be certain of. He had to endure an era in which he had to expend most of his life just to survive, and because of his attitude toward capturing reality, he was often accused of being a traitor or a spy.
Because he lived through such times, Lu Xun’s writing is imbued with the image of him constantly wandering in search of something. It is unclear—both to Lu Xun himself and to the readers of his works—exactly what he is seeking. The only thing he knows for certain is that he is searching for a means to reform the national character. Therefore, his works do not limit themselves to any specific subject but move toward the same goal through various forms, including novels, miscellaneous essays, and lyrical prose.
This search and pursuit—that is, the ceaseless movement to find ways to reform contemporary life—is at the core of Lu Xun’s literature. The fluidity born of this movement mirrors the circumstances of Lu Xun’s life and reflects the chaotic social landscape of China at the time. The loneliness and anxiety revealed in this process of exploration are both a struggle to survive in a fluid present and a demonstration of the precariousness and difficulty involved in establishing his position and taking a stance on life.
For a writer living in a fluid and unstable present, literature inevitably takes on the character of an acrobat. The crisis faced by language striving to convey the truth in the face of linguistic acts that obscure it, as well as the existential crisis confronting conscientious intellectuals in a society rife with political terror, enveloped Lu Xun’s entire life. He was acutely aware of the dangers he faced and did not shy away from them.
Lu Xun even satirized attempts to confine him within fixed categories such as “writer,” “revolutionary,” or “thinker,” seeking instead to bear witness to an anxious and perilous present. His works were an expression of the precarious reality he faced and his desperate struggle to preserve his individuality within it.

Lu Xun, Who Chose Literature as His Weapon

The weapon Lu Xun chose to protect himself was literature. Yet the weapon of literature is no more threatening than a single cannon shot. Lu Xun was well aware of this. Yet, nothing is as effective as literature for reshaping the concept of national character. This is why all of Lu Xun’s concerns inevitably find their way into the language of his works.
A writer is a being who thinks through language and shapes the forms of things through language. The writer’s concerns are embedded in every single word used in a work, and the writer’s sincerity in the act of writing is reflected therein. Finding the right words is the writer’s imperative to express the poverty of both themselves and the era in which they live; the poetic beauty found in the work and the emotional impact felt by the reader are merely the results of such efforts.
In this process, the writer’s language inevitably comes to encompass not only themselves but also others. In other words, artistic imagery is both a reflection of the artist’s own image and one that constantly takes on the image of the reader. It is precisely for this reason that we see Lu Xun in the figure of Ah Q, as well as the Chinese people, and, furthermore, ourselves today.
The reason Lu Xun’s works, including ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, continue to be discussed even today, and why Chinese intellectuals turn to Lu Xun whenever they face intellectual poverty, is the hope that they will discover the poverty of their own selves and society within his works and find solutions there. In other words, the authenticity contained in Lu Xun’s literary language is the force that constantly draws us back into his world.
The authenticity of Lu Xun’s literature lies in the fact that it does not put up any facade, and in his relentless confrontation with the mass of pretense—which stands like a wall of death—that constitutes reality. Lu Xun, who vanished into the ashes of pretense through his life and the works that are the traces of that life; our return to Lu Xun—who willingly vanished into those ashes—may, in fact, be a natural response for us living in an era of poverty.
We, too, as readers of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, need to examine whether we are living our lives by regarding things that are nothing more than a mass of pretense as important values. If ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ and Lu Xun prompt us to question the values we hold dear in life, then this small book will have fulfilled its purpose.

Lu Xun: A Life That Dreamed of Rebirth

Lu Xun was born in 1881 as the eldest son of the Zhou family, a declining scholar-official family in Shaoxing, Zhejiang Province. His childhood name was Zhang Xiu, and he changed it to Shuren at the age of 17. He had two younger brothers: his second brother, Zhuo Ren, who was also a famous writer, and his third brother, Jian Ren, a biologist. He first used the pen name Lu Xun when he published ‘The Diary of a Madman’, and it remains the most widely recognized of his many pen names.
The direct cause of his family’s downfall was his grandfather’s involvement in exam fraud. At the time, his grandfather—who oversaw the imperial examinations for the Qing government in Beijing—was implicated in exam fraud and imprisoned, sending the family, once a distinguished clan in Shaoxing, into decline. Compounded by his father’s frequent illnesses and his untimely death at the age of 37, these events were too much for the young Lu Xun to bear.
The fall from being the young master of a prestigious family to the eldest son of a fallen one made Lu Xun taste the bitterness of a society that values connections over merit. This was Lu Xun’s first setback and a harsh trial of the world. It was this experience that led him to decide, despite his mother’s opposition, to leave for the unfamiliar city of Nanjing to meet new people and study modern disciplines.
In 1898, Lu Xun went to Nanjing and enrolled in a military academy, but he dropped out shortly thereafter to study mining-related subjects. Later, in 1902, he obtained a government scholarship to study abroad and traveled to Japan. His life as a student in Japan was by no means smooth. The contempt that a student from a weak nation faced from students of his home country, the rivalries among Chinese students, the sense of responsibility he bore as the eldest son of his family, and the precarious fate of China—Lu Xun’s external and internal suffering continued.
The sole source of strength that enabled Lu Xun to endure his arduous seven-year stay abroad was his ardent desire to overcome the crisis facing his homeland and people through new scholarship. When we recall the sorrow of East Asian intellectuals at that time—who crossed the Sea of Japan to gain a deep understanding of the reality of their colonized homelands and seek remedies—we can empathize, even if only slightly, with the suffering that an intellectual from a weak nation like Lu Xun had to endure.
From the time of his studies in Japan, Lu Xun published numerous writings urging the transformation of Chinese society and seeking the agents of that change. Having abandoned medicine, he sought to reshape the Chinese spirit through literature and the arts. In Tokyo, he planned to launch a magazine ‘Xinsheng’ in Tokyo with a few friends, but the project failed due to difficulties in securing manuscripts and covering publication costs. When his dream of a “new birth” through ‘Xinsheng’ was dashed, Lu Xun keenly felt the gulf between his ideals and reality. This setback was the second trial he faced even after resolving to devote himself entirely to literature.
If the first setback following his family’s downfall had been beyond Lu Xun’s control, this one was of a different nature. The despair brought on by his family’s downfall might have been overcome to some extent by seeking a new life in a new place. However, if his ultimate dream of “rebirth” was impossible, then neither new academic pursuits nor new encounters in a foreign land held any meaning. This sense of frustration is evident in the decade-long silence ‘The Diary of a Madman’.
After returning to China in 1909 following his studies abroad, Lu Xun worked as a teacher in Hangzhou and Shaoxing, translating foreign novels and researching Chinese classics. He also passed the time with pastimes such as making rubbings of stone inscriptions and transcribing ancient documents. When the Xinhai Revolution broke out in 1911, he moved to Beijing with high hopes to serve as a member of the Ministry of Education in the Provisional Government. However, after becoming disillusioned with the revolution and witnessing the reactionary actions of the Yuan Shikai government, he minimized his contact with society. During this period, his despair regarding China and the Chinese people deepened further.
It was around 1919, during and after the May Fourth New Culture Movement, that Lu Xun began to seriously intend to reform Chinese society and experimented with writing in the form of miscellaneous essays. The May Fourth New Culture Movement was an enlightenment movement led primarily by young intellectuals at the time. To Lu Xun, who had long held enlightenment-oriented views, the May Fourth Movement seemed like a dream come true, but he did not throw himself into it without hesitation.
There is a conversation that illustrates his dilemma. Lu Xun used the following analogy to describe Chinese society: Imagine a room sealed off by iron bars, with no windows, so that it cannot be broken open under any circumstances. Many people are sound asleep inside, and before long, they will all suffocate to death. Since they will pass from a state of unconsciousness directly into death, they will not feel the sorrow of dying. However, if someone were to shout loudly woke a few of them, those unfortunate souls would experience the agony of death with no hope of salvation. The question was whether it was right to wake them even in such a case.
This question was closely tied to the advice of his friend Chen Sengtong. Chen Sentong replied that as long as even a few people were still conscious, one could not say there was absolutely no hope of breaking through that iron-walled room. Lu Xun could not give a clear answer, but in the end, he followed Chen Sentong’s advice. This attitude is also evident in his famous short story “Hometown.”
Lu Xun’s conclusion is somewhat humble. He believes it is difficult to say whether hope inherently exists or does not exist. Hope is like a path on earth: in fact, there was no path at first, but it became one simply because many people walked along it. With this understanding, Lu Xun accepts the fact that it is difficult to change the Chinese way of life—hardened by stubborn traditions and long-standing customs—with a single cry or a revolution.
Nevertheless, Lu Xun sought to contribute his meager strength for the sake of those few who were awake. Like a dripping drop of water that eventually breaks a large rock, he sought to use his own life as a single drop to bring about change, little by little.
Lu Xun’s attitude—cherishing enlightenment while doubting its effectiveness—is, in a way, paradoxical. Yet this also ironically demonstrates just how firmly entrenched the ramparts of Chinese civilization are. As a result, Lu Xun’s literary endeavors were bound to wander between cries of protest and aimless wandering.
I once said this: Throughout history, China has hosted feasts where people are devoured; there are those who devour others, and those who are devoured. Even those who are devoured have devoured others in the past, and those who are devouring others now will eventually be devoured themselves. But I have now discovered that I, too, have contributed to hosting such feasts. Professor, since you have read my work , so let me ask you a question. After reading them, were you numbed or did your mind become clearer? Were you dazed or invigorated? If you experienced the latter, then more than half of my argument has been proven. At Chinese banquets, there is a dish called “Drunken Shrimp.” The fresher and livelier the shrimp, the greater the pleasure and satisfaction the diner feels. I am precisely the assistant who prepares this Drunken Shrimp. By sharpening the minds and sensitizing the senses of sturdy but unfortunate young men, I ensured that should they encounter disaster, they would suffer many times the pain, while simultaneously allowing those who hate them to derive a special pleasure from witnessing that pain in all its vividness.
This quote clearly illustrates Lu Xun’s attitude toward writing. He resolved to devote himself to literature in order to sweep away the banquet hall and thus proclaimed that it was the mission of the youth to sweep away the very courtyard where the banquet was held. Yet he also harbors doubts as to whether such efforts might actually serve to amplify the rulers’ pleasure and intensify the suffering of the youth. A similar pattern can be seen in the Madman from ‘The Diary of a Madman’. The Madman sees through the essence of the rituals that define the traditional social hierarchy—that they are cannibalistic—and advocates breaking free from them, yet he admits that he, too, must have eaten his sister’s flesh. Here, a skeptical line of thought emerges: might the very act of advocating for revolution actually add to the revelry at the banquet and thereby reinforce the cannibalistic structure?
‘ Following the publication of ‘The Diary of a Madman’, Lu Xun began his literary career in earnest under various pen names. His work generally focused on rebelling against feudal traditions and introducing new literary concepts. He founded literary organizations such as the “Society of the Beautiful Names” and the “Society of the Word,” seeking to bring about social reform and transform the consciousness of the Chinese people through literature, while also devoting himself to nurturing young literary talents who would become the pillars of the future.
Around this time, while serving as a lecturer at Peking University and other institutions, he compiled his lectures into a book titled ‘A Brief History of Chinese Fiction’. Covering the history of Chinese fiction from ancient myths and legends to the late Qing Dynasty, this work is regarded as China’s first history of the novel and continues to be highly valued to this day.
In 1921, Lu Xun published ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, widely regarded as his masterpiece, which exposed the harsh realities of rural China and the contradictory nature of the Xinhai Revolution. From then until August 1926, his life in Beijing was focused on capturing various social phenomena in China through lectures, creative writing, and miscellaneous essays of a current affairs commentary nature.
In August 1926, following the massacre of student protesters by the warlord government, Lu Xun left Beijing and took up a professorship at Xiamen University in southern China. In November of that year, his second collection of short stories, ‘Wandering’, comprising 11 stories, was published. Life in Xiamen, while free from political danger, was a monotonous succession of mundane days. In January 1927, after spending about half a year in Xiamen, he moved to Guangzhou to take up a professorship at Sun Yat-sen University.
When Chiang Kai-shek launched an anti-Communist coup in Shanghai that April and established the Nationalist Government in Nanjing, the expectations surrounding the Northern Expedition—which had begun in Guangzhou—filled Lu Xun with great hope. However, the collapse of the First United Front between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party, along with the spread of the Kuomintang’s reign of terror, plunged him into deep despair. Moreover, the behavior of many intellectuals he encountered in Guangzhou—especially university professors—disappointed Lu Xun even further.
He scathingly described the empty debates that intellectuals were engaged in at that time in Guangzhou: arguments over whether scores were high or low, whether students passed or failed, whether faculty members had ulterior motives, the extent to which revolutionary youth were given preferential treatment, whether there was authority to help failing students, the difficulty of exam questions, arguments over claiming preferential treatment simply because one had relatives in Taiwan, and pedantic discussions suggesting that plagiarizing others’ work was acceptable under the guise of academic justification—these endless debates were his daily reality.
Compared to the reality facing Chinese society and the Chinese people, their discussions were utterly hollow. Outwardly, they championed positive concepts such as fairness, justice, and social conscience, but inwardly, they lacked the will to endure the hardships of reality and were solely preoccupied with concealing their hypocrisy. They cared only for their own well-being and lacked the courage to directly criticize social problems. Most of Lu Xun’s writings during this period were dedicated to exposing precisely this hypocrisy among intellectuals .
In 1927, Lu Xun left Guangzhou and arrived in Shanghai in October, where he began living with Xu Guangping. Living with Xu Guangping—his lifelong companion and comrade—brought him both emotional and material stability. The story of their romance is detailed in ‘Yangji Xu’ (Sunlit Room), published in April 1933, ‘Sunlit Room’, published in April 1933, which vividly depicts how their relationship evolved from a teacher-student bond into a comradely and romantic partnership.
Their cohabitation took place without Lu Xun annulling the marriage that had been arranged in a feudal manner by his mother. In 1906, while studying in Japan, Lu Xun was forced by his mother to return home briefly and marry Zhu An; there were no romantic feelings involved in that marriage. He did not annul the marriage purely out of filial piety. He viewed his situation as a contradiction between feudal tradition and modern free love, and hoped that through his sacrifice, modern free love would take root in Chinese society.
Thereafter, until his death from tuberculosis on October 19, 1936, Lu Xun lived in Shanghai with Xu Guangping and and his son Haiying, born in 1929, until his death from tuberculosis on October 19, 1936. Although life in Shanghai was relatively comfortable materially, the political situation was extremely turbulent. At the time, Shanghai was materially prosperous due to the presence of concessions controlled by Britain, the United States, and France, and countless people flocked there to escape the turmoil. However, due to the relative independence of the concessions, the fear of invisible surveillance and terror at the hands of Kuomintang secret agents was also severe.
During his stay in Shanghai, Lu Xun’s writing focused primarily on miscellaneous essays—that is, pieces on current affairs and political commentary. He published the collection of lyrical prose ‘Picking Morning Flowers in the Evening’ (1928), and and translated works on art theory by Lunacharsky and Plekhanov, among others; however, his novel writing was rare, and his third collection of original works, ‘Newly Compiled Old Tales’, published in January of the year he passed away, constituted almost his entire body of fiction.
Just as his life in Beijing, Xiamen, and Guangzhou had been, his time in Shanghai was a constant state of tension. Lu Xun, who knew no compromise, was a person of interest to the Kuomintang government, and he Party-hired agents. The literary community also viewed him with suspicion. The Revolutionary Literature School, which represented left-wing literature at the time, attacked him as a petty-bourgeois writer, while right-wing writers disparaged his miscellaneous writings as mere ramblings rather than literature.
Even amid such circumstances, Lu Xun continued to speak out for the transformation of Chinese society while striving to survive. Criticizing the dogmatism of both the left and the right, he exposed the Kuomintang’s political misjudgments and the feudal customs of the Chinese people. At the same time, he embraced new foreign ideas to deepen his thinking on social transformation and ensure practical applicability. His adoption of Marxist thought through translations of art theories by Lunacharsky, Plekhanov, and others was part of these efforts. He meticulously translated and introduced foreign ideas and culture in search of nourishment for the transformation of Chinese society.

Lu Xun’s Life and Thought

Such continuous exploration was made possible by his ardent desire to transform Chinese society. His literature is filled with a keen awareness of reality and a profound concern for the Chinese people. Lu Xun’s literary philosophy, born of this, differs from positions that either evade the semi-feudal, semi-colonial reality or blindly accept European-style modernity. While Lu Xun critically interpreted Chinese tradition, he also sought new nourishment from outside sources to breathe new life into it. Radical intellectuals sought to transform China through modern Western thought, while nationalists followed a model that sought a way forward within Chinese tradition.
As one critic pointed out, Lu Xun’s writing sought to portray the Chinese experience not through the bright light of the modern self, but rather through “darkness and nihilism”—through the darkness within himself. The reason most of Lu Xun’s works carry a melancholic tone is that he sought transformation based on an objective recognition of a China rife with feudal customs and a semi-colonial reality. This recognition was Lu Xun’s fundamental perspective on Chinese society and the Chinese people, as well as the starting point for his quest for rebirth.
Lu Xun was skeptical of the rosy prospects of the time or the nostalgic fantasies of the past. He judged that both the optimism espoused by radicals and the retrograde claims of nationalists did not align with reality and were impractical. What mattered to Lu Xun was not a glorious past, but the dark and fluid present of China. He believed that without shattering the darkness of the present, one could not hope for a rosy future.
The reason Lu Xun’s life appears unstable is precisely due to the ambiguity and fluidity of the present. He believed that the rebirth he sought was possible only by actively embracing and by eliminating its negative phenomena. The cruelty of human nature he experienced during his family’s downfall; the traditions and customs that constrained his life in Nanjing and Japan, where he had gone in search of new scholarship and people; the decade-long silence following his return home that culminated in the publication of ‘The Diary of a Madman’; the silence and indifference he faced when he broke his silence to speak out against reality; and his life as a wanderer—from Hangzhou to Beijing to Xiamen, Guangzhou, and Shanghai—all reveal the fluid and unpredictable nature of the present.
In short, Lu Xun’s life was nomadic. The term “nomad” alludes to the social reality of China at the time—a society unable to settle in any one place—and also represents the way of life Lu Xun chose. The nomadic life he embraced was both a means of survival and a form of existence that could never be fully completed. In that it required him to remain unfinished in order to live and to continually open himself up to the outside world, the nomadic life was a way of living that demanded constant regeneration and self-renewal.
Lu Xun’s life was dramatic both during his lifetime and after his death. While alive, he was simultaneously labeled a “petit bourgeois,” “feudal remnant,” and “fascist”—negative assessments—while also being hailed as a scholar, literary figure, gentleman of integrity, and authority in the field of literary criticism. After his death, his coffin was draped with the grandiose banner reading “Spirit of the Nation” , and in the 1940s, Mao Zedong elevated him to the status of a literary figure, revolutionary, and thinker. If his life during his lifetime was a source of controversy in itself, his posthumous legacy moved toward quelling much of that controversy and idolizing Lu Xun.
Lu Xun himself left behind insights into the plight of a prophet. He wrote that a prophet—that is, a visionary— is not well received in his homeland and is persecuted by his contemporaries. His statement that even a great figure must die, remain silent, or stay out of sight in order to receive respect and praise from the people leaves the impression that he may have, in a sense, foreseen both his fate during his lifetime and his posthumous fate.
Lu Xun placed the greatest emphasis on the “present” within the modern conception of time, which is divided into past, present, and future, he placed the greatest emphasis on the present. However, his quotations and reflections served as a way to foreshadow his own future through objective insights into the past and present. It is in this context that we can understand how the image of Lu Xun that took hold in China after his death was formed.
Even after his death, his life continued to take twists and turns. In present-day China, Lu Xun does not receive the same level of response as he once did . Critics have argued that his criticism of Chinese society and the Chinese people was overly harsh, leading to some of his works being excluded from textbooks. Some members of the younger generation, conditioned by patriotism and nationalism, even show a tendency to reject Lu Xun.
It is also interesting to note that Lu Xun is the only figure to have simultaneously elicited extreme evaluations during his lifetime, posthumous idolization, and a backlash against that idolization. Thus, the It is inevitable that perspectives on Lu Xun will vary depending on one’s current position and beliefs. This is because we all tend to view the same person through a lens that suits our own tastes and perspectives. The challenge lies in examining our own perspectives and beliefs through the lens of Lu Xun and his literature. To do so, we need to examine his masterpiece, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’.

Formal and Thematic Characteristics of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’

To put it bluntly, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ may seem boring. Readers who lack a deep understanding of China and Chinese society and pick it up out of curiosity are likely to put it down before long. This is because the Chinese works we are familiar with—such as ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’ or ‘Water Margin’, which are often heroic epics or reminiscent of martial arts novels. Nevertheless, the reason ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is still read today and Lu Xun is called the father of modern Chinese literature is simple: this work critically examines early 20th-century China and Chinese society.
There is no need to feel overly burdened by the phrase “critically examines.” ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, which is merely a novella, touches on a wide range of issues that rival those of any full-length novel, and each of these issues continues to resonate in various ways to this day. In other words, any reader interested in early 20th-century China—and, by extension, contemporary China—should read ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ at least once.
The setting of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is the 1911 Xinhai Revolution, and the location is the countryside—the cradle of Chinese civilization. The work is written in Baihua (vernacular Chinese), which at the time was often looked down upon as the language of the lower classes. Over time, Baihua became widely used and established itself as the foundation of Putonghua, the standard language of modern China. Another factor in Lu Xun’s rise to fame is his authorship of ‘The Diary of a Madman’, widely regarded as the first modern Chinese novel written in Baihua.
The emergence of Baihua as a literary language was driven by the Enlightenment Movement of the late Qing dynasty and the subsequent New Literature Movement. Following the May Fourth New Culture Movement of 1919, the Baihua literary movement expanded nationwide and it firmly established itself as the language of literary works. The vernacular literature movement can be understood as a result of prioritizing national enlightenment and the accessibility of education—that is, national enlightenment aimed at overcoming the crises of modernity. The movement was spearheaded by intellectuals who sought to create popular and socially relevant literature that the majority of the public could understand relatively easily.
Formally, the use of the chapter-and-episode format (章回體) could be a factor that dampens readers’ interest. This format is easy to understand if you think of a television serial drama: each episode builds suspense while hinting at the developments in the next episode. ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ also adopts this format. While there are various reasons for its creation in the chapter-and-episode style, the primary one is its connection to newspaper serialization. Newspapers, which served as the primary medium for public enlightenment and education during the modern era, had to capture readers’ interest in the next installment through the serialized format.
It is also linked to the formal traditions of novels from the Ming and Qing dynasties. Many of China’s most representative novels—such as ‘Journey to the West’, ‘The Plum in the Golden Vase’, ‘Water Margin’, and ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’—all adopt the chapter-and-episode format. Taking all this into account, we can see that this was a method to attract readers’ interest in conjunction with the commercial nature of the newspaper medium, as well as a strategy to enhance readability by providing a format familiar to readers. Above all, the tradition of ‘shuoshū’ (storytelling) lies at the heart of why the chapter-and-episode format became the representative form of Chinese fiction.
Storytelling, as the term suggests, literally means reading a book aloud. In short, it is a performance in which a storyteller narrates a tale to a large audience.
To capture people’s interest, a storyteller had to possess certain skills, such as gradually building dramatic tension or abruptly stopping the story just as the audience’s interest peaked, leaving them eager for the next installment.
Only by being able to repeat this narrative technique—building suspense and then abruptly postponing the conclusion to the next session—several or even dozens of times could one become an outstanding storyteller, and this also allowed them to earn a modest living.
The novel form best suited to this tradition of oral storytelling is the “zhanghui” style.
Interestingly, Lu Xun—the author of ‘The Diary of a Madman’, considered the first modern Chinese vernacular novel—adopted this very traditional form.
Lu Xun was so critical of tradition that he even told young people that traditional Chinese books were not worth reading. His literature sought innovation in both form and content, urging the awakening and transformation of the Chinese people.
Given this, it is at first glance difficult to understand why he adopted the traditional chapter-and-episode format for ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, which would later become his masterpiece. While the direct cause is hard to pinpoint, several inferences can be made.
First, this decision was rooted in Lu Xun’s writing approach, which prioritized serialization in newspapers and the effective communication of ideas.
At the time, newspapers—along with magazines—were the primary media through which progressive intellectuals disseminated their ideas of enlightenment. Intellectuals who had studied abroad used newspapers and magazines to introduce new intellectual trends and highlighted the crises facing China, and sought to overcome social turmoil.
Lu Xun, too, had attempted to publish a magazine during his studies in Japan, and around 1921—when ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ was published—he continued to express his views in various magazines. Considering these contemporary circumstances, we can we can to some extent surmise why he chose the serialized format for ‘The True Story of Ah Q’.
When we add Lu Xun’s writing approach—which prioritized the conveyance of meaning—to this, the formal charm of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ becomes apparent. Lu Xun was a pioneer of the new cultural movement and viewed the purpose of literary and artistic activities as the reform of the national character.
Nevertheless, in order to effectively convey his views and enlighten the ignorant and uneducated public, he did not hesitate to adopt forms familiar to the people. Although Lu Xun was an advocate of vernacular Chinese and emphasized the romanization of Chinese characters, he did not hesitate to use classical Chinese when he judged it to be effective for conveying meaning.
He himself once said: “In my writing, I have strenuously avoided rambling; as long as the meaning is sufficiently conveyed, I have added no superfluous details. Traditional Chinese operas have no backdrops, and the New Year’s plays sold for children to watch feature only a few main characters. Believing this method to be appropriate for my purpose, I did not describe scenery, nor did I dwell extensively on dialogue.”
In most of Lu Xun’s works, including his novels, the most important thing is the conveyance of meaning. Verbose language only hinders the conveyance of meaning, and endless rambling obscures the meaning of the language itself.
Lu Xun’s language was free of superfluous elements, devoid of rambling, and even stripped of landscape descriptions—it was language in which the portrayal of just a few main characters was sufficient. The economy and precision of language were the goals of his writing.
From a rhetorical perspective, the defining characteristic of ‘A True Story of Ah Q’ is its satirical nature. Satire is the act of wittily warning against or criticizing something by drawing analogies, and it is a distinctive attitude or tone that can appear in any genre.
Wherever human discourse takes place, satire involves using analogies and exaggeration to highlight contradictions and absurdities. Since it is an attitude that can manifest regardless of genre, satire is embedded in many artistic endeavors. The Roman poet Juvenal said that satire is inevitable.
The satire Lu Xun speaks of is closely related to fact. He viewed satire as a record of things that are open and commonplace—matters that no one finds strange in everyday life and therefore pays no attention to. In other words, from Lu Xun’s perspective, satire is a record of facts.
The novel is a genre that fictionalizes facts or deals with content that could plausibly occur in reality. A novel wittily reveals human folly through plausible stories or the fictionalization of facts. Ah Q could be a real, concrete person, or he could be a character fictionalized by Lu Xun. It is all too easy to find a cross-section of human life in such a character as Ah Q.
Although ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ satirizes human life in the real world, when viewed through Lu Xun’s perspective on satire, it can be seen as a record of facts.
The primary function of satire is to first make the reader laugh, then evoke compassion, thereby prompting them to reflect on themselves and human society. If a work lacks humorous elements, it amounts to nothing more than horror or mere bombast.
There is likely no reader who can help but laugh at Ah Q’s comical life. Yet the profound resonance conveyed behind that laughter purifies the reader’s thoughts and sparks reflection on humanity. Satire to experience a tremor of the soul.
What makes Lu Xun’s satire unique is the absence of moral superiority, a common attitude in satire. Furthermore, there is no paradox that creates the illusion that real-world readers are excluded from the target of satire, thereby causing them to mock the community to which they belong.
Lu Xun’s works bring the satirist, the subject of satire, and even the reader into a shared experience of sorrow and compassion within the text. In this way, Lu Xun’s satire seeks to level the playing field within the triangular relationship between the author, the subject of satire (the fictional character), and the reader.
It aims to overturn vertical hierarchies and restore balance to the relationships between the subject of perception and its object, as well as between things and language. However, many readers find Lu Xun’s satire uncomfortable.
The artistic value of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ lies in its use of satire to achieve an ethical and aesthetic objectification of the triangular relationship between the author, the protagonist, and the reader. None of the three—the author, the protagonist, or the reader—is morally superior, and the three parties have no choice but to engage in constant dialogue to secure an objective perspective on one another.
In this process, the protagonist sometimes becomes the reader, and the reader sometimes becomes the protagonist. The reader may view the protagonist from the author’s perspective, and the author may conceive of the protagonist from the reader’s perspective.
In this way, Ah Q becomes not only an inevitable figure within a given time and place but also conveys a message that transcends those boundaries. Through Ah Q, the temporal and spatial backdrop of the Xinhai Revolution and rural China becomes not merely a small corner of the historical world but also a stage for the lives of people living in the present.
In other words, the creative past forged by ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ becomes a historical space that illuminates life in the present and future.
As is well known, the theme of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is a critique of the “spiritual victory” mentality that led to the comic life and tragic death of Ah Q, a hired farmhand. Underlying this is Lu Xun’s unique perception of Chinese culture and the Chinese people.
That perception is the tradition of self-aggrandizement—the tendency to exalt and exaggerate oneself. The ultimate target of Lu Xun’s criticism through the “method of spiritual victory” is precisely this tradition of self-aggrandizement and the Chinese mindset that underpins it.
Therefore, the “method of spiritual victory” is not limited to Ah Q, Chinese culture, or the Chinese people, but continues to expand. It may even be essential for ordinary commoners to sustain their daily lives.
Those who have been eliminated from competition or failed to achieve their goals may resort to the “method of spiritual victory” as a form of self-consolation to carry on with their lives. Telling oneself, “I’ll win someday,” without making any preparations at all is also a form of the “spiritual victory method.”
Furthermore, even those who have won a competition or achieved a goal may rely on the “spiritual victory method” to overcome a mental crisis when a sense of emptiness sets in. Perhaps all of us, as we face the world, use the “spiritual victory method” to some extent as a shield to sustain our weary lives.
Let’s remember that everyone tends to think and act in a way that benefits themselves.
If the majority of us think and act in our own best interest, then the issue of “mental victory” must be approached from a different perspective. The “mental victory” that Lu Xun criticizes in Ah Q is an exaggeration and overconfidence in one’s own abilities.
Lu Xun’s criticism serves as a warning that “mental victory,” when pursued blindly without a thorough analysis of one’s own abilities, can lead to disaster . “Mental Victory,” when not preceded by self-reflection and thorough analysis, can plunge not only the individual but also society as a whole into crisis.
Therefore, from a contemporary perspective, “Mental Victory” can also be interpreted as a warning against the unfortunate consequences that may arise from dogmatic behavior that disregards others or from overestimating one’s own abilities.
The value of a contemporary reading of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ lies precisely in these points.

Contents of Individual Chapters

The points outlined above constitute the formal and substantive characteristics of ‘The Biography of Ah Q’ and underscore the necessity of a contemporary reading. Before proceeding with a full discussion, let us briefly examine the contents of each chapter.
Chapter 1 is titled “Preface” and serves as the introduction. Here, the author, speaking in his own voice, explains the difficulties of writing Ah Q’s biography. He notes that while the traditional Chinese literary form of a “biography” (傳) requires specific details such as family background and name, none of these are clear in Ah Q’s case. Through this, he illustrates the ambiguity of Ah Q’s identity. This unclear identity also reflects the nomadic nature of A-Q’s life—that is, his life as a wanderer.
Chapter 2 is titled “Record of Victory.” This chapter depicts A-Q’s life as a day laborer eking out a living in the village of Weizhuang, as well as the opinions and treatment he receives from those around him and his relationships with others. The chapter depicts Ah Q, who, even while being beaten by thugs, fails to take the situation seriously due to his “spiritual victory” mentality.
Chapter 3 is titled “Continuation of the Record of Victory.” Here, the story unfolds with Ah Q being expelled after making remarks that seemed to imply a connection to Master Zhao’s household, as well as his harassment of a Buddhist nun.
Chapter 4 is titled “The Tragedy of Love.” It recounts how A-Q was beaten and forced to pay a fine after demanding to sleep with a maid at Lady Zhao’s house. Furthermore, through A-Q’s perceptions of women, the novel critiques traditional Chinese views on women.
Chapter 5 is titled “The Struggle for Survival,” and it depicts A-Q, who has lost his job following the incident with the maid, facing financial hardship. The chapter portrays A-Q trying to survive by stealing and eating radishes grown at the hermitage, but, finding this difficult, he resolves to go to town.
Chapter 6 is titled “From Zhongxing to Malo.” This chapter depicts the villagers’ curiosity toward Ah Q, who has returned to Weizhuang looking respectable after earning money in town, and reveals the circumstances behind his earnings, leading to him being denounced as a thief.
Chapter 7 is titled “Revolution.” Chapter 7 depicts Ah Q, who becomes unduly conceited when the Xinhai Revolution breaks out and the Revolutionary Party enters the town.
Chapter 8 is titled “Prohibition of the Revolution.” Chapter 8 depicts Weizhuang Village, where little has changed even after the revolution, and tells the story of how Master Zhao’s house is ransacked by rioters.
Chapter 9 is titled “Grand Finale.” It tells the story of Ah Q being mistaken for one of the rioters and executed. As the term “Grand Finale” (大團圓) itself implies, and as is typical of most Chinese classical novels, all events should be resolved harmoniously, but the ending of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is tragic. Although ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ adopts a format familiar to Chinese readers, its tragic conclusion unsettles Chinese readers accustomed to happy endings.
Based on this general understanding of the plot, let’s attempt an in-depth reading of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’.

The Creation of Ah Q

In his essay “The Origin of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’,” Lu Xun states that his writing did not “well up” but was “squeezed out.” This indicates that he spent a long time deliberating over the work’s conception, character development, and plot progression. Among his works, there are no full-length novels, and and the fact that his only novella is ‘The True Story of Ah Q’—with all other works being short stories—further illustrates Lu Xun’s meticulous approach to writing. The process of creating Ah Q, the protagonist of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, also required patience.
To craft Ah Q, Lu Xun meticulously observed every single Chinese person—people he believed he knew well—who had resolved to change the national character. Their hypocritical gestures, their capricious facial expressions, even a single boil on their body or a sudden outburst—all were elements he could not afford to overlook. Since the protagonist’s character must be both solid and embody a certain inevitability that represents the whole, not even the slightest detail could be neglected.
Lu Xun’s long struggle to find a solid and clear image of the protagonist is a battle against himself. This is because the struggle to check the objectivity of his observations one by one and then select the appropriate vocabulary to convey them to the reader is a solitary battle he must wage against himself. Lu Xun’s struggle to shape the protagonist takes two forms. First, there is the struggle with the community that gave rise to the protagonist Ah Q; second, there is the struggle with the author himself to find expressions that demonstrate the objectivity and accuracy of his perception. It is, in essence, a dual struggle: to find linguistic expressions that capture both an objective perception of the community and the appropriateness of that perception.
That is why Lu Xun could not help but hesitate for so long. “It seems it has certainly been several years since the image of Ah Q took shape in my mind. Yet I have consistently failed to muster the courage to put it into writing.” A message conveying Lu Xun’s feelings is also found at the beginning of the work.
He candidly confesses the reason he hesitated to write Ah Q’s biography. While acknowledging that he himself is not a “great man worthy of being passed down to posterity” and that Ah Q is also not a figure worthy of being passed down to posterity, he describes the situation of writing such a piece as feeling “as if possessed by a ghost.” He wrestled for a long time with the question of what significance there could be in an ordinary writer like himself putting the utterly ordinary Ah Q into words.
At times, he even described writing as an act of self-harm that laid bare his own wounds. “I have nothing I want to say, nor any writing I wish to compose. It is merely that I possess a certain self-destructive streak, so at times I couldn’t help but shout a few words to stir up people’s spirits.” This confession suggests that he sought to capture readers’ attention through Ah Q and inspire the awakening of the Chinese people.
For writing born of self-harm to be more than mere self-destruction, the work must contain a distinct image—one that anyone can recognize and empathize with— Lu Xun focused all his energy on capturing the image of a protagonist who could elicit their concerns and bring about change. In the process, Lu Xun’s exhaustion intensified, and to the extent of that exhaustion, the protagonist’s image gained objectivity, and the expressive power of the work was strengthened.
Lu Xun’s deliberations did not end there. The pace of the narrative, the type of readership, and the nature of the magazine or newspaper in which the work would be published all had to be factored into his conception of the work. He could not help but deeply ponder which novel forms were familiar to Chinese readers and what a work intended for serialization in a newspaper should look like.
Ultimately, the novel form Lu Xun settled on was the “zhuan” (傳) and the chapter-and-episode structure. A “zhuan” (傳) can simply be described as a biographical account. A biography is a record of an individual’s life, achievements, and activities; the fact that a person’s life is preserved in print implies that it is worthy of being recorded. So what about Ah Q?

Lu Xun’s Dilemma and Ah Q’s Name

Just as in the modern society we live in today, the lives of the general public are rarely recorded. How else would the saying, “A tiger leaves its skin when it dies, and a person leaves a name,” have come about? Since the lives of the vast majority are familiar to everyone, they fail to pique the interest of connoisseurs. The lives of the general public—whether in the past, present, future, they hold little value as historical records. Our protagonist, Ah Q, is no exception. Lu Xun’s dilemma regarding whether to record Ah Q’s life stems precisely from this. Ah Q is the kind of person one could easily find anywhere in China during the Xinhai Revolution, and even in modern society, he is an ordinary figure who can be easily found—albeit under a different name. There are no deeds in his life worthy of being recorded in the form of a “biography” (傳).
Consequently, Lu Xun . Biographies, autobiographies, inner biographies, outer biographies, alternative biographies, family biographies, short biographies… While traditional Chinese literature includes various forms related to biographies, none of them quite fit A-Q perfectly. “So, setting aside the ‘casual talk’ written by novelists who don’t even qualify as scholars, and returning to the ‘orthodox biography’—I extracted the two characters ‘orthodox biography’ (正傳) from this clichéd phrase and used them as the title.” Even in the process of adopting the name “orthodox biography” (正傳) to satirize the prevailing attitudes among intellectuals of the time.
Here, Lu Xun satirizes the hypocrisy of intellectuals like Chen Yuan regarding the shooting of student demonstrators on March 18, 1926. Chen Yuan, who had studied in England, was a moderate reformer who had studied in England. Regarding the March 18 Incident, rather than criticizing the government’s violent crackdown, Chen Yuan misled public opinion by urging male and female children—who were minors—not to participate in any demonstrations.
The next point to consider is the protagonist’s name. This is because, as the old saying goes, “If the name is not correct, the words will not flow smoothly (名不正則言不順).” The author agonizes over choosing a name in accordance with Confucius’s teachings. Furthermore, he must adhere to the convention typically followed in biographies, which begins with “So-and-so, whose courtesy name is such-and-such, from such-and-such a place.”
However, the narrator does not know A-Q’s surname or how to write his name. When A-Q was alive, people called him “A-Quei.” While the character “阿” is commonly prefixed to names in southern China to express familiarity—so let’s accept that—as for “Quei,” it could be either “桂” (gui) or “貴” (gui). It is impossible to verify the exact character corresponding to “Quei.” In this passage as well, Lu Xun satirizes the obsession with historical verification among nationalists like Hu Shi by noting that such verification has become impossible because Chen Duxiu’s advocacy of Western script led to the demise of “national essence” (guocui).
The next issue concerns his family background. The Zhao family, to which Ah Q claims kinship, is a family that produced “xiucai” (scholars) , so there is no way he could be related to the foolish and poor Ah Q. Ah Q claims to share the same surname as Mr. Zhao out of awe for his prestige, but the majority of the villagers consider this preposterous. Moreover, although Ah Q lived in Weizhuang for a long time, he also lived elsewhere, so it is difficult to regard him as a native of Weizhuang.
In this way, Lu Xun’s deliberations continued for quite some time. From the challenges of traditional literary form to the question of how to define Ah Q’s identity, and the challenge of conveying his own goal of reshaping the Chinese national character through literature, none of these were trivial matters. Thus, the narrator concludes the preface with a satire directed at the nationalists centered around Hu Shi.
The one small consolation I take is that the single character “阿” is so precise—it was never forced or borrowed—that I can stand before any literary master with a clear conscience. As for the other points, they were beyond my limited knowledge to elucidate. I can only hope that Mr. Hu Shi’s disciples, with their passion for history and historical verification, may one day uncover many new clues; however, by that time, my ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ may already have vanished.
Since the preface is, after all, merely the starting point of a text, it could conclude by hinting at the work’s conceptualization process or the development of its content ; however, Lu Xun’s critical spirit never wanes. Even in the process of establishing the work’s form and the protagonist’s name, Lu Xun sharply satirizes the shackles of tradition centered on Confucius, the conservatism of nationalists, and the hypocrisy of modern critics like Tian Yuan. Although it is merely a novella, the content contained in “ A Qiu’s Family Chronicles” is rich in endless layers of meaning; consequently, today’s readers will need to possess Hu Shi’s passion for history and meticulous attention to historical detail to fully grasp Lu Xun’s satire. Of course, that is precisely the role of this small book: to convey the work’s significance by offering various possibilities for interpretation, even if it does not go as far as full historical verification.

The Stage for the Ah Qs: Weizhuang

Weizhuang (未庄) is a typical rural village in China. Since it is not a large village, it does not take long to leave it. Once you leave the village, you’re surrounded by rice paddies. In spring, the rice seedlings sprout fresh and green; in autumn, yellow fields stretch out before you. The round, black dots moving among the fields are farmers at work. The villagers’ daily lives are dictated by the farming seasons. Spring brings rice planting, summer brings weeding, fall brings the harvest, and winter brings rest and preparation for the next year’s crops. It presents the picture of an ordinary rural village, with nothing particularly remarkable about it.
Recalling Lu Xun’s deliberations regarding the name “Ah Q,” the name “Weizhuang” should not be taken lightly either. There must be a reason why the character “Wei” (未)—which does not mean “village”— and “village” (庄), but it is impossible to verify this. This is because no relevant mention can be found either in the work’s preface or in Lu Xun’s other writings related to ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. We can only speculate based on the nature of fiction as a fictional art form. The absence of a specific name could mean that it does not exist anywhere. It can also be interpreted to mean that such places are so common that there is no need to give them a specific name. In any case, “Weizhuang” is a name that could be applied to any place where farming is the primary occupation. Recalling the deliberation Lu Xun displayed in choosing the name “Ah Q,” it is true that the naming of “Weizhuang” is not as simple as it seems. Given the nature of the novel, the setting and characters are all purely fictional, but it is precisely because of the plausibility of that fiction that its meaning expands in endless ways.
Weizhuang is a village where traditions of ancestor worship and superstition have been passed down through generations, and and the social hierarchy is clearly defined. From the village’s highest authority, Lord Zhao, to Ah Q, who belongs to the lowest class, no one is free from the tight web of this social hierarchy. Weizhuang epitomizes an ignorant and backward community that knows neither what genuine communication between social classes or among people entails, nor what transformation truly means. Our protagonist, Ah Q, is a tenant farmer in the village of Weizhuang. He owns no land of his own, and since he lacks the farmland necessary to make a living, the very idea of a family is out of the question. Romance, too, is nothing more than an impossible dream.
As is typical of traditional rural villages in East Asia, including China, in Weizhuang, one or two families of high standing oversee all the village’s affairs, both big and small. In Weizhuang, Mr. Zhao plays that role. While the majority of farmers are diligent in their duties, occasionally rowdy ruffians like Ah Q or Xiao D stir up minor disturbances, providing the villagers with a spectacle. When a disturbance occurs, the villagers handle it according to customary practice . The words of respected figures like Lady Zhao and the Confucian order they uphold serve as the village’s customary practices and laws.
In Weizhuang’s customary order, incidents such as Aqi beating Aba, or Li Si beating Zhang San, are not really a big deal in and of themselves. They only become the talk of the town when they involve a prominent figure like Master Zhao. Once the topic comes up, because the person who did the beating is famous, the person who was beaten also gains fame by association. Needless to say, the fault clearly lies with Ah Q. Why is that? Because Lord Zhao could never be at fault. If he were at fault, why would people hold him in such high esteem? This is truly a difficult question. However, upon careful reflection, since Ah Q claimed to be of the same clan as Lord Zhao, people might have shown him a little respect—thinking that even though he was beaten, it might actually be true— . It is likely the same principle as the ox sacrificed at the Confucius Temple: even though it is merely an animal like a pig or a sheep, because the Sage had touched it with his chopsticks, even the ancient Confucian scholars dared not touch it.
Achi, Aba, Litsu, and Zhangsan are residents of Weizhuang Village—ordinary people who would be roughly equivalent to our seventh and eighth sons, the fourth son of the Li family, and the third son of the Zhang family. Just like our Kim, Lee, and Park surnames, the most common surnames in China today are Li and Zhang. Disputes among such ordinary people are hardly worth settling. This is because even if someone were to get hurt while they were fighting among themselves, it would cause no disruption to the maintenance of order and convention. Ah Q also belongs to this class—or is even lower on the social ladder than they are.
Ah Q, too, is not free from the weight of Weizhuang’s conventions—that is, social customs—but he possesses a reckless streak that allows him to speak openly about the village’s highest authority. Whether it’s Ah Chi or Ah Ba, Litsu, or Zhang San cannot be the protagonist because they lack A-Q’s recklessness. This is precisely what sets A-Q apart from the other characters. While A-Q may not possess a rebellious streak per se, he possesses a rebellious streak that defies the class-based society and the customs of Weizhuang. Of course, since this rebellious streak does not stem from his own self-awareness, it does not pose a major problem. In short, Ah Q serves the role of providing entertainment.
As a day laborer at the very bottom of an agrarian society, Ah Q has no opportunity to defend himself against his own misdeeds. The villagers only take an interest in A-Q when they are busy with work or when he gets into a dispute with a respected figure like Master Zhao. Even when settling such disputes, the fault always lies with A-Q. There is only one reason for this: A-Q is a day laborer at the very bottom of the village hierarchy. However, an incident occurs in which A-Q—whose surname and given name are unclear—claims to be of the same clan as Master Zhao and is beaten by him as a result. Although the villagers clearly know A-Q is at fault, they show him a modicum of respect due to the possibility that he might indeed be of the same clan.
The narrator compares Ah Q to a bull sacrificed at the Confucius Temple. Although a bull is an animal like a pig or a sheep, its status rises once it is placed on the sacrificial altar at the Confucius Temple. Here, the bull, pig, and sheep serve as metaphors for ordinary people. In a hierarchical society, their essence is the same—that of animals—but the mere luck of being placed on the altar of a sage makes them objects of envy. This metaphor humorously reveals Lu Xun’s criticism of traditional ideology and those who uncritically uphold it. At the same time, it can be read as foreshadowing A-Q’s fate as a scapegoat, accused of looting Mr. Zhao’s house in the midst of the revolution.
A scapegoat is the easiest way to announce that a case has been resolved and a convenient means for those in authority to assert their power. Even in modern society, when , when social problems arise, public opinion is often manipulated to make it seem as though the issue has been resolved by finding an easy target who appears to be connected to the problem and punishing them, without any objective or rational analysis. When Zhao Nari’s house was looted during the revolution, the ruling group’s act of making the blameless Ah Q a scapegoat to set an example may well be an age-old custom for maintaining order in the community. Just as with Ah Q’s unjust death, disputes concerning scapegoats are not worth examining.
It was customary in Weizhuang that whenever one encountered a person who caught one’s eye even slightly, one would respect that person rather than despise them. This is because, although he knows for certain that this person is Ah Q, he is somewhat different from the Ah Q dressed in rags. As the ancients said, “Even if you’ve been apart for just three days, you must rub your eyes and look again when you see a scholar,” so the shop clerk, the owner, the customers, and even passersby—though they naturally harbored some suspicion—all showed him respect.
Another custom in Weizhuang is to respect anyone who catches people’s attention, at least at first. A-Q, returning with stolen goods from town, becomes the object of envy among the people of Weizhuang. The reason is simply that he is no longer clad in rags. The A-Q of the past wore rags, slept in the village shrine, and went around offering his labor for hire. In the villagers’ eyes, that was the only A-Q they knew, and it was precisely this image that gave them the confidence to look down on him.
But now he had returned to the village looking quite presentable, as if he had suddenly become rich or even a scholar. It is customary in Weizhuang to show respect—even while harboring suspicion—to anyone who has completely transformed their appearance, regardless of who they are. Their attitude toward A-Q, who had returned as a wealthy man, was no different . Since they don’t know the full story, their calculation is to put on a good face for the time being. After all, they might get a piece of the pie if they’re lucky.
Just as envy is bound to be accompanied by jealousy, the villagers’ envy also grows. Although that envy ultimately leads to the revelation that Ah Q had stolen from the town, had it not been uncovered, Ah Q would undoubtedly have become a local celebrity. In this way, the people of Weizhuang fawn over the powerful and trample on the weak. They unconditionally follow the words of those better off than themselves, while forcing submission upon those less fortunate.
At this point, take a moment to reflect on ourselves. Might we not find traces of the people of Weizhuang’s mindset and behavior even in ourselves, living in the 21st century? Curiosity about figures who attract public attention, a hint of respect for those associated with celebrities, envy mixed with jealousy toward the wealthy, and the relief felt when a scapegoat is found—regardless of the merits of the case—as a sign that community norms have been upheld—these traits are easily found regardless of region or era.
The social hierarchy in Weizhuang Village consists of the top tier, such as Lady Zhao; a small number of people in the second tier who serve them; , the vast majority of ordinary farmers, and the lowest class—such as A Qiu Na and the and Buddhist nuns. Between them exists only a rigid hierarchy; social mobility or communication across classes is impossible. The ideology governing their worldview is the system of ritual etiquette (禮法) that has been codified since the time of Confucius. Lu Xun wrote various works to expose the evils of such ritual etiquette, which had been transformed into a religious doctrine known as “ritualism” (禮敎).
The unwritten rules of Weizhuang are established by people like the “Juren” or “Zhao.” While morality is usually established with the consent of the majority of community members, this is not the case in Weizhuang. Order in Weizhuang Village is maintained according to customary practices established by one or two individuals—particularly those who follow the teachings of sages like Confucius. While these customs, created by just one or two people, demand obedience from the majority, their creators enjoy relative freedom.
These customs, cloaked in the plausible pretext of maintaining community order, are in fact nothing more than slave contracts for the ruling class. Yet the majority of villagers fail to recognize this nature because of the names used to conceal the truth. Since the term “slave contract” is unpalatable, euphemisms like “custom” or “tradition” are used to deceive the majority of the ruled. Let us recall Confucius’s words once more: “ If names are not correct, speech will not flow smoothly.” This statement—that language can flow unimpeded only when names are correct—can be interpreted to mean that, in order to persuade people to accept customary practices, one must first choose the right names.
The idea that language flows smoothly only when names are correct also implies that the process of attaching plausible names to conceal the slave-contract-like nature of “custom” is essential. Lu Xun sharply points out the relationship between the power formed in this way and the discursive acts used to maintain it. He views rhetoric—such as declaring authority, comparing people to animals, or regarding oneself as an angel—as ultimately serving to consolidate power.
However, what Lu Xun emphasizes most is not theory but, as always, “power.” Whether it be sociology or Christian theory, neither is sufficient to establish authority. He argues that the authority of primitive humans over animals stemmed from the invention of weapons such as bows and arrows, and that theory is merely an interpretation devised afterward. The role of interpretation is to justify one’s authority by grounding it in religious, philosophical, or scientific foundations, thereby causing the subjugated classes to abandon any fantasies of questioning reality or overturning rulings.
Cultural critic Terry Eagleton points out that the ruling class justifies itself by making beliefs and values favorable to itself appear natural, disparaging challenging ideas, eliminating competing modes of thought, and distorting social reality in a convenient manner. This approach explains how conventions are maintained in communities such as Weizhuang and who benefits from them.

Domination and Discourse

As Lu Xun points out, the formation of the ruling class begins with arbitrary acts of discourse—violently declaring oneself superior and others inferior, belittling others, or exalting oneself. Such illogical and irrational acts are possible only because of the power they wield. Furthermore, to conceal the hypocrisy of these violent and arbitrary acts of discourse, they cloak them in the rhetoric of religion, philosophy, science, and global trends. They rationalize their power through acts of discourse that embellish illogical, irrational, and unreasonable violence.
There is a view that, whether it be sociology or religious doctrine, “theory” is merely a rhetorical device designed to conceal the illogicality, irrationality, and unreasonableness of power created by violence. By interpreting the formation of power and the rule of the ruling class through the lens of religion, philosophy, science, and the like, thereby quelling the resistance and unrest of the ruled—this act is carried out under the name of “theory.” Marx and Engels pointed out that since the individuals comprising the ruling class possess consciousness and engage in thought, as long as they rule as a class, they exercise that dominance across all spheres and regulate the production and distribution of ideas.
In ‘Weizhuang’, the giants Nari and Zhao Nari assume precisely this role.

Weizhuang’s Power Structure and Etiquette

Through plausible conventions established by figures such as Giant Nari and Zhao Nari, the ruling class gains the pretext of protecting the rights and interests of the ruled, thereby enabling them to systematically plunder the wealth of the ruled.
The following quote is an oath that the local police forced Ah Q to take on the grounds that he had harassed a maid at Zhao Nari’s house.
① Tomorrow, take two —weighing one jin each—and a packet of incense to the Zhao household to apologize.
② The Zhao household will summon a Taoist priest to perform a ritual to drive away the ghost that has taken hold of him, and Ah Q will bear the cost.
③ Ah Q must never set foot inside the Zhao household again.
④ If any mishaps occur in the future, they will all be considered A-kyu’s responsibility.
⑤ A-kyu must not demand wages or an outer garment.
On top of this, the local police officer extorts 400 nips—twice the usual amount—from A-kyu as payment for alcohol, claiming he couldn’t sleep that night. A-kyu accepts all of this without putting up much of a fight. The items A-Q compensated for were trivial things that were neither here nor there at Lord Zhao’s residence. However, to curry favor with Lord Zhao, the village’s highest authority, the local police extorted as much money as possible to demonstrate their loyalty.
In Weizhuang Village, social relations were restricted by ritual propriety, and and has remained that way for over two thousand years. Even as one dynasty falls and another rises, there is little change in the etiquette of Weizhuang Village. The only things that have changed are the sophisticated rhetoric and new strategies added to deceive the still ignorant and uneducated people. The social hierarchy established by the ancient sages continues to this day, and new strategies are deployed day by day.
I attempted to depict the mental world of people in our modern country, but I am not yet fully convinced that I have truly succeeded. I do not know about others, but to me, it seems as though a massive barrier stands between people, preventing their hearts from connecting. This is precisely because the wise men of our ancient past—the so-called sages—divided people into ten ranks. Although we no longer use those exact terms today, the specter of that system remains. Not only that, but the situation has become even more severe, to the point where discrimination exists even within a single person’s body, with the hand regarding the foot as a lower-class entity.

The Link Between Weizhuang and Modern China

Weizhuang, the setting of ‘A True Story of Ah Q’, is a small rural village, yet it contains elements that allow us to draw inferences about China as a whole. The aspects of China that Lu Xun captured some 90 years ago can still be found in today’s China. Currently, China has established a system of governance centered on tens of millions of Communist Party members, and since the Reform and Opening-Up, a capitalist class has emerged to exert political and economic influence.
Beneath the Communist Party members and the capitalist class, a stratified society has formed, consisting of those who support them: farmers, workers, and migrant workers—who are both farmers and workers. Even among farmers, workers, and migrant workers, there are marked differences in living standards depending on region or workplace. Just as in Weizhuang, social mobility remains difficult in contemporary China, and communication between these groups is also challenging.
If ‘Red Sorghum’ captured the long-standing principle of Chinese society—where an invisible order of etiquette operates— modern China is divided into classes by political authority—represented by Communist Party members—and economic values—embodied by the capitalist class. Furthermore, ancient philosophies such as Confucianism are being revived as a mechanism to conceal the immorality of political and economic domination. If the order of ritual was the mechanism that maintained and operated China in the past, modern China can be said to be sustained, on a macro level, by the logic of capital.
Formally speaking, the dominant logics underpinning past and modern China differ. However, in substance, the relationship between the ruling class and the ruled remains intact. Weizhuang is a village where China’s traditional logic of domination is embodied. By substituting this with the logic of capital, one can gain insight into the logic of domination in modern China.
The image of Weizhuang can be found all over present-day China. The portrayal of the Chinese people and China that Lu Xun captured in ‘A Madman’s Diary’ remains vibrant. One netizen wrote the following based on their own experience: In elementary school, and middle school, I really hated Lu Xun’s writings. At the time, there were many passages I couldn’t understand even after reading them, and the stories seemed far removed from real life. Moreover, since my teachers always made us memorize them, I could barely remember a fraction of what I’d been forced to learn. After graduating from college and entering the workforce—where I found myself in a situation where I had to do work I didn’t want to do and witness things I didn’t want to see—the passages I’d been forced to memorize in the past came to mind , and I actually found myself grateful to those strict teachers. As I kept my conscience clear and kept my eyes wide open, I realized that the ugly social phenomena Lu Xun had fought against—corrupt officials, thugs, their henchmen, and those trapped in outdated customs or superstitions—the ugly social phenomena Lu Xun fought against still abound. I saw A Qs clad in rags in both the countryside and the city, and I also noticed A Qs dressed in expensive suits living in elegant mansions. Whether poor or rich, commoner or high-ranking official, uneducated or college graduate, everyone was worshiping gods and Buddhas without distinction.
The attempt to extend the meaning of Weizhuang—the setting of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’—to the present day stems from the intention to reflect on the space in which we find ourselves through the work. It also aims to prompt reflection on the characteristics of modern China. Although Weizhuang is clearly a rural village, considering its polysemy, it cannot be limited to the countryside alone. Furthermore, while Weizhuang is a setting established over 90 years ago, it continues to resonate in various ways even today.
Having reflected on the significance of Weizhuang as a space to this extent, let us now turn our attention to its inhabitants.

The Characters of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ and Their Worldviews

The characters in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ can be divided into four tiers based on social status. First, there is the top tier, which includes figures like the Giant Master and Master Zhao, as well as Chen’s eldest son—a modern intellectual who studied in Japan. Next is a group that serves the upper class, such as the local police or Aunt Wu, the sole maid in Zhao Nari’s household. Below them, the vast majority of peasants form the third tier. Finally, at the very bottom are characters like A-Q, Wang Tebao, Little D, and the Buddhist nun.

The Structure of Status and Authority

Both Lord Ge and Lady Zhao are figures who have either passed the imperial examinations—the gateway to social mobility—or are seeking to rise in status through them. While both Lord Ge and Lady Zhao are recognized, both internally and externally, as having the authority to establish the customs of Weizhuang, there is a clear difference in status between them. Mr. Bai, the only Giant within the city walls, holds a higher position than Zhao Nari, the highest authority in Weizhuang Village. His fame extends for a hundred li in all directions, and the mere fact that A-Q worked in his household is enough to make the people of Weizhuang envy him. Although not quite on the same level, Weizhuang has an authority figure named Zhao Nari who oversees all major and minor affairs of the village.
Characters Appearing in the Work: The share the commonality of serving the upper echelons, but they differ in status and authority. The local police and Aunt Wu, who are inevitably close to Zhao Nari’s household, rank one level higher than farmers or A-Q. In particular, whenever an incident involving Master Zhao’s household arises, the local police tend to resolve the matter in Master Zhao’s favor rather than determining right from wrong. When Ah Q boasted that he was of the same clan as Master Zhao and, in terms of generational hierarchy, was three generations senior to Shu Zai—Master Zhao’s son—the local police intervened, dragged Ah Q to Master Zhao’s house, had him slapped, and then they also harassed Ah Q and extorted money from him to pay for the alcohol.
There is no difference in social status among those at the very bottom of society. The only differences are economic or based on traditional notions. A-Q, Wang Telbo, and Xiao D are disrespected because of their economic status, while the nun is looked down upon due to the denigration of women and religion. In this context, the reason A-Q—who belongs to the lowest stratum—is a problematic figure is that he causes various incidents regardless of social hierarchy.
Viewed positively, A-Q embodies . However, since his actions are not driven by his own independent judgment but still take place within the framework of the social hierarchy, he has little impact on Weizhuang. He merely ends up as a laughingstock or a spectacle for the villagers.
Like everyone else in Weizhuang, A-Q loves to gawk at others, enjoys showing off, and has a strong sense of pride. He mocks the Zhuang residents and, fueled by the pride he has built up from his frequent comings and goings to the city, even goes so far as to look down on the city dwellers. This attitude serves as the basis for Ah Q’s condescension toward both the villagers and the city dwellers.
Ah Q’s pride is so strong that he even looks down on the sons of wealthy families preparing for the imperial examinations. This pride stems from the fact that, compared to the people of Weizhuang, he has more experience of the world while still being familiar with Weizhuang’s customs. Though he wears rags, lives in the village shrine, and has not yet started a family, Ah Q possesses at least a smattering of knowledge.

Ah Q’s Identity, Views on Women, and Critique of Tradition

Ah Q’s limited knowledge serves as a mechanism that boosts his pride and as the driving force behind his “spiritual victory.” He knows the meaning of filial piety as described by the Chinese sages and understands the expression “leaving no descendants is the greatest sin” (無後爲大). In East Asian tradition, failing to produce an heir and thus being unable to perform ancestral rites is considered the ultimate act of filial disobedience; consequently, even Ah Q—who has no clear name, place of origin, or ancestors—has no choice but to internalize this notion. The fact that Ah Q, a member of the lowest social class, is in this state leads one to wonder how much worse off others must be, revealing Lu Xun’s critical perspective on traditional thought.
The moralizing of traditional thought does not stop here . In a society where taking a concubine in addition to one’s wife was considered normal in order to produce an heir, women were often treated merely as a means to produce offspring. Although the legal status of men and women was defined as equal in the early days of socialist China, as capitalist influences spread, we observe that the harmful customs of the past are resurfacing in various ways.
“Bao’ernai (包二奶)” refers to keeping a second woman in addition to one’s primary wife; which is largely for sexual pleasure, though it is also commonly used by the wealthy as a means of ensuring an heir. Lu Xun’s writings reveal that the customs of Wei Zhuang remain valid in modern Chinese society. It is merely that, through the process of evolution, new terminology has been added, giving the practice a more sophisticated appearance.
Since the advent of money as a treasure, the evolution of men has become even more pronounced. As nearly everything in the world has become , and sexual desire is no exception. For just a few coins, a man can obtain a woman’s body, and he as a “fair transaction.” This attitude—expecting a “thank you” even after violating a woman in this way—is linked to the negative notion that views prostitutes as a higher stage of male evolution.
At the same time, old-fashioned marriages arranged by parental decree and matchmakers are regarded as far more respectable than prostitution. Through this system, a man acquires a permanent living asset. There is a view that once the bride is , she is left with nothing but obligations—not even the freedom to negotiate a price—and there is a view that romance becomes utterly out of the question.
A-Q’s view of women is also not significantly different from that of the majority of Chinese people. As an inherently upright man, he is strict about “the separation of the sexes” and possesses a strong sense of justice that rejects heresy. Ancient teachings such as “Wuhou Weidai” and “separation of the sexes” dominate the worldview of Yueqiu and the people of Weizhuang. They follow these teachings simply because they are customary, without even knowing which great master first taught them. In this process, women are placed at the very bottom of the social hierarchy.
Ah Q’s views on women are extreme. He asserts that “all Buddhist nuns undoubtedly commit adultery with monks; if a woman walks alone outside, she is undoubtedly trying to seduce a man; and when a man and a woman are talking alone together, there is undoubtedly a suspicious relationship between them.” These views combine to ultimately form the notion that “women are beings who harm others.”
There is also a widespread belief among many Chinese men that historical crises are the fault of women. Narratives are passed down claiming that the Shang dynasty fell because of Daji, the Zhou dynasty collapsed because of Baosi, and Dong Zhuo was killed by Diaochan. This attitude of shifting the blame for a nation’s downfall onto women reveals male cowardice and a long-standing notion of shifting responsibility onto the weak.
While community norms should be universal and pragmatic to be valuable, Chinese morality varies according to class and gender. The Chinese morality Lu Xun observed is characterized by “thinking only of oneself and not caring for others. ‘Women must remain chaste, but men may have multiple wives’”—a double standard. For the lower classes, such as Ah Q, and for women, only imposed morality is granted; they are burdened solely with the duty to follow and uphold the time-honored customs established by the upper classes. All the characters in the work create and uphold these customs, thereby sustaining the community, but to Lu Xun, these actions appear to lead down a path to death.
In one of his essays, Lu Xun criticizes Gao Xun’s teachings as a way of life that amounts to “do not move.” While remaining still may result in fewer mistakes, he asks whether rocks or sand—which make no mistakes at all—are not preferable. For the betterment and progress of humanity, one must be active; even if one makes a few mistakes in the process, it is no great matter. He points out that the very existence of a half-living, half-dead, miserable life is the true error that leads people down the path to death.

Chinese Morality and the Disregard for Life

The society that Lu Xun criticized is one that, while putting up a plausible facade of survival, actually imposes the teachings of Gohun—which lead people down the path to death—and has long advocated for a miserable, protracted existence under the guise of morality. Chinese morality, like a lifeless boulder or sand, forces a life of minimal error. On the other hand, while movement inevitably leads to some mistakes, no progress is possible without it.
Lu Xun believes that the Chinese, weighed down by long-held notions and clinging to a life of half-living, half-reflecting without any change, can say nothing more than, “We must merely survive, secure food and clothing, and .” Since Chinese morality not only imposes a miserable, half-alive, half-dead existence but also advocates acceptance on the grounds of personal self-interest, the majority accepts it uncritically. Lu Xun judged that such old-fashioned teachings and hypocritical morality were the culmination of Chinese tradition.
Such distorted morality dominates members of society, forcing individual obedience in the name of “universality.” Since morality is, after all, a product of the collective and the majority, it does not readily acknowledge the autonomy of individual lives. Therefore, the actions of any member who deviates from community norms—no matter how much they embrace foreign culture or seek social reform—cannot help but be viewed negatively.
An example from the story illustrates this well. When Chen Nali’s eldest son returned from abroad, the locals called him a “fake Westerner” or a “foreigner’s lackey,” and would subtly hurl insults at him whenever they saw him. Such reactions go beyond mere prejudice; they reveal the pressure society exerts on individuals who seek to embrace the new.
It is even more intriguing to reflect on this scene in light of Lu Xun’s own experiences. Lu Xun also left his hometown of Shaoxing, traveled through Nanjing, and studied abroad in Japan, where he cut off his queue. When he returned home after completing his studies, what kind of gaze did he encounter from his mother and the people of his hometown? The description in the work is not entirely unfamiliar. Ah Q’s views on “new-style intellectuals” reflect the conventions of the time and seem to be a projection of Lu Xun’s own experiences.

New-Style Intellectuals, Geniuses, and Revolution—Lu Xun’s Concerns

There are many reasons why ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ should not be read merely as a critique of Ah Q’s “spiritual victory.” Chen Nali’s eldest son is the only “new-style intellectual” who appears in the work, and like many such intellectuals who studied abroad in the early 20th century, he sought to break with tradition and outdated notions. However, the majority of Chinese people viewed him with disdain. It appears that Lu Xun, aware of this perception, sought to analyze its origins.
‘ “Exalting oneself” is a peculiar phenomenon and a kind of declaration of war against the masses. With the exception of delusions of grandeur in psychopathology, people who consider themselves extraordinary generally possess a genius-like quality, and some scholars say they have a touch of madness. They believe their ideas are superior to those of the masses and, indignant at the masses’ lack of understanding, either become misanthropes or are branded as “enemies of the people.” However, many new ideas and political , religious, and moral reforms originate from them.
Lu Xun’s literature, which seeks to overturn the perceptions of the general public—such as those of Ah Q—and reshape the Chinese national character, is likely to appear hostile to the masses. It takes a long time to abandon familiar yet trite habits and adapt to new cultural norms. In contrast, geniuses like Lu Xun advocate for the immediate transformation of ideas and lifestyles. The problem is that their claims cannot be accepted immediately.
To people steeped in old customs who have maintained a relatively peaceful life, radical claims sound nothing but madness. In this process, those with genius-level insight either become pessimists or are branded as “enemies of the people.” It is not easy to overcome the silence that follows a cry for change. Genius-level self-awareness is bound to clash with the morality of the masses, who are highly resistant to accepting anything unfamiliar or new.
Those who seek to reform reality through new ideas face a twofold obstacle. One is the public’s aversion to arguments that seek to overturn their established perceptions, and and the other is the resistance imposed by public morality in the process of popularizing that genius-level self-awareness. However, in the long run, political, religious, and moral reforms often begin with these genius-level assertions.
Just as the madman in ‘The Diary of a Madman’ may perceive reality as a product of madness, and just as A-Q in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ , the “Method of Spiritual Victory” can reflect real human beings—all because of the pure and sometimes genius self-awareness inherent in madness or folly. However, the one-sided genius of the madman—which can only be revealed through Wei Zhuang’s depiction of Ah Q’s fight or the diary format—is always destined to fail in the real world.
That is why Lu Xun even portrays the hypocritical behavior of new-style intellectuals advocating revolution
depict even the hypocritical behavior of new-style intellectuals advocating revolution in his works. The works portray Westernized new-style intellectuals seeking personal advancement through revolution. Revolution sometimes appears to be nothing more than a means to acquire power or wealth, and and true change is obscured by those who champion such a hollow revolution.In the work, only one character—a “fake Westerner”—appears as a representative of the new-style intellectuals, but his worldview has merely changed on the surface; in reality, he is someone who must be eliminated for the transformation of Chinese society. Viewed in this light, there are almost no characters portrayed positively in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. All the characters, including Ah Q, are portrayed as figures who must disappear in order to achieve the reformation of the national character that Lu Xun desires.This raises the question of whether, to achieve Lu Xun’s literary ideal of reforming the national character, the very stage on which the play is performed—that is, the space of China itself—must ultimately be transformed. While many scholars view Ah Q as representative of Chinese peasants during the Xinhai Revolution, reading the work suggests that Ah Q may represent the Chinese people—who have long built Chinese civilization—and, by extension, a facet of humanity itself.Meanwhile, Lu Xun himself confesses that while he once thought his depiction was excessive, he later came to see it differently. He argued that even a factual portrayal of China’s situation at the time would appear grotesque to people from other countries—or even to future, well-meaning Chinese people. His reflection—that while he would doubt his own imagination, thinking it was too far-fetched, he often found that when confronted with similar realities, they appeared even more absurd—clearly reveals the work’s central theme.As most scholars acknowledge, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ depicts Ah Q’s “spiritual victory”—a strategy of shifting feelings of humiliation and defeat onto the weak while indulging in self-satisfaction. While this can be considered the work’s most fundamental framework, it is difficult to regard this alone as a proper understanding of Lu Xun’s intent. Ultimately, through this work, Lu Xun criticizes the national character of the Chinese people while expressing the view that change in China is impossible unless the common people change.Lu Xun clearly states that the work was intended to depict China’s current situation as it truly is. However, his concern was that such a factual depiction might seem grotesque to people from other countries or to future generations of Chinese.The grotesqueness or discomfort readers feel in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ stems from the fact that it is based on reality. It is a stark depiction of facts recorded in such minute detail that Lu Xun himself sometimes suspected they might be excessive. More importantly, the actual reality of China that Lu Xun observed and recorded was even more grotesque than what is depicted in the work, and in many cases, it was so extreme that even Lu Xun could not have imagined it in his wildest fantasies.Reality is even more grotesque than fiction, and in some cases, it is even cruel. Even for Lu Xun, who had observed the Chinese people in various ways to create a character like Ah Q, everyday life was frequently more absurd or cruel than anything he could have imagined. Lu Xun recorded such everyday life in various forms of writing, and people called these writings “satire.”
Most people regard Ah Q as the archetype of Chinese peasants during the Xinhai Revolution, and just as they find the literary achievement of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ in its satire, reflecting on the meaning of satire as Lu Xun defined it allows us to infer the relationship between fantasy and reality as he described it—and, furthermore, the relationship between satire and the act of writing.
Lu Xun wrote the following about the essence of satire: “The lifeblood of satire is truth. It need not be an actual event that has already occurred, but it must be a fact that could very well have happened. … What satire records are open and commonplace occurrences—things that no one finds strange in everyday life and therefore no one pays any attention to. Yet these events are, in and of themselves, irrational, ridiculous, despicable, and even abhorrent. However, because they have been carried out more or less as a matter of course and have become habitual, no one among the masses perceives anything unusual about them; but when we treat them as something special now, it comes as a shock to people.”
Satire is the act of depicting, exactly as it is, events that are irrational, ridiculous, base, and even abhorrent to everyone—events that occur so frequently and so openly that no one finds them strange or pays them any mind. Extending this idea, it connects to the act of literature itself. Since literary creation is a public and commonplace activity, isn’t it the act of imbuing everyday language with literary quality by treating as special things that no one normally considers significant?
A literary work is nothing more than the small events occurring around us acquiring a new language through the author’s inspiration and being presented to the reader. As Lu Xun pointed out, literary works do not need to be based on actual events, but they must deal with plausible realities. Even if based on actual events, they must be reworked by the author to be recognized as works of literature. The author’s fantasies, bizarre rumors, or strange phenomena may be recorded in a work, but in such cases, it is easily criticized for lacking plausibility.
Considering these circumstances, works recognized for their canonical value, such as ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, must be viewed as having a high degree of realistic plausibility. In other words, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is a satire on early 20th-century Chinese rural life and peasants, but it is grounded in a certain degree of factuality.
From this perspective, Ah Q may not refer solely to the lower-class peasants who made up the majority of the Chinese population. The character Ah Q, observed and brought to life by Lu Xun, is likely the result of his critical examination of the pretense and weak national character of the common people in Chinese cities, as well as of the intellectuals—including himself.
To reiterate, “The True Story of Ah Q” is a work in which Lu Xun “wrote, however clumsily, about the Chinese people as I saw them, based on my own observations.”
The most significant characteristic Lu Xun identified regarding the Chinese psyche is the “spectator mentality.” “Ah Q” is a character who “naturally loves to watch and meddle.” This can be seen in the scene where a revolution breaks out and a group of people ransack Master Zhao’s house.
Since Ah Q had always enjoyed watching and meddling, he immediately ran into the darkness. He thought he heard the sound of footsteps ahead. As he was listening intently, a man suddenly ran out from the opposite direction. As soon as Ah Q saw him, he quickly turned around and ran away with him. The man stopped. Ah Q stopped too. He looked back, but there was no one there. Upon closer inspection, he realized the man was So D. … A-kyu’s heart was pounding. As soon as So D finished speaking, he left. Akyu stopped two or three times while running away. However, since he was, after all, someone who had been in “this line of work,” he was surprisingly bold. So he crept out from behind the corner and listened quietly. It sounded chaotic. He looked more closely again. It seemed people wearing white helmets and white armor were carrying out, one after another, clothing chests, furniture, and even ’s Yeongpa bed. Since he couldn’t see clearly, he tried to step forward to get a better look, but his feet wouldn’t move.
Because of this single act of watching— or this act of peeping, leads A-kyu to a ridiculous death. The fundamental cause of A-kyu’s death was his excessive obsession with the spectacle. If he had stopped at a reasonable point, like So-D, he would not have been executed as an example. But could A-kyu—who had already stolen before and whose nerve had grown as a result—possibly miss such an intriguing spectacle? A-kyu, , A-Q ultimately turns his own death into a spectacle for others. Instead of being taken directly to the execution ground, he is paraded through the streets—a practice known as “parading the condemned.”
Even more intriguing is the public opinion among the townspeople regarding A-Q’s execution. They were actually dissatisfied. They felt that a firing squad was less entertaining than beheading, and that the condemned man was a laughable figure whose fate was a farce. They felt they had wasted their time following him around for so long, only to find he never even got to sing a single song.
“The True Story of Ah Q” goes to great lengths to portray the image of the Chinese as a people who love to gawk. Such depictions are not limited to this work alone. Ever since he happened to see a slide show while studying medicine in Sendai, the figure of the bystander has repeatedly appeared in many of Lu Xun’s works, which sought to reform the national character through literature and art.
How did Lu Xun reconcile the contradiction between the bystander-like nature of the Chinese people and the need to reform the national character? It is difficult to offer a clear interpretation of this. This is because we can easily observe Lu Xun, who, while believing that the driving force for national character reform must be found within the people, is constantly frustrated by their passive nature.
The image of the Chinese as bystanders, as seen through Lu Xun’s eyes, is a cold one. He stated that “the masses—especially in China—are nothing more than eternal spectators of a play.” He was well aware that there was no remedy for such a crowd, and even went so far as to argue that the fundamental cure would be to eliminate the plays they could watch altogether. Once any Chinese person becomes a “leader,” the crowd is quick to gather around and gawk; whether the person is a true hero or an ordinary individual, they rush in like a cloud whenever a spectacle arises. As a result, internally, the crowd gradually transforms the “leader” into a dull-witted figure, turning him into little more than a puppet; externally, it causes others to see not the leader’s true nature but a distorted illusion filtered through the crowd itself.
The defining characteristic of the masses lies in their acceptance of the notion that “if the prevailing trend is deemed correct, it is considered correct,” and that “the power of the majority rules the world and oppresses exceptional individuals” as a matter of course. Such a foolish and weak populace, no matter how robust and sturdy their physiques may be, can ultimately serve only as trivial examples or spectators. Lu Xun felt immense frustration toward the Chinese people, who stood by as passive bystanders.
Extending this line of thought, Lu Xun sought to criticize the public’s attitude by quoting a newspaper article published in his essay “Scenes of the Hunt for Communists.”

The Execution Scene and the Crowd

After the execution that day, because three of the prisoners—the Ma sisters (Shuchun, 16, and Zhichun, 14) and Ms. Fu (Fengjun, 24)—were women, male and female onlookers from the city gathered in such vast numbers that the area was so crowded all day long that one could hardly move.
Furthermore, the number of onlookers increased significantly when the severed head of the Communist ringleader Guo Liang was displayed at Simengou. As a result, traffic in the area around the Simengou Octagonal Pavilion came to a standstill.
The people in the South Gate area viewed Guo Liang’s severed head and then went to the Education Association to view the women’s bodies. The people near the North Gate viewed the woman’s corpse at the Education Hall and then went to Simengou to view Guo Liang’s severed head.
The entire city was in an uproar, and the atmosphere of hunting down Communists intensified. It was not until evening that the crowds thinned out, no longer as dense as they had been during the day.
If even the death of a valiant general is buried by the onlookers, how much more so for a figure like Ah Q? The truth surrounding Ah Q’s death holds no significance. People are interested only in what dramatic spectacle is staged during the execution.
The reason Ah Q’s execution sparked public discontent was that it failed to provide a compelling spectacle. In contrast, the executions of a Communist Party leader and three female prisoners attract so much attention that they bring traffic to a standstill.
Regarding this relationship between the Chinese people and Lu Xun, the prominent Japanese Lu Xun scholar Noboru Maruyama states that, for Lu Xun, the relationship between human beings is fundamentally ugly.
Maruyama illustrates this phenomenon through examples such as the public treating the execution of a revolutionary—who was arrested while fighting to alleviate the people’s suffering—as the ultimate spectacle, or the people taking pleasure in watching the execution of A-Q, one of their own.
The Chinese psyche’s penchant for spectating seems to have been well known in Western society as well. A narrator borrowed from an essay by André Malraux says, “We wish to use our brains solely as spectators of our own game—that is, of the world’s ceaseless changes.” This sentence is often cited as an example of Malraux capturing the Chinese mindset.
The relationship between the scapegoat and the crowd that views it merely as a spectacle is a literary theme that Lu Xun sought to portray in various ways. This theme can even be found in the temporary calm that settled over the literary world after Lu Xun’s death.
Lu Xun’s literary career was marked by controversy from start to finish. Yet, with the epithet “Spirit of the Nation” placed upon his coffin, the literary world fell silent. That silence resembles the tranquility that descended upon Greek society after Socrates’ death, and and also resembles the peace brought about by oligarchic rule.
For the vast majority of Chinese people, the death of a valiant general—or even someone like Lu Xun—means little more than the chance to admire the sacrificial table and then receive a piece of meat to eat. Lu Xun described this, saying, “After a sacrificial victim has shed blood before the altar, the only thing left for the people is the distribution of meat from the sacrificial table.”
And the crowd, delighted to receive a piece of meat from the sacrificial table, believes that “even as everyone slowly dies, this is the most effective way to uphold righteousness and come closer to being a virtuous person”; through this, Lu Xun reveals the inner psychology of the Chinese people.

Lu Xun’s Disillusionment and Literary Hope

The depth of Lu Xun’s disillusionment with the Chinese people is immeasurable. He viewed the Chinese masses as “nothing more than slaves who have lost their sense of indignation and even find some pleasure in working while enduring a life of servitude.” To them, the misfortune of others or even brutal murders are nothing more than a spectacle to watch.
Nevertheless, Lu Xun’s hope—namely, the reform of the national character—must draw its driving force from these very masses. While frustrated by the masses’ ignorance and apathy, he believed he had no choice but to find hope in them—these objective beings who are ignorant and devoid of sensation.
Although the masses encompass an infinitely broad and diverse range of people, Lu Xun argues that even if they are illiterate, they are not as foolish as intellectuals assume. His view is that they desire knowledge and new ideas, possess a willingness to learn, and are capable of accepting what is necessary if it is gradually presented to them.
In most cases, the masses are merely spectators, but they also possess the power to overturn the stage on which a play is performed. It is the masses who hold the power to form an adversarial relationship with the awakened minority. The absence of such a public brings pure despair to the awakened minority.
The very basis for the existence of the awakened minority lies, after all, in the existence of the masses who continually frustrate them. Lu Xun is inevitably bound by fate to a public that treats cruelty as entertainment or finds solace in the suffering of others. The urgency to awaken them stems directly from his own sole hope.
Through this paradoxical realization, Lu Xun was able to sustain his dream of reforming the national character through literature and art. The depth of his literary thought, the grotesqueness of ‘ grotesqueness of ‘A True Story of Ah Q’, and the discomfort this evokes in the reader—reach their peak in the scene where he likens the onlookers’ gaze to that of a hungry wolf hunting for prey.
Lu Xun’s memory of the wolf is as follows: Four years ago, a starving wolf he encountered at the foot of a mountain followed him from a distance neither too far nor too close, preying on his flesh, and the wolf’s eyes were hideous and terrifying. What he saw this time were eyes even more terrifying than those. Those eyes were both dull and sharp, endlessly following him as if intent on devouring not only his words and body but , as if seeking to devour everything, following him endlessly.
Scenes such as Ah Q belittling the cow or the Buddhist nun, being beaten by Lady Zhao, being rejected when attempting to join the revolution, and meeting his end on the execution ground serve to amplify the work’s humor and Ah Q’s foolishness. These scenes are directly or indirectly linked to his own actions, thereby bringing out the work’s central theme: the “Spiritual Victory Method.”
However, elements such as the image of the wolf cited earlier make the reader uncomfortable, as they depict the onlookers surrounding Ah Q—that is, the Chinese people. In the onlookers, who seek only momentary pleasure while disregarding the truth, Lu Xun sensed the wolf’s ferocity, and this sensation is bound to strike the majority of readers as grotesque.
In this passage, the reader begins to suspect that they, too, might be one of the onlookers who drove Ah Q to his death. This is because the reader, too, cannot help but be part of the crowd surrounding ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. Lu Xun puts an end to the reader’s complacency—that is, the reader’s critical reading that views Ah Q and the Chinese people’s mental world with eyes of loathing—and and guides them toward self-reflection.
Lu Xun declares that readers who fail to act against an absurd reality are, in the end, murderers—no matter how conscientious or compassionate they may be. In this way, the Chinese psyche that Lu Xun portrays through “The True Story of Ah Q” is connected to our own.
“The True Story of Ah Q” delves deeply into the human frailty that exists not only among early 20th-century Chinese but also in the present and future . If we reinterpret Lu Xun’s remarks about Dostoevsky as referring to Lu Xun himself, we can gauge the depth of his literature.
Regarding Dostoevsky’s works, Lu Xun said that even in the author’s early writings, one could already sense the desolation of old age. He was a writer who placed his characters in various unbearable situations to strip away their outward innocence and the true innocence hidden beneath through torture.
Lu Xun pointed out that Dostoevsky did not kill sinners off quickly but kept them alive for as long as possible, remarking that the author seemed to suffer alongside the sinners and rejoice alongside the torturers. He states that this is by no means something an ordinary person could do, but rather something made possible by greatness.

Lu Xun and Dostoevsky

Lu Xun’s assessment of Dostoevsky’s work ‘ The Poor Man’ is, in fact, an apt assessment of Lu Xun himself. Lu Xun’s literature dredges up the sin hidden within human beings, exposing it as if through torture, and even lays bare the true innocence concealed beneath that sin. Just as Dostoevsky did, Lu Xun becomes both a grave sinner and a cruel torturer, simultaneously revealing the sins and innocence, thereby simultaneously revealing the sins and innocence of others as well.
Meanwhile, Lu Xun senses a silence akin to old age in Dostoevsky’s writings. This silence leads to the realization that Lu Xun’s own literary practice is inevitably carried out amid the same silence, and he views the resonance of his works as nothing other than a fateful awareness of this silence. This can be read as an expression of the will to willingly accept as his own the fateful solitude that anyone seeking to explore the depths of the soul must inevitably face.

Ah Q’s Revolution and the Chinese Revolution

Few terms define 20th-century China as accurately as “revolution.” For over a century, from the Opium War of 1840 to the founding of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, the Chinese people made countless efforts to replace the declining Qing Empire and establish a new nation. As a result, major historical events such as the Reform and Self-Strengthening Movement, the Boxer Rebellion, the Xinhai Revolution, the May Fourth New Culture Movement, the 1949 Socialist Revolution, and Deng Xiaoping’s Reform and Opening-Up.
Born in 1881, Lu Xun’s life spanned precisely this turbulent period of modern Chinese history. Power struggles among warlords, the encroachment of Western imperialist interests, and the persecution of political opponents all fueled the Chinese people’s anxiety and cast a dark shadow over their future. For the lowest strata of society, such as Ah Q, life was a daily struggle just to survive. As Lu Xun put it, those were times when even staying alive was a struggle.
In such circumstances, awakened intellectuals sought to renew China through a new nation and new institutions. The Xinhai Revolution, which serves as the historical backdrop for the work, was precisely the product of that era’s upheaval. Although it was an armed revolution launched by progressive intellectuals centered on Sun Yat-sen (Sun Yat-sen) and other progressive intellectuals, who launched an armed revolution to overthrow the feudal system and establish a republic, but the Xinhai Revolution failed to meet Lu Xun’s expectations. As Lu Xun observed, the revolution changed only the outward appearance; in substance, little had changed.
According to reports, although the Revolutionary Party had entered the city, the county magistrate remained in office, and only the titles of official positions had changed. Even the “giant” himself was appointed to an official post with a different title, and and stories circulated that the military commander was still the same old battalion commander as before. These developments demonstrate that the revolution failed to alter the essence of the system and power.
Lu Xun divided Chinese history into two periods. One was a time when slavery could be stabilized—that is, a period when the rules of slavery were codified and the dynastic system was established—and the other was a period of chaos without even those rules, namely the era of dynastic transitions
. From his perspective, the era in which Lu Xun lived belonged to the latter—the chaotic period of dynastic transition—and during that time, even the rules governing slavery had not been established, making people’s fates all the more precarious.
This perception stemmed largely from Lu Xun’s own experiences. Harboring hope for the Xinhai Revolution, Lu Xun went to Beijing to work at the Ministry of Education, but before long, the revolution was thwarted by figures such as Yuan Shikai and Zhang Xun. Later, Sun Yat-sen launched the Northern Expedition, but it failed following his death. Lu Xun’s sense of frustration was immense as his hopes for the Xinhai Revolution were shattered.
Later, in “The Origin of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’,” Lu Xun wrote that although the early years of the Republic of China had passed and could not be revisited, he was convinced that if reforms were to occur again in the future, a revolutionary party like Ah Q’s would emerge once more. He also remarked that while he hoped he was merely writing about a specific period in the past, what he had witnessed might not be a precursor to the modern era, but rather a foreshadowing of events to come—perhaps even those that would unfold two or three decades later.
Lu Xun’s tragic perception is clearly evident in Ah Q’s attitude. Ah Q had already heard of the “Revolutionary Party” and witnessed the killing of its members year after year, but he regarded the Revolutionary Party merely as a group of rebels and, believing that rebellion brings suffering, always “hated them intensely.” However, when he unexpectedly learned that even the Giant Sir feared them, he actually felt elated, and seeing the rabble in Weizhuang flustered made him even more delighted. As he watched, he thought, “Revolution isn’t so bad after all.”
To Ah Q, the revolution was nothing more than a lively playground and a spectacle, a means of drawing what he coveted toward himself. For this reason, the Xinhai Revolution failed to change anything in substance. While organizational structures and titles may have changed, the reality remained the same as before, and the vast majority of Chinese people still could not escape a life of slavery. The Xinhai Revolution had failed even to establish new rules for slavery.
Lu Xun viewed the Xinhai Revolution as nothing more than the rise and fall of a revolutionary party like Ah Q’s. He feared that any future revolutions would be no different in essence. While most people claim they have already broken away from Ah Q, Lu Xun warned that a closer look at reality reveals that revolutions like Ah Q’s are still ongoing.
Although ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is merely a work of fiction, the reason this fiction continues to intervene in history is simple: it stems from the paradox that, unless China undergoes a revolution, characters like Ah Q will not become members of the revolutionary party; but as long as revolutions continue, revolutionary party members like Ah Q are bound to emerge. Twentieth-century China underwent various political, economic, and cultural revolutions, and many Chinese people, whether consciously or unconsciously, went along with that tide.
Revolution is essential as a means of transforming the social fabric or overcoming crises. For this reason, it is difficult for anyone to avoid being swept up in the tide of revolution. The crux of the matter is that the success or failure of a revolution depends on . This is precisely why Ah Q’s revolution continues to spark dialogue with the present.
Given the various experiments currently underway in China—market reforms, political experiments, social institutional reforms, etc. —how many people, upon seeing them, would actually manage not to be swept up in them? Might not many people, like Ah Q, participate in the revolution aimlessly, following the prevailing trend, and without much self-awareness? Those who took part in the Great Leap Forward, became Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, and and those who have devoted themselves to making money since the Reform and Opening-Up—didn’t they, in the end, come to think, “Revolution isn’t so bad after all”? What will be the result?
Of course, Wei Zhuang wasn’t entirely free of reform either. Within a few days, the number of people tying their pigtails high on top of their heads increased, and since this was out of season, people viewed it as a bold decision. Even these minor changes were interpreted as evidence that Weizhuang was not entirely unrelated to reform.
As historian E. H. Carr said, history is a dialogue between the past and the present. This involves both viewing the present through the lens of past events and reinterpreting the past from a present-day perspective. It is only through a balance between these two viewpoints that history can achieve equilibrium. However, the official assessment of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ on the Chinese mainland tends to be biased toward the present, seeking to erase the naive aspects of the past. Many claim that we have already parted ways with Ah Q, but a careful examination of reality reveals that a revolution like Ah Q’s is still ongoing.

Lu Xun’s Understanding of Revolution

The revolution depicted in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ inflicted only minor wounds on the homes of Giant Nari and Zhao Nari. What makes Ah Q’s death all the more tragic is that he lacked even a plausible justification for participating in the revolution. If the revolution merely resulted in some people changing their hairstyles, where should Ah Q and the revolutionaries find recompense for their sacrifices?
Therefore, rather than defining the success of a revolution, Lu Xun argues that a revolution must be in constant motion. Since a revolution is a matter of reality, it must not rest on its laurels; any attitude that refuses to be satisfied with the status quo can itself be revolutionary.
For Lu Xun, hope is rooted in existence. He believes that where there is existence, there is hope, and that hope is light. Darkness does not last long; it is destined to gradually fade . In contrast, the future possesses the nature of striving to exist eternally and to grow ever brighter. Lu Xun suggests that if we do not cling to darkness but simply fade away for the sake of light, we will surely have an eternal and bright future.

Interpretation and Ideology of ‘A Madman’s Diary’

It is natural to ask what Lu Xun would have said had he directly experienced the socialist revolution . Would he have reduced the outcome of the revolution to a mere change of regime, or would he have demanded the ideological and spiritual transformations that accompany it?
Looking at the official interpretation of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ in mainland China, the majority of scholars define the work’s theme as a critique of the ignorance of Chinese peasants during the Xinhai Revolution. This assessment aligns with the ideological strategy that China and the Chinese people were transformed and moved toward a new society through the socialist revolution led by the Communist Party.
However, such an ideological assessment undermines the diversity of interpretations and obscures the work’s contemporary significance. The moment history and literature are judged from the victor’s perspective, the substantive aspects of the Xinhai Revolution as seen by Lu Xun vanish, leaving only a hollow shell. Approaching the past in this manner amounts to either learning nothing or refusing to learn.
Official interpretations remain at the level of providing information and neglects productive interpretation. If ‘ If ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is a classic of 20th-century Chinese literature, it carries diverse meanings depending on the era, place, and interpreter. From this perspective, Prasenjit Duara’s critique is highly insightful.
Duara views Lu Xun’s ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ as standing at the intersection of fiction and history, and considers it one of the most compelling narratives of Chinese history for his generation and subsequent ones. He argues that, despite its fictional structure, it is difficult to find a work that surpasses ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ in its analysis of certain events in modern history, particularly the Xinhai Revolution.
While Lu Xun narrated the history of modern China through the allegory of a failed national identity, he also developed techniques such as satire, defamiliarization, and self-mockery—all of which, through the form of fiction, eroded the exclusive dominance of the historical narrative. For example, the “ “Preface,” which is well known for its sharp criticism of history, is interpreted by some as reflecting Lu Xun’s own anxiety as an intellectual regarding his ability to convey his voice to the peasantry. Whether consciously or not, Lu Xun developed techniques that eroded the authority of both the narrator and the author, demonstrating that even academic history, which appears to be “science,” can in fact be simplistic.
An outstanding work possesses an artistic eye for historical time. As a linguistic art, literature must possess the virtue of constantly bringing history into the present. The allegorization of history—that is, the ability to capture the signs of historical time and sensually unfold them before the eyes of the living—is crucial. ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ brings to life, in various ways, the historical sediment reflected in the customs and ways of thinking of early 20th-century Chinese people, and sensually presents the signs that bring their activities and creations to the surface.

Ah Q’s Death and China’s Resurgence

On October 1, 1949, when Mao Zedong ascended the Tiananmen Gate to proclaim the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, his voice was filled with pride and confidence. Over the next 60 years, China made various efforts to lay the groundwork for its revival, and as a result, today’s China has successfully reemerged to the point of being referred to as a “G2” on the world stage.
No one can accurately predict what the future holds for China, a nation that has grown stronger through more than 100 years of trials since the Opium Wars. What is clear is that the Chinese people have recognized the crisis, sought a new direction, and worked tirelessly with unwavering determination; countless sacrifices were made in the process, and the Tiananmen Gate is the result of those sacrifices.
Among those who sacrificed themselves were people like Ah Q, who embraced the “spiritual victory” philosophy, as well as Lu Xun, who successfully embodied Ah Q’s spiritual victory. One cannot help but ask whether this sacrifice is truly a sacrifice buried in the hearts of the living. Only through conscious reflection and remembrance of these sacrifices can China achieve more sound development.
On March 18, 1926, shots were fired at students protesting the Xinchu Treaty, resulting in casualties. This treaty was imposed by Japan to enforce its own interests within China. Lu Xun’s writings on the subject convey a powerful message that goes beyond mere heartbreak.
Lu Xun confessed that he had witnessed the blood of the young people firsthand, writing that the blood had piled up layer upon layer, making it impossible even . He confided that with these few words, he was trying to dig a small hole in the ground to barely keep himself alive, and he believed that someday, surely, there would be a time to remember and tell their stories.
As time passes, the incident will be forgotten, and the streets will return to their former tranquility. Time forces us to forget. Lu Xun wrote, “There are many painful things in life, especially in China. People with good memories are usually crushed by that heavy suffering, while only those with poor memories are fit for survival—and they alone live happily.”
If so, to what extent can the people of the People’s Republic of China—reorganized around Mao Zedong—be free from Lu Xun’s observation? Do people not try to eke out an existence in this world by conveniently resorting to a form of “mental victory,” thinking, “If we win, I am part of the crowd, so I naturally win. If we lose, there are countless others in the crowd, so I don’t necessarily have to suffer the loss”? “ Are they not simply accepting the age-old truth that “if you win, you become a king; if you fail, you become a traitor,” and going about their own miserable lives under a new authority? Are they not trying to forget the lessons of history for the sake of momentary stability?
An assessment that limits Ah Q to a mere archetype of Chinese peasants during the Xinhai Revolution could be seen as an effort to forget the blood and sweat of the victims. These questions warrant deeper examination.
For Lu Xun, a revolution that is not accompanied by a change in ideology and spiritual awakening is meaningless in and of itself. He asks what conditions must be met for a true revolution and the rebirth of China. The conditions for China’s rebirth found in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ include the following reflections.
People say that some victors wish their opponents were as fierce as tigers or hawks, for only then can they feel the joy of victory. They say that if the enemy is as docile as a lamb or a chick, they instead feel the futility of victory. It is also said that some victors, after conquering everything—with those who must die having died and those who must surrender having surrendered—hear the words, “I am deeply ashamed and humbly confess that I have committed a capital offense.” At that point, they find that their enemies have vanished and their friends have disappeared, leaving only themselves in a position of power, where they feel the sorrow of victory amid loneliness, desolation, and silence.
However, our Ah Q is no such coward; he is always full of himself. Perhaps this is proof that China’s spiritual civilization is the most outstanding in the world.

Lu Xun’s Diagnosis and the Cycle of Chinese Society

Lu Xun points out that the Chinese are unable to resist the powerful and instead vent their anger, born of the powerful’s tyranny, upon the weak. He viewed both sides as equally cowardly slaves and diagnosed that among them, there was not a single innovative disruptor who harbored the light of an ideal in their heart. As Lu Xun said, “I do not mourn the fact that it has become ruins. I only mourn the act of picking up the pieces of the past and piecing them back together on top of those ruins.”
From this perspective, Chinese civilization is the result of a process that has repeatedly pieced together the old from the ruins. Looking at major events in the history of the People’s Republic of China—such as the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution, and the Reform and Opening-Up—one gets the impression that Lu Xun’s diagnosis remains valid. This is because, from a macro perspective, a recurring cycle of construction, destruction, and then reconstruction can be observed.
For Lu Xun, the victor does not as spoils. He argues that once the enemy has vanished, the victor is left with nothing but loneliness, desolation, and a sense of desolation. He says that true anger is revealed only amid a terrifying silence, when something crawls among the corpses like a viper and leaps through the darkness like a vengeful spirit. Therefore, “The anger of the brave is directed at those stronger than themselves, while the anger of the cowardly is directed at those weaker than themselves.”
Mao Zedong overcame China’s long-standing turmoil through the socialist revolution and emerged as the victor. The reason the Chinese people of his era enthusiastically embraced Mao was that he provided the basic conditions for survival. However, the victors’ arrogance also gave rise to a decade of great turmoil, such as the Cultural Revolution. With external enemies and political rivals gone, it is highly likely that what the victors felt was not sorrow but rather intoxication with victory .
Lu Xun also believed that brave individuals like Ah Q could not experience the loneliness and desolation felt by true victors. This was likely the fundamental cause that drove Ah Q to his death. Lu Xun concluded that China’s spiritual civilization might have been shaped by cowardice and might be sustained upon that very cowardice. Thus, there was a sense of urgency that without the death of Ah Q—a symbol and real-world embodiment of cowardice—it would be difficult to open the door to any future possibilities.
Lu Xun’s message is that a thorough revolution is impossible without the death of cowardly victors like Ah Q. He leaves a warning that even if Mao Zedong’s socialist revolution led to the establishment of New China, it too might have been nothing more than a revolution that merely “changed the sign.”

Revolution, the Resurrection of Confucius, and Lu Xun’s Self-Annihilation

The story continues with the events of one morning. Zhao Shuzhai, who was quick to pick up on news, heard rumors that the Revolutionary Party had entered the city in the middle of the night. He tied his queue high on top of his head and went to find the “fake Westerner” with whom he had been on bad terms. Under the slogan of an era of “renewal (維新),” and Zhao and his comrades soon found common ground and vowed to join the revolution together.
Recalling the dragon banner hanging in Jingshu Temple inscribed with “Long live the Emperor! Long Live the Emperor!” hanging in Jeongsu Hermitage, resolved to remove it, and set out for the hermitage to carry out their plan. When an elderly nun came out to stop them, they assumed she was on the side of the Manchu government and beat her severely. After the two men left, the nun went to inspect the hermitage and found that the plaque had been smashed and scattered on the ground, and the incense burner in front of the Guanyin statue had also disappeared.
The Xinhai Revolution overthrew the Qing Dynasty—an empire of the Manchu people—and gave birth to the Republic of China, a nation of the Han Chinese. However, behind the plausible rhetoric of “reform,” there were also members of the upper class—sensitive to the changing times—who concealed their queue hairstyles and colluded with so-called “Westerners” to protect their own interests. Many viewed the destruction of symbols of the imperial system, and even regarded violence against the weak—those who were insensitive to the changing times or appeared to side with the Manchu government—as part of the revolution. This process was far removed from a fundamental reform of the social system and ideology.
Even after the establishment of socialist China, the atmosphere of an era of “renewing everything” persisted. Many Chinese people conformed to the state’s ideological offensive as if a revolution were possible simply by making a pledge, while traditional thought—including that of Confucius—was rejected as feudal. Although the law stipulated that men and women were legally equal, it was difficult to change outdated customs through regulations alone. As the socialist economic system—including the nationalization of land and enterprises—was introduced, the “revolution” continued, and during this time, the Chinese people appeared to resign themselves to their fate.
After Deng Xiaoping came to power, policies from the Mao era were revised, and economic freedom was guaranteed to some extent through reform and opening-up and the introduction of a market economy. However, freedom of movement and political freedoms remain restricted. With the collapse of the Soviet Union and other Eastern Bloc socialist states, the ideological center of unity vanished, and the ideas of Confucius—once rejected—began to resurface. These historical changes form the backdrop to the 21st-century movement to restore Confucius as an ideological linchpin.
Lu Xun did not view the revival of Confucius as mere admiration or blind adoption. He believed that the revival of Confucius was often exploited to serve the needs of those in power, and he cautioned that such veneration ultimately becomes a tool of power. He pointed out that the tradition of venerating Confucius and upholding Confucianism had long been chosen by emperors and high officials, and that virtues such as filial piety (孝), loyalty, and chastity had been established as moral principles justifying the rule of those in power and had long controlled the consciousness of the ruled.
He also pointed out that even a search through the Twenty-Four Histories reveals few examples of filial sons, loyal ministers, chaste widows, or virtuous women, and emphasized that the methods of governance devised by Confucius were, in essence, intended not for the common people but for those in power. He viewed the movement to venerate Confucius as generally serving other purposes, and believed that once those purposes were achieved, the tool would be discarded or rendered useless.
Lu Xun argued that writings attacking the ills of an era must necessarily perish along with those ills. He saw this as analogous to an infected white blood cell bursting from a boil to eliminate itself; and that if he himself were not eliminated, it would prove that the pathogens still remained. Therefore, he held the grim conviction that his writings and criticisms must be buried along with those evils.
Lu Xun believed that through his own death, he could eradicate the pathogens within his body. He insisted that China’s true rebirth would only be possible by eliminating the pathogens that had accumulated over many years. His works were merely small monuments left behind in that process, and he hoped would regard them merely as a memorial. “I only hope that readers who are fond of my works will consider them merely as a memorial and recognize that within this small grave lies the flesh that once lived. After some time has passed, it will naturally turn to smoke or dust, and even this memorial will vanish from the human world, bringing my work to an end.”
It is true that China has been reborn economically, politically, and militarily. However, behind this facade, a host of problems lie in wait: disparities between regions and social classes, environmental issues caused by development, the rapidly growing demand for political freedom, the absence of a unifying force to promote ideological unity, and rampant materialism are all issues China must resolve in the near future. The most serious problem is that there aren’t many people in China today who can speak out critically about the country the way Lu Xun did. Even if such people exist, the fact that their views cannot be widely disseminated due to media censorship is also a problem.
In this situation, what form might the dreams of modern Chinese people take? Will they, like Ah Q, draw a circle on their death warrant—only to have the brush shoot upward and form a watermelon seed? Ah Q mustered all his strength to draw a circle on his death warrant. Not wanting to become a laughingstock, he tried even harder to make the circle perfectly round. This, too, is one of the pieces of evidence Lu Xun discovered that China’s spiritual civilization is the world’s finest. However, whether the circle is perfectly round or resembles a watermelon seed makes no difference. Ultimately, it is the act of signing one’s own death warrant without self-awareness.
The idea that modern China is waging a desperate struggle like Ah Q’s . However, from a macro perspective, China’s resurgence also contains elements that imply future despair. While this may not directly concern individuals at present, China’s economic growth is fueling environmental crises for both China and its neighboring countries. Let’s consider one of Lu Xun’s warnings regarding the environment.
I currently live in a small alley. There is a so-called “garbage truck” here that, for a monthly fee, hauls away things like coal ash. What do they do with it once it’s hauled away? They simply pile it up by the roadside. As a result, the road gradually rises. Several old houses are barely at semi-basement level, as if foreshadowing the future of the other dwellings. I don’t know why, but when I look at these homes, it feels as though I am witnessing the history of the Chinese people.
Lu Xun discerns the history of China by observing these homes being buried in ashes—and by watching people who not only build houses that are essentially burying them alive but also pay money to do so. This history envelops Lu Xun and the Chinese people, much like the Great Wall, which grows ever taller and more solid as old bricks are layered upon new ones. Since Chinese culture and history consist of efforts to fortify the Great Wall rather than attempts to tear it down, the will of innovative disruptors like Lu Xun is bound to be thwarted.
China’s socialist revolution may appear, on the surface, to have revolutionized the country, but upon closer inspection, it may amount to nothing more than adding new bricks. If people fail to recognize the tragedy of the victor and merely become arrogant, then someday —as history has proven—we will find ourselves in an era where even the rules of slavery have yet to be established by another power.
If a revolution amounts to nothing more than tying one’s pigtail on top of one’s head, going to Jeongsuam Temple to smash the dragon plaque inscribed with “Long live the Emperor! Ten thousand years!” and stealing the Seondeok Incense Burner, what significance could such a revolution possibly have? It merely tires people out.
Those born in a stale, ancient country are so blessed that they deserve a commendation from the Ministry of the Interior , will mostly feel a pain as if they have a boil that hasn’t yet been lanced. Those who have never had a boil, or those who have had one but never had it lanced, may not understand, but anyone else knows that the pain of lancing is far more refreshing than the pain of an unlanced boil. Isn’t this, literally, “joy after pain”? Through this book, I first want to awaken readers to the pain of that boil, and I wish to share the “joy after pain” with others suffering from the same ailment.
China, too, is currently plagued by various forms of boils. Revolution is meant to lance these boils. Even if a boil is lanced through revolution, other areas may become infected. If one becomes too absorbed in the joy that follows lancing a boil, one is likely to neglect the boils growing elsewhere. Only constant self-awareness and self-reflection can protect the body from boils. The way to share the joy after pain has already been fully revealed through Lu Xun. What remains is whether we put it into practice. Ah Q may be dead, but he is constantly being reborn in different forms. Or rather, as can be seen from the process of naming him “Ah Q,” he simply hasn’t been given an appropriate name; Ah Q is still alive today.
7. Lu Xun’s Compassion for Ah Q
To reiterate, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is widely regarded as exposing the Chinese people’s method of spiritual victory through Ah Q, a typical representative of Chinese peasants during the Xinhai Revolution. I am revisiting this conventional assessment of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ to examine Lu Xun’s emotional distance from Ah Q in relation to the creation of this archetype.
Basic theories of narrative perspective include the first-person protagonist perspective, the first-person observer perspective, the third-person observer perspective, and the omniscient author perspective. The core of narrative perspective theory lies in the distance between the author, the characters, and the reader. This distance reveals the degree of closeness between the narrator and the characters, and it also indicates the intensity of the message conveyed to the reader through the characters. By extending this concept, narrative perspective theory can serve as a useful tool for examining the author’s emotional intimacy with the characters.
In ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, point-of-view theory also serves as a fundamental means of examining the distance between the protagonist, Ah Q, and the author—in other words, Lu Xun’s emotional attitude toward Ah Q. The primary point of view in the work is the third-person observer perspective, occasionally supplemented by the omniscient author perspective. The third-person observer perspective is useful for ensuring narrative objectivity, while the omniscient author perspective, though heavily subjective, helps depict the characters’ inner psychology. While these perspectives can bring the reader closer to the characters, they also tend to maintain a relatively greater distance from the reader.
However, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ also employs a method that minimizes the distance between the narrator and the characters. The distance between the author, Lu Xun, and the protagonist, Ah Q, is not all that great. If the third-person observer perspective—the work’s primary narrative viewpoint—is said to be advantageous for ensuring narrative objectivity, did Lu Xun simply focus on portraying Ah Q objectively from the perspective of an observer? Is it even possible to portray Ah Q from a completely detached perspective, one that has absolutely no connection to the author himself? Are there no elements in which Lu Xun projects a facet of his own self onto Ah Q? If we conduct a preliminary examination of Lu Xun’s inner world through his other writings, we can catch a glimpse of a facet of his psyche that resembles Ah Q’s.
To conclude, my own way of confronting suffering is to face the pain that overwhelms me and, even if it seems somewhat forced, to shout that I have triumphed. Isn’t it a joy to find pleasure in raising my voice to the heavens and singing a victory song at the top of my lungs? Perhaps this is precisely the “sugar” we’ve been searching for.
This quote comes from a letter dated March 11, 1925, and is an excerpt from the advice Lu Xun sent to his student before he and Xu Guangping began a serious relationship. Xu Guangping was a student at the university where Lu Xun taught. After sending a letter seeking guidance on campus issues and life in general, the two developed a relationship through their correspondence. The quoted letter is imbued with affectionate advice for his radical student, while also revealing a facet of Lu Xun’s own attitude toward the world.
Lu Xun’s way of confronting suffering is to sing a hymn of victory, even if it feels forced. In Lu Xun’s reality, this may well have served as a lifeline. However, his remark that “this might be the sugar we’ve been looking for” calls for a different interpretation. While “sugar” may simply be rhetoric expressing concern for the radical student’s future, it also leads one to wonder if it might, in some way, have been a strategy Lu Xun himself employed to cope with reality. Of course, had he lacked even this degree of self-consolation, Lu Xun’s death might have been brought forward significantly, and his literary career might not have continued. Nevertheless, it cannot be said that there are no elements similar to Ah Q’s “spiritual victory.”
In order for readers to empathize with Ah Q’s inner world, the author must understand Ah Q better than anyone else and portray him more objectively than anyone else. To distill the characteristics of Ah Q’s inner world into a single concept and elicit a response from the reader, self-observation—as well as observation of those around him—is essential. Only by revealing the elements of “spiritual victory” inherent within the author himself can the protagonist’s “spiritual victory” acquire literary vitality. In this sense, Ah Q is a manifestation of Lu Xun’s inner self, and and can be viewed as the result of his objective recognition of that aspect. In other words, an empathetic understanding of Ah Q is an effort to objectify Lu Xun himself and then embrace that objectification. Lu Xun’s compassion for Ah Q is, in fact, compassion for himself.

The Roles of the Author, the Protagonist, and Compassion

Through compassion, the protagonist does not degenerate into a mere reflection of the author.
If the author’s breath fails to infuse the protagonist’s image and it remains a mere reflection, both the protagonist and the author will be subject only to fossilized evaluations. The author’s compassion for Ah Q is a kind of value judgment that fundamentally renews the work, and Ah Q can be seen as a strategy for the author—who exists outside the inner life of the other—to utilize himself within the work.
Since the author himself cannot directly intervene in the reality of Weizhuang, as represented by Ah Q, he has no choice but to stand at the . From that boundary, the author must find a link between the internal world of the work and the external world, and Ah Q assumes that role. Ah Q’s vitality is sustained by the breath of the external world that Lu Xun breathes into him, and the external world renews itself through the messages conveyed by the internal world of the work that Ah Q portrays. Through this process, Ah Q and the work gain eternal vitality. The vitality gained by the protagonist and the work is ultimately made possible by the author’s compassion.
Following Lu Xun’s understanding of Ah Q from this perspective eventually leads us to confront the fundamental question of what kind of existence the author is within the phenomenal world and what relationship he maintains with the events within the work. In other words, we must first understand the author within the historical context of that era and grasp his position within the social community. Furthermore, based on the relationship between the author and the phenomenal world, we must comprehensively understand the author’s mode of engagement with the work and the message he conveys to the reader through the events depicted. Only when the triangular dynamic—between the author and Ah Q, the author and ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, and Ah Q and ‘The True Story of Ah Q’—is fully understood can eternal vitality be guaranteed for all of them.
Depicting the inner world of a silent populace was a particularly difficult task in China. Lu Xun himself admitted that, although he strove to capture the inner world of individuals in a society with a long history that had not undergone reform—where people often failed to understand one another—his efforts were insufficient. He hoped that the time would come when people, who had been surrounded by high walls, would awaken, step outside, and speak up; however, acknowledging that such moments were still rare, he stated that he had attempted to portray the Chinese people—albeit clumsily—based on his own observations.
The difference between the protagonist, Ah Q, and the author, Lu Xun, is evident through various quotations and descriptions. While both seek to convey a message through ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, Lu Xun aimed to reveal the inner world of a silent populace, and Ah Q serves as a model capable of faithfully embodying Lu Xun’s intent. Although the various characters in the work all embody Lu Xun’s intent, among them, Ah Q was chosen as the character best able to reflect those intentions. That is why Ah Q is the protagonist. The protagonist’s role is to convey the author’s intentions more effectively than the other characters. However, since Ah Q alone cannot easily convey all of the author’s intentions, other characters are necessary.
Ah Q is one of the many characters Lu Xun observed in real life; he was chosen because he was deemed to represent the Chinese mindset relatively well. Zhao Nali, Xiao D, Wang Telbo, and the Buddhist nun could all have been protagonists. The choice depends on what aspects the author prioritizes. If the goal were to portray the hypocrisy of the ruling class, Zhao Nari would be suitable; if the aim were to embody traditional Chinese views on women, the Buddhist nun might be a better choice. However, these characters are not in a position to fully capture the core message Lu Xun seeks to convey. Even among the common people with a long history who had not undergone reform, a character capable of causing discord within the community, whether consciously or unconsciously.
As a practitioner of “spiritual victory,” Ah Q causes various disturbances, and ultimately, his very death stirs up turmoil within the community, prompting its members to speak out. What they say isn’t particularly profound; merely disillusioned chatter—such as, “Being shot is less entertaining than having one’s head cut off, and besides, he was a ridiculous condemned man. To be dragged through the streets for so long and not even get to sing a single song in the end. They’d just been following him around for nothing”—but it is precisely these words that reveal the community’s mental landscape.
Ah Q stirs up turmoil in the Weizhuang community, thereby prompting its members to speak up. This aligns with Lu Xun’s intention to shed light on the Chinese mindset. Through the character of Ah Q, Lu Xun is able to lay bare the psychological structure of the Weizhuang community for the reader. However, while the words conveyed by Ah Q and those Lu Xun intended to convey may seem similar, they are in fact different. While Ah Q directly embodies the Chinese “spiritual victory,” Lu Xun sought to reveal the historical and cultural conditions of communication breakdown that gave rise to this phenomenon.
As seen in his letters and other writings, the Chinese “spiritual victory” strategy epitomized by Ah Q may well have been inherent in Lu Xun himself. However, in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, no such attitude of “spiritual victory” is evident in the author himself. Opinions may differ as to whether this should be interpreted as Lu Xun’s cowardice, as a problem on the part of readers who perceive the distance between the author and the protagonist as excessively wide, or as a result of scholars’ attempts to narrow down the theme. A more fundamental reason is likely that the words of the author and the protagonist occupy different planes of meaning.
The protagonist’s perspective is, by its very nature, necessarily limited. No matter how outstanding the protagonist may be, he is merely one of the many facets of life depicted by the author. In contrast, the author stands at the boundary between the work he has created and the real world, enabling broader and deeper reflection. The vantage point from which the author observes is clearly distinct from that of the protagonist.
From an omniscient or contemplative vantage point, the author is positioned to reflect comprehensively on the Chinese people—including the protagonist, Ah Q—and Chinese culture as a whole. Of course, evaluations of the omniscient authorial perspective will vary from reader to reader. Depending on the reader’s interpretation, assessments of the author’s position and role may differ.
What most readers first notice in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ is Ah Q’s “method of spiritual victory.” Consequently, there is a tendency to interpret the work’s theme as a critique of this method. This reading focuses primarily on the relationship between the protagonist and the work; when viewed solely from the perspective of an observer, it becomes difficult to situate the author’s position within the work itself.
However, the author speaks to the reader not only through Ah Q, through ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ itself, the author addresses the reader. The message conveyed through Ah Q has already become somewhat clear. So what is the complete message that ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, as a self-contained world, seeks to convey? What did the author wish to express not through Ah Q—a character created within the work—but through the work as a whole, as an organic entity?
Was it not the absence of communication in society, the sense of isolation and desolation between people born of a hierarchical order, and the brutality in human nature that such isolation brings about that Lu Xun truly sought to convey? Furthermore, the question of whether the very essence of history and culture lies in the fact that such brutality has been disguised under the guise of “humanity” is likely another core question posed by the work.

Conclusion — Ah Q in Modern China

In the conclusion, let us once again reflect on the aesthetic and realistic value of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. Why is a work that was published nearly a century ago still consistently read and continues to inspire new insights? Why does this work, which is merely a novella, possess such enduring vitality?
There is a view that for literature to possess vitality, it must be able to present a comprehensive picture of the world and life. From this perspective, ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ resonates broadly, reflecting early 20th-century Chinese society and the lives of the Chinese people. The question then remains: how should this work be read in 21st-century Korea or modern China? As is the case with works that are consistently read as classics or canonical texts, the enduring significance of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ likely lies in the diverse interpretations it generates depending on the reader and the era.

Lu Xun’s Silence and “The Cry”

In 1922, Lu Xun compiled a collection of short stories that included “The True Story of Ah Q” and 13 other short stories, publishing a collection of short stories and writing a preface. The preface describes in relatively detail the history leading up to the publication of this collection and explains why the collection was titled “The Cry.”
I do not consider myself someone who, even when already in a desperate situation, is incapable of saying a single word. However, perhaps because I still cannot forget the silent sorrow I felt at that time, there are moments when I I may be compelled to let out a few shouts. It is also meant to offer a little comfort to the warriors charging forward in the silence, so that they may press on without hesitation. I have no time to reflect on whether my cry is one of bravery, sorrow, hatred, or ridicule. But since it is a cry, it must naturally obey the commander’s orders; thus, I occasionally take up my pen… because I, myself, did not want to pass on—even to young people brimming with dreams, just as I was in my youth—the sense of desolate silence that I had found so painful to endure.
From this quote, we can see that the reason the title of his first collection of short stories is ‘Cries’ is, first, because Lu Xun himself could not forget the desolate sorrow he had experienced early in life, and second, because his intention was to comfort the warriors charging forth in the midst of that desolation. While the second intention may seem somewhat lacking in sincerity, it is understandable to a certain extent when considering that he made the reform of the national character the goal of his literary activities. More importantly, he lived his entire life acutely aware of the high walls that block communication between people and the resulting silence.
The fact that his second collection of short stories is titled ‘Wandering’ and his third and final collection is titled ‘Newly Compiled Old Tales’ may, in a way, suggest that his life was lived amidst this silence. ‘ ‘Wandering’ reveals a sense of reality that the goal of reforming the national character cannot be easily attained, and the act of editing old tales from a contemporary perspective is also difficult to view as a direct step toward future possibilities. Whether it is ‘Wandering’ or ‘Old Tales Reimagined’, it is true that both are far removed from a direct call for the reform of the national character.
This suggests that the sense of silence Lu Xun experienced was the reality that constituted his existence . Considering the mention that “Cries” stemmed from a commander’s orders—and that this sometimes led to him being forced to write against his will—Lu Xun’s mode of existence in reality can ultimately be found in the word “loneliness.”

‘The True Story of Ah Q’, Readers, and Modern China

Meanwhile, the reason why the majority of readers feel uneasy when reading Lu Xun’s works may be due to the intense sense of desolation that permeates them. Lu Xun himself did not wish to infect young people with this sense of desolation, but his works sometimes produce effects that transcend the author’s intentions. Perhaps this desolation was a necessary and sufficient condition for Lu Xun’s very existence. If so, what did Lu Xun see amidst this desolation? It might have been the discord with a society with which reconciliation was forever impossible, the discord with himself that gave rise to such discord, or perhaps the deepening of the sense of desolation brought about by the intensification of that discord.
For an intellectual like Lu Xun, discord with society may have been inevitable. To an intellectual driven by a ceaseless desire for improvement—one who made the reform of the national character the goal of his literary and artistic activities—society often appears absurd. That is why Lu Xun once said that anyone dissatisfied with the status quo is a revolutionary. He also said that the reason he wielded his pen was because he harbored a little dissatisfaction in his heart. He believed that those who wish to change the world can do so by reforming themselves through complaints and dissatisfaction.
Lu Xun said this: “Discontent is the wheel of progress, capable of carrying a humanity that is never self-satisfied along the path of humanity. A race with many people who are never self-satisfied will forever move forward and will forever have hope.” Could Lu Xun, with such a philosophy, avoid conflict with society? For Lu Xun, conflict with society was inevitable, and and so was his conflict with himself—his inability to raise a triumphant cry toward such a society.
Perhaps that was why, when ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ was being serialized, many people around Lu Xun suspected that they themselves were the targets of the work’s criticism. One person even went so far as to tell Lu Xun that, upon reading a certain passage in the serialized version, he felt as if he were being insulted. Such reactions reveal the point at which readers are prompted to reflect on themselves through the work.
If today’s readers feel similar emotions while reading ‘The True Story of Ah Q’, then Lu Xun can be said to have achieved his goal. Anyone who experiences such feelings through ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ can safely be considered to possess the mindset of a reformer. This is because Lu Xun once said that, in the eyes of a reformer, the past and the present are as insignificant as nothing.
The reformer Lu Xun seeks is one who “looks in all directions and listens to sounds from every quarter. They sweep away all previous discourses of hope that deceive both themselves and others, and strip away any mask—regardless of whose it is—that deceives both themselves and others. They reject any means—regardless of whose it is—that deceives both themselves and others. In short, they cast aside all the cunning tricks of the Huaxia tradition and, humbling themselves to the utmost, learn from the West, which is aimed directly at them.”
While today’s China is pursuing reforms in various ways, attempts to reestablish the “Huaxia” tradition that Lu Xun rejected can also be found everywhere. Efforts to historicize mythological figures, Chinese-style interpretations of ancient history, and attempts to incorporate the Manchu Qing Dynasty into Han Chinese history can all be seen as efforts to solidify the Huaxia tradition. Behind this reestablishment of tradition, one can also glimpse a strategy to conceal China’s various current social problems.
One of the pressing issues facing China is the migrant worker problem. This issue is linked to the problem of economic distribution in China, which has grown since the Reform and Opening-Up era. As the income gap between urban and rural areas widened due to the Reform and Opening-Up, farmers from impoverished regions increasingly migrated to developed cities along the eastern coast to work as day laborers. Their numbers are so large that they have formed a massive pool of low-wage workers in cities.
These workers primarily seek employment in major cities such as Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, where they live in the lowest socioeconomic strata. The jobs they find are mostly unskilled labor on construction sites or menial tasks in restaurants, but since these jobs pay better than farming, they find it difficult to leave the city. Even when they find work, they often have to make do with makeshift tents at construction sites or a corner of an apartment building under construction for both lodging and meals. People emerging from major city train stations carrying large loads on their backs or balanced on their heads are almost certainly migrant workers who have come to the city in search of work, and those loads are mostly shabby quilts.
The migrant worker issue has a high potential to lead to social unrest. This is because they do not receive adequate social security benefits, and wage arrears are a frequent problem. For example, according to past statistics, in 2005 alone, approximately 4 million people participated in 87,000 various protests to voice their grievances. Another problem is that as migrant workers sink to the very bottom of the urban social hierarchy, urban slumification may progress . As potential threats to urban safety increase, the quality of life for city residents is bound to decline.
In the early 20th century, Ah Q’s setting was the countryside, which symbolized traditional Chinese civilization. The setting for the migrant workers—who can be considered the Ah Qs of the 21st century—is the city, a symbol of China’s growth. While the Ah Q in ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ was falsely accused of being a thief under the guise of revolution and met his end on the execution ground, the 21st-century Ah Q suffers from various industrial accidents and poor working conditions. Regardless of the era , the lives of the lowest strata of society remain a continuous series of hardships.
Of course, it is still difficult to directly compare the mental worlds of the early 20th-century Ah Q and the 21st-century Ah Q. It is unclear whether there are writers like Lu Xun in 21st-century China, or whether the country is so caught up in the superiority of Chinese civilization that self-reflection is lacking. What is clear is that, just as in the 20th century, as in the 21st century, the socially vulnerable still exist. Lu Xun listened to the voices of these vulnerable people and left behind important works of 20th-century Chinese literature. If Lu Xun were alive today, he might still be doing the same.
I walked quickly, as if trying to break free from something that was weighing me down. But it was impossible. Something was struggling inside my ear. After a long time—a very long time—it finally burst out, thrashing. It was a faint sound, like a long, drawn-out howl. Within that desolation—like a wounded wolf howling in the wilderness in the dead of night—lament, anguish, anger, and sorrow were all intertwined.
It seems it is time to wrap up my reading of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’. However, even though this is a conclusion, we must remember that an interpretation of a work can never be a complete conclusion. Reading a work can never be fully concluded. Perhaps the conclusion is merely the point where the clash and struggle of perspectives reach their peak. The conclusion offers no solution; rather, it is a moment of acknowledging that the clash and struggle cannot be resolved. It is precisely at that point that a new reading becomes possible, so the conclusion must always remain open.
” As the ending of ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ demonstrates, the conclusion has nothing to do with a glorious victory. Just as one does not derive any particular catharsis from Ah Q’s tragedy, the conclusion of reading ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ has nothing to do with catharsis either. It merely opens up possibilities for interpretation by revealing the clash and struggle of perspectives. If readers interpret the various meanings contained in Lu Xun’s works in their own ways and use them as opportunities for self-reflection, the conclusion of reading the work must inevitably remain open forever.
None of the lamentations, anguish, rage, or sorrow contained in the desolation of a wounded wolf howling in the wilderness in the dead of night should be taken as the standard interpretation. ‘The True Story of Ah Q’ contains various keywords that help us understand not only early 20th-century Chinese rural life and peasants but also 21st-century China. What is required of the reader is to focus intently on one of these keywords and use it as a tool for understanding the work—and China itself.

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