Translation from Chinese to English
一只特立独行的猪
插队的时候，我喂过猪、也放过牛。假如没有人来管，这两种动物也完全知道该怎样生
活。它们会自由自在地闲逛，饥则食渴则饮，春天来临时还要谈谈爱情；这样一来，它们的
生活层次很低，完全乏善可陈。人来了以后，给它们的生活做出了安排：每一头牛和每一口
猪的生活都有了主题。就它们中的大多数而言，这种生活主题是很悲惨的：前者的主题是干
活，后者的主题是长肉。我不认为这有什么可抱怨的，因为我当时的生活也不见得丰富了多
少，除了八个样板戏，也没有什么消遣。有极少数的猪和牛，它们的生活另有安排。以猪为
例，种猪和母猪除了吃，还有别的事可干。就我所见，它们对这些安排也不大喜欢。种猪的
任务是交配，换言之，我们的政策准许它当个花花公子。但是疲惫的种猪往往摆出一种肉猪
（肉猪是阉过的）才有的正人君子架势，死活不肯跳到母猪背上去。母猪的任务是生崽儿，
但有些母猪却要把猪崽儿吃掉。总的来说，人的安排使猪痛苦不堪。但它们还是接受了：猪
总是猪啊。
对生活做种种设置是人特有的品性。不光是设置动物，也设置自己。我们知道，在古希
腊有个斯巴达，那里的生活被设置得了无生趣，其目的就是要使男人成为亡命战士，使女人
成为生育机器，前者像些斗鸡，后者像些母猪。这两类动物是很特别的，但我以为，它们肯
定不喜欢自己的生活。但不喜欢又能怎么样？人也好，动物也罢，都很难改变自己的命运。
以下谈到的一只猪有些与众不同。我喂猪时，它已经有四五岁了，从名分上说，它是肉
猪，但长得又黑又瘦，两眼炯炯有光。这家伙像山羊一样敏捷，一米高的猪栏一跳就过；它
还能跳上猪圈的房顶，这一点又像是猫--所以它总是到处游逛，根本就不在圈里呆着。所有
喂过猪的知青都把它当宠儿来对待，它也是我的宠儿--因为它只对知青好，容许他们走到三
米之内，要是别的人，它早就跑了。它是公的，原本该劁掉。不过你去试试看，哪怕你把劁
猪刀藏在身后，它也能嗅出来，朝 你瞪大眼睛，噢 噢地吼起来。我 总是用细米糠熬的粥喂它，
等它吃够了以后，才把糠对到野草里喂别的猪。其他猪看了嫉妒，一起嚷起来。这时候整个
猪场一片鬼哭狼嚎，但我和它都不在乎。吃饱了以后，它就跳上房顶去晒太阳，或者模仿各
种声音。它会学汽车响、拖拉机响，学得都很像；有时整天不见踪影，我估计它到附近的村
寨里找母猪去了。我们这里也有母猪，都关在圈里，被过度的生育搞得走了形，又脏又臭，
它对它们不感兴趣；村寨里的母猪好看一些。它有很多精彩的事迹，但我喂猪的时间短，知
道得有限，索性就不写了。总而言之，所有喂过猪的知青都喜欢它，喜欢它特立独行的派头
儿，还说它活得潇洒。但老乡们就不这么浪漫，他们说，这猪不正经。领导则痛恨它，这一
点以后还要谈到。我对它则不止是喜欢--我尊敬它，常常不顾自己虚长十几岁这一现实，把
它叫做"猪兄"。如前所述，这位猪兄会模仿各种声音。我想它也学过人说话，但没有学会--
假如学会了，我们就可以做倾心之谈。但这不能怪它。人和猪的音色差得太远了。
后来，猪兄学会了汽笛叫，这个本领给它招来了麻烦。我们那里有座糖厂，中午要鸣一
次汽笛，让工人换班。我们队下地干活时，听见这次汽笛响就收工回来。我的猪兄每天上午
十点钟总要跳到房上学汽笛，地里的人听见它叫就回来--这可比糖厂鸣笛早了一个半小时。
坦白地说，这不能全怪猪兄，它毕竟不是锅炉，叫起来和汽笛还有些区别，但老乡们却硬说
听不出来。领导上因此开了一个会，把它定成了破坏春耕的坏分子，要对它采取专政手段--
会议的精神我已经知道了，但我不为它担忧--因为假如专政是指绳索和杀猪刀的话，那 是一
点门都没有的。以前的领导也不是没试过，一百人也这不住它。狗也没用：猪兄跑起来像颗
鱼雷，能把狗撞出一丈开外。谁知这回是动了真格的，指导员带了二十几个人，手拿五四式
手枪；副指导员带了十几人，手持看青的火枪，分两路在猪场外的空地上兜捕它。这就使我
陷入了内心的矛盾：按我和它的交情，我该舞起两把杀猪刀冲出去，和它并肩战斗，但我又
觉得这样做太过惊世骇俗‐‐它毕竟是只猪啊；还有一个理由，我不敢对抗领导，我怀疑这才
是问题之所在。总之，我在一边看着。猪兄的镇定使我佩服之极：它很冷静地躲在手枪和火
枪的连线之内，任凭人喊狗咬，不离那条线。这样，拿手枪的人开火就会把拿火枪的打死，
反之亦然；两头同时开火，两头都会被打死。至于它，因为目标小，多半没事。就这样连兜
了几个圈子，它找到了一个空子，一头撞出去了；跑得潇洒之极。以后我在甘蔗地里还见过
它一次，它长出了獠牙，还认识我，但已不容我走近了。这种冷淡使我痛心，但我也赞成它
对心怀叵测的人保持距离。
我已经四十岁了，除了这只猪，还没见过谁敢于如此无视对生活的设置。相反，我倒见
过很多想要设置别人生活的人，还有对被设置的生活安之若素的人。因为这个原故，我一直
怀念这只特立独行的猪。
The Pig
Translated By: Andrew Hardy
When I was sent down to the countryside, I fed pigs and herded cows. When no one handles them, these animals know how to live. They stroll about freely and at ease. When hungry, they eat. When thirsty, they drink. When spring comes, they make love. Their life is simple and totally unremarkable. When people came, an arrangement was made for them: every cow and every pig’s life was given meaning. For most of them, this meaning in life was quite miserable: the former were meant to work, the latter were meant to make meat. I don’t think this is anything to complain about. At that time, my own life wasn’t all that fulfilling: there was nothing for entertainment except the Eight Model Operas. For a smallnumber of pigs and cows, there was another arrangement. Some boars and sows, for example, aside from eating, were given another thing to do. As I saw it, they weren’t very fond of this either. The boar’s task was to mate, which is to say, our policy made him a licensed Casanova. But when they were worn out, boars often assumed an air of gentlemanly propriety usually only seen in meat pigs (meat pigs were castrated), and would no longer jump up on a sow’s back. The sow’s task was to give birth, though a few of them would sometimes eat their young. In the end, people’s arrangements made pigs’ lives intolerable, and yet they accepted it. Pigs will be pigs, after all.
To try to organize life is a characteristically human trait. Not only do we organize animals, but also ourselves. There was Sparta in Ancient Greece, where all the joys had been organized out of life. It was their idea was to make all men fanatic soldiers and all women birth-giving machines. The former were like fighting cocks, and the latter were like sows. As special as these animals are, I am sure that they don’t like their lives. But what can they do? Both people and animals always find it hard to change their fate.
The pig that I want to talk about is a bit unlike the common lot. When I was feeding pigs, he was already about four or five years old. Originally he was marked as a common meat pig, but he was dark and skinny, and his eyes were bright. This fellow was agile like a mountain goat, in one jump he could clear a fence a meter high. He could also jump up on the roof of the pigpen, in this way he was like a cat—he strolled about everywhere as he pleased, never staying in the pen. All of the sent-down youths that fed pigs, including me, treated him as a pet. He was only good with the students, he let us get within about three meters of him. If it were anyone else, he’d run off. He was a boar, though originally meant to be castrated. But try it yourself and see, even if you were to hide the gelding-knife behind your back, he’d sniff it out and let out a howl, eyes bulging. I always used to feed him rice-husk porridge. First I’d let him eat his fill, then I’d mix weeds into the rest and feed the other pigs. The other pigs would get jealous and make a big racket—the whole pigpen would be in uproar every time I did this. But he and I didn’t care. After he’d eaten, he’d hop up onto the roof to lay in the sun, or imitate all sorts of sounds. He had learned to mimic the sound of a car and a tractor, he’d learned them quite accurately. Sometimes you could go all day and see no trace of him, I suspect he would go over to the neighboring village looking for sows. There were sows in the pen, but they were dirty and smelly, and giving birth all the time had made them lose their figure. He wasn’t interested. The sows over in the village were more attractive. He was wonderfully accomplished, but my time there was short and my knowledge of his skills limited, so perhaps it’s best to leave it at that. In a word, all of the sent-down youths who fed pigs liked him for his free-spirit. But the villagers were not so romantic. That pig is indecent, they would say. The team leader utterly detested him, which I will say more about later. I more than liked him, I respected him. Often, despite the fact that I was more than ten years older than him, I’d call him “Big Brother”. As I said before, Big Brother could mimic all kinds of sounds. I wished he had also learned how to talk, but he hadn’t. Supposing he had, I think he and I would have a lot to discuss. But I can’t blame him. Our voices were just too different.
Later on, Big Brother learned how to make a whistle-sound. This skill got him into trouble. We had a sugar refinery that would always whistle at noon for the shift change. When we were out in the fields working, this whistle would tell us when we could head back in. Around ten every morning, Big Brother would hop up onto the pigpen roof and work on this whistle-sound, about an hour and a half before the factory whistle. Frankly, it wasn’t entirely his fault, there was after all still some difference between the two sounds. But the villagers insisted they couldn’t tell. The team leader called a meeting about the situation, denouncing the pig as a bad element intent on ruining the spring plowing, and calling for dictatorial measures to be adopted against him. I quickly understood what this meeting was about, but I wasn’t really worried. But even if “dictatorial measures” did mean the rope and slaughter knife, there was still no way it was going to happen. Other leaders had certainly tried before. A hundred people still wouldn’t be able to capture him. Dogs were useless too: Big Brother ran like a little torpedo, he could easily outrun them. Everyone knew this would require great effort. The political instructor brought about 20 people, four or five pistols among them. The assistant political instructor brought about ten people, each carrying a rifle. They split into two lines, surrounding the pigpen on either side. This forced me into something of a dilemma: being that Brother Pig and I were friends, I should have charged out brandishing two big slaughter knives and fought with him shoulder to shoulder. But I thought that this sort of grand gesture might be a bit excessive, after all he was just a pig. There was another reason, I didn’t dare oppose the team leader. I suspect that this was the real problem. Anyway, I just stood to the side and watched. Big Brother’s coolness was really something: he calmly kept himself right between the lines of fire. No matter how much the men yelled or the dogs barked, he wouldn’t leave that line. This way, if either side opened fire they would end up killing the other. As for him, being a small target, he wouldn’t have much to worry about. In this way he walked in a few circles, found an opening, and dashed through, running as nonchalantly as could be. Later, I saw him once while I was in the sugar fields. He’d grown fangs, but he recognized me still. But he wouldn’t let me get close. This coldness pained me a little, but I understood why he kept his distance.
I’m forty now, and aside from this pig, I’ve never seen anyone who dared resist being organized in this way. On the contrary, I’ve only seen people who want to organize life, and those who put up with being organized. Because of this, I always think fondly of that pig.
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