Translation from Chinese to English
一隻特立獨行的豬
插隊的時候，我喂過豬、也放過牛。假如沒有人來管，這兩種動物也完全知道該怎樣生
活。它們會自由自在地閑逛，饑則食渴則飲，春天來臨時還要談談愛情；這樣一來，它們的
生活層次很低，完全乏善可陳。人來了以後，給它們的生活做出了安排：每一頭牛和每一口
豬的生活都有了主題。就它們中的大多數而言，這種生活主題是很悲慘的：前者的主題是幹
活，後者的主題是長肉。我不認為這有什麽可抱怨的，因為我當時的生活也不見得豐富了多
少，除了八個樣板戲，也沒有什麽消遣。有極少數的豬和牛，它們的生活另有安排。以豬為
例，種豬和母豬除了吃，還有別的事可幹。就我所見，它們對這些安排也不大喜歡。種豬的
任務是交配，換言之，我們的政策準許它當個花花公子。但是疲憊的種豬往往擺出一種肉豬
（肉豬是閹過的）才有的正人君子架勢，死活不肯跳到母豬背上去。母豬的任務是生崽兒，
但有些母豬卻要把豬崽兒吃掉。總的來說，人的安排使豬痛苦不堪。但它們還是接受了：豬
總是豬啊。
對生活做種種設置是人特有的品性。不光是設置動物，也設置自己。我們知道，在古希
臘有個斯巴達，那裏的生活被設置得了無生趣，其目的就是要使男人成為亡命戰士，使女人
成為生育機器，前者像些鬥雞，後者像些母豬。這兩類動物是很特別的，但我以為，它們肯
定不喜歡自己的生活。但不喜歡又能怎麽樣？人也好，動物也罷，都很難改變自己的命運。
以下談到的一隻豬有些與眾不同。我喂豬時，它已經有四五歲了，從名分上說，它是肉
豬，但長得又黑又瘦，兩眼炯炯有光。這家夥像山羊一樣敏捷，一米高的豬欄一跳就過；它
還能跳上豬圈的房頂，這一點又像是貓--所以它總是到處遊逛，根本就不在圈裏呆著。所有
喂過豬的知青都把它當寵兒來對待，它也是我的寵兒--因為它隻對知青好，容許他們走到三
米之內，要是別的人，它早就跑了。它是公的，原本該劁掉。不過你去試試看，哪怕你把劁
豬刀藏在身後，它也能嗅出來，朝 你瞪大眼睛，噢 噢地吼起來。我 總是用細米糠熬的粥喂它，
等它吃夠了以後，才把糠對到野草裏喂別的豬。其他豬看了嫉妒，一起嚷起來。這時候整個
豬場一片鬼哭狼嚎，但我和它都不在乎。吃飽了以後，它就跳上房頂去曬太陽，或者模仿各
種聲音。它會學汽車響、拖拉機響，學得都很像；有時整天不見蹤影，我估計它到附近的村
寨裏找母豬去了。我們這裏也有母豬，都關在圈裏，被過度的生育搞得走了形，又髒又臭，
它對它們不感興趣；村寨裏的母豬好看一些。它有很多精彩的事跡，但我喂豬的時間短，知
道得有限，索性就不寫了。總而言之，所有喂過豬的知青都喜歡它，喜歡它特立獨行的派頭
兒，還說它活得瀟灑。但老鄉們就不這麽浪漫，他們說，這豬不正經。領導則痛恨它，這一
點以後還要談到。我對它則不止是喜歡--我尊敬它，常常不顧自己虛長十幾歲這一現實，把
它叫做"豬兄"。如前所述，這位豬兄會模仿各種聲音。我想它也學過人說話，但沒有學會--
假如學會了，我們就可以做傾心之談。但這不能怪它。人和豬的音色差得太遠了。
後來，豬兄學會了汽笛叫，這個本領給它招來了麻煩。我們那裏有座糖廠，中午要鳴一
次汽笛，讓工人換班。我們隊下地幹活時，聽見這次汽笛響就收工回來。我的豬兄每天上午
十點鍾總要跳到房上學汽笛，地裏的人聽見它叫就回來--這可比糖廠鳴笛早了一個半小時。
坦白地說，這不能全怪豬兄，它畢竟不是鍋爐，叫起來和汽笛還有些區別，但老鄉們卻硬說
聽不出來。領導上因此開了一個會，把它定成了破壞春耕的壞分子，要對它采取專政手段--
會議的精神我已經知道了，但我不為它擔憂--因為假如專政是指繩索和殺豬刀的話，那 是一
點門都沒有的。以前的領導也不是沒試過，一百人也這不住它。狗也沒用：豬兄跑起來像顆
魚雷，能把狗撞出一丈開外。誰知這回是動了真格的，指導員帶了二十幾個人，手拿五四式
手槍；副指導員帶了十幾人，手持看青的火槍，分兩路在豬場外的空地上兜捕它。這就使我
陷入了內心的矛盾：按我和它的交情，我該舞起兩把殺豬刀衝出去，和它並肩戰鬥，但我又
覺得這樣做太過驚世駭俗‐‐它畢竟是隻豬啊；還有一個理由，我不敢對抗領導，我懷疑這才
是問題之所在。總之，我在一邊看著。豬兄的鎮定使我佩服之極：它很冷靜地躲在手槍和火
槍的連線之內，任憑人喊狗咬，不離那條線。這樣，拿手槍的人開火就會把拿火槍的打死，
反之亦然；兩頭同時開火，兩頭都會被打死。至於它，因為目標小，多半沒事。就這樣連兜
了幾個圈子，它找到了一個空子，一頭撞出去了；跑得瀟灑之極。以後我在甘蔗地裏還見過
它一次，它長出了獠牙，還認識我，但已不容我走近了。這種冷淡使我痛心，但我也讚成它
對心懷叵測的人保持距離。
我已經四十歲了，除了這隻豬，還沒見過誰敢於如此無視對生活的設置。相反，我倒見
過很多想要設置別人生活的人，還有對被設置的生活安之若素的人。因為這個原故，我一直
懷念這隻特立獨行的豬。
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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