Weary Life and Heroic Dreams

Weary Life and Heroic Dreams

I may not share my first superhero with most people. Compared with all those famous caped figures who save the world, Fujiko F. Fujio’s Perman hardly seems like much. But looking back as an adult, I often feel that the tiny library of my childhood held all kinds of magic, and this extremely rare set of Perman was one example. Fujiko F. Fujio’s drawing style was so simple and yet so profound. The characters and designs in the book looked almost exactly like those in Doraemon, so much so that when I later encountered the cast of Doraemon, I spent a long time feeling as though all the faces and names were mismatched in my head.

Put on a helmet, and you could gain immense strength. Wear a cape, and you could soar through the sky. And if you worried that fighting for justice might interfere with school and get you caught by the teacher, you could even have an identical robot double attend class in your place. The only thing to watch out for was that if someone touched the robot’s nose, its true form would be exposed. But even so, that setup was more than enough to completely win my heart. What could be more appealing than the dream of skipping school and going out to be a great hero instead? As for the real Superman from Krypton, it would be a long time before I even heard his name.

For almost my entire childhood, the only figure who could truly rival Perman was the Monkey King. I remember one school break in the third grade when I spent several days almost motionless, clutching a copy of Journey to the West. I skipped all the poems, of course, but what left the deepest impression on me was not the demon-slaying. It was the banter and horseplay among Sun Wukong, Zhu Bajie, and Tang Sanzang. So later, when I saw the television adaptation, it always felt too serious. Fortunately, the characters themselves were well portrayed, and as I watched, I automatically filled in many scenes from the book. By the end, I could no longer remember which parts had actually appeared on television and which parts I had invented in my own mind.

The whole story was wonderful, but what disappointed me in the end was that Sun Wukong became a Buddha. How could he become a Buddha? What about the little monkeys on Flower-Fruit Mountain? What about his title, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven?

Looking back, most of the books I loved as a child were filled to the brim with heroic dreams. And for all of that, I owe a debt to that magical library. After finishing Journey to the West, the first book I read related to the Three Kingdoms was not Romance of the Three Kingdoms, but Zhang Guoliang’s storytelling version, volume one of Three Kingdoms: Riding Alone for a Thousand Li. In the hands of a storyteller, Guan Yunchang could, like Bole recognizing a fine horse, identify the Red Hare from its neigh alone. He could ride sideways on horseback, almost as if riding a bicycle, and drag his blade to slay Yan Liang and Wen Chou. While passing five gates and slaying six generals, he even somehow found time to fight Liao Hua and Pei Yuanshao—men who would later become his own allies—until heaven and earth seemed overturned. Most importantly, like the ultimate straight-A student, he could stay up all night reading the Spring and Autumn Annals without feeling the least bit tired.

It was impossible not to admire Lord Guan. Though becoming a hero was not as effortless as simply putting on a helmet and cape, this almost divine combination of righteousness and loyalty was enough to inspire complete reverence. Unfortunately, I had only that one volume and read it over and over again, so for quite a long time I had no idea where Lord Guan had come from or where he was going. I only knew that there had once been this episode of riding alone for a thousand li.

By a similar coincidence, I had not read Water Margin at first either. The first novel I encountered connected to that story was simply called Wu Song. That is also why Wu Song stood out and made his way onto my list of superheroes, rather than being replaced by the outlaws of Liangshan as a whole. And indeed, Wu Song deserves to have two thick volumes devoted to him alone. Not long ago, I saw Jin Shengtan’s commentary praising Wu Song with utter astonishment, and I could not help feeling a little smug at the wisdom of my childhood self for having placed him on my list so early.

Wu Song’s kind of heroism relies neither on cape and helmet nor on the Red Hare and Green Dragon Crescent Blade. When he saw the official warning posted on Jingyang Ridge, he was afraid too. He only forced himself onward because he could not bear the shame of turning back. He feels more like an ordinary man than a born hero, and it was by a twist of fate that he became the tiger-slaying hero at all. That became the most glorious five minutes of his life; after that, everything grew increasingly repressed and weary. It was not until I read the episode of the burning of Mandarin Duck Tower that I finally felt a total exhilaration, as if every ravine in my chest had at last been leveled. I do not remember whether the novel stopped there abruptly, but now I almost wish that it had.

After that, life itself began to grow monotonous and hurried. I heard many, many stories about superheroes, but I had passed the age when one still believes in fairy tales. Gradually I came to see that Perman, in the end, would have to return his cape and mask and go back to school. Sun Wukong, no matter how many demons he defeated, would still end up taking orders under the Buddha. One day Guan Yu would walk with Zhou Cang all the way to Maicheng. And Wu Song would drag his broken arm to Liuhe Temple and spend the rest of his life there.

All the heroic dreams of youth eventually grow tired under the weight of life. More and more, I feel that real life resembles Wu Song’s. We may have an older brother who cares for us and whom we love in return. By chance, we may even become the hero who slays a tiger. We may meet Shi En and Lu Zhishen. But we may also meet Jiang Menshen and Zhang Tuanlian. Not everyone can defeat Ximen Qing, defeat Jiang Menshen, and set fire to Mandarin Duck Tower. Of course, we would not act so recklessly out of hot blood. But neither are we capable of settling every grievance with satisfying clarity. Life keeps moving forward through a constant rhythm of compromise and retreat, while heroic dreams recede like the tide.

Many years later, I read Marguerite Duras. The opening line of one of her works stayed with me, unforgettable, as did that of Malthus: “I have grown old.” It feels like the ending of all stories. Much later still, I came upon another sentence of hers. She wrote: “For me, love is not physical intimacy, nor simply the sharing of food and daily life. It is an undying desire, a heroic dream in a weary life.”

And indeed, when all those heroic dreams we once had have disappeared in this way, perhaps love is the only thing left in life that can help us resist exhaustion.