王小波：一头特立独行的猪
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，一百人也治不住它。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。
Wang Xiaobo: A Lone and Independent Pig
During the time I was sent down to the countryside, I raised pigs and herded cattle. If left alone, these animals know perfectly well how to live their lives. They would wander freely, eat when hungry, drink when thirsty, and in spring, even experience romance. Such a life, however, would be simple and uneventful. When humans intervene, they arrange the lives of these animals: every cow and pig gets a purpose. For most of them, this purpose is rather tragic. The cows’ purpose is to work, while the pigs’ is to grow fat. I don’t think there’s much to complain about here because my own life back then wasn’t much better. Beyond the eight model operas, there wasn’t much entertainment.
A very small number of pigs and cows had different arrangements for their lives. Take pigs, for example: breeding boars and sows had tasks beyond eating. From what I observed, they didn’t seem to enjoy these arrangements much either. The boar’s task was mating, which essentially allowed it to live as a playboy under our policies. However, tired breeding boars often adopted a gentlemanly demeanor more commonly seen in castrated pigs, stubbornly refusing to mount the sows. The sows, tasked with giving birth, sometimes ended up eating their piglets. Overall, human arrangements brought immense suffering to pigs, but they still accepted their fate—because pigs, after all, are just pigs.
The act of setting up life in various ways is a uniquely human trait. Humans not only arrange the lives of animals but also their own. In ancient Greece, Sparta set up a joyless lifestyle designed to make men into fearless warriors and women into childbearing machines. The men resembled fighting cocks, and the women resembled sows. These were peculiar animals, but I imagine they didn’t enjoy their lives. Yet, what could they do about it? Humans and animals alike find it difficult to change their fates.
Among all the pigs I encountered, one was truly exceptional. When I started raising it, it was already four or five years old. Technically, it was classified as a meat pig, but it was lean and black, with piercing eyes. This pig was agile like a goat and could jump over a one-meter-high fence with ease. It could even climb onto the roof of the pigsty, more like a cat. As a result, it roamed freely and never stayed confined in its pen. All the educated youth who worked on the farm adored it, and I did too—it only allowed us to approach within three meters. Anyone else, and it would run away.
This boar should have been castrated, but no one could manage it. Even if you hid the castration knife behind your back, it could sniff it out and glare at you, grunting angrily. I always gave it porridge made from fine rice bran, and only after it was full did I mix the remaining bran with weeds to feed the other pigs. The other pigs would get jealous and start squealing, creating a cacophony in the pigsty, but neither I nor the boar cared. Once it was full, it would climb onto the roof to sunbathe or mimic various sounds. It could imitate car engines and tractors perfectly. Sometimes, it would disappear all day, and I suspected it was visiting sows in nearby villages. We had sows too, but they were confined, misshapen from overbreeding, and dirty and smelly. It had no interest in them, preferring the village sows, which were better-looking.
It had many remarkable stories, but my time raising pigs was short, so I won’t go into them all. In summary, all the educated youth liked it for its independent spirit and carefree style. The locals, however, were less romantic, dismissing it as an “improper pig.” The leadership outright hated it, and I’ll explain why shortly. As for me, I not only liked it—I respected it. Despite being more than ten years its senior, I often called it “Brother Pig.” As mentioned, Brother Pig could mimic various sounds. I suspected it tried to learn human speech but didn’t succeed. If it had, we could have had heart-to-heart conversations. But this wasn’t its fault—our vocal ranges are just too different.
Later, Brother Pig’s ability to imitate a factory whistle got it into trouble. Near our farm, there was a sugar factory that blew its whistle at noon to signal a shift change. When our team worked in the fields, we relied on the whistle to know when to stop and return. Brother Pig, however, would climb onto the roof at ten every morning and mimic the whistle, causing the workers to return an hour and a half early. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely Brother Pig’s fault. Its whistle, though similar, wasn’t identical to the factory’s. Yet the locals insisted they couldn’t tell the difference.
Because of this, the leadership convened a meeting and branded Brother Pig a saboteur of spring farming, declaring it subject to disciplinary measures. I already knew the outcome of the meeting but wasn’t worried for it. If “disciplinary measures” meant ropes and knives, they wouldn’t work. Previous leaders had tried, and even a hundred people couldn’t subdue it. Dogs didn’t work either. Brother Pig would charge like a torpedo, sending dogs flying several meters.
But this time, the leadership was serious. The political instructor led a team of over twenty men armed with Type 54 pistols, while the deputy instructor led another team of a dozen with hunting rifles. They surrounded the pigsty. This put me in a moral dilemma. Given our friendship, I felt I should brandish a pair of butcher knives and fight alongside it. But I hesitated—after all, it was just a pig. Moreover, I feared opposing the leadership. This, I suspected, was the real issue. So I watched from the sidelines.
Brother Pig’s composure amazed me. It calmly stayed within the line of fire between the pistols and rifles, ensuring that if one side fired, they’d hit their own team on the other side. If both fired simultaneously, both sides would suffer casualties, while Brother Pig, being a small target, would likely escape unscathed. After several rounds of this cat-and-mouse game, it found an opening and charged out with unparalleled grace. Later, I spotted it once in the sugarcane fields. It had grown tusks and still recognized me but no longer allowed me to approach. Its aloofness saddened me, but I admired its caution toward people with ulterior motives.
Now that I’m forty, I’ve never seen anyone else so boldly defy life’s imposed settings. On the contrary, I’ve encountered many people eager to impose order on others and many who quietly accept the lives imposed on them. Because of this, I continue to cherish the memory of that extraordinary and independent pig.