王小波：一頭特立獨行的豬
插隊的時候，我餵過豬、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。它們會自由自在地閒逛，飢則食渴則飲，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。我不認為這有什麼可抱怨的，因為我當時的生活也不見得豐富了多少，除了八個樣板戲，也沒有什麼消遣。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，我們的政策准許它當個花花公子。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。
對生活做種種設定是人特有的品性。不光是設定動物，也設定自己。我們知道，在古希臘有個斯巴達，那裡的生活被設定得了無生趣，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。但不喜歡又能怎麼樣？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。我餵豬時，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。這傢伙像山羊一樣敏捷，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，根本就不在圈裡待著。所有餵過豬的知青都把它當寵兒來對待，它也是我的寵兒——因為它只對知青好，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餵它，等它吃夠了以後，才把糠對到野草裡喂別的豬。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裡找母豬去了。我們這裡也有母豬，都關在圈裡，被過度的生育搞得走了形，又髒又臭，它對它們不感興趣；村寨裡的母豬好看一些。它有很多精彩的事蹟，但我餵豬的時間短，知道得有限，索性就不寫了。總而言之，所有餵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。但老鄉們就不這麼浪漫，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。我們那裡有座糖廠，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鐘總要跳到房上學汽笛，地裡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，要對它採取專政手段——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，一百人也治不住它。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。以後我在甘蔗地裡還見過它一次，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，但我也贊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定。相反，我倒見過很多想要設定別人生活的人，還有對被設定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。
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.