王小波：一头特立独行的猪

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.