Ci poetry is divided into two main schools: the graceful and the bold. Each has its own appeal, and one should read works from both. When you grow tired of the graceful school after prolonged reading, it is time to turn to the bold; and when the bold becomes wearisome, you should return to the graceful. My own preference leans toward the bold, yet I do not neglect the graceful. Within the graceful school there are many pieces whose mood is at once bleak and exquisitely beautiful. The first two ci by Fan Zhongyan lie somewhere between these two schools and might be regarded as belonging to an intermediate style; nevertheless, they remain fundamentally graceful—both somber and refined—in a way that makes them endlessly engaging. By contrast, the unrelenting focus on romantic sentiment in the graceful school and the strident, martial tone of the bold school can both become tiresome if read for too long. Human emotions are complex: we may have a particular inclination, but our feelings remain multifaceted. By “complex” I mean a unity of opposites. Our emotional life often comprises conflicting elements; it is not monolithic but rather susceptible to analysis. The fact that, as a reader, one may sometimes favor the graceful school and at other times the bold provides a clear illustration of this duality.

Unable to sleep, I began humming some of Fan’s verses and ended up writing all this. After Jiang Qing had read it, she asked that Li Na[2] be shown it as well. Printed on August 1, 1957, based on Mao Zedong’s handwritten draft.

Notes [1] Fan Zhongyan (989–1052), courtesy name Xiwen, was a native of Wuxian County, Suzhou (now Wuxian City), and served as a statesman and literary figure during the Northern Song dynasty. The two ci poems referred to are “Su Mu Zha” and “Yu Jia Ao.” The original text of “Su Mu Zha” reads: “Azure clouds above, yellow leaves below; autumn hues blend with the waves, where cold mists shimmer green. Mountains reflect the slanting sun, which meets the water at the horizon; yet the fragrant grasses, heartless things, stretch still farther beyond the sunset’s glow. My soul yearns for home, my wanderer’s thoughts pursue me night after night—unless a sweet dream lulls me to sleep. On the lofty moonlit tower, I must not lean alone. Wine enters my sorrowful heart and turns to tears of longing.” The original text of “Yu Jia Ao” goes: “In the frontier lands, autumn brings a landscape unlike any other; wild geese from Hengyang fly off without a backward glance. All around, the sounds of war rise together with the bugle calls. Amidst myriad peaks, thick smoke hangs low as the sun sets, and a lone fortress stands shut tight. With but a cup of turbid wine, I feel ten thousand li from home; no treaty signed at Yanran means no prospect of returning. The Qiang flute plays its mournful tune, while frost blankets the ground. None can sleep—the general’s hair has turned white, and the soldiers weep.” [2] Li Na, born in 1940, was Mao Zedong’s daughter.