For eight years I have been advocating this approach to work. I have repeated it a thousand times, ten thousand times—though that is an exaggeration. When something is said too often, it loses its impact. People’s minds are influenced gradually. If you keep at it like a gentle drizzle, eventually a torrential downpour will follow. But the Politburo lacks cohesion; it cannot absorb such a deluge, and the water simply runs off (this is basic soil science, something every agricultural expert should know—if you don’t, you’ll never make it as a provincial party secretary, and one day you’ll be removed from office. I’m not threatening you). The Politburo has become a voting machine, much like Dulles’s United Nations: give them a perfectly polished document, and they have no choice but to pass it. It’s like a theatrical performance—the cards have already been dealt, so they must go on stage. And yet these documents contain no historical analysis or philosophical reasoning; instead, they are riddled with foreign phrases. My response has been passive resistance—I simply refuse to read them. I haven’t looked at your documents for two years, and I still have no intention of doing so this year.

At the Hangzhou Conference, did Comrade Enlai speak? In December 1955, I wrote the preface to “The Socialist Upsurge in the Countryside,” which had a profound impact across the country. Whether you call it personality cult or idol worship, regardless of the reason, newspapers and journals large and small published it nationwide, generating tremendous influence. As a result, I was branded the chief culprit of “excessiveness.” I pointed out that all sectors had underestimated the situation: the army had been expanded by 800,000 troops, and a million more apprentices had been recruited. Why increase personnel while denouncing right-wing conservatism? I couldn’t understand it, nor did I know why.

At the Beidaihe Conference in the summer of 1955, the push to produce 15 million tons of steel was part of the Second Five-Year Plan. By the following summer’s Beidaihe meeting, the backlash against “excessiveness” had already shaped the report to the National People’s Congress. Human hearts are inherently uneven; imbalance is a fundamental law governing the universe. As Mencius observed, “It is precisely because things differ that they are precious.” Our hearts may be discordant, yet they can also be harmonized through a tortuous, spiral path forward. Of course, we all act in the interests of the Party and the nation, not for personal gain.

My approach to combating decentralization has been passive resistance, supplemented by criticism in small meetings. The economic departments pay no attention to textual scholarship, literary style, or philosophical inquiry. We need a gentle breeze and light rain, some advance notice—otherwise it’s always a torrential downpour, leading to runoff, with no mercy shown. There is always a sense of unpreparedness, of incompleteness; this is a form of blockade, a tactic Stalin once employed. Documents are handed out just ten minutes before a meeting for approval, without any consideration for the participants’ mental state. You are experts, and many of you wear red ties, yet the majority in the Politburo are red rather than specialized. My criticisms have primarily targeted central-level ministers and above—not everyone—but those who unleash torrents of directives and impose blockades. When small meetings fail to resolve issues, we convene a plenary session of the Central Committee (I documented this process thoroughly. Failing to address matters seriously, I wrote a letter to the Guangxi Provincial Party Committee concerning newspaper issues). While in the Soviet Union, I sent a letter home stating that without support from the central leadership, your work would suffer and you would become isolated, like “a thief on the beam.”

The Politburo is not a design institute. The torrential downpours simply wash over us, and we keep repeating that nothing has been done properly, when in fact what exists is a blockade. There is some degree of decentralization, but it is not severe. Each person operates within their own psychological framework. I imagine you might believe that the central leadership is nearly perfect—perhaps nine-tenths complete, though certainly not omniscient. Alternatively, you may see yourselves as Marguerite from “La Traviata,” dressing up even as she lies dying to meet her beloved. Or like Zhao Feiyan in “The Story of Emperor Wu,” who feigned illness to avoid seeing the emperor. In essence, there is a reluctance to present oneself in an unfavorable light. Why not appear disheveled if that is how one truly feels? I jot down whatever comes to mind, putting forward immature ideas and doubts I harbor myself, discussing them with others, rather than issuing pronouncements as if they were imperial edicts. Either say nothing at all, or speak only when you have something substantial to offer. Forty points emerged in this way: initially drafted as eleven in Hangzhou, expanded to seventeen in Tianjin, and finally reaching forty in Beijing. “A widow rearing her young relies on the strength of all”—this encapsulates our working method.

I believe we still need to embrace the unity of opposites; mere compromise will not suffice. Either you convince me, or I convince you, or we find a middle ground. Some people adopt this stance, refusing to take a clear position on major issues. Isn’t Marxism supposed to involve openly expressing one’s views? I find this puzzling. One ought to stand firm and declare one’s position, much like King Zhuang of Chu: “Three years of silence, then a stunning roar; three years of stillness, then a soaring flight.”

Another issue is stubbornness (once Qiao Mu arrives, Cao Cao seems to materialize as well). The People’s Daily claims to be revolutionary, yet it remains unchanged. In my speech at the Supreme State Council meeting on February 29, the democratic parties seized upon my remarks, each extracting what suited their purposes. Meanwhile, the People’s Daily remained unmoved, publishing an editorial that began with Engels. They started discussing it in February, after I had already addressed them directly, yet they failed to implement my suggestions. Why didn’t they resign? At the Third Plenary Session in November, the January conference of provincial party secretaries, the March propaganda conference, and the Yieningtang meeting, all emphasized intra-party contradictions. There was no need for alarm; these issues were solvable. However, I could not sway Comrade ×××’s heart. I argued that if even one out of ten cadres supported me, that would be enough—even if they did not explicitly oppose the prevailing line, merely failing to carry it out would suffice. Among the more than ten thousand deputy secretaries of county party committees and above, having just one thousand supporters would have made a significant difference. How open was the atmosphere at that school in Beijing? On May 22, Comrade ××× delivered a report at the Central Directly Affiliated Organs Conference, uttering the famous saying, “Money cannot buy a good opportunity, and time is even more precious.” Only then did things begin to loosen up. During the Great Debate, several branches of Tsinghua University defected to the right wing, much to the delight of rightists. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to identify these dissenters through routine inspections. People tend to be resistant to change; it is not easy to break through inertia. Were it not for that particular meeting, the ice in the Arctic Ocean would never have melted. Comrade ×× is a good person, but he is incompetent. I have described him as a professor running a newspaper, a scholar-editor, even as a “dead man running a newspaper.”

Let me return to the topics of textual scholarship, literary style, and philosophical inquiry. Economic officials have achieved remarkable results—with ten fingers involved, only one has faltered. Despite my repeated pleas, nothing has changed, underscoring the need to improve our working methods. I consider myself the least learned among us; I hold no official title. I have engaged in discussions with democratic figures, likening myself to an elderly lady and them to matchmakers. Am I really the senior figure here? Shouldn’t I be accorded greater respect? Disheartened, I undertook this long journey south at the prime minister’s suggestion.

I am the scapegoat. In December 1955, I penned an article opposing right-wing conservatism, acting on a whim. I convened talks with thirty-four ministers, addressing the Ten Major Relationships, which left me feeling overwhelmed and labeled as “excessive.” After that, I hesitated to approach ministers again. At the Third Plenary Session, I reported on the previous year’s cuts—namely, the “faster, better, cheaper” slogan, the Forty Guidelines, and the Promotion Committee—and received praise for my efforts, effectively restoring my standing. This emboldened me to resume engaging with ministers. Over those three years, the situation took numerous twists and turns. The right wing launched a full-scale offensive, pushing some of our comrades into positions just fifty meters away from them. Their campaign portrayed “excessiveness” as worse than conservatism, claiming that “things are not as good now as they once were” and that “excessiveness brings greater losses than conservatism.” Upon closer examination, however, it became clear that the real target was the anti-excessiveness movement itself, which had demoralized 600 million people. In June 1956, a counter-anti-excessiveness editorial appeared, ostensibly opposing both right-wing conservatism and impetuous excessiveness—a seemingly balanced piece, weighing three arguments for and three against. Yet its true focus lay squarely on combating excessiveness. It wasn’t a matter of a single finger being afflicted. I marked that editorial with the words “Do Not Read,” wondering why anyone would bother reading it given the panic and instability it stirred. In reality, the article was carefully crafted to undermine the anti-excessiveness drive. Its structure was flawed: ten fingers represented ten aspects, but only one was deemed problematic, with the ratio between healthy and diseased fingers deliberately obscured—a bourgeois approach reminiscent of Chen Shutong, Huang Yanpei, and Chen Mingshu.

I sought to defend my position during the anti-excessiveness campaign from January to November 1956. The Second Plenary Session produced seven resolutions representing a compromise, yet the underlying problems remained unresolved. A subsequent conference of provincial party secretaries acknowledged that some funds had been improperly spent and that the issue had not been fully addressed, allowing the anti-excessiveness sentiment to spread widely. Comrade Liao ×× informed me that the Forty Points had been discarded as if they were of little consequence. How many people truly lamented their loss? How many simply sighed? Three types of reactions emerged: first, those who declared, “Only by discarding the Forty Points can China be saved”; second, the fence-sitters—those who brushed off the matter with a casual remark, as if swatting a mosquito bite; and third, the sighers. We must clearly distinguish between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party: the former promotes regression, while the latter advances progress.

Comrade ××× serves the Party and the nation, yet his concerns about the anti-excessiveness campaign have alienated most ministers and provincial party secretaries, leaving him isolated from 600 million people. Consider Song Yu’s “Ode to Deng Tu Zi’s Lustfulness.” For two millennia, this essay has prevented Deng Tu Zi from regaining favor. Song Yu’s strategy was to attack a single weakness while ignoring the rest. Deng Tu Zi complained to King Xiang of Chu, asserting that Song Yu was handsome, eloquent, and lascivious. Song Yu refuted each accusation point by point. He countered by pointing out that Deng Tu Zi had married a hunchbacked, pockmarked wife and fathered seven children. Clearly, Deng Tu Zi’s fault lay solely in his lustfulness; other qualities were irrelevant. When evaluating cadres, we should assess both virtue and ability, rather than focusing exclusively on moral character while neglecting professional competence. Treating nine fingers as flawless while highlighting just one is precisely this kind of selective approach. I believe we need prolonged drizzles rather than sudden downpours, a subtle cultural influence rather than abrupt shocks that catch people off guard.

In May, the right-wing offensive served to heighten the political awareness of comrades with right-leaning tendencies—this, in itself, was a contribution of the right wing, achieved through provocation.

During the 1954–1955 grain procurement period, 92 billion jin of grain were collected, an increase of 10 billion jin. This excess prompted talk of “excessiveness,” leading to widespread discussion: “Everyone was talking about unified procurement, every household about grain.” Zhang Naiqi, the Minister of Grain, approved this plan. Was this deliberate, intended to stir up unrest among farmers? Perhaps there was a conspiracy at play. Last year’s increased grain sales reflected a lack of vitality among peasants. The head of a cooperative in Jiangsu lowered his head, admitting he could no longer continue. We fear that 600 million people have lost their vigor. Haven’t we been emphasizing the mass line? If 600 million are demoralized, what remains of the mass line? We must analyze problems starting from the perspective of these 600 million, distinguishing between the mainstream, minor currents, the essential nature of issues, and their surface manifestations.

Central authority is concentrated almost entirely in the hands of the Party, overseeing only revolution and agriculture, while other matters fall under the purview of the State Council.
People are prone to superstition and inertia. For example, I went swimming after a gap of thirty years.
The Four Pests Campaign promoted hygiene nationwide, with monthly cleanups throughout the year. Hospitals began operating schools, doctors took to farming, patient numbers plummeted, morale improved, and attendance rates soared. Such initiatives should be carried out intensively, ideally completed within two years.
I have arranged four meetings this year with the five provinces of East China. These smaller gatherings represent a combination of central and local elements, yielding different outcomes depending on the specific pairing. Localities are also holding their own smaller meetings. Comrade Liao ×× told me that he reviews plans on a ten-year, five-year, three-year, and annual basis. I, for my part, will convene four meetings annually and conduct twelve inspections, maintaining dual sets of records to strive for overfulfillment. This system was pioneered in the Soviet Union. Please revisit the Red County article. Once a single individual takes the lead, momentum builds. In that county, a single deputy secretary purchased a hoe, and eighty percent of the population followed suit. The commune model in Ying County, Shandong, provides another illustrative example. Indeed, a single case study can be sufficient.