在火的上面歌唱——記詩人老木

貝嶺

（注：因老廖《巴黎，當侯芷明碰上老木》這一文，引我在德國的顛沛中對老木沒法忘懷。近日，子立又多次問我：這當年北大中文系學長的出國人生。茲找出早年（1989年）我因獲悉老木被捕（後證實是誤傳）而寫下的文，與大家分享。當年文筆稚，可不掩沉痛。後來，我和老木於1990年春在華盛頓DC匆匆重逢，便再未見過面。寫於2014年 ）

我依然拙於用筆來表達那些最深切的東西。那些記憶面對著你，它強大，而且揮之不去。

我面前擺著一張照片，它由三個北京大學的校友組成，背景是北京天安門廣場人民英雄紀念碑的漢白玉底座，時間是1989年的5月，三個人分別是王丹、老木、劉蘇里。

我只能寫老木，他是我熟得不能再熟的老友，我們都是詩人，而且是「傾向」雜誌的同人。小老木老了，比以前成熟了，還蓄起了鬍子，還是那副我送他的暗紅色眼鏡架，他的眼神堅定而惘然，我還能記得他的習慣，他在照相機前閃閃爍爍的神情。

我始終不能想像老木會成為一個職業革命者，他只是一個敦厚、樸實、富有正義感的作家，在常態的社會環境下，他是一個不倦的文學活動家，一個優秀的記者和文學編輯，他在夜裏寫作，並且一氣呵成，他寫的詩越來越揮灑，並且憑著他詩人的本能，預感到了一場風暴的來臨，他在詩中渴望「在火的上面歌唱」，並且預言我們將在「時間的暴政」面前承受煎熬，可這一切畢竟是詩啊，它超越政治，也超越國度，一個詩的國度怎麼能迫害它的詩人呢？

老木原名劉衛國，生長在江西，他在北京大學中文系讀書時就是一個文學活動者，他曾擔任北大五四文學社的副社長，並開始了詩歌創作，他木訥而精力充沛。參與創辦了不少校內的文學刊物，畢業後被分配到中共北京市委黨校擔任文學教員，嚴格地講，他有在大陸良好的家庭出身背景，又有相對單純的學生經歷，這一切竟使他被分配到黨校工作，也許是由於他對詩的狂熱愛好，一件事情幾乎改變了他未來的道路。

《新詩潮詩集》在老木手下誕生了

1984年底，在他持續地努力下，他受北京大學五四文學社的委託，編選一本中國前衛詩人的詩集，當時許多青年詩人的作品正受到國內反精神污染運動的持續圍剿，可這些前衛詩歌反而在青年人中受到廣泛的傳播與熱愛，尤其是像我這種人的詩，根本不可能在官方的文學刊物上發表，只能在底下以油印民辦文學刊物的形式流傳，編輯一本在真正文學意義上有代表性的前衛詩人詩集，並在內部出版，幾乎是我們這些前衛詩人的夢想。1985年，老木以罕有的熱情，在北京大學十幾位署名教授的支持下，日夜勞作，在短短三個月的時間裏，他跑遍了北京及各地幾十位青年詩人的家，索要手稿，徹夜篩選。他從民間籌款又兼程趕往外省的印刷廠，校稿、設計版式、聯絡運輸，僅僅半年時間，中國四十年出版史上第一本鉛印民間書籍《新詩潮詩集》誕生了。

這是一本極其搶手的書籍，在沒有正式發行管道的情況下，在我們的努力下，在大學生及朋友們的傳播下，《新詩潮詩集》竟在一年內發行了三萬多冊，這本書的主編及發行人就是老木，一個年僅二十三歲的青年詩人。

老木出名了，他的並不太嚴重的厄運也降臨了，1986年的反對資產階級自由化運動開始後，老木被中共中央宣傳部點名批判，《新詩潮詩集》也被中宣部作為「非法出版物」，在北京軍事博物館陳列展出。老木在黨校是不能待下去了，在文藝界人士的幫助下，老木幸運地調入中國《文藝報》，擔任編輯記者，他終於學以致用，做了一個文學編輯。

他是文藝報最能幹的記者，又具有廣泛的交際能力，他屬於那種騎著車子轉一天，就能把整個版面稿子湊齊的神手，但他的精力仍未發洩，他真正的夢想是創辦純文學的同人刊物，同時還寫詩、寫文學評論、甚至寫中國先鋒派詩歌史這樣大部頭的專著，這還未耗盡他的精力。他渴望愛情，為了追一個女友，專程跑到雲南和女友的家人攤牌，搞得昏天黑地，期間竟還抽空，把一本他編的書稿和當地的一家出版社敲定，他風塵僕僕地在北京像幽靈般敲開每一個朋友的門，籌辦文學沙龍、組織聲勢浩大的前衛詩歌朗誦會，我簡直不能想像，今日中國詩壇沒有老木，將會變成何樣？

《知識分子公開信》

 可這一切終於過去了，一個真誠、熱情的知識分子，憑著他的耿直、憑著他對於國家責無旁貸的使命感與參與感，他必然要投入到那場喚醒了每個人的民主運動中去。他先是在今年（1989年）2月參與發起了三十三位中國知識分子懇求政府與執政黨釋放魏京生的公開信，他們做得溫和而又理性，並贏得了整個知識界的連鎖反應，與其說他們是在呼籲，倒不如說是每一個知識分子良知的反省，因為一個正在發生深刻變革的社會，必須予以它的公民表達自己合法要求的管道。作為當代歷史事件的參與者與目睹者，他們只是表達了最低限度的願望，甚至並未要求政府重新評價歷史事件，而僅僅是期望政府在建國四十周年的時候予以歷史事件中的人物特赦的可能，老木發起做了，他坦然地擔當了一個知識分子的責任。一個聲稱尊重知識、注意傾聽知識分子願望的政府又怎能不為之感動呢？可這隨後的事實卻無情地嘲弄了知識分子的善良願望。

終於，更大規模的學生請願運動爆發了，它波及到整個社會，全民的民主運動也隨之爆發，可是它如此和平，如此地理性，它拒絕激烈與暴力的要求，人民被感動了，整個知識界甚至黨政機關的工作人員都被感動了。作為一個詩人、一個文學工作者的老木被深深地撼動了，他不是一個具有激烈與狂熱性格的人，許多年，他甚至小心翼翼躲開與政治有關的事情，在他參與創辦的《傾向》雜誌上，他強調詩人在創作上的純粹性與理想主義精神，他和詩人們在《傾向》雜誌的創刊詞中引用了《新約馬太福音》中的句子作為結尾：「引到永恆，那門是窄的，路是小的，找到的人也少。」這種永恆超越政治，它是一種精神，是寫作者面對本體的一種勇氣。我始終確信老木對政治沒有專業的興趣，就像我從不認為中國的這場民主運動是一場政治鬥爭一樣，這場民主運動具有強烈的理想主義精神，它如此盛大的場面猶如一首史詩。老木作為一個極具理想主義精神的詩人，他必須置身其中，置身于詩的源泉中，他確信，對這場民主運動的背棄與遠離，也就是對詩的背棄與遠離，作為北京知識界聯合會的宣傳組組長，他和許多知識分子一樣，和學生們在一起。他強調民主運動和平與理性的重要性，強調整個民運良性的發展過程，他勸說學生們結束絕食，他也為學生與政府平等持續的對話做了許多工作，他生性的敦厚使他為學生生命的安危而寢食不安，並和人民一起守候在廣場，為此他甚至暫時放棄了美國哈佛大學邀請他赴美講學申請護照的時間，他不忍在此時離開。

我們最後一次通電話是在今年5月初，當時我轉告他，哈佛大學費正清研究中心期望他儘快來美講學，時間地點早已安排好了，他應該履約。當時他告訴我：也許我不出去了，我不能這時候離開祖國。之後，他沉默了許久，他最後的一句話是：貝嶺，你在美國好好地活著吧。

他是這次民主運動之後第一個遭到正式逮捕的知識分子，他的罪名是反革命暴亂的煽動者與策劃者。

  一個多麼可怕，而又何等荒誕的罪名啊。

使我感到恐懼的是如果像老木這樣一個性格平和、彷徨而又本質上不諳世故的知識分子都要擔上如此可怕的罪名，像他這樣經歷簡單、人事檔案上無可挑剔的人都要承受如此厄運，那些比他更激烈經歷更坎坷、更具政治性的知識分子又將面臨什麼呢？這一切我已不忍想像。

老木獻身理想的精神是詩人的驕傲

我還清楚記得我們最後一次見面的情景，那是在1988年9月，我們剛剛舉辦完「和平之夜」前衛詩歌朗誦會，那是一場既讓詩人沮喪，又令人們難忘的盛大詩會，我曾在會上留下憤怒的淚水，因為我們承受了太大的壓力，勞動了無數員警的關照，而觀眾卻又如此喧嘩，可那次畢竟可以使詩面對人民，可以展現詩人的憤怒與感情，當我痛斥那些人沒有給予詩最高的尊重時，當我由此發出感慨，對著眾人說：「這樣的人民是沒有希望的」時候，老木的眼淚也流了下來，周舵這時也走過來，和我講：「你這樣說話是會傷眾的。」而出乎預料，當朗誦會結束時，許多的聽眾走上前來，和我握手，他們告訴我，你的批評是對的，你應該憤怒，因為我們需要詩，我們不希望人民沒有希望，我們希望聽到詩人的朗誦。這是多麼感人的情景啊。過了兩天，我應邀赴美訪問，在即將離開北京的火車上，老木滿頭大汗地出現在我的面前，他告訴我，我們的雜誌《傾向》已經編好了，編得很理想，他說他會很快給我寄來。他最後的一句話仍然是：「好好活著。」是的，此時我在「好好地活著」——苟活在一塊異鄉的土地上，而老木，卻已身陷囹圄。在今年，他活得比我豐富，比我更有價值，我曾經羡慕他趕上了一個偉大的時代，為他的所作所為而驕傲。而這一切畢竟太短暫了，我沒有身臨其境，我不能料到他在1989年的中國起了這樣大的作用，我曾日夜為他擔憂，因為他在今年的最後一封信中告訴我，他日夜生活在恐懼中。是歷史讓他承擔了一個他未曾料想到要承擔的角色，而這一切僅僅是因為他的信念，他的理想主義精神，他生性中的質樸與單純。他的被逮捕至今仍未公開，甚至沒有多少人知道，他已足夠有名，可比他更有名的人遭到逮捕的已太多了，也許人們忽略了他。不，人們不會忘記他，他已成為詩人為爭取一個理想的社會而獻身的象徵。他是中國詩人的驕傲。

老木是個人物，他矮矮胖胖的身軀散發著熱量，他有不倦的精力，他不拘小節，不修邊幅；他不善言辭，卻又足夠固執；他其貌不揚，卻對詩和女人足夠專一；他可以在任何地方倒頭便睡，醒來時會睜大惶惑的眼睛辨認自己身在何地；他對朋友溫和而友善。他不太設防，卻又常自以為自己足夠聰明；他並不老練，他本質上是一個涉世不深的脆弱型知識分子。他不是一個風度優雅、而又喜歡自以為是的詩人，他是一個你一旦認識，便可以為之託付感情的熱心人。他也是一個做事不牢靠、忘性很大，但你可以對他直率批評的人。

我常常想，老木和我們許多人一樣，我們並不是生來就要和政府、和權力作對的，我們並不企望承受太多的苦難，我們只是希望有一種正常的、自由的、有尊嚴的生活，我們需要的只是寫作，並能夠進行形而上的思考、享受一種富有感情的散漫生活方式。可這一切在中國為什麼就這麼難，這麼危險，甚至要付出如此沉重的生命代價呢？這究竟是因為什麼？

老木，我的好兄弟，我現在還能為你做些什麼呢？朋友們將關注著你，哈佛大學還在等著你來講學，《一行》雜誌還等著你在國內約稿，可你現在在哪裡？在承受著什麼呢？

在時光面前，老木留下了一本詩集，一部未完成的中國先鋒主義詩歌史手稿，還有他編輯的幾本書，以及他今年所具有的輝煌經歷，這一切足以引起人們對一個知識分子在中國當代歷史中承擔的角色的思考，它足夠豐富與複雜，就如同我此時的筆受它制約一樣，它還將制約我的生活。它嚴酷，也使我們別無選擇。

更深的思考也許已經開始，而且必須開始。在短暫的光明與希望之後，更深的黑暗籠罩著我們，倖存的與不幸的，已構成一種巨大的反差，但我們都無法回避光陰的拷打。

最後，我想重複老木的一段話：「一個詩人，一個當然的理想主義者，他的疑慮、他的絕望、他的呼喚、他的堅信、他的歌唱，都不僅僅和世紀之末有更本質的關係。詩人站立在世紀之末，他依然歌唱，因為他深懷愛情，對人類、對世界、對中國、對家園、對親人的愛，而並不要求什麼；因為他天生就是一個理想主義者。在世紀之末，他的歌唱只能夠是下一個世紀的曙光……」

這就是一個詩人的信念。

人們，請記住吧！

1989年7月於紐約

阿海被捕專輯

The Mysterious Disappearance of an Author and Publisher

Bei Ling

Gui Minhai’s apartment complex in Pattaya, Thailand（2016,January）

October 2015, Pattaya, Thailand

In Thailand’s Pattaya, a soft white, Baroque-style building towers over the nearby beaches with their silvery water. Outside the luxury apartment building that has taken years to construct, a golden Buddha stands in silence. This neighborhood, where all is protected by 24-hour security, seems as peaceful and innocent as the utopia of Shangri-la. Dr. Gui Minhai, fondly known as Ah-hai, lived on the seventeenth floor, facing the Gulf of Thailand. Gazing south from its three balconies, the view is unobstructed, with water extending to the horizon. From time to time, Ah Hai – a mysterious Chinese author and Hong Kong publisher – liked to stay here, leaving the cacophony of Hong Kong politics and business behind him. Hiding here, he would spend his days writing and compiling books while still directing the Hong Kong publishing, distribution and bookstore empire he had built over a decade. His wife, who lived in Germany, and his daughter, Angela, who studied in the UK, would occasionally come to visit. Now and then, he would also invite fellow booksellers or his old friends who were poets to relax with him here.

Here are the events that we have been able to reconstruct, leading up to the disappearance of Gui Minhai.  On October 6th, 2015, Ah Hai flew from Hong Kong to Bangkok, where he had a four-day stopover. Four days later, he arrived at his beloved seaside condominium in Pattaya. On the afternoon of 17th October, the publisher drove back from picking up groceries; he was casually dressed, in a T-shirt and shorts. Outside the apartment building, he pulled his groceries out of the car and handed them to the security guard. After exchanging a few words, he got back in his car and drove away.

The panoramic view inside Dr. Gui’s apartment in Pattaya（2016,January）

November 2015, Hong Kong

In early November, two mutual friends of mine and Ah Hai informed me that Gui Minhai was missing. We tried various ways to contact him – by email, Skype, and phone – but there was no reply. This was unusual, as he was responsive by nature; we were concerned. There was further evidence that seemed to justify our increasing alarm: he hadn’t contacted the contractors renovating his apartment in Hong Kong for more than 10 days. Perhaps strangest of all, since he was a reliable friend, he had said on 15th October that he would be in Hong Kong at the end of the month to welcome a guest from Shanghai, yet he never showed up.

The concerns of Ah Hai’s friends seemed to be vindicated on 4th November.  That evening, Wang Yiliang, an author friend living in Thailand, forwarded me a short news story posted on Boxun, a Chinese news website based in the U.S., that read: “Hong Kong Publisher Gui Minhai Suspected Kidnapped in Thailand.”

My heart pounding, I immediately sought out the source of this information. A Boxun reporter sent word that the information had been emailed anonymously, and that Gui Minhai had officially gone missing in Thailand.  Our friend had not been seen since that day in October when he had arrived with groceries and then driven away.

It was already the middle of the night in Germany, but we needed to confirm this report with Ah Hai’s family urgently. I called his home in Düsseldorf, and his wife, a German citizen, answered. Most shocking to me was that she had no knowledge of what had happened. She stammered that it was not possible, simply not possible that he was missing, because “Ah-hai calls me regularly.”  I could hear her voice trembling. I urged her to confirm the story with Ah Hai, her husband, as soon as possible.

The next day, I called Ah Hai’s wife again. She told me her husband had just called and emailed her; he had assured her that he was “safe and sound.” Gui Minhai had told his that it would be better not to discuss the matter with outsiders for now, as he had urgent business to handle. I could tell by the tone of her voice that our friend’s reassurances had calmed her, but she seemed upset with both me and the media for “mistakenly spreading” the story of Ah Hai’s disappearance in Thailand.

Was it possible that the news report was a mistake?  I certainly thought so, and wrote a note to other friends of the Hong Kong publisher – this was on 7th November – assuring them that Ah Hai was “perfectly fine” and urging them to “forget about the police report”.

However, with worries still nagging at the back of my mind, I discussed the situation with Meng Lang,an exiled Chinese poet and an old friend of Gui Minhai. Aptly, he pointed out similarities between our friend’s case and that of Yiu Mantin.  Yiu Mantin was chief editor of Hong Kong’s Morningbell Press. Back in October 2013, when Yiu was preparing to publish Godfather of China Xi Jinping by the exiled writer Yu Jie, he was jailed in Shenzhen for allegedly smuggling industrial chemicals across borders. A year later, Yiu was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.  When Yiu had been arrested, his family had flatly refused to publish information about the situation, insisting over and over again that Yiu was “fine.” During that time, Yiu’s wife might have been led to believe that privately seeking help from an intermediary in the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference or the Liaison Office of the Central People’s Government in Hong Kong was the best way to get her husband back.  I considered the similarity between the two cases, and after analyzing it with friends became frightened.

Social networking software may have played a sinister role in Ah Hai’s disappearance – what was beginning to look like a political kidnapping. The Hong Kong publisher could not have foreseen that WeChat, designed in China but freely used across the globe, might have allowed China’s secret police to discover his personal information and whereabouts. When he contacted friends and family on WeChat, Gui Minhai may have unwittingly revealed his address in Thailand, the length of his visit, and the identities of his friends.

What everyone who cared about Ah Hai wanted to know was: where exactly was he?  Was he really “fine”, as he had claimed to be when he spoke to his wife?

A Jolting Loss for Hong Kong: Three Employees Arrested in China

Something strange was happening in Hong Kong: our friend Ah Hai was not the only bookseller and publisher who seemed to have been strangely snatched away.  That same week, two booksellers at the Mighty Current Publishing Company and the manager of Hong Kong Causeway Bay Bookstore vanished – and no-one seemed to know where they had been taken, or why.

Sandwiched among Hong Kong’s most bustling neighborhoods, Causeway Bay Bookstore is on the second floor.  Its entrance would be easy to miss, yet this unassuming bookshop has become a must-stop destination for mainland tourists eager to get their hands on books about Chinese politics that are not available in Beijing, Shanghai, or indeed anywhere in mainland China. Last year, Ah Hai and his colleagues Lv Bo, Lee Po and his wife Sophie Lee (to use her English name) acquired this bookstore; Lin Rongji served as the store’s manager.

But in mid-October 2015, within little more than a week, a series of chilling disappearances was to rock Hong Kong society: in addition to our friend Ah Hai, three Hong Kong booksellers vanished while visiting the mainland province of Guangdong.  Lv Bo, the Mighty Current manager, disappeared in Shenzhen, apparently on 15th October, while resting at his wife’s family’s home.  On 24th October, in the city of Dongguan, ten military police took Mighty Current business manager Zhang Zhiping away at gunpoint; after that, no-one was able to contact him.  Meanwhile, in Shenzhen, Causeway Bay Bookstore manager Lin Rongji disappeared on 24th October.

If Hong Kong society was shaken by this series of disappearances that were hard to account for, no-one was more shocked than friends of Ah Gui.

When Ah Hai contacted his wife in Germany and assured her that he was “fine”, we can only assume that the Chinese secret police – known in Chinese as “the mysterious force” – gave him little choice but to reassure her. In addition, we initially hesitated to pursue our investigation into his disappearance because it was appropriate to respect the family’s decision.

On November 7th, the day after Hong Kong’s Apple News reported his disappearance, Lin Rongji unexpectedly phoned his wife from Shenzhen, saying, “I’m quite safe, I’ll come back after a bit, please don’t fret.” After that, nothing.

That same day, I wrote an open letter to PEN members expressing the hope that we would no longer be misled.

“Thus, regarding the matter at hand, we must not blindly trust what the family says. I only need Ah Hai to appear just once, to tell us just one thing – where is he? Is he free, or not? No matter if it’s just one sentence, as long as he tells us where he is, that’s the only important thing.

“In the early stages, we were led to believe he was safe, and so didn’t have the strength of conviction to ask for help or call for support. Perhaps we missed the best time to save him. I simply could not believe, that while his employees and associates were detained in Shenzhen, he was somehow al right…

“Today, Hong Kong’s Apple Daily reported Causeway Bay Bookstore manager Lin Rongji called his wife after being detained in Shenzhen – further proof that my suspicions were justified.

“Thinking it over, there is no way I believe Ah Hai is okay, and now, I want to convince his wife that I have come to this conclusion after lengthy consideration. Everyone, please do not lower your guard…”

There were too many precedents for us to ignore. From that point onward, we could not blindly trust what the families of the disappeared told us. Our investigation into the booksellers’ disappearance could no longer be postponed.

I’d go as far as to hypothesize that the secret police’s motive for detaining Ah Hai and the three booksellers lay in amassing evidence of Ah Hai’s so-called “crimes.”

Since Bangkok is a place to flee for Chinese applying for political asylum status with the United Nations, I wrote a letter on October 28th to friends in Thailand, warning them:

“Friends and PEN members in Thailand and Bangkok, please be aware… you must keep a low profile, limit the number of people you contact to three per day, and try not to share information on WeChat – you should stick to these guidelines to avoid ending up in prison. Bear in mind, you are living under the rule of a post-coup militia government. If you stay in Thailand, your rights are not guaranteed and it will be easier to get arrested. Please, be careful!”

Rereading the letter, there was a sense of dark foreboding within.

An Important Breakthrough: The First Piece of the Puzzle

Aside from Ah Hai, there were no other ethnic Chinese living in this seaside apartment building in Pattaya, Thailand. While news of the disappearance of Gui Minhai – who held Swedish citizenship – caused an uproar in the Chinese-speaking world and in the media, not a word about it could be heard in Pattaya. The apartment building’s property management office had been baffled by Ah Hai’s sudden disappearance and the four mysterious visitors who subsequently came to his apartment.

By now, three weeks had passed since Gui Minhai’s disappearance. Not only had Thai police not yet opened an investigation – his family hadn’t filed a report either. With no trail to follow, I and several other friends of Ah Hai formed a team to “break the case.” We anxiously searched for him, relying on one piece of information at a time, piecing together the puzzle. We made countless phone calls, analyzed the case day in and day out, approaching the case calmly and rationally. My team and I discussed the situation, making plans for every possible outcome. Eventually, we decided to go directly to Ah Hai’s apartment building in Pattaya to investigate.

On November 9th, we made an important breakthrough in our friend’s case. Through a Chinese friend who cannot be named, Li Fang, a Chinese political refugee in Finland, ascertained the actual address of Gui Minhai’s apartment building. Subsequently, two ethnic Chinese friends in Thailand, who must remain anonymous, went to Ah Hai’s residence in Pattaya, where they inquired into their friend’s whereabouts. Our ethnic Chinese friend spoke Thai fluently, and was able to communicate in Thai with Ms. Mai, the property manager, thereby gaining the confidence of the building’s management office. Within a month, the two were able to procure complete video and photographic records of all entry to and exit from the building.

That day, I promptly wrote to my team:

“They’ve already found Mr. Gui’s apartment in Pattaya, and are confirming the circumstances of his departure; local friends in Thailand are providing assistance. Thanks xx, keep it up.” (November 10).

Following the Clues

On October 17 at 1:15pm, a young male appeared to be standing guard in the shade of a bus stop outside Mr. Gui’s apartment building. After several minutes, Mr.. Gui is depicted driving his own car, white with license plate number 5870, to the apartment building exterior. He then took the groceries he’d just bought out of his car, and asked the building security guard to take it to his apartment. Immediately after, he got back in his car and left with the unidentified man.

This was the last sighting of Mr. Gui before his disappearance. From that moment on, he has not returned.

Video screenshot from the garden outside Mr. Gui’s residential building: On the afternoon of October 17, Mr. Gui returned to the apartment building driving his own car after ordering take-out. Before going upstairs, he left immediately.

Screenshot from the apartment surveillance video: The man that Dr. Gui was seen leaving with on the afternoon of October 17.

Clearly, the mysterious force that took him had prior knowledge of his comings and goings. Perhaps he recognized this person, or maybe one of his so-called friends had introduced them?

This was not the only instance of interference; even more damning footage emerged.

In the afternoon on November 3, four mysterious men who appeared to have come from the casino underworld, with calm demeanors and sure in step, entered the promenade of Dr. Gui’s building. From analyzing and comparing the vocal movements of the four men in the video, it can be established that at least three of them spoke Mandarin Chinese. One man in red appeared to be the leader of this operation. Before entering the building, one man took a phone call. After they entered, Ms. Mai received a call from Mr.Gui. In English, Mr. Gui said the four men were his friends, and they could enter the building and stay the night at his apartment. After the call ended, the property manager asked the four men where Mr. Gui was. One man responded, Mr.Gui was gambling at a casino in Cambodia, and therefore wouldn’t be returning for awhile. After that, building security accompanied the four men in the elevator to the 17th floor, and opened his apartment to let them in. According to the building manager, before these four men left the apartment, they attempted to take Mr. Gui’s desktop computer with them, but the property manager refused.  Grudgingly, the they left without it. 

The panoramic view inside Dr. Gui’s apartment. His desktop computer is still there. （2016,January）

It can be deduced from the time stamp on the surveillance video that they only lingered in Dr. Gui’s apartment for around 20 minutes. Obviously, they hadn’t planned to stay long.  From this it can be determined, in my analysis, that within nearly half an hour, the men likely took his Swedish passport and copied all the files on his computer, including his bank account information and even his emails.

After Dr. Gui disappeared, on November 3, the four men who entered his apartment and attempted to take his computer.

Friends in Thailand also checked The visitor registry showed the men calling on Dr. Gui did not actually write in Thai, but rather used simplified Chinese to write a name: “He Wei” (何伟). Apparently, they are ethnically Chinese, sent there on a mission.

Screenshot of video footage from inside the apartment elevator: The four men who entered Dr. Gui’s apartment.

Screenshot of video footage from inside the apartment elevator: A man who entered Dr. Gui’s apartment. The man wearing red is the ringleader.

Mr. Gui called again! After screenshots of the four men who entered Dr. Gui’s apartment were published in news media reports, Ms. Mai once more received a call from Mr.Gui on November 6. Ms. Mai asked him, “Where in the world are you? Your friends have been looking everywhere for you.” In a nervous tone, without revealing where he was, he responded that everything was alright, adding: “I’m with friends doing computer [sic].” Before he could disclose his whereabouts, he hung up.

“I’m with friends doing computer.” Was this a hint?

We continued our search through every channel possible. From Ms. Mai’s cell phone, we know Mr. Gui’s three phone calls were made over the internet from numbers in Egypt, Poland, and the Congo, but it is beyond our authority to investigate from which country he actually called.

Since this event transpired, Dr. Gui’s family members have still not reported his disappearance to the Thai police. As such, I tried to convince Dr. Gui’s wife to call Thai police in Pattaya from her home in Germany to report his disappearance. As she failed to do so, my friend Li Fang asked whether he could use my name and a friend’s identity to get the property manager to report Dr. Gui’s disappearance to the Thai police. Doing so would prevent strangers from entering his apartment or even taking his computer.  I agreed, and the report was filed.

Police report form

Dr. Gui and his wife spoke on the phone every seven to ten days; with such frequent contact, the tone of his voice was not peculiar. Up until November 15, I was still in phone contact with Dr. Gui’s wife. She always told me, “He’s just fine!” The most recent time we spoke, I asked her directly: “Where is Dr. Gui at this moment?” “He’s in Thailand!” Because she held onto this conviction, I suggested to her at once: “When Dr. Gui calls next, please express that you’ll be flying to Thailand to see him in a couple days, and ask if he would fly to the Bangkok airport to meet you. This is the only way to test whether Dr. Gui is actually in Thailand, whether or not he is free.” She thought this course of action was reasonable, and thus approved of my suggestion.

Several days later, Dr. Gui’s wife told a mutual German friend of ours that she had complied with my suggestion. She used WeChat to mention to Dr. Gui she’d be flying to Thailand to visit and asked him to go to the airport in Bangkok to meet her. Dr. Gui immediately responded, saying he would be unable to meet her and asking her not to fly to Thailand. As I saw it, this was tantamount to Dr. Gui covertly telling his wife that he was no longer free, or perhaps this suggested Dr. Gui had already been taken out of Thailand.

Where was Dr. Gui, after all? Still in Thailand, or already taken into custody back to another country? How exactly was he taken back to China?

I’m still searching.

Has Dr. Gui Really Already Been Returned to China?

On November 10, several foreign Chinese-language media outlets published a news story that caught my attention, a story that I couldn’t help but associate with Dr. Gui’s disappearance. The story was published in official Chinese media:

“On November 9, under the direction of the Ministry of Public Security, 282 police chartered four Chinese civil aviation planes to go abroad. They deported 254 individuals in Indonesia and Cambodia suspected of committing fraud back to China.”(Boxun news portal)

This news story aroused my suspicion:

1. “On November 9, under the direction of the Ministry of Public Security, 282 police” went in-person to Cambodia and Indonesia. As such, Chinese police officials must have arrived first in Indonesia and Cambodia to discuss the details of the operation. Is it possible they could have taken a detour to Thailand to conveniently handle other cases?

2. “…chartered four Chinese civil aviation planes to deport 254 individuals in Indonesia and Cambodia suspected of committing blackmail back to China.” This instance of cross-border cooperation with China, transferring the suspected criminals back to China, is between only the Cambodian and Indonesian governments, not the Thai government.

As Thailand and Cambodia share a border, I instinctively wondered: if Dr. Gui had already been kidnapped back to Cambodia, would he have been thrown in among the other 254 suspected criminals under similar charges and taken back to China?

With this, I phoned my friend in Bangkok who confirmed that it only takes around two hours to drive from Pattaya to Poipet, the casino town straddling the borders of Cambodia and Thailand. In fact, crossing the border into Cambodia is quite easy. Even without a passport, you can directly enter the border casino in Poipet through an acquaintance there. Once inside, you’re already in Cambodia. If you want to continue from the casino to do some sightseeing at the world-famous Angkor Wat, with its imposing architecture and meticulous reliefs, driving a car is also straightforward. With a passport, it’s more convenient. One need only have one’s passport stamped when exiting Thai customs and crossing the Cambodian border. For many years, guests traveling from Thailand to the Thai-Cambodia casino or to Cambodian tourist sites have used these channels to travel between the two countries. If one without a passport wants to go back to Thailand from Angkor Wat, the casino can arrange to take him.

For these reasons, it was technically feasible that Dr. Gui was escorted from Thailand to Cambodia and then detained in Cambodia’s capital Phnom Penh with the group of suspected criminals for transfer back to China.

A Mobile Phone Left Behind in a Taxi

After the four mysterious men left Dr. Gui’s apartment building, they called a taxi outside the building’s gates and headed east toward Thai border town Poipet. While several of them haggled over the taxi fare, one man called the manager of Dr. Gui’s apartment building, asking him to turn off the air conditioning in Dr. Gui’s apartment as they’d forgotten to do so. Be it intentionally or unintentionally, the mobile phone used to call the building was unexpectedly left behind in the taxi. By browsing the phone’s call record, the driver was easily able to confirm that the last call was placed to Dr. Gui’s apartment building management office looking for lost property. Only then did Ms. Mai know that these four mysterious men were headed to the Thailand-Cambodia border town Poipet.

The exit strategy these four men took after leaving Dr. Gui’s apartment was not sufficiently professional. The recovered mobile phone not only divulged their direction, but even more so corroborates my own inferences.

Dr. Gui’s daughter, who goes to school in England, only learned of her father’s disappearance in Thailand on November 9–two weeks after he went missing–when Mr. Li, Dr. Gui’s associate at the Hong Kong publishing company, told her. After the disbelief and sorrow, she accepted interview requests from British and Swedish media, urgently connected with the Swedish government, and reported the case to the Swedish police, therefore making public her search for her father.

Two days later, media reported that she, who’d not heard word from her father for a long time, received a short English-language letter he’d written over Skype. Its contents were baffling and enigmatic, as Dr. Gui’s daughter neither requested money from nor lent money to her father recently:

“Hi, XXX, I have put in 30,000 HKD in your account in HK, and hope you be fine with everything [sic].” (November 11)

Without a doubt, the mysterious force that held control over Dr. Gui had sanctioned his writing this letter.

Five days later, Dr. Gui’s daughter received the $30,000 HKD on schedule through a Hong Kong bank. In the last month since Dr. Gui’s disappearance, this was the only time he had written and remitted funds to his daughter. In my view, the mysterious force allowed Dr. Gui to write and send money to his daughter because she had been calling for help searching for him in international media; this force wanted to convince her of his “safety” so she would not continue publicizing her search.

On November 12, a BBC reporter called Sweden’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs to inquire whether the Swedish government was aware of Dr. Gui’s disappearance from Thailand. The Ministry responded they had already learned of this news, and indicated the government was launching an investigation into Dr. Gui’s disappearance.

On November 17, one month after Dr. Gui’s disappearance, the International PEN Center and the International Publishers Association jointly issued a statement of strong concern regarding the disappearance of this Chinese author and publisher.

On November 20, the Swedish police formally contacted Dr. Gui’s family to notify them they were dispatching police to Thailand to seek out the cooperation of Thai police in order to ascertain Dr. Gui’s whereabouts.

1984, Beijing

I’ve been an acquaintance of Dr. Gui’s for more than 30 years.

Our friendship can be traced back to Beijing in 1984, where this young poet was known by his pen name, “Ah-hai.”

On one Beijing afternoon in 1984, a certain chilliness had not yet dissipated from the early spring air. At Beijing Industrial University (now known as Beijing Institute of Technology), I had burrowed into my narrow, single-room, second floor apartment when someone–ignoring the doorbell–knocked on my door, asking in Beijing-speak with a hint of Ningbo accent, “Is Bei Ling there?” I opened the door to find a round-faced young man, cigarette smoke still idling in his mouth. This was how he serendipitously found me. He pulled out a mimeograph print of a long poem and introduced himself: “Ah-hai, student in the History Department at Peking University, composer of modern poetry.”

The Iron Curtain had already been lifted by that time, but authoritarian control was still severe. During this period, the ban on books was lifted, and “rebellious” Western literature and ideology bubbled forth like floodwater. At the time, literature became in vogue and poetry writing experienced a renaissance. Poetry served as a kind of business card for young literary types, who produced poems as a job applicant produces a resume. In those days, homes rarely had telephones, so to meet someone one would have to devise a way to seek out his address and go directly to his front door. If the person was there, you’d meet him; if not, you’d leave a note and try again another day. I don’t know how many doors Dr. Gui knocked on. In terms of poetry writing, contacts in underground poetry circles, and connections with the underground poetry community, I ranked half-a-generation ahead of Dr. Gui.

Poet Gui Minhai in the 1980s

Both our universities were located in the Western neighborhoods of Beijing, such that Dr. Gui could bike from Peking University to my small, single occupancy apartment at Beijing Industrial University within half an hour. From 1984 to 1985, he would visit my place practically every day. The company I kept at the time was mixed; perhaps he only came to direct his efforts at the motley crew that gathered in my apartment. He was shy, but not reserved, and his high spirits churned out rich discussions, all with disregard for the opinions of his big shot professors. He was heavily dependent on tobacco, as was I, though his ferocity for smoking could not be matched–he’d smoke one cigarette after the other, filling my tiny apartment with clouds of thick smoke. Through me, he made some poet and artist friends outside his circle at school. Sometimes, I’d bring him along on long car rides into the city, or take him to rest for a bit at a residence for poets and painters in the Sanlihe residential area, or ask him to tag along to a gathering of underground poets. With the solemnity of a memorial service, poets of cheerful or bright poems would one after the other get into character at those gatherings.

On weekend nights, I’d take him to parties held at the residences of Western diplomats around Sanlitun or Jianguomen. We’d have to park our bikes in the lot outside the Jianguomen “Friendship Store.” Then, outside the storefront we’d change into foreign clothes–nothing more than cotton Texwood jeans, distressed and faded from so many washings, or brand-new, tight-fitting Levi’s, still indigo blue. We’d top the outfits off with a brand name red down jacket or a t-shirt, passing for overseas Chinese, and call our diplomat friends from a phone booth to let us inside.  After ten minutes, they’d pick us up outside the storefront in a car, and after three or four turns, we’d be inside the diplomatic residence compound. When our car passed through security, plainclothes police and soldiers with guns sized us up with eagle eyes, but I played it cool. Dr. Gui, on the other hand, held his breath–that was a time when “Chinese or dogs [were] not allowed” to enter diplomatic residence compounds. Infiltrating the foreigner’s home amid the merriment set to deafening rock’n’roll and free, unlimited wine and beer is a memory of our 1980s youth that I share with Dr. Gui.

After graduating in history from Peking University, Dr. Gui stayed in Beijing, where he was assigned by the government to serve as assistant editor and editor of the state-run People’s Education Publishing House from 1985 to 1988. Dr. Gui took specialty training in editing, during which time he penned his own book, titled A Guide to Twentieth Century Western Cultural History (1988). To us underground writers, the 1980s were a decade spent ravenously learning about Western culture and reading Western literature. I admired Dr. Gui for getting a government publishing house to publish a book introducing Western cultural history, and gained a new level of respect for him.

Around 1989, we both left China, and fell out of contact. In my capacity as a poet and editor, I visited the United States as a literature fellow, while Dr. Gui and his wife at the time (now divorced) left for Göteborgs, Sweden. He started graduate study at the University of Goteborgs (Göteborgs universitet). In 1989, the June 4 Tiananmen Square student movement and subsequent government massacre shocked the world. This massacre was a turning point both in China’s modern history as well as in the lives of individuals of my generation.

In 1990, Dr. Gui became a Swedish citizen. In 1994, his daughter was born in Göteborgs. Because her parents were constantly by her side with care and concern, she told me, she has fond memories of her childhood.

A moving photograph–Dr. Gui and his daughter in Göteborgs

From 2000 to 2005, Dr. Gui went back to live in China, but I have no idea what what his life like during this period. The year he went back, in late August, I was imprisoned for “illegal publication” of my literary magazine, but was freed through the hard work of the U.S. State Department. After being deported to the United States, I began my life and career in exile. Dr. Gui and I passed so close in China we nearly brushed shoulders.

In 2005, Dr. Gui married his current wife, and together they left China, first immigrating to Berlin before settling down in central Germany.

Nineteen Years Apart

The next time I saw Dr. Gui was February 2007 in Hong Kong, where the International PEN Center’s Asia-Pacific regional conference, called “Chinese World of Authors–Literary Exchange,” was being hosted, marking only the second time since International PEN’s inaugural conference in 1921 that it was held in the Asia Pacific. In total, more than one hundred authors and PEN members from China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Japan, and Europe participated. It was truly a long-awaited reunion for us. I noticed his dignified appearance and enlarged figure. In disbelief, I blurted out: “Ah-hai, how did this fellow get taller AND stronger? I nearly didn’t recognize you.” With a cigarette still in hand, he still spouted smoke wherever he went. But the capable and experienced man whom I met at the conference had long ago left behind that baby-faced young poet.

After a short three days, we had amassed a deeper understanding of each other’s lives. I knew he had become Gui Minhai, PhD., but he’d also published several academic works and prose anthologies. It was also that year that I read a Chinese-language translation of a book he’d sent me, The Stories Around the Swedism (2005, United Authors Publishing House)–his doctoral thesis completed at the University of Göteborgs.

At the October 2009 Frankfurt Book Fair, we met again, and together served as panelists at the Frankfurt, Germany headquarters of the International Society for Human Rights (IGFM).

Bei Ling and Ah-Hai at the forum discussion at the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2009 [Photo: Zhong Weiguang]

A Prolific Politics Author with a Secret Identity

Starting in 2006, Dr. Gui discontinued writing academic works on comparative East-West history and producing prose, gradually transitioning into a political writer. He focused on the high-level inner-workings of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), the sexual relationships of CCP officials, and family histories of CCP leadership. He’d travel between Germany and Hong Kong every year, following the trends in modern Chinese politics from nearby.

From 2006 to 2013, he became an apprentice and intimate friend of Liu Dawen, chief editor of noted Hong Kong political culture magazine Front Line, head of XiaFeiEr publishing company, and former literary critic. Dr. Gui even had a desk at the company where he could go anytime to write or edit books. Since he already understood how Hong Kong’s publishing industry operated, he took the initiative to help Liu Dawen’s wife evaluate books, or dig them out from the warehouse. By their example, Dr. Gui became very familiar with the workings of the book publishing industry in Hong Kong.

Dim Sum restaurants are optimal for entertaining visitors to Hong Kong or family and spreading gossip, and Dr. Gui would often invite Mainland guests there to drink and eat. Between courses, Dr. Gui listened as his Mainland guests talked nonstop, blabbering with conviction about high-level CCP relationships, internal power struggles, and erotic anecdotes, thereby collecting much first-hand information. Dr. Gui was exceptionally energetic, mentally writing and compiling books day and night. He had a keen sense for finding inside stories of high-level politics, fully utilizing the analysis, research, annotation, material sourcing, and evidence gathering skills he’d learned in the history departments at Peking University and Göteborgs University. He dashed his pen across paper, writing at least one book a month and compiling more than ten books in a year. Within only a few years, he became known as a prolific publisher in the world of banned political books.

According to information leaked in Hong Kong publishing circles, Dr. Gui published a book about Wang Guangmei, wife of former PRC Chairman Liu Shaoqi, in 2008 titled Autobiography of Wang Guangmei. But in March 2009, Wang’s daughter Liu Sida told a Hong Kong reporter that the book’s contents were pieced together from essays her mother had written while living as well as excerpts from interviews with reporters. According to her, the book had not changed third-person interviews into a first-person “autobiography.” Her initial response to the book was incredulous: “The things written on the cover are just not possible, we want to take legal action to determine whose fault this is, but several lawyers we consulted said it would be too hard to sue… why are people talking rubbish, concocting stories, telling slanderous lies? Publishing such a false autobiography, full of gossip and vulgarities? How is it that in a place like Hong Kong, where freedom and democracy are so strong, there is no way to investigate?”

Dr. Gui wrote many books, but never used “Ah-hai,” instead using different names to publish. Though there was nothing he and his friends didn’t talk about together, he never publicly acknowledged which books he’d written. As such, friends never had the access to confirm which he’d written and which he’d edited. Just like that, he became an invisible author.

The Emergence of a Non-Native Hong Kong Publisher

It was not Dr. Gui’s only ambition to become a prolific but secret political gossip writer; he also wanted to start his own business. He’d already had a publishing house and run a distribution company, but at that time he still wanted to buy a print shop to print books. He aspired to establish a top-to-bottom publishing empire in Hong Kong. I saw these ambitions of his, and I understand them.

In 2007, Dr. Gui and Wang Jie (pen name: Chu Jin), a venerable scholar and legal translator, jointly established United Authors Publishing House. Within three years, they published 8 books. Excluding the best-seller Overseas Mistresses of the Chinese Communist Party; Secrets of Wives of CCP Officials; Women of the Shanghai Gang, which made a small profit; and QingBangWuGuo–In the Words of Jiang Zemin, the other four books were not profitable. Two literature books didn’t sell more than 100 copies, a cruel loss. The two did not go into business together again, and the publishing house did not put out any more books.

Starting in 2011, Dr. Gui established several publishing houses, including North Canal (Bei Yun He), New Vision (Xin Shi Jie), Triangle (San Jiao Di), Double Abundance (Shuang Feng), Floating Duckweed (Piao Ping), Biao Di, Breadth (Guang Du), and others. He’d alternate publishing houses, one after the other publishing banned Chinese political books. After living and publishing in Hong Kong for an extended period, Dr. Gui not only wrote or compiled books, but also had many politics writers publish with him.

Dr. Gui’s publishing houses published 4 or 5 books a month, about 50 books a year, accounting for one-third the total number of banned Chinese political publications published in Hong Kong each year. In 2013, the infamous Bo Xilaiscandal, involving murder and trysts, broke around the world, leaving millions and millions of Chinese in hungry suspense. That was the perfect opportunity for Dr. Gui’s publishing house. According to my rough calculation, of the hundreds of books published on Bo Xilai in Hong Kong during that time, nearly half were published by Dr. Gui’s publishing houses. According to the Guardian, one recent book published by Dr. Gui, titled The Collapse of Xi Jinping in 2017, looked at the scandal’s of China’s president.

In 2013, Dr. Gui, Lee Po, and Lv Bo, a Hong Kong expert in publishing banned Chinese politics books, jointly founded the Hong Kong Giant Dragon (Ju Long) publishing company, and started self-distributing. After decreasing the number of banned Chinese politics books they published, their distribution profits were drained.

In 2014, the three together pooled $300,000 HKD to buy Hong Kong’s Causeway Bay Bookstore, for which business had been bad and which had been operating at a loss, with a month’s rent costing nearly $400,000 HKD. The bookstore primarily sold banned Chinese politics books. To date, Causeway Bay Bookstore is considered to have the most comprehensive collection to enter into the Hong Kong publishing world.

In the last five years, Dr. Gui has already become one of the most important publishers of salacious Chinese politics books in Hong Kong. In addition to Dr. Gui, publishers including Mirror Books, XiaFeiEr Publishing including its subsidiary Global Industry  Publishing Company (Huan qiu shi ye (Xianggang) gong si)), New Century Press, and Open Books have together served as the forces behind the banned Chinese politics book publishing world in Hong Kong.

Prospects for Press Freedom in Hong Kong

With a population of more than 7 million, Hong Kong enjoys freedom of speech and of the press. The proliferation of freedom of information there is the only such example in the entire People’s Republic of China. As Hong Kong faces an enormous mainland readership market of 1.3 billion, half the books published in Hong Kong are political books that cannot be published in China. Among them are books where the facts are a matter of historical record, with complete and accurate evidence, that are able to endure Mainland bans. There are also books based on hearsay with sensationalized stories that would make one’s hair stand straight, stories of internal power struggles at high levels of the CCP, the rise and fall of CCP factions, and inside stories of high-level political emergencies in the CCP. Not to mention licentious page-turners featuring accounts of the mistresses and sexual encounters of high-level officials. These kinds of books, banned in China, are commonly found in Hong Kong bookstores, newsstands, and airports. A new book hits the market almost every day, sometimes becoming a bestseller. Banned publication of political books is the only glaring outlier in the publishing industry in a Hong Kong with press freedom. The biggest purchasers of these books–numbering more than one million people a week, and nearly 100 million each year–are Mainland tourists, or travelers exiting or transferring from China through Hong Kong. China, where information is censored and there is no grassroots independent media or freedom of press, is a publisher’s paradise. It has unlimited potential, attracting prolific authors and publishers such as Dr. Gui to immerse themselves in it. They very clearly recognize China isn’t just a place to make big money on a small investment through royalties and book sales. More so, it is a place where collecting source materials is difficult and the details are thrilling, like detective work. In the writing process, this kind of work yields tremendous spiritual stimulation.

The domain of banned Chinese politics books, with its secret authors, confidential sources, and thrilling revelations, is both fearful and highly competitive for publishers. Not only are there unwritten rules and regulations for publishing houses in this field, but also taboos. For example, ordinarily Chinese political books not signed with the author’s real name, or without a publicly known pen name, with content lacking in reliability, would not be published. Nor would books about the current CCP general secretary or chairman or the private lives of their families be published, in order to protect the publisher’s life. In recent years, for example, He Pin, director of Mirror Books group’s main office, has not visited Hong Kong. Dr. Gui, on the other hand, has disregarded these unwritten rules, even challenging publishing taboos. Though he keeps a low profile, he pays no mind to the danger he is in. He spends three months every year living in Hong Kong. His status as a Swedish citizen served as a psychological safeguard in these circumstances.

A sense of mourning has overcome Hong Kong since Dr. Gui and his three colleagues were “disappeared” more than 40 days ago. Those in the world of Hong Kong’s banned Chinese politics books panic at the slightest move. The absolute freedoms of speech and press in Hong Kong are now in decline. Though press freedom exists there, the self-censorship imposed by publishing houses is even more restrictive. In a Hong Kong with no media to serve as watchdog, authors and publishers have to face the “consequences” each time they put out a new book. The spell of self-censorship has been cast upon the heads of all publishers of banned Chinese politics books. This is the state of “press freedom” in Hong Kong under China’s shadow.

Dr. Gui’s “disappearance” is, so far, the most terrifying outcome a Chinese publisher and author could encounter. The mysterious force that entrapped him did not merely want to prevent his continued publication of these Chinese politics books. This force didn’t only want to understand, what did he write? What they really want to know is: who are the authors of books he has published? Who are the sources that provided information to him? Who was frequently dealing with him over email? And what were they giving him?

The information on Dr. Gui’s computer was hacked, his email password compromised, his mail read. I fear that every author of one of those books, every person with whom he had electronic contact, every source who supplied him information, all will face uncertain consequences.

Conclusion

Dr. Gui was disappeared in Thailand. Looking at the present circumstances, the Thai government and police are responsible for executing the following investigations:

• Collecting fingerprints from inside Dr. Gui’s apartment in order to identify the four men who entered his apartment;
• Checking whether Thai customs has a record of Swedish citizen Gui Minhai leaving the country on October 17;
• Looking for the location of the car Dr. Gui was driving when he disappeared on October 17.

Dr. Gui is a genuine risk-taker in the publishing world, an atypical publisher who has taken off in the Hong Kong publishing world in recent years. Even more so, he is a master player in the fiercely competitive Hong Kong publishing industry who has broken the rules–written and unwritten–of the industry. He has an extraordinary sense of the appetite shared by millions and millions of potential Chinese readers for voyeuristic Party politics and the depraved acts of Party leaders. His success in flooding the Hong Kong publishing world with such works, and even his work’s abrupt halt now, have become another page in the annals of Hong Kong publishing history.

Since Dr. Gui told his wife over WeChat in mid-November not to fly to Thailand, he has made no contact whatsoever.

From where does the mysterious force that captured Dr. Gui across borders come? From which country? The answer is all but certain.

Sharing a common fate, there is no doubt that the threat presented by this force draws nearer to Hong Kong’s press freedom, Hong Kong publishers, and Chinese politics writers.

[FIN]

Special thanks to:

Boxun’s Chinese language website, author Meng Lang, Mr. Li Fang in the Netherlands, Gui Minhai’s family, the property management office at Dr. Gui’s apartment building in Pattaya, Pan Yongzhong, U.K newspaper the Guardian, and the many individuals whose names cannot be divulged.

Appendix I: November 7, 2015, Bei Ling’s “Reflections on Ah-hai’s ‘Disappearance’”

I spoke with Dr. Gui’s wife ten hours ago, and she very clearly told me ‘he’s well.’ Even so, after five hours spent believing her and three spent thinking it over, I strongly doubt he’s really ok. My question is this: where is exactly is Dr. Gui? In what place is he ‘well’? Has he been kidnapped and taken back to China, or is he still vacationing in Thailand? Why have they not allowed him to appear and report to the media that he is ok? How exactly did this happen?

All signs suggest he has come under the control of some kind of mysterious force, to the extent that, regardless what what he says, I fear it will be manipulated behind his back by this force. The signs include: it has already been 15 days since he contacted the contractors renovating his apartment in Hong Kong to talk through the details of the renovation, whereas before he would call nearly every day; he confirmed he’d be in Hong Kong on October 25 to receive a poet friend visiting from Shanghai staying at his apartment, but he has yet to return to Hong Kong so the poet found other accommodations; also, though he’s had phone contact with his wife, the calls have been rushed, and it seems the media attention on his whereabouts pushed him to tell his wife he’s ‘ok.’ This all points to one conclusion: he’s being controlled.

This is my suspicion! If only I were wrong…

From my experience being detained in prison in China, I know prisoners’ families ordinarily are managed by police, led to believe that if they keep quiet and comply, then this big problem will go away. Moreover, the psychology underlying an authoritarian society’s actions allow it to believe that through connections and back doors, it can make someone free. This fantasy is well demonstrated. Take Yiu Mantin as an example. When he was first taken, his family didn’t disclose it to the public but rather also reported ‘he’s well.’ They thought privately seeking help from an intermediary in the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference or the Liaison Office of the Central People’s Government in Hong Kong, and relying on connections could bring Mr. Yiu back to Hong Kong. When Hong Kong Legislative Council members including Zhang Mao wanted to hold a press conference to make Mr. Yiu’s case public, his wife was absent, further delaying the process three months in total. In the end, Yiu Mantin was sentenced to ten years in prison.

Thus, regarding the matter at hand, we must not blindly trust what the family says. I only need Ah-hai to appear just once, to tell us just one thing–where is he? Is he free, or not? No matter if it’s just one sentence, as long as he tells us where he is, that’s the only important thing.

In the early stages, we were led to believe he was safe, and so didn’t have the strength of conviction to ask for help or call for support. Perhaps we missed the best time to save him. I simply could not believe, that while his employees and associates were detained in Shenzhen, he was somehow alright…

Today, Hong Kong’s Apple Daily reported Causeway Bay Bookstore manager Lin Rongji called his wife after being detained in Shenzhen–further proof of my suspicions.

Thinking it over, there is no way I believe Ah-hai is ok, and now, I want to convince his wife that I have come to this conclusion after lengthy consideration. Everyone, please do not lower your guard…

Dr. Gui is also my friend of thirty years. Now we must seize this important moment to help him by bringing the attention of the international community–only then can we save Dr. Gui. I will work as hard as possible to utilize my connections with the German Foreign Affairs Ministry councilor of human rights and other agencies as well as Western media contacts. Through XXX’s hard work, we have contacted the Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs to intervene and save this Swedish citizen. Dr. Gui is also a permanent resident of Germany, so the German government will likely also have a strong response to this situation.

The PEN Center’s statement might be insignificant, but we still must issue it and translate it to inform the International PEN Center and the PEN American Center. It is our moral duty to make clear the PEN Center’s absolute intolerance of this kind of behavior.

The International PEN Center so far has been insignificant in the international community, and we [the ICPC] have no way to match its pooled power. This is something Jennifer Clement, the International PEN Center’s new president, touched on in her remarks when she took office. Soon after she and I talked about the current situation, and she said the focus of her work would be to make the International PEN Center resemble organizations like the International Cities of Refuge Network, Doctors Without Borders, or Amnesty International, thereby becoming an international organization with the weight to be valued by the international community. The International PEN Center–let alone the ICPC–has yet to achieve this status.

These thoughts thus are drawn from several decades of life experiences and have nothing to do with my position as president. In sending this to our community, I only want it to be shared among members.

Appendix II: China: Serious Concerns about the Disappearance of Four Hong Kong-based Publishers

The International Publishers Association and PEN International are alarmed at reports that four people associated with a publisher and bookstore in Hong Kong famous for producing and stocking books critical of the Chinese authorities have gone missing. Gui Haiming, the Swedish owner of Sage Communications, along with general manager Lu Bo, store manager Lin Rongji, and staff member Zhang Zhiping have all been reported missing. Fears are growing that they may have been detained by the Chinese authorities.

The President of PEN International, Jennifer Clement, said, ‘PEN International is deeply concerned by the recent reports of four missing publishers in China. If it’s confirmed that they are in detention, it will be yet another blow to the declining situation for freedom of expression in the country. Chinese authorities should investigate these reported disappearances and immediately clarify the situation.’

IPA President, Richard Charkin said, ‘We are seriously concerned for these people’s safety. If they have indeed been arrested, then this is another example of the Chinese Government’s campaign to try to silence dissent in Hong Kong. The IPA calls on the Chinese Government to immediately declare whether these four people are indeed being detained and if so, on what charges. In any event, we ask the Chinese Government to do everything in its power to assist in locating the publishers and allowing for their safe return.’

See more at: http://www.pen-international.org/newsitems/china-serious-concerns-about-the-disappearance-of-four-hong-kong-based-publishers/#sthash.j4h4mPKr.dpuf

A photograph of the author in October 2015

About the Author

Bei Ling is an exiled poet, essayist, literary editor and publisher. He received the PEN USA’s Freedom to write award in 2000, and is a founder and current president of the Independent Chinese PEN Center (ICPC). In the 1980s, Bei Ling was a main organizer of the Beijing underground literature movement. In August 2000, he was jailed in Beijing on charges of “illegal publication” for publishing the thirteenth issue of Tendency. After being released from prison, he was deported to the United States. He has lived in Germany, France, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and other cities. He was selected as an author in residence at the New York Public Library’s Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers in 2002-2003, author in residence at the Kunstlerhaus Schloss Wiepersdorf in Germany in 1998, recipient of the German Academic Exchange Service Fellowship in 1997, and author in residence at Brown University from 1990 to 1993. His work includes Bei Ling: Selected Poems, Havel: A Simple, Complicated Man, and German translations of literary memoirs Exiled (Ausgewiesenpage, German language edition) and Sacrificing Self and Freedom:　Biography of Liu Xiaobo (Der Freiheit Geopfert, German language edition).

About the Translator

Lauren Gloudeman has served as a Chinese-English translator and translation coordinator for several different NGOs and non-profits, covering topics including civil society developments, philanthropy, LGBTQ rights, environmental policy, healthcare, and microfinance in China. In addition, she has worked with various international organizations and institutions to translate academic and legal works.

像香港一樣抗爭

Manifestations

雨傘運動以及其它抗議活動也是如此。主張民主、更多的自由，更多的權利。工人遊行在其口號中宣稱要尊重自己的權利，支付他們應得的津貼。 堅定、勇敢的工人，不被鎮壓所威嚇，逮捕也不能阻止他們行動，即使讓他們失去工作，他們也不想放棄贏得自己的權利。

《喊叫與耳語》（Outcry and Whisper）運用了各種形式來結構其主題，從最傳統的訪談到最具創造力的影像，如同一部奇幻作品，影片中運用了動畫，也有對真實狀態的直接捕捉。例如，電影中展示了一位紡織女工在工廠裡艱辛、重複、單調的工作。

女工的訪談，使我們傾聽到她們迫切的呼聲。它們是以相同的方式構圖，固定的機位並以低角度拍攝。女工們細緻、精確的描述了她們的抗爭行動。示威遊行，面臨鎮壓，承擔失去工作的風險，但她們仍然決定頑強維護自己的權利。她們已然感受到了自己的權利，她們不會屈服。

影片是女性群像的呈現，其中一位佔有特殊地位。她（曾金燕）在香港大學攻讀學業，正在撰寫有關中國公民運動的論文。此外，她的拍攝方式與其他人不同，她面對攝像頭，屏幕上呈現時縮小了尺寸，如同黑牆上的窗口，她喃喃自語，向看不見的對話者傾述。很明顯，這是自我拍攝的私密視頻。我們還看到她在公寓照顧她的小女孩，她們一塊去學校的路上。與其它章節相比，這部分拍攝更加私密，更加生動，更側重於女性的工作及其情感。

這些女性的段落佔據了電影的大部分時間，但是，它們遠沒有耗盡電影的視覺豐富性。毫無疑問，通過「雨傘運動」的示威者與警察的對峙拍攝，這成為一個章節。從高角度，我們看到警察的頭盔，猛烈地撕開雨傘織物，示威者與他們混戰，而音樂持續且重複的節奏，使其幾乎成為搖滾，將我們帶入了另一個維度，參加一場激情派對。

很難完全說出所有這部獨特電影的原始創意。一些段落令人印象深刻，在城市建築物上空進行的航拍，在這些建築物之間沉入黑暗的輪廓，足以讓人聯想到此時在香港發生的一系列自殺事件。繪製或合成圖像中的動畫，有時會破壞電影圖像的統一性，但這些都是導演故意編排的。另外，曾的裸體照片，加上印在其上的抗爭投影，製造出斑駁陸離的效果，藝術性的呈現真實。

電影中以兩段女性行為藝術現場來呈現當代藝術。片首女性藝術家趙躍的特寫鏡頭，她用刮鬍刀割劃自己的臉，鮮血的線條形成了奇特的格子面具。第二個是在香港大街上，一條長長的汽油軌跡，女藝術家杜越將頭用繃帶覆蓋，表演以點燃這條火線結束。這兩件作品都震撼了現場公眾和電影觀眾。

然後，上班的女工的場景，一系列驚人的可塑性歸因於被掩蓋的女人正在處理的工作中的機器。她重複的手勢，將白線軸放置在面前的機器格中，她在機器間緊張、穿梭的身影，構成驚人的編舞，這是卓別林《大都會》的現代版本。該工廠的鏡頭以另一個參考結尾，離開工廠的工人朝向鏡頭走來。

總而言之，這部電影是對女性鬥爭的頌歌，是對女性抵抗和挑戰她們所遭受的不公正待遇的贊歌。

谷歌翻譯，聞海校對

原法文鏈結已屏蔽，原文現附於後

H COMME HONG KONG – Manifestations.

Outcry and whisper. Wen Hai, Jingyan Zeng, Trish McAdam, Hong Kong-Chine, 2020, 100 minutes

Le mouvement des parapluies. D’autres manifestations aussi. Pour réclamer la démocratie. Plus de liberté, plus de droits. Des cortèges d’ouvrières réclamants dans leurs slogans le respect de leur droit. Le paiement de leurs allocations qui leur sont dues. Des ouvrières déterminées, combatives. Que la répression n’intimide pas. Les arrestations ne les découragent pas non plus. Et même si elles perdent leur travail, elles ne veulent pas renoncer à obtenir gain de cause.

Outcry and whisper, traite son sujet de bien des manières différentes, des plus traditionnelles – des entretiens – aux plus inventives, à la limite du fantastique – des animations 3D – en passant par des séquences de pure captation du réel comme le filmage d’une ouvrière au travail dans une usine de textile.

Les entretiens nous mettent en présence de plusieurs ouvrières, cadrées toutes de la même façon – en plan fixe et en légère contre-plongée. Elles évoquent avec beaucoup de détails leurs action, les manifestations, la répression, les risques qu’elles prennent de perdre leur travail. Mais elles affirment avec force leurs droits. Elles se sentent dans leur droit. Elles sont déterminées à ne rien céder.

Parmi ces femmes, l’une d’entre elles occupe une place particulière dans le film. Une jeune étudiante qui veut continuer ses études à Hong Kong – elle fait une thèse sur les formes d’activisme social en Chine. Elle n’est d’ailleurs pas filmée de la même façon que les autres. Elle fait face à la caméra de son ordinateur – l’image est alors de taille réduite sur l’écran – et parle à un interlocuteur invisible. Mais il est clair que le plus souvent elle s’adresse au spectateur du film. Nous la voyons aussi dans son appartement, s’occupant de sa petite fille ou dans les rues lorsqu’elle la conduit à l’école. Un filmage beaucoup plus intime et donc vivant que les autres entretiens, plus centrés eux sur le travail des femmes et leurs revendications.

Mais si ces entretiens avec ces femmes occupent la majorité du temps du film, ils sont loin d’en épuiser la richesse visuelle. Le filmage des affrontements des manifestants du mouvement des parapluies avec les forces de l’ordre est sans doute destiné à devenir une pièce d’anthologie, par son cadrage stupéfiant – en plongée, nous dominons les casques des policiers arrachant violemment les toiles des parapluies des manifestants au corps à corps avec eux. Et par la musique au rythme soutenu et répétitif qui en fait une quasi chorégraphie qui nous plonge dans une autre dimension.

Il est difficile de citer toutes les trouvailles originales qui jalonnent ce film à nul autre pareil. On se souviendra pourtant des contre-plongées verticales sur les immeubles de la ville entre lesquelles la chute d’une silhouette sombre suffit à évoquer la série de suicide qui eut lieu alors à Hong Kong.

Des animations, soit dessinées soit en images de synthèse, viennent par moment rompre l’unité des images filmiques. Des photos aussi de la jeune étudiante, sur lesquelles sont ajoutées des traces de peinture, ont une véritable dimension artistique.

L’art contemporain est d’ailleurs présent dans le film, sous la forme de deux performances. La première en pré-générique dans laquelle l’artiste, filmé en gros plan, se fait des entailles sur son visage avec une lame de rasoir, les lignes de sang dessinant un étrange masque de souffrance contenue. La deuxième est la réalisation dans une rue d’une longue ligne de peinture réalisée avec la tête de l’artiste recouverte de bandage. La performance de termine par la mise en feu de cette ligne. De quoi bousculer le public présent et les spectateurs du film.

Et puis il y a le filmage de l’ouvrière au travail, une séquence d’une plasticité étonnante due uniquement aux machines sur lesquelles s’affaire la femme masquée. Ses gestes répétitifs – elle dépose des bobines de fil blanc dans les alvéoles de la machine devant elle – composent également une chorégraphie étonnante, une version moderne des Temps Moderne de Chaplin. Cette séquence de l’usine se termine d’ailleurs par une autre référence : un plan où les ouvriers quittant l’usine se dirige vers la caméra.

Au total, ce film est une ode aux combats des femmes, à leur volonté de résistance et de contestation des injustices dont elles sont victimes.

Visions du réel 2020.

影評：權利不能拯救女性──《喊叫與耳語》（Outcry and Whisper）

羅傑·科扎

反抗屈辱

「沒有什麼比拍攝反抗屈辱的電影更值得稱贊的了。」

中國是發跡的標誌，但毫無疑問，它掩蓋了恐怖的事實。「共產黨資本主義」的暴發，促使共產主義不正當性加劇，並延遲改善自由、民主分離的資本主義。中國受到所有人的關注，甚至是WTO。這就向我們解釋了在遙遠的土地上，如何優先考慮共產黨而非個人的生產模式。但我們對它的認識，只會引用古老的智者孔子，彷彿一個名字就可以解決全部的謎團，而中國人傾向於把外國人放在優先地位之上。

認真了解中國對外國人而言是什麼？人們如何看待這個領土遼闊的國家？以及今天如何生活在這裡？這總是涉及到歷史，可能需要數十年的時間。此外，還需要學習漢語。但是，中國不是一個難以理解的標誌，除了包圍它所引起的表面多義性之外，那個遙遠地區的電影也在為其辯護。剛剛在國際電影節中放映的一些新影片，便重申了中國可能具有的多種願景：《地久天長》（王小帥）、《一直游到海水變藍》（賈樟柯）、《喊叫與耳語》。

上述最後一部電影是由導演文海、聯合導演曾金燕，持續了八年的製作。影片的主題是女性在中國勞動和政治領域中的地位，以及持不同政見和抗議的形式。敘事結構是複調的，線索之一是社會活動分子曾金燕的故事，她將分散的材料貫穿在一起，這些章節共有的是國家、社會的暴力對個人的控制和壓制。

曾金燕現在帶著女兒居住在香港，她在大陸曾被軟禁，她的丈夫胡佳自2007年以來因「煽動顛覆國家政權」而被拘禁，後來常年處於監控中。曾金燕出現在影片的開頭、中間和結尾。她的聲音和故事，使影片的政治觀點井井有條，並且代表了抗議活動個性化的理想途徑。當她談到裸體行為和克服羞辱的權利時，出現了一種主觀立場，似乎在一場文化大戰中引起了爭議。個人在政治中是什麼意思？主觀不服從與服從之間建立了什麼關係？這些不是電影提出的問題，但它在影片中隱隱的存在。

曾金燕的證詞與《喊叫與耳語》中其他女性的辯證形成對比。所有奮鬥中的女人，似乎已經自然地放棄了自己的享樂和慾望。這場鬥爭被界定為捍衛勞工權利，這種姿態在女工中並不總是如此。一個美麗的二十三歲女性，在江蘇紡織廠工作了七年，甚至無法意識到自己的疏離狀況，這是影片中的第一個證詞，但絕不是導演的隨機選擇。她綜合了失敗的經歷，因為她將自己的生活視為一條命定的道路，包括她的愛情命運，因為她的未婚夫是家人選的，他在無限的未來等待著與她建立家庭。這部電影的目的就是要糾正這種無意識。在針對這種意識的政治抗爭中，不乏可以觀察到曾金燕和其他女性社會行動的願景。

正如許多中國電影中經常顯示的那樣，很明顯，國家是一個抽象的金字塔。對過去的指稱是不精確的，在這裡僅含糊不清地提到了「反右運動」、夾邊溝勞改農場，在電影製片人艾曉明房間的牆上，張貼著一張海報，上面寫的是「1989年天安門事件中的坦克人」。不可否認，每個人都希望民主到來，這並不意味著可以從這個目標中看到對超過一個世紀，相對範疇廣義生產體系的批判性解讀，即共產主義和資本主義。剝削顯然是當前系統的擴展邏輯：工人沒有保險，他們在週六和週日工作，老闆實際上是工人全部時間的所有者，任何抗議都被當局騷擾，隨之而來的是懲罰。在《喊叫與耳語》中有一段引人注目的段落，三十五歲的河南女工小梅，她沒有接受公司的要脅，由於她幫助工友們維權，老闆解除了她原來的工作，將她安排到地下室整理文書。這部電影在技術官僚主義和商業理性的病態狡猾中增加了一個新的章節，老闆用一台監控攝像頭無間斷地記錄了小梅的舉止，這些偷錄的證據，讓公司找到了開除她的藉口：在工作或休息時打電話給他人，這是不可接受的行為。

《喊叫與耳語》還編織了其他人的抗議和她們的證詞，並用動畫來呈現。包括：女性藝術家的行為作品，著名的2014年香港雨傘革命。所有的言論力量都指向征服自由，挑戰當前體制，以及超越平衡作用的抵抗力量。沒有什麼比拍攝反對屈辱更值得稱讚的了。但正如一位不服從的哲學家曾經說過的，與他自己的時代相反，「權利不能拯救人」。 現在，用我們這個時代的詞彙來描述它，並將其應用於影片中所代表的鬥爭：「權利不能拯救女性」。

（谷歌翻譯，聞海校對） 原文連結：

新 年 寄 语──中文自由作家笔会会长马建

各位文友，在中国新年来临之际，我祝各位身安心宁，家人团聚，包饺子喝热酒。

笔会理事会成员诗人盛雪要我作为会长给笔会同仁新年来临写几句话，那我就说几句也许不吉利的年话。

2019年肯定比2018年的写作环境会更为恶劣。首先是因为北京天安门大屠杀三十周年，中国政府完全进一级战备。文友们也许进入五月就要被消失一段时间了。加之中美貿易战引伸出的政治冲突，令中国共产党如困兽斗，也必然会更加对作家诗人以及所有文学艺术、社会教育甚至媒体出版等领域把政治宣传再加暴力和恐吓发挥到极至。掌权者不仅要把百万维吾尔人改造成汉人，也要把汉人改造成木头人，直到失去独立思考的能力，失去辨别真伪的能力，变成被喂养，被娱乐，确没有权利思考问题的巨婴。我们因文学创作而存留在记忆里真实人生的黑暗，甚至失落怀疑以及颓废的思想源头也将被屏蔽。习头目就是要把作家文人圈进消费主义和吹捧民粹主义所谓〝中国梦〞的谎言圈套里。在中国不仅是作家诗人们，几乎全民都没有了自己的政治观点，人人都成为政府得心应手的工具，而且习以为常了。“别搞政治”一词几乎是家训。以至于我们不得不用错字和别字甚至图标来表达思想了。〔如果还有思想这个词的话〕

但文学应该时常表现出你的愤怒、嘲讽或反叛，确切地说是对一切现实的反思。至少文学有权洞察国家政治，但国家不能干涉文学思想。文学本意是文明与文化的表述方式。它使用的语言本是社会组织形式的古老传统。当然，对文友们来说，危险也许会把自已推到〝梦碗粥〝的境地，除了证明自己的清醒就是家破人亡。所以，我更希望大家为了家人安全，转入地下创作吧。我们在海外呼吁言论自由，你们在国内激活记忆，进入自由写作，重现己淡漠的人生情怀。因为每一个昨天都是历史了。

我们这群以笔为生的作家诗人面对这么强大的文字狱，除了抵抗没有更安全的选项。因为在这么如此严控的时代，人们也只有獄卒和囚犯这两种身份的选择。笔会分裂当然使文友们感到笔会并不可靠，而且这种内斗使得会员们更感失望，很多文友离开了。目前笔会确实处在了低潮期。我会在2019年初重新注册一个新的笔会，之后把网站网刊办好，扩大影响，吸引更多文友加入。然后就申请加入国际笔会。同时，我希望所有文友都要参與笔会的事务，也只有大家一起努力，才能使笔会充滿活力，更深入地交流思想和作品。有问题和点子请直线联系我；00 44 （0）7972910935或者用脸书和微信。

遥祝各位猪年开心，下笔如神！

2019.2.2

孟浪及其舉石拋羽的詩歌搖滾

李劼

李劼按：孟浪撒手之後，想起多年前給他寫的一篇詩評。此生就給兩個詩人寫過專評。孟浪是其中之一。也許因為都是流亡者的緣故。其人其詩，讓我感覺親切。這篇詩評，當時好像發表在紐約的《世界日報周刊》上。但忘了哪一期，也不曾保存剪貼。在此重發，權作悼念。

舉石拋羽的詩歌搖滾

—簡評孟浪詩集《南京路上，兩匹奔馬》

與孟浪在法拉盛分手之後，坐在回家的地鐵上，戴上IPOD聽著霍洛維茲彈奏的莫扎特鋼琴協奏，隨手翻開了孟浪的詩集《南京路上，兩匹奔馬》。第一首《冬天》寫於1985年，最後一首《首都》寫於2005年。一本191頁的詩集，收了詩人二十年的精萃之作。

也許是摘下眼鏡湊著書本讀的緣故，不由十分投入。尤其是詩行間不時閃現的奇妙反差，讓人興緻盎然。詩人選擇的字詞有著金屬般的沉重，諸如歷史，時間，天空，槍械，軍隊，殺人，奔馬，毀滅，等等，乒乒乓乓的，猶如貝多芬的交響曲。可是最後組合出來的詩行，卻相當的輕盈。比如，「因我的吶喊而嘶啞的天空」，「一支軍隊整齊地進入墓地獲得永生」，「軍隊，在街上急轉彎，划出他們自己也難以忍受的弧線」，「青草繼續被風吹斜」，「我對右手拒絕了左手」。最典型的，也許是那句「一個孩子在天上，用橡皮輕輕擦掉天上唯一的一片雲」。與這樣的詩行相諧的音樂，無疑是莫扎特的作品。

不知是一個巧合，還是一種天意，會在諦聽莫扎特的時候，閱讀如同莫扎特音樂一般輕盈的詩歌。霍洛維茲將莫扎特的鋼琴協奏，彈奏得宛如清晨的空氣一樣，透明。而這恰好就是孟浪詩歌的一個特色。孟浪舉起滾石般的詞語時，彷彿一個推石上山的西緒弗斯。可是當他將這些詞語拋入詩行的時候，又輕盈得如同朝空中隨意拋撒一片片羽毛。用他自己的詩句來描繪，便是「一個孩子在天上，他的痛苦，他的歡樂，他的蔚藍，無邊無際。」這裡稍稍加以補充，就可以得到一幅完整的圖景：一邊，是沉重的石頭從山上滾落；一邊，是輕盈的羽毛在空中紛紛揚揚。讀完這本詩集，你會發現，西緒弗斯原來是個天真的孩子。

在這本詩集的封底，有人評說孟浪的詩歌呈現出來的，是某種激越的超現實主義風格，有著「與生俱來的飛翔品質」。飛翔品質可謂一語中的。只是那樣的想像，更接近於西班牙畫家米羅的繪畫。讀著孟浪的詩歌，會發現詩人原來是個不屈不撓的孩子。一顆童心，穿越在烏雲密布的歷史天空，致使歷史在詩行里不得不獲得存在意義上的還原。把石頭推上山的時候，是沉重的；但石頭在詩行里滾落的時候，卻像羽毛一般輕盈。地心吸引力在童心的天平上，悄然遠逝。這是孟浪詩歌的魅力所在，更是其詩歌的價值所在。

不讀孟浪的詩歌，很難想像其內在的童稚。此君的相貌、穿著甚至連自我命名全都具有搖滾特色，並且是重金屬一類。記得1990年代初第一次見到他，感覺像是在組織一次武裝起義，凝重，焦躁不安。穿戴永遠厚重，一如神情始終焦灼。說起話來並不流暢，好比跳躍不定的時針，非常費勁地指向某個重心。相比之下，他的文字遠為清晰：「讓我們面對一個國家的反面」，或者「一座城市一度被金錢洗劫一空」。最清晰的莫過於，「連朝霞也是陳腐的」。有些詩行，清晰到了幾近空靈的地步：「大喜日子，全是空無；惟有你，度身訂做」。

孟浪的這種搖滾和童稚，讓人想起一部美國電影《學堂搖滾》（「School Rock」）里的男主人公道維（Dowey）。這可能又是一個巧合，與孟浪這次會面和閱讀他送我詩集的前一天晚上，恰好看了這部好萊塢電影。一個失敗的搖滾歌星，陰差陽錯地走進小學課堂做老師；結果，教出了一群搖搖滾滾的少男少女。這部喜劇片相當成功地將搖滾與童稚組合到一起，從而揭示出搖滾音樂的魅力，並不在於迎合宣洩的需要，而在於激發童稚，喚醒沉睡的元氣，回復到存在的本然。那個與孩子們滾作一團的搖滾歌星，比所有的孩子更為稚氣。

稚氣，可能是被國人遺忘了的一種品性。長年以來，國人已經習慣了世事洞明和人情練達。即便是八十年代流行過的一些標榜天真的詩歌，骨子裡也相當洞明。諸如「我是個任性的孩子」，或者「黑夜給了我黑色的眼睛，我卻用來尋找光明」。看上去很童稚，實際上卻帶有一種撒嬌的做作：用任性混淆自由，假以黑色裝瘋賣傻。同樣的寫於八十年代，孟浪詩句是：「斧子離開人的手，繼續把我當作大樹來砍。」「飛鳥的傷口在飛。鮮血 至今沒有落到地面。」「人們互相在失去，手與手的相握才那麼頻繁。」真正稚氣十足的詩句，如同哲學家的格言。並且具有孤獨的品質，沒有任何讀者和觀眾的考量在內。說自己很任性，說用黑色的眼睛來尋找光明，都像是在舞台上的念白。詩人就像獨行俠，不需要舞台。一如真正的搖滾歌手，總是會忘記自己是在舞台上，面對著如潮的觀眾。

稚氣對於詩歌寫作，是一種相當寶貴的品質。但以稚氣謀生，無疑緣木求魚。所以，孟浪這樣的詩人，註定了只能流浪。流浪通常是藝術家的天性，卻跟上海人的生活習性，截然相反。上海這個城市盛產白領，總是虐待獨來獨往的詩人，或者具有詩人品性的獨往獨來者。不要說上海市民，即便是上海出生上海長大的一些詩人，都會害怕流浪。他們寧可選擇灰色的小市民生活，聽憑詩人的品性，在灰暗的生存狀態里消蝕殆盡。

沒有在美國流浪過的人，很難想像流浪是一種什麼樣的生活。雖然卓別林在影幕上淋漓盡致地描述過流浪漢生涯，但即便是卓別林本人，也不會願意回到流浪生活中去。有關孟浪的流浪，幾年前，我只聽他在電話里這麼說過一句：在美國過了八年，一言難盡。那是他有了妻室、在香港定居之後的一句不堪回首感嘆。也許他覺得沒必要說，也許在我和他兩個不約而同地選擇了流浪的上海人之間，已經心照不宣。每次見到他，看上去總是個快快樂樂的。好像很忙，又好像很空閑。

說實在的，由於彼此都體味了什麼叫做流浪，所以當他給我這本詩集的時候，我並不如何上心。他也沒有要我寫幾句的意思。活得太相像的人，有些話是不需要多說的。可是，我讀了他的詩集之後，還是忍不住地想說幾句，寫幾行。我在身陷囹圄的時候，也寫過一些詩歌。我發現，孟浪寫得更加清晰。比如那首《簡單的悲歌》：「播種的時節農夫冒煙了啊，耕耘的時節農夫燃燒了啊，收穫的時節農夫變成灰燼了啊」。因為，「歷史在我們身體里旅行，那就是我們的生命」「生命在我們的身體里旅行，那就是我們的光榮」。

孟浪非常擅長短詩短句。一旦跌入較長的詩行里，孟浪就有些含糊了。比如那首《歷史的步伐與歷史本身》，遠不如《南京路上，兩匹奔馬》來得明快。與其在歷史和老鼠之間苦苦糾纏不清，不如直截了當地標出：「八隻馬蹄已馳往八個方向，驕傲的馬頭，在標本館與我重逢。」稚氣雖然會與哲理在智慧的地平線上相逢，卻很難真的如同哲學家一般滔滔不絕。孩子一旦擅長演說，很可能會走向行騙。孟浪不擅長寫長詩，一如孩子不擅長演說。這與其說是孟浪所短，不如說是其所長。

二十年，僅僅精簡出一本不到二百頁的詩集。不知應該感慨，還是理當慶幸。但願這篇短短的評說，沒有擦去詩人的任何一行詩句。因為每一行，都來之不易。這本詩集的最後一首，最後一句，是「歷史懸在半空」。我想說：那塊山頂上的石頭，是有待再次滾落，還是已然成了石碑，其實並不重要。因為我已經看到詩人的吟唱，如同一片片羽毛，飄散在透明的空氣里。

2008年5月19日夜晚寫於紐約寓所

轉引自雪花新聞/2018/12/15

12月的死亡

王浩威

這一年歲末遲遲未入冬，還沒有北風雨雪，但一連串的死亡，卻是已經行人不歸了。這一切早逝的生命，「 箭空在，人今戰死不復回」，更是令人悲悽。
11月中旬，先是《我是許涼涼》的小說家兼藝術評論家李維菁走了。1969年生的她，最年輕，還沒50歲，知道自己擺脫不了癌症，從容整理了近作《有型的豬小孩》交給了出版社，新書發表會也就成了藝文圈的追思會。
過了11月24日的投票，企業家王子嚴凱泰這一輩子始終堅持支持的國民黨，終於大獲全勝，按他的個性應該是歡欣鼓舞的。然而，1965年出生的他，24歲扛起家業，果真創造了台灣汽車產業唯一的成就，終究也是難敵奮鬥1年多的食道癌，在12月3日走了。
最不應該的是美麗少年陳俊志，這位1967年出生，一生才華洋溢而性格狂放不羈的劇場兼影像創作者，竟然在51歲這樣的青春年齡，就讓自己青春的生命慢慢枯竭於小小的陋室之中。
另外一位則是詩人孟浪，這位出生於1961年，在1989年天安門事件以後被他的祖國放逐，不得不流亡海外的中國詩人。孟浪在那事件後流亡於海外的文人中，是相當受肯定，包括他的創作、他對大家的付出、他自己理念上的堅持。他還沒半百，就灰白長髮、落腮滿臉，始終對基本人權、社會正義、思想自由充滿熱血。然而因為肺癌，半年前在香港機場病倒，住進加護病房再也沒出來了。12月12日去世，才57歲而已。

選後兩黨原地踏步

死亡一起又一起，帶走了的這些人，他們年輕時剛好經歷了兩岸民主發展最精采的時代，甚至也成為其中的推手之一。同樣的，這個美好的時代逐漸沒落的時候，也是告別這個因為他們而美好的世界的時刻。 
孟浪在作品《流放者箴言》這麼說著：「就住在自己的家裡 就住在自己的心裡 宣佈我自己的流放 世界，我已走過了你的終點 世界，你還有甚麼漫長可以讓我跨越？就活在自己的家裡，糧田裡 就活在自己的心裡，果園裡 就活在我的流放裡 世界，我已帶走了你的起源 世界，你必須接受來自我的創造或毀滅 良田裡，我睡著了 果園裡，我在夢中站起身修剪枝葉。就在自己的家裡，到處是新穀 就在自己的心裡，堆滿了水果 世界，請貢獻更多遙遠！」（1990.05.24） 
孟浪長期聲援劉曉波等中國異議人士，住在香港期間更是投入當地的民主運動，包括到現場去聲援雨傘運動。很多台灣的朋友一直都不知道，他其實是在2015年就移居花蓮了。一方面也許是他和活躍於香港文壇但出生於台灣的詩人杜家祁結婚的緣故，但更多的是他對美好社會的追求，因為在花蓮，不只是人和自然之間的自由，更是「看不到中國的黑影」。 
然而，台灣依然真的像孟浪期待的一樣，那般的美好嗎？ 
11月24日的選舉，民進黨大敗而國民黨大勝一點都和台灣的美好無關，因為這個社會夠成熟了，台灣的美好並不會因為政黨輪替更好或更壞。然而，三分之二的投票人口，竟然相信自己有權力拒絕同性婚姻。 
而選舉完了，大勝的國民黨也好，大敗的民進黨也好，兩個黨彼此越來越相似，都只是在原地踏步，各個山頭還是不動如山，不是互相推諉就是心計算盡。 
死亡的氣息是越來越強烈，瀰漫的所在不只是台灣，甚至飄向海外；或者說，是整個世界的共時性。 
在海外，也出現了幾起年輕的死亡。 
1963年出生，才55歲的物理學家張首晟，在他任教的史丹佛大學墜樓死亡。他在2007年提出「量子自旋霍爾效應」被《科學》雜誌評為當年「全球十大重要科學突破」之一，去年（2017）又發現了Majorana費米子的存在，楊振寧許久以來認為「他獲得諾貝爾獎只是時間問題」。台灣也許不熟悉這位物理學家，但他確實有一連串神一般的傳奇：15歲就考上復旦大學物理系，16歲被選中派去德國柏林自由大學，32歲被聘為斯坦福大學正教授。 
除了是少見的科學天才人物，竟然也是一流的企業家：1999年，華源科技協會這個矽谷最大的華人科技創業社團就在他家後院首次會議；他天使投資的VMware，如今市值已達440億美元；2013年更與他史丹佛學生谷安佳博士聯合創立丹華資本，專門投資美國最具顛覆性的創新科技及商業模式，企圖將美國的創新與中國的市場連接起來，目前規模已經達到9000萬美元，投資了12家公司。 

美好時代進入冬天

這樣程度的物理天才已經是不可思議了，竟然同時還是科技企業的投資大老。而且，12月1日死亡的那一天，剛好就在華為公主孟晚舟在加拿大轉機被捕的同一天。據說兩人都是要前往阿根廷參加同一個科技高峰會議，也約好了一起晚餐。這是一個網路的說法，沒有太多的支持證據。不過，這也反映出了人們對他的死亡其實是有著許多複雜的揣測，可以拍成充滿政治劇情與懸疑故事的好萊塢政治電影。他就在沒有太多高樓層的史丹佛大學，不知是自殺還是被自殺，總之是墜樓死亡了。
人們之間流傳的揣測，其實就是集體無意識的反應。一個美好的時代似乎開始進入冬天了，早么的死亡似乎是告知12月的到臨。正如李白的《北風行》：「燕山雪花大如席，片片吹落軒轅台。幽州思婦十二月，停歌罷笑雙蛾摧。」
告別了，這一輪的盛世。 

華人心理治療研究發展基金會董事兼執行長 

轉引自蘋果日報/2018/12/18