For a Song and a Hundred Songs: A Poet's Journey through a Chinese Prison by Yiwu Liao

Author:Yiwu, Liao [Yiwu, Liao]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Auto-biography, Memoir
ISBN: 9781921961441
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2013-05-21T16:00:00+00:00

The Living Dead Ponder Death

AFTER THE DRAMATIC TURN of events with Dead Chang, members of the “death squad” slowly became immune to the threat of death. “Life and death are neighbors. They visit each other often,” Scholar Yang mused over a piece of paper and called the two lines he uttered part of his “newly composed poem.”

“This is my maiden work,” he bragged. “It’s quite a good start, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean ‘visiting each other often’? You make it sound too easy,” Dead Chang said disapprovingly.

“It is called art.” Scholar Yang wouldn’t back down. “If you don’t believe me, ask 0-9-9.”

“It’s not a bad idea to make death sound easy and pleasant,” I defended Scholar Yang. “We all have to go through it. In ten or twenty years, those who have executed other people will also visit death and end up in the same place.”

“I call that a long vacation,” Dead Chang corrected me. “By the way, I heard that police who carry out an execution need a vacation afterward to recover from the killing. That way, they can prepare themselves to kill again. I think being an executioner becomes a profession, similar to being a butcher who slaughters pigs and goats.”

“Don’t you think some will take their break and never come back again?” Little asked. “It’s hard to imagine that a person can carry out executions all the time.”

“They might find it hard at the beginning, but after a while they’ll start to enjoy it,” Dead Chang surmised. “You know, killing can be addictive. I think Dark Skin knew that better than anyone.”

“It’s easier to kill humans,” Chairman Chen said, joining the discussion. “Pigs and goats struggle, but once humans accept their fate, they give up any attempt to fight. In ancient times, many persecuted scholars stuck their necks out when they faced the executioner’s blade and many had their relatives offer bribes so the killers could make a clean job of it.”

“That wouldn’t work for me. I think I’m going to struggle no matter what,” Scholar Yang said loudly, as if the knife were already hanging over his head.

“It is useless to put up a struggle.” Chairman Chen waved him off. “In the old days, the executioner would grab your hair with one hand and hold the knife with the other. Then, he raised the knife and thwack, your head would tumble down to the ground and roll around like a ball. Sometimes, while the head was spinning on the ground, the tongue would stick out to lick the dust.”

“Let’s not bullshit about ancient times,” Scholar Yang said, “Tell me, how can I stay clearheaded and remember the moment they kill me?”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Dead Chang said. “It is impossible to stay clearheaded. Take me as an example. I planned to sing a farewell song to all of you. Guess what? After the doctor drew my blood, I turned into a sack of soft mud. Besides, before they take you to the execution ground, they hog-tie you with ropes.

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