毕汝谐：我从切身经历中领悟的道理——那些塑造了我人生的宝贵教训
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我铭记在心的教训是：痛苦并非伤害他人的借口，才华也不构成道德上的豁免权。我还领悟到，一旦失去自由，人们便会以一种截然不同的视角去理解它的含义。
每一个内心充实的人，身上都留有伤痕，也都有属于自己的故事。成长的背后往往伴随着痛苦时刻：身心俱疲、经济压力、关系破裂，或是种种遗憾，迫使我们以新的眼光审视生活。尽管这些经历艰难困苦，却往往能留下宝贵的教训，深刻而持久地塑造我们的价值观与人生重心。
作为本系列访谈的一部分，我们有幸采访了毕汝谐先生。
毕汝谐是一位旅居纽约的华裔作家、小说家、政治评论家及口述历史记录者。他的人生与创作历程跨越了“文革”时期、毛泽东时代后的中国社会转型期，以及在美国四十多年的中文写作生涯。他在“文革”期间开始写作，并于二十岁时完成了中篇小说《九级浪》。这部作品探讨了个人自由、政治运动、社会规范等议题——这些思想后来被他归纳为存在主义的范畴。如今已年逾古稀的毕汝谐，正致力于通过口述历史记录自己的人生，并整理保存了跨越五十多年的手稿、信件、照片、出版物及个人档案，为亲历现代中国历史的一段人生留下了第一手见证。
非常感谢您参与我们的访谈系列！在深入交流之前，能否请您向读者介绍一下您的背景以及您目前从事的工作？
我于1950年出生在中国的一个知识分子家庭，家中有着深厚的法律、历史与学术传统。我的文学创作生涯始于“文革”时期。1970年，年仅二十岁的我创作了中篇小说《九级浪》。在那个毛泽东思想主导中国思想界的年代，这部小说探讨了个人自由、个人命运、社会道德、历史轮回等议题——这些思想后来被我理解为与存在主义相关联。 1985年，35岁的我离开中国前往美国，在佛罗里达大学担任访问学者。我带去了那些当时无法在中国公开出版的手稿；抵达美国后，我继续创作小说、政治评论以及反思中国历史、政治与社会的各类作品。
如今，我已年逾古稀，定居纽约，将大部分时间投入到口述历史的整理工作中，同时也致力于梳理自己五十多年来积累的手稿、信件、照片、出版物及个人档案。在人生的这一阶段，我不仅关注历史如何塑造了我，更热衷于审视自己曾经做出的选择——无论对错——并力求为自己这一生留下真实的记录，见证那段中国现代史上非同寻常的岁月。
您能否分享一个关于您刚起步时所犯的最滑稽错误的故事？并告诉我们您从中汲取了什么教训？
20岁那年，我已写出了中篇小说《九级浪》，探讨了个人自由以及一些我后来才意识到与存在主义相关的思想。然而到了25岁，我变得有些狂妄自大。我片面地曲解了存在主义和尼采“超人”哲学中的某些理念，仿佛思想上的独立赋予了我一种特权，让我可以不受常规约束地生活。
如今75岁回首往事，那个年轻人的形象显得有些荒谬可笑：他自以为老练成熟，实则在许多至关重要的方面都显得极度幼稚。
这种狂妄最终导致我在1975年犯下了一个严重的错误——我稍后会详述此事。那个错误本身以及我当时意图造成的伤害，绝无半点可笑之处。如今看来，真正带有某种黑色幽默意味的，是我当时自以为是的“智慧”与我对“责任”的匮乏理解之间，竟存在着如此巨大的反差。
我从中汲取的教训简单却代价高昂：才华并不能成为免除道德责任的借口。聪明才智绝不赋予任何人特权去无视那些规范人际相处的基本准则。
您能否分享一段个人经历，讲述生活如何将您击倒，以及您从那次经历中学到了什么？
1975年夏天，那年我二十五岁，犯下了人生中最严重的错误。在极度狂妄、怨恨和愤怒的驱使下，我花钱雇人去伤害一个与我有严重个人冲突的人。虽然计划最终并未实施，但我还是遭到了逮捕，并被北京市公安局海淀分局拘留了四十二天。
那四十二天是我人生的“滑铁卢”。我生平第一次失去了自由，被迫直面自己行为的后果。在此之前，我一直认为自己才华横溢、独立思考、思想成熟。拘留剥夺了我大部分的这种自我认知。
但最痛苦的时刻发生在我获释之后。我的父母竭尽所能地帮助我，动用了他们所能利用的一切人脉关系。获释后的公开批评会上，我亲眼目睹母亲因为我的所作所为而自我批评。这击碎了我内心深处的情感防线，即使是42天的拘留也未能完全摧毁它。我突然明白，当我们做错事时，痛苦并不会止于我们。爱我们的人可能不得不承受一部分羞辱和痛苦。
当我最终回到家时，我对父母说：“爸爸妈妈，对不起。我伤害了全家。”母亲回答说：“只要你回家……别人说你是坏人，但妈妈说你是个好孩子。”我永远不会忘记这些话。
半个世纪过去了，我不再仅仅把这个故事当作发生在我身上的文化大革命时期的一件事。当时的政治环境残酷无情，但这并不能成为我所作所为的借口。我必须为自己的行为负责。
我从中汲取的教训是：痛苦并非伤害他人的通行证，才华也并非道德豁免的特权。我还明白，一旦失去自由，你对它的理解就会截然不同。那个夏天迫使我开始一段漫长而并不完美的历程，反思历史对我的影响，以及我对他人的影响。
回首往事，在挑战来临之前，你错过了哪些警示信号？现在你会注意哪些方面？
回首往事，警示信号无处不在，但25岁的我却并未意识到它们是警示。
最大的警示信号是我的傲慢。我20岁就开始认真写作，并且自认为才华横溢、思想独立。然而，我非但没有让文学和哲学使我谦逊，反而常常利用它们来强化我与众不同的优越感。
另一个警示信号是，我倾向于用理性的理论来为自己想要追随的冲动辩护。我对存在主义和尼采的选择性阅读并非我犯错的根源；那份责任在我。但我从中体会到，智慧很容易沦为自我辩解的工具。
如今，每当我听到自己冒出这样的想法：“我与众不同，所以普通规则不适用于我”，或者“我曾受苦，所以我有权让别人受苦”时，我都会格外警惕。这些都是危险的想法。
岁月让我明白，最重要的警示信号之一就是笃定——尤其是对自己优越感和正义感的笃定。当我们无法质疑自己时，或许恰恰是我们最需要质疑自己的时刻。
这个来之不易的教训如何重塑了你处理人际关系、工作或个人成长的方式？
这个教训并非一夜之间改变我。人性固执，我年轻时的某些傲慢、冲动和强烈性格，多年来一直伴随着我。
但1975年在我心中种下了一个前所未有的疑虑：如果我错了呢？
这个问题逐渐改变了我对待他人和自己生活的方式。我越来越意识到，智慧和坚定的信念并不能保证做出正确的判断，而且我们身边最亲近的人往往会为我们的错误付出代价。
在我的写作生涯中，这段经历最终让我对个人与权力之间错综复杂的关系产生了浓厚的兴趣——政治权力、社会权力，以及一个人试图凌驾于他人之上的权力。我的写作依然带有反叛精神，有时甚至带有挑衅性，当然也并非完美无瑕，但我越来越质疑的不仅是自身之外的权威，还有我自身自我的权威。
如今，在我七十多岁的时候，这一点在我的口述历史中变得尤为重要。我不想只记录我勇敢、敏锐或成功的时刻，我也想记录我自私、鲁莽、犯错或给他人带来痛苦的时刻。
年轻的时候，我常常问自己：“这个社会对我做了什么？”如今，我越来越频繁地问自己第二个问题：“我对别人做了什么？”这或许是我1975年那次经历带给我的最重要的改变。
那段时期最艰难的时刻是什么？你又是如何找到继续前行的力量的？
最艰难的时刻其实并非在拘留所里，而是在我获释之后。
被拘留42天后，我被迫参加公开批评会。我的母亲不得不站在众人面前，为我的所作所为进行自我批评。看着她为我的错误承受羞辱，对我的打击比我在狱中经历的任何事情都更加沉重。我第一次真正意识到，我不仅危及了自己的生命和未来，我还伤害了别人，辜负了那些最爱我的人。
回到家后，我对父母说：“爸、妈，对不起。我伤害了全家人。”母亲回答道：“只要你平安回家就好……外面的人说你是坏人，但在妈妈眼里，你是个好孩子。”
父母非常担心我的精神状态。在“文革”期间，他们目睹过知识分子因绝望而自杀的惨剧，因此害怕羞愧与绝望会将我击垮。父亲开始带我在北京五道口附近散步。有时我们会做些近乎孩子气的游戏：比赛看谁捉的蜻蜓多。
那段微小的记忆伴随了我半个世纪。支撑我的力量并非源于某种宏大的哲学理念或顿悟，而是源于父母给予的爱——尽管我曾让他们有充分的理由对我感到失望。他们既没有否认我的所作所为，也没有将我抛弃。
他们的爱赋予了我当时二十五岁的我最迫切需要的东西：重新开始的可能。我无法抹去过去犯下的错，但我可以决定，这个错误不应成为我人生的终点。
许多人会反复犯下痛苦的错误。你做出了怎样的具体改变，才确保自己没有重蹈覆辙？
1975年之后，我并没有脱胎换骨变成另一个人。我依然性格刚强、好辩、有时冲动，也难免会犯下其他错误。我不愿将自己的人生改写成一个简单的故事，仿佛某次可怕的经历突然让我变得睿智通透。
但我确实确立了一条绝不逾越的底线：无论个人恩怨多么强烈，都不能成为蓄意伤害他人的理由。
1975年之前，每当愤怒和受损的自尊心占据上风，我总会将事态扭曲成一个故事：我是完全正确的，而对方则是彻头彻尾的错误方。后来，我深刻意识到了这种心态的危险性。我学会了在情绪与行动之间拉开距离。
我依然会争辩、批评、撰写尖锐的文字，有时甚至会得罪他人。这是我性格的一部分，也是我作为作家的生活常态。但分歧终究只能停留在分歧的层面。愤怒终归只是愤怒，绝不能成为伤害他人的借口。
因此，真正的改变并不在于我不再是个“难搞”的人或不再犯错，而在于我终于明白，有些界限是绝对不能逾越的。
你无需压抑愤怒，但必须摒弃一种观念：认为愤怒赋予了你伤害他人的特权。
如果早知其中伴随着如此巨大的痛苦，你还会选择经历这一切吗？或者说，你认为这段经历对于塑造今天的你是必不可少的吗？
不，我不会选择经历这一切。我绝不会说自己感激那件错事本身。
我真正感激的是，我犯下这个严重错误时还很年轻——那时父母健在，能为我提供帮助；家族也尚有人脉，能在关键时刻出面斡旋。
最重要的是，我还年轻，还有改变的可能。
我有机会正视自己的所作所为，扭转人生的航向，重新开始。
如果我在中年犯下同样的错误——那时我肩负重任，回旋余地也小得多——后果恐怕不堪设想。
所以我并不认为苦难本身值得庆幸。但我确实相信，在二十五岁那年被迫承担行为后果，成了我人生中至关重要的转折点之一。
在这段历程中，你学到的最重要的五堂课是什么？你是如何领悟这些道理的？请分享一个具体经历或挑战，说明它们是如何促成这些感悟的。
1. 天赋并不能成为道德上的豁免权。
年轻时，我曾以为自己才华横溢、思想独立，这让我凌驾于约束常人的常规准则之上。到了二十五岁，正是这种傲慢导致我犯下了人生中最严重的错误。1975年发生的一切让我付出了惨痛的代价，也让我明白：才智、文学天赋和独立思考的能力，并不能赋予一个人道德上的优越感。恰恰相反，能力越强，责任越重。天赋或许能解释一个人“能做什么”，却绝不能为一个人“不该做什么”开脱。
2. 痛苦绝非伤害他人的借口。
在“文化大革命”期间，像我这一代许多人一样，我历经了恐惧、愤怒、屈辱以及极度的社会动荡。然而，我最终不得不接受的一个残酷事实是：我自身所遭受的苦难，并不能成为我试图加害他人的借口。
1975年，我任由怨恨和受挫的自尊心作祟，将其作为自己行差踏错的理由。多年后，我才真正领悟了其中的界限：历史或许能解释我们为何会变得愤怒、恐惧或扭曲，但解释并不等同于免责。对于自己当初的选择，我依然难辞其咎。
这一教训伴随了我半个世纪：遭受伤害，并不赋予我们伤害他人的权利。
3. 自由伴随着责任。
1975年之前，自由对我而言主要是一个思想层面的概念。我珍视独立、反叛，以及与周围社会持不同观点的权利。但在被拘留了四十二天之后，自由变成了一种更为具体实在的东西。
失去人身自由让我懂得了自由的宝贵。与此同时，我开始领悟到此前被我忽视的一点：自由绝不仅仅意味着随心所欲。我的自由是与他人的自由及尊严共存的。
在后来的岁月中，我始终珍视独立思考，并不断挑战政治与思想权威。然而，1975年的经历让我明白：真正的自由必须伴随着对自身选择之后果所应承担的责任。
缺乏责任的自由，很容易演变成另一种形式的自私。
4. 我们的错误往往不只是我们自己的事。
1975年那段经历中最痛苦的教训之一，是让我意识到自己行为的后果并不会止于我个人。在我被拘留期间，父母动用了一切人脉来帮助我；而在我获释后，我又目睹母亲因我的所作所为而不得不公开做自我检讨。
那一刻给我的触动，甚至超过了那四十二天的拘留生活。我意识到，那些爱我们的人，可能会被迫承受因我们的选择而带来的羞愧、恐惧与痛苦。
回到家后，我向父母道歉，为自己给全家带来的伤害深感愧疚。然而，他们并未抛弃我，而是助我重新开始。父亲常陪我散步，母亲则不断提醒我：无论我做过什么，我依然是她的孩子。
我学会了在做出重大决定前，不仅要问“这对我会有什么影响？”，还要问“还有谁可能要为我的选择付出代价？”
5. 质疑自己时，要像质疑权威那样严肃认真。
作为一名作家，我大半生都在致力于质疑政治权威、传统观念以及既定的历史叙事。但1975年的经历教会了我：仅仅质疑外部世界是不够的。我们必须同样勇于以严谨的态度审视和质疑自己。在人生的那个阶段，我很擅长指出社会和他人的种种弊病，却很难问自己一个简单的问题：万一我错了呢？
随着年龄增长，这个问题对我而言变得愈发重要。它也是我今天所记录的这段口述历史的核心。我不想只记录那些自己表现得勇敢、敏锐或正确的时刻；我也想记录下自己的失败、误判、傲慢以及曾造成的伤害。
如今七十五岁了，我深信，思想上的独立不仅需要挑战权威的勇气，更需要挑战自我的勇气。如果我们要求历史保持诚实，我们也应当对自己保持同样的诚实。
如果能回到过去，在经历那段艰难岁月之前与年轻时的自己对话，你会给出什么建议？
如果能和二十五岁的自己对话，我会告诉他：要对自己的确信保持怀疑。
你聪明、愤世嫉俗、雄心勃勃，坚信自己比周围的人更了解这个世界。但聪明并不等同于智慧，感到深受委屈也并不意味着你就是对的。
在做出一件无法挽回的事之前，请停下来问自己两个问题：万一我错了呢？还有谁会为我即将做的事付出代价？
我还会告诉他，要多想想自己的父母。他此时还无法想象，自己的所作所为可能会给那些爱他的人带来多么深重的伤害。
至于二十五岁的毕汝谐是否会听取七十五岁的毕汝谐的建议，那是另一回事了。回想当年的自己，也许他并不会听。这也是岁月教会我的一课。
这一课如何影响了你如今指导或领导他人的方式？
我从未将自己视为传统的导师或领导者。我是一名作家，或许我能对他人的帮助，就体现在我留下的文字记录之中。
1975年的那段经历教会了我：居高临下地指点他人是危险的。我宁愿向人们讲述自己的真实经历——包括我的傲慢、我的过失以及由此引发的后果——并让他们自己得出结论。
这也是我如今致力于口述历史工作的原因之一。我不想把自己塑造成一个永远正确的英雄式人物。我希望年轻人看到的是一个有血有肉、完整的人：既有洞察敏锐的时刻，也有犯下严重错误的时候；既敢于挑战政治权威，却又无法驾驭自己的自负。
如果说有什么原则是我愿意传授给年轻人的，那就是：要独立思考，但也要像质疑权威那样，以同样严谨的态度审视自己。
在我人生的这个阶段，我认为这或许比教导别人该如何生活更有意义。
您是一位极具影响力的人物。如果能发起一场能为最多人带来最大福祉的运动，那会是什么？你永远不知道自己的一个想法能引发什么样的连锁反应。:-)
有一首关于庐山的古诗写道：
“横看成岭侧成峰，远近高低各不同。”
我认为这几句诗也恰好描绘了我自己的人生——充满了矛盾、混乱、成功、失败、荣耀、羞愧以及意想不到的转折。
正因如此，我并不认为自己有资格去发起一场能为最广大民众带来最大福祉的运动。
但如果非要说出一个值得倡导的理念，那就是对自己保持彻底的诚实：不仅要坦然面对生活中那些让我们显得勇敢或令人钦佩的一面，也要敢于正视自己的失败、矛盾、特权、错误，以及我们可能给他人造成的伤害。
这正是我在整理个人口述历史时努力想要做到的。如果更多人愿意像审视社会和历史那样认真地审视自己，也许我们就能更好地理解人性与历史。
我不敢保证这种诚实能演变成一场运动。但如果我的记录能帮助哪怕几个人更清晰地认识自己，或者避免重蹈我犯过的某些错误，那对我而言就已经足够有意义了。
读者可以通过什么渠道在网上进一步关注您的作品？
多年来，我的作品一直见诸各类中文刊物及网络平台，包括 Creaders.net（万维网）。读者也可以在网上搜索我的名字“毕汝谐”，找到我发表的小说、散文、时政评论及其他各类文章。
目前，我正在整理自己的口述历史和个人档案，希望能将更多此类资料发布到网上，供读者和研究人员查阅。
这番谈话非常鼓舞人心。非常感谢您参与我们的访谈！
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Bi Ruxie: I Learned This the Hard Way; Here Are The Hard-Won Lessons That Shaped My Life
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The lesson I carried forward was that pain is not a license to hurt other people, and talent is not a moral exemption. I also learned that freedom, once lost, becomes something you understand in an entirely different way.
Every fulfilled person has scars, and stories. Behind growth there are often moments of pain: burnout, financial stress, broken relationships, or regrets that forced us to see life differently. These experiences, while difficult, often leave us with hard-earned lessons that shape our values and priorities in lasting ways.
As a part of this series, we had the pleasure to interview Bi Ruxie.
Bi Ruxie is a Chinese-born writer, novelist, political essayist, and oral historian based in New York, whose life and work span the Cultural Revolution, China’s post-Mao transformation, and more than four decades of Chinese-language writing in the United States. He began writing during the Cultural Revolution and, at age twenty, completed The Ninth-Level Wave, a novella exploring individual freedom, political movements, social norms, and ideas that he would later understand in relation to existentialism. Now in his mid-seventies, Bi is documenting his life through oral history and preserving more than five decades of manuscripts, correspondence, photographs, publications, and personal records as a firsthand record of one life lived through modern Chinese history.
Thank you so much for joining us in this interview series! Before we dive in, can you tell our readers a bit about your background and what you are doing today?
I was born in China in 1950 into an intellectual family with deep traditions in law, history, and scholarship. My literary life began during the Cultural Revolution. In 1970, at the age of twenty, I wrote the novella The Ninth-Level Wave (Jiu Ji Lang). At a time when Mao Zedong Thought dominated intellectual life in China, the novella explored questions of individual freedom, personal destiny, social morality, historical cycles, and ideas that I would later understand in relation to existentialism.
In 1985, at the age of thirty-five, I left China for the United States as a visiting scholar at the University of Florida. I brought with me manuscripts that could not be published openly in China, and after coming to the United States I continued writing fiction, political commentary, and works reflecting on Chinese history, politics, and society.
Today, in my mid-seventies, I live in New York and am devoting much of my time to oral history and to organizing more than fifty years of manuscripts, correspondence, photographs, publications, and personal records. At this stage of my life, I am increasingly interested not only in what history did to me, but also in examining my own choices — both right and wrong — and preserving an honest record of one individual life lived through an extraordinary period of modern Chinese history.
Can you share a story about the funniest mistake you made when you were first starting? Can you tell us what lesson you learned from that?
At twenty, I had already written The Ninth-Level Wave, a novella that dealt with individual freedom and ideas I later understood in relation to existentialism. By twenty-five, however, I had developed an exaggerated opinion of myself. I selectively misunderstood ideas associated with existentialism and Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch, almost as if intellectual independence gave me permission to live by different rules.
Looking back at seventy-five, there is something almost absurd about that young man. He thought he was exceptionally sophisticated, when in some of the most important ways he was remarkably immature.
That arrogance eventually contributed to a very serious mistake in 1975, which I will discuss later. There was nothing funny about the mistake itself or the harm I attempted to cause. What seems almost darkly comic to me now is the enormous distance between how wise I imagined myself to be and how little I actually understood about responsibility.
The lesson I learned was simple but costly: talent is not moral exemption. Intelligence does not give anyone a special license to ignore the rules that govern our treatment of other human beings.
Can you share your personal story about a time when life knocked you down and what lesson you carried forward from that experience?
In the summer of 1975, when I was twenty-five, I made the gravest mistake of my life. Driven by extreme arrogance, resentment, and anger, I paid other people to harm someone with whom I had a serious personal conflict. The plan was never carried out, but I was arrested and detained for forty-two days by the Haidian Branch of the Beijing Public Security Bureau.
Those forty-two days were my Waterloo. For the first time in my life, I lost my freedom and was forced to confront the consequences of my own actions. Until then, I had thought of myself as unusually talented, independent-minded, and intellectually sophisticated. Detention stripped away much of that self-image.
But the most painful moment came after my release. My parents had done everything they could to help me, using every personal connection available to them. At the public criticism meeting after my release, I watched my mother make a self-criticism because of what I had done. That broke through emotional defenses that even forty-two days of detention had not completely destroyed. I suddenly understood that when we do something wrong, the suffering does not stop with us. The people who love us may be forced to carry part of the humiliation and pain.
When I finally returned home, I told my parents, “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve hurt the whole family.” My mother answered, “As long as you’re home… They say you’re a bad person, but Mama says you’re a good child.” I have never forgotten those words.
Half a century later, I no longer tell this story simply as something that happened to me during the Cultural Revolution. The political environment was brutal, but it does not excuse what I chose to do. I was responsible for my own actions.
The lesson I carried forward was that pain is not a license to hurt other people, and talent is not a moral exemption. I also learned that freedom, once lost, becomes something you understand in an entirely different way. That summer forced me to begin the long and imperfect process of examining not only what history had done to me, but what I had done to others.
Looking back, what warning signs did you miss before the challenge hit, and what would you pay attention to now?
Looking back, the warning signs were everywhere, but at twenty-five I did not recognize them as warnings.
The greatest was my arrogance. I had begun writing seriously at twenty and already thought of myself as unusually talented and intellectually independent. Instead of allowing literature and philosophy to make me more humble, I sometimes used them to reinforce my sense that I was different from other people.
Another warning sign was my tendency to use intellectual ideas to justify impulses I already wanted to follow. My selective reading of existentialism and Nietzsche did not cause my wrongdoing; that responsibility was mine. But I had learned how easily intelligence can become a tool for self-justification.
Today, I would pay close attention whenever I hear myself thinking: “I am different, therefore the ordinary rules do not apply to me,” or “I have suffered, therefore I am entitled to make someone else suffer.” Those are dangerous thoughts.
Age has taught me that one of the most important warning signs is certainty — especially certainty about one’s own superiority and righteousness. The moment we become incapable of questioning ourselves may be precisely the moment when we most need to do so.
How did this hard-won lesson reshape your approach to relationships, work, or personal growth?
The lesson did not transform me overnight. Human nature is stubborn, and some of the arrogance, impulsiveness, and intensity of my younger self remained with me for many years.
But 1975 planted a doubt in me that had not existed before: What if I was wrong?
That question gradually changed the way I approached both people and my own life. I became more aware that intelligence and strong convictions do not guarantee good judgment, and that the people closest to us often pay a price for our mistakes.
In my work as a writer, the experience eventually made me more interested in the complicated relationship between the individual and power — political power, social power, and also the power one person tries to exercise over another. My writing continued to be rebellious, sometimes provocative, and certainly imperfect, but I increasingly questioned not only authority outside myself, but also the authority of my own ego.
Now, in my seventies, this has become especially important in my oral history. I do not want to preserve only the occasions when I was courageous, perceptive, or successful. I also want to record the times when I was selfish, reckless, mistaken, or caused pain to other people.
When I was young, I often asked, “What has this society done to me?” Today I increasingly ask a second question: “What have I done to others?” That may be the most important change that began with the lesson I learned in 1975.
What was the lowest point in that season, and how did you find the strength to keep moving?
The lowest point was not actually inside the detention center. It came after I was released.
After forty-two days in detention, I was required to face a public criticism meeting. My mother had to stand before others and make a self-criticism because of what I had done. Watching her bear humiliation for my mistake affected me more deeply than anything I had experienced behind bars. For the first time, I fully understood that I had not only endangered my own life and future; I had wounded the people who loved me most.
When I returned home, I told my parents, “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve hurt the whole family.” My mother replied, “As long as you’re home… They say you’re a bad person, but Mama says you’re a good child.”
My parents were deeply worried about my state of mind. During the Cultural Revolution, they had seen intellectuals driven to despair and even suicide, so they were afraid that shame and despair might overwhelm me. My father began taking me on walks near Wudaokou in Beijing. Sometimes we did something almost childlike: we competed to see who could catch more dragonflies.
That small memory has remained with me for half a century. My strength did not come from a grand philosophy or a sudden revelation. It came first from being loved when I had given my parents every reason to be disappointed in me. They did not deny what I had done, but neither did they abandon me.
Their love gave me something I desperately needed at twenty-five: the possibility of beginning again. I could not undo what I had done, but I could decide that this mistake would not be the end of my life.
Many people repeat painful mistakes. What specific change did you make that ensured you didn’t fall into the same trap again?
I did not become a completely different person after 1975. I remained strong-willed, argumentative, impulsive at times, and capable of making other mistakes. I do not want to rewrite my life as a simple story in which one terrible experience suddenly made me wise.
But I did establish one boundary that I never again allowed myself to cross: no personal grievance, however intense, justified deliberately harming another person.
Before 1975, when anger and wounded pride took hold of me, I could turn them into a story in which I was completely right and the other person completely wrong. Afterward, I became much more conscious of how dangerous that process could be. I learned to put distance between emotion and action.
I continued to argue, criticize, write provocative things, and sometimes offend people. That was part of my personality and part of my life as a writer. But disagreement had to remain disagreement. Anger had to remain anger. Neither could become permission to harm another person.
The specific change, then, was not that I stopped being difficult or stopped making mistakes. It was that I finally understood there had to be a line I would not cross.
You do not have to stop feeling anger. You have to stop believing that anger gives you permission.
Do you see this struggle as something you would have chosen, had you known the pain involved, or do you believe it was essential to who you’ve become?
No, I would not have chosen it. I would never say that I am grateful for the wrongdoing itself.
What I am grateful for is that I made this grave mistake when I was still young, when my parents were alive and able to help me, and when my family still had personal connections that could intervene on my behalf.
Most importantly, I was still young enough to change.
I had the opportunity to confront what I had done, correct the direction of my life, and begin again.
If I had made the same mistake in middle age, when I had greater responsibilities and far less room to recover, the consequences might have been disastrous.
So I do not regard the suffering itself as something to celebrate. But I do believe that being forced to face the consequences of my actions at twenty-five became one of the decisive turning points of my life.
What are the 5 biggest lessons you’ve learned on this journey, and how did you learn them? Please share a specific experience or challenge that shaped each lesson.
1. Talent is not moral exemption.
When I was young, I believed that being unusually talented and intellectually independent somehow placed me outside the ordinary rules that governed other people. By twenty-five, that arrogance had contributed to the gravest mistake of my life. The events of 1975 taught me, at enormous cost, that intelligence, literary talent, and independent thought do not make a person morally superior. If anything, greater ability should bring greater responsibility. Talent may explain what a person can do; it can never excuse what a person should not do.
2. Pain is not a license to hurt others.
During the Cultural Revolution, like many people of my generation, I experienced fear, anger, humiliation, and profound social disorder. But one of the hardest truths I eventually had to accept was that my own suffering did not excuse the suffering I tried to cause someone else.
In 1975, I allowed resentment and wounded pride to become a justification for wrongdoing. Years later, I came to understand the distinction much more clearly: history may help explain why we become angry, fearful, or distorted, but explanation is not absolution. I was still responsible for the choice I made.
This lesson has stayed with me for half a century: being hurt does not give us the right to hurt another human being.
3. Freedom requires responsibility.
Before 1975, freedom was largely an intellectual idea to me. I valued independence, rebellion, and the right to think differently from the society around me. But after I was detained for forty-two days, freedom became something much more concrete.
Losing my physical freedom taught me how precious it was. At the same time, I began to understand something I had previously neglected: freedom cannot mean simply doing whatever one wants. My freedom exists alongside the freedom and dignity of other people.
I continued throughout my life to value independent thought and to challenge political and intellectual authority. But the lesson of 1975 was that real freedom must be accompanied by responsibility for the consequences of our choices.
Freedom without responsibility can easily become another form of selfishness.
4. Our mistakes are rarely ours alone.
One of the most painful lessons of 1975 was discovering that the consequences of my actions did not end with me. My parents used every connection they had to help me while I was detained, and after my release, I watched my mother make a public self-criticism because of what I had done.
That moment affected me more deeply than the forty-two days of detention. I realized that the people who love us can be forced to carry the shame, fear, and pain created by our choices.
When I returned home, I apologized to my parents for hurting the entire family. Yet instead of abandoning me, they helped me begin again. My father took me on walks, and my mother reminded me that, despite what I had done, I was still her child.
I learned that before making a serious decision, we should ask not only, “What will this do to me?” but also, “Who else may have to pay for what I choose to do?”
5. Question yourself as seriously as you question authority.
Much of my life as a writer has been devoted to questioning political authority, conventional ideas, and accepted versions of history. But 1975 taught me that questioning the outside world is not enough. We must be willing to question ourselves with the same intensity.
At this stage of my life, I was very good at identifying what I believed was wrong with society and other people, but much less capable of asking a simple question: What if I am wrong?
That question became increasingly important to me as I grew older. It is also central to the oral history I am recording today. I do not want to preserve only the moments when I was courageous, perceptive, or correct. I also want to preserve my failures, misjudgments, arrogance, and the harm I caused.
At seventy-five, I believe that intellectual independence requires more than the courage to challenge authority. It also requires the courage to challenge one’s own ego. If we demand honesty from history, we should demand the same honesty from ourselves.
If you could go back and speak to your younger self before this hardship, what advice would you give?
If I could speak to my twenty-five-year-old self, I would tell him: Be suspicious of your own certainty.
You are intelligent, angry, ambitious, and convinced that you understand the world better than the people around you. But intelligence does not guarantee wisdom, and feeling deeply wronged does not necessarily mean that you are right.
Before you do something that cannot be undone, stop and ask yourself two questions: What if I am wrong? And who else will have to pay for what I am about to do?
I would also tell him to think about his parents. He cannot yet imagine how deeply his actions may wound the people who love him.
Whether the twenty-five-year-old Bi Ruxie would have listened to the seventy-five-year-old Bi Ruxie is another question. Knowing the young man I was, perhaps he would not have. That, too, is something age has taught me.
How has this lesson influenced the way you mentor or lead others today?
I have never thought of myself as a conventional mentor or leader. I am a writer, and the way I can perhaps be useful to others is through the record I leave behind.
The lesson of 1975 taught me that giving advice from a position of superiority is dangerous. I would rather tell people what actually happened to me — including my arrogance, my mistakes, and the consequences — and allow them to draw their own conclusions.
This is one reason I am now devoting so much effort to oral history. I do not want to present myself as a heroic figure who was always right. I want younger people to see a complete human being: someone who could be perceptive in one moment and terribly wrong in another, who could challenge political authority while still failing to control his own ego.
If there is one principle I would pass on to younger people, it is this: think independently, but question yourself just as rigorously as you question authority.
At this stage of my life, I believe that may be more useful than telling anyone how to live.
You are a person of great influence. If you could start a movement that would bring the most amount of good to the most amount of people, what would that be? You never know what your idea can trigger. :-)
There is an ancient Chinese poem about Mount Lu:
“Seen from the side, a mountain range; from the end, a single peak — far, near, high, low, each view is different.”
I believe these lines also describe my own life, which has been full of contradictions, disorder, success, failure, pride, shame, and unexpected turns.
For that reason, I do not presume that I am qualified to launch a movement that would bring the greatest good to the greatest number of people.
But if I had to name one idea worth encouraging, it would be radical honesty about ourselves: the willingness to preserve not only the parts of our lives that make us look courageous or admirable, but also our failures, contradictions, privileges, mistakes, and the harm we may have caused others.
That is what I am trying to do with my own oral history. If more people were willing to examine themselves as seriously as they examine society and history, perhaps we would understand both human nature and history a little better.
I cannot promise that such honesty would become a movement. But if my own record can help even a few people understand themselves more clearly or avoid some of the mistakes I made, that would be contribution enough for me.
How can our readers further follow your work online?
My writings have appeared for many years in Chinese-language publications and online platforms, including Creaders.net (万维网). Readers can also search for my name, Bi Ruxie (毕汝谐), online to find published fiction, essays, political commentary, and other writings.
I am currently organizing my oral history and personal archive, and I hope to make more of these materials available online to readers and researchers in the future.
This was very inspiring. Thank you so much for joining us!
