Modern Chinese Literature

Short Paper:

1. Please discuss the symbolic use of the notions of sickness and healing in Lu
Xun’s “Medicine.”

Please consider the question above. You are asked to write a short essay of 3 pages
(double-space, in 12-point Times New Roman, at least 800 words) to address and
explore the question. Please submit it in the format of word document, double-spaced,
font 12. Please explore your selected question thoroughly and concentrate on producing
a good close reading and analysis. Remember to avoid unnecessary plot summary and
generalization. The more tightly defined the topic, the better.

For this short paper, no additional research beyond course materials is required. You are
required to submit a draft first. After receiving my feedback and revision suggestions,
you will have the opportunity to revise and resubmit your paper. Please submit your
paper to the Dropbox at Sakai.

from The Real Story of Ah-Q and Other Tales of China: The Complete Fiction of Lu Xun (Penguin
Classics) . Penguin UK. Kindle Edition. Julia Lovell, tr.

MEDICINE

I

The dark hours before an autumn dawn: the moon had sunk, but the sun had not
yet risen, leaving an empty expanse of midnight-blue sky. All ‒ except the creatures of
the night ‒ slept. Hua Shuan1 suddenly sat up in bed. Striking a match, he lit the oil
lamp, its body slick with grease; a greenish-white light flickered through the two rooms
of the teahouse.
‘Are you off, then?’ an old woman’s voice asked. A coughing fit erupted inside the
small back room.
‘Mmm,’ Shuan mumbled as he dressed, distracted by the noise next door. ‘Pass it
over,’ he reached out.
After an extended search beneath her pillow, Hua Dama handed a packet of silver
dollars to the old man, who tucked it, with trembling hands, into his jacket pocket.
Giving the bulge a couple of pats, he lit a paper lantern, blew out the lamp and went into
the other room. A faint rustling sound was followed by another succession of coughs.
‘Don’t get up, son,’ Shuan whispered, when it subsided. ‘Your mother will see to the
shop.’
Guessing from his son’s silence that he had fallen back into a deep sleep, Shuan
opened the door. Outside, the street was sunk in a heavy darkness that obscured
everything except the ashen road before him. The lantern cast its light over his feet,
illuminating their progress ‒ one step after another. The occasional dog silently crossed
his path. The air was much colder outside, but Shuan found the change in temperature
refreshing: he felt like a young man again, striding further and faster, as if invigorated
by a new life-force. The outlines of the road grew clearer as he walked, the sky brighter.
Thus absorbed, he was startled by the sudden, clear sighting of a T-junction in the
distance up ahead. He slunk back under the eaves of a shop, leaning against its bolted
door. After a while, the cold crept up on him.
‘Look at that old man.’
‘What’s he so happy about…’
Another shock: Shuan now noticed passers-by ‒ one of them turning to glance back
at him. Though the lines of the man’s face remained hazy in the fading darkness, Shuan
caught a predatory, famished gleam in his eyes. Shuan glanced at the lantern; it had
gone out. He patted his pocket again, to check for the robust presence of the silver.

1 Lu Xun uses words (ʻHuaʼ and ʻXiaʼ) that can also mean ʻChinaʼ for the surnames of both the
old man and the revolutionary, infusing the story with an intense historical symbolism.

Looking back up, he now found himself among a great ghostly throng, wandering
aimlessly about in twos and threes. But when he looked again, their shadowy
strangeness seemed to fall away.
Shortly after, he saw a few soldiers march towards and then past him, the large
white circle on their chests and backs clearly visible even from a distance. As they passed
him, he noted the dark red border on their uniforms. Then a rush of footsteps: the
crowd surged forward, its units of twos and threes suddenly coalescing into a
tremendous mass that pulled up and fanned out into a semicircle just before the
junction.
Shuan watched them, the view beyond blocked by the ranks of backs and extended
necks ‒ as if they were so many ducks, their heads stretched upwards by an invisible
puppeteer. A moment’s silence, a slight noise, then they regained the power of motion.
With a roar of movement, the mass of them pushed back towards Shuan, almost
sweeping him over in the crush.
‘You there! Give me the money and you’ll get the goods!’ A man dressed in black
stood before Shuan, who shrank back from his cutting glare. One enormous hand was
thrust out, opened, before him; the other held, between finger and thumb, a crimson
steamed bun, dripping red.
After groping for the silver, Shuan held it tremblingly out at him, recoiling from the
object offered in return. ‘What’re you afraid of? Just take it!’ the man shouted
impatiently. As Shuan continued to hesitate, the man in black snatched the lantern from
him, ripped off its paper cover, wrapped it around the bread, then thrust the whole thing
back. Grabbing the money, he gave the packet a squeeze then strode off, muttering ‘Old
fool…’ to himself.
‘Who’s that for ‒ who’s ill?’ Shuan vaguely heard someone ask. Whoever it was, he
ignored them. His mind was now focused on one object alone, as if he held in his hands
the single heir to an ancient house; all else was shut out. His only thought was to place
this elixir inside his son, and enjoy its blessings. The sun was now fully risen, painting in
light the road home, and the faded gold characters of a battered old plaque at the
junction behind: ‘Crossing of the Ancient ̶ Pavilion’.

II

By the time Shuan returned home, the main room at the tea-house had been
cleaned and tidied, its rows of tables polished to an almost slippery shine. No customers,
only his son, sitting eating at one of the inner tables, fat beads of sweat rolling off his
forehead, thick jacket stuck to his spine, the hunched ridges of his shoulder blades
almost joined in an inverted V. A frown furrowed Shuan’s forehead. His wife rushed out
from behind the cooking range, wide-eyed, a faint tremble to her lips.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Yes.’

The two of them returned to the stove and, after a brief discussion, Hua Dama left
the room, returning shortly afterwards with an old lotus leaf, which she spread out on a
table. Shuan opened out the lantern paper and rewrapped the crimson bun in the lotus
leaf, by which point the younger Shuan had finished his breakfast.
‘Stay there,’ his mother called quickly out to him. ‘Don’t come over here.’
After firing up the stove, Shuan stuffed the jade green parcel and the torn red-and-
white lantern paper inside. A reddish-black flame flared up, filling the room with a
curious fragrance.
‘Smells good! What treats have you got in there?’ The hunch-back had arrived. All
day, every day he spent in the teahouse, always the first to arrive and the last to leave.
Today, he had chosen the corner table nearest the street. Everyone ignored him. ‘Crispy
rice?’ Still no reply. Shuan hurried over to pour him some tea.
‘Come in here!’ Hua Dama called her son into the back room, where he sat down
on the bench in the middle. His mother brought him a round, pitch-black object on a
plate.
‘Eat up,’ she told him softly. ‘It’ll make you better.’
The boy picked it up and studied it. The strangest thing: as if it were his own life he
were holding between finger and thumb. He broke it carefully open: a jet of white steam
escaped from within the burnt crust, leaving behind two halves of a white steamed bun.
Soon enough, the whole thing was swallowed down, its taste forgotten, leaving only an
empty plate before him. His parents stood to either side, watching, an odd gleam to their
eyes ‒ as if they wanted to pour something into him, and take something out in return.
His heart started to pound. He pressed his hands to his chest; another coughing fit
began.
‘Go and have a nap ‒ then you’ll feel better.’
Her son obediently coughed himself to sleep. Once his breathing had steadied, Hua
Dama lightly covered him with a patched quilt.

III

The teahouse was now full. Dark circles under his eyes, Shuan moved busily
between customers, filling their cups from his copper kettle.
‘Are you all right?’ a man with a grey beard asked. ‘Not ill, are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Really?’ his interlocutor murmured. ‘You look cheerful enough, I suppose.’
‘He’s just busy. If his son ‒ ’
A man with a fleshy, overbearing face rushed in, interrupting the hunchback’s
diagnosis. He wore a dark brown shirt, unbuttoned and bunched carelessly at the waist
with a broad black belt.
‘Has he had it?’ he shouted at Shuan. ‘Is he better? You’re a lucky man, Shuan!
Lucky I keep my ear to the ground…’

One hand on his kettle, the other clamped by his side, Shuan listened respectfully,
his face split wide open into a smile. Everyone else followed his example. Smiling just as
brightly, Shuan’s wife ‒ her own eyes shadowed by exhaustion ‒ bustled out with a bowl
and tea leaves. Once she had added an olive, Shuan poured on the hot water.
‘He’ll be better before you know it! Guaranteed!’ the fleshy face blustered on. ‘A
miracle cure! Right? Get it hot, eat it hot.’
‘Without your help, Mr Kang ‒ ’ Hua Dama gratefully began.
‘Guaranteed! Eat it hot. That consumption of his won’t stand a chance, not against
a bun dipped in human blood!’
Paling at the word ‘consumption’, Hua Dama smiled all the more valiantly, before
walking off, mumbling some excuse, to conceal her discomfort. Oblivious, Mr Kang
raised the volume of his voice a notch, squeezing a further coughing fit from the Shuan
boy asleep in the back room.
‘What a stroke of luck. Soon he’ll be right as rain; no wonder old Shuan can’t keep
the smile off his face,’ the grey-beard echoed, approaching Mr Kang. ‘I heard it was the
Xia boy ‒ is that right?’ he lowered his voice deferentially. ‘What happened?’
‘It was Mrs Xia’s son, all right! The rascal!’ A feeling of exceptional well-being
rushed through Mr Kang as he observed his rapt audience, the folds of his flesh seeming
to swell with delight. ‘He threw his life away, the idiot,’ he went on, even louder. ‘No
doubt about it. Didn’t get anything out of it myself, of course ‒ not like our friend Shuan
here. Red-Eye the prison guard got his clothes, while the boy’s uncle cleaned up with a
twenty-five-dollar reward. Straight into his pocket!’
The younger Shuan slowly made his way out of the back room, both hands pressed
against his chest, unable to stop coughing. Walking over to the cooking range, he filled a
bowl with cold rice, poured on hot water, then sat down and began to eat. ‘Feeling any
better?’ his mother murmured, following behind. ‘Still as hungry as ever?’
‘Guaranteed!’ Mr Kang glanced at the boy, before turning back to his audience.
‘Sharp as a tack, that uncle of his. If he hadn’t informed when he did, the authorities
would have gone for the whole family ‒ root and branch. Instead of which, he’s made a
mint! That boy ‒ you wouldn’t believe it, he even tried to get his jailer to turn against the
government.’
‘Unbelievable,’ spat a furious-looking young man, around twenty, in the back row.
‘When Red-Eye went to sound him out for bribes, he tried to talk him round. The
empire, he said, it belongs to every one of us. Ever heard anything like it? Mad! Red-Eye
couldn’t believe how poor he really was ‒ even though he’d known all along there was
only an old mother back home. He lost his rag completely when he found out there
wasn’t a drop to be squeezed out of him. Gave him a couple of good slaps round the face
‒ and quite right!’
‘That would’ve given him something to think about.’ The hunchback in the corner
suddenly revived.
‘Ha! Not a bit of it. He just said he felt sorry for him.’
‘Sorry for hitting a fool like that?’ the man with the grey beard asked.

‘You weren’t listening,’ Mr Kang smirked contemptuously. ‘The boy felt sorry for
Red-Eye!’
His listeners’ eyes suddenly went blank, their chatter fading away. His eating done,
the sweat was steaming off the Shuan boy.
‘He felt sorry for Red-Eye ‒ crazy! He must have gone crazy,’ the man with the grey
beard illuminated.
‘Crazy ‒ crazy,’ the man in his twenties echoed, identically inspired.
Life ‒ and the power of speech ‒ returned to the other customers. As the teahouse
buzzed with noise once more, the Shuan boy began coughing desperately. Mr Kang
strode over to thump him on the back.
‘Guaranteed!’ Mr Kang told him, thumping him on the back. ‘No need to cough like
that, Shuan my boy. Guaranteed!’
‘Crazy,’ the hunchback nodded his head.

IV

For as long as anyone could remember, the land beyond the western gate in the
town wall had been common ground, bisected by a narrow, meandering path tramped
out by the shoes of short-cutters. To the left of this natural boundary line were buried
the bodies of the executed and those who had died in prison; to the right lay the mass
graves into which the town’s poor were sunk. Both sides bulged with grave mounds, like
the tiered crowns of steamed bread with which wealthy families celebrated their
birthdays.
The weather that April ‒ the month on which the Grave-Sweeping Festival fell ‒
was unusually cold, with buds no more than half the size of rice grains daring to peep
out on to the willow branches. Not long after daybreak, a weeping Hua Dama set four
dishes of food and a bowl of rice in front of a new grave. After burning some funeral
money, she squatted there blankly, as if waiting for something ‒ what, she couldn’t say ‒
to happen. A light breeze ruffled her short hair, noticeably greyer than it had been last
year.
Another woman ‒ her hair also grey, her clothes ragged, carrying an old, round
basket lacquered in vermilion, from which a chain of paper money hung ‒ approached
slowly along the narrow track, pausing every few steps. Suddenly noticing Hua Dama’s
gaze, she hesitated, a flush tingeing her pale face, then forced herself to walk on: to a
grave to the left of the boundary, in front of which she set down her basket.
The grave was directly across from the Shuan boy’s, the two plots separated only by
the narrow path. Hua Dama watched the woman lay out four dishes of food and a bowl
of rice, weep a while, then burn her paper money. ‘Her son must be buried there, too,’
she thought to herself. After she had paced aimlessly back and forth, a tremble suddenly
took hold of the second woman’s hands and feet. She took a few unsteady steps back,
her glazed eyes staring ahead.

Fearing that the woman was almost maddened by grief, Hua Dama rose to her feet
and crossed over. ‘Try not to upset yourself,’ she murmured. ‘Why don’t we take
ourselves back?’
The other woman nodded, her eyes still staring ahead. ‘Look,’ she mumbled.
‘What’s that?’
Looking in the direction indicated by the other woman, Hua Dama found her gaze
drawn to the unkempt grave before her, its patchy coverage of grass interrupted by
scraps of yellow earth. But when she looked a little closer, she shivered with surprise:
across the grave’s rounded peak lay a wreath of red and white flowers, clearly visible
even to eyes long cloudy with old age.
Though not the most extravagant or the freshest of wreaths, it was tidily woven.
Hua Dama glanced across at her son’s grave, at other graves, scattered only with hardy
little bluish-white flowers undaunted by the cold. She was unaccountably troubled by a
sense of dissatisfaction, or inadequacy. Taking a few steps closer, the second old woman
studied the wreath more closely. ‘Cut flowers,’ she observed, as if talking to herself.
‘They couldn’t have grown round here… Who might have left them? Children never play
round here… my relatives haven’t visited for ages… What are they doing here?’ She
sank deep into thought.
‘Yu’er,’ she suddenly cried out, her face streaming with tears. ‘They murdered you!
And you can’t forget ‒ you’re still suffering! Is this a sign from you, to me?’ She looked
about her: a lone black crow stood perched on the bare branch of a tree. ‘I know,’ she
went on. ‘They’ll be sorry, Yu’er, they’ll be sorry they murdered you. Heaven will have its
revenge. Close your eyes, rest easy… If you’re here, and can hear me, send me a sign ‒
make that crow fly on to your grave.’
With the ebbing of the breeze, the stems of withered grass now stood erect, rigid as
copper wire. Her thin, tremulous voice faded away, leaving only the silence of the grave.
The two women stood among the clumps of grass, staring up at the crow perched, as if
cast in iron, amid the rod-like branches, its head drawn in.
Time passed. Other mourners, of various ages, appeared, weaving in and out
between the graves.
Hua Dama felt somehow relieved, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her
shoulders. It was time to go, she thought. ‘Why don’t we take ourselves back,’ she urged
again, moving to leave.
Her companion sighed and began listlessly collecting together the dishes of food.
After a final, brief hesitation, she slowly walked off, still muttering, ‘What are they doing
here?’ to herself.
After a couple of dozen paces, a loud caw broke the silence behind them. They
looked back, their skin prickling: its wings spread, the crow crouched for take-off, then
flew off, straight as an arrow, towards the horizon.

Running Head: SICKNESS AND HEALING 1

SICKNESS AND HEALING 5

Brittany Leyva

Modern Chinese Literature in Translation

10/29/2020

Professor Xiaojue Wang

Symbolic Use of the Notion of Sickness and Healing

Dynasties surrounding his son’s illness made Shuan prefer healing his cough through the jade green parcel and a red-and-white lantern. After firing up the stove, Hua Dama prepared it and did not want the son close to it before its final preparation. She then took the pitch-black object to the son, who was to eat and get better (Lu, 2009). After that, his parents told him to go and sleep so that he could get up when he is feeling better. Consequently, according to his parents, they had a notion that if they used the black-pitch object, it would make their son feel better, but after eating it, he still pressed his hands on his chest and coughed. Hence, it can be proved that it was not a better solution to healing. In this case, the notion of sickness and healing was presented by a jade green parcel and a red-and-white lantern (traditional cure) that his parent believed could heal him.

As Shuan’s son was silent, he used guess work to assume that he had fallen asleep. The rustling sound and succession coughs proved that his son was sick. Therefore, Shuan decided to check on other things outside the house, where he found the cool breeze. As he was walking, he met a man that wanted his money in exchange for silver. Shuan offered the money to the guy and decided to go back home. As he was going home, he met people who asked him where he was taking the product or who was ill. Thus, he did not answer any of the questions but believed that he would enjoy its blessings when he placed the elixir inside his son (Lu, 2009). Furthermore, this shows what Shuan had thought to bring gifts as he was using the son’s sickness to get the blessings from the product he bought, as it signifies the notion Shuan had on what his son’s illness will be of benefit through his healing process. Comment by Xiaojue Wang: ? More clarifiations needed.

The son’s cough characterized the spiritual illness, and through a miracle cure, Mr. Kang believed that Shuan’s son would get better. After visiting the teahouse, Mr. Kang shouted that if the drug he provided were taken hot, it would give the son positive results on his cough, “He’ll be better you know it…eat it hot.” Thus, this shows what relationship the body and the state have as the son was expected to heal from the miracle cure. As the discussion proceeded in the teahouse, Shuan’s son left the room, and the cough had not to stop, and he was feeling hungry (Lu, 2009). Hence, it shows that the miracle cure was not the guaranteed healing aspect of the cough. The notions of sickness and healing show how a miracle cure is not assured and can make someone feel better.

According to a young man in his twenties, he assumed that it was unbelievable for Shuan, his wife, and Mr. Kang to believe that the miracle cure will make their son feel better. Thus, the things that the son was going through made him cough desperately, and it became a concern to the teahouse when the noise increased because of the fears of the son’s health. The individuals in the hotel were trying to remove the notion that Shuan’s son will get better without the appropriate medication (Lu, 2009). Consequently, it could help eliminate the world’s concepts on how the sick can heal with the miracle cure as the creator helps those who help themselves first. Comment by Xiaojue Wang: What is the medicine then, in literal and symbolic terms?

The Grave-Sweeping Festival was used as a symbol to show healing. After his son’s death, Hua Dama went to his son’s grave to perform the ritual that she believed would make her recover from the loss. While at the tomb, she meets another woman, whose son’s grave was across Shuan’s son (Lu, 2009). Hua Dama thinks she is also there to mourn her son and prefers to join her. While at the gravesite, they notice bluish-white flowers scattered around the graves and are concerned about what was happening. In some sense, the deceased used them to show what they had been going through when they were still sick. In the end, it symbolized the notion that their parents had as they were about to heal.

The punishment was a form of healing, and the tradition dysfunction symbolized the healing the dead could have. According to Yu’er’s mother, the bluish-white flower was a sign from him that he was still suffering, and since they murdered him, their punishment was going to be hell, and Heaven will revenge (Lu, 2009). Thus, this shows that the boys didn’t have to lose their lives as their parents were sorry for what had happened. The symbol of notions on sickness and healing is evident through Yu’er’s mother, who believes those who murdered his son will suffer and be sorry for what they did. In the end, the beliefs show what the public expect to happen to the wrongdoers. Comment by Xiaojue Wang: Interesting point.

10 out of 15

Brittany, I appreciated your sophisticated close reading of the story and your exploration of symbolic meanings of medicine and healing. However, in an academic paper, you will need to have a central thesis related to the prompt. In this story, illness means Hua’s TB in literal terms, and the superstitious and ignorant state of the Chinese society at the time; medicine refers to Xia’s blood in physical terms, and his revolutionary ideas to change the society in symbolic terms. For your revision, please review the story, and also, the critical reading I assigned for that week by Leo Lee. In this way, you will be able to both reconsider the meanings in the story and the way to how to follow the format of Lee’s article to make a main argument, to illustrate it, to get to your conclusion. Hope this helps.

References

Lu, X. (2009). The real story of Ah-Q and other tales of China: The complete fiction of Lu Xun. Penguin UK.