of the intelligentsia and the downgrading of education, then the erosionâ of history, the consigning of heroes to oblivion, and the emergence of the first new men, the Albanian Lei Fens (what were the first new tractors in comparison?) Rumour had it that theyâd already introduced some Chinese elements into the choreography of their ballets. Such portents were still as rare as the first spring flowers, but they would gradually multiply. After the deeds would come the words, and after the words the thoughts. Their reservations about being European would slowly dry up, like water in a citadel under siege. Then one last onslaught and Albania would surrender â¦It was inevitableâ¦Asia first set its heart on Albania some seven centuries ago. And having acquired it, kept it for five hundred years. Early in the twentieth century, though, Albania, the cunning lynx, managed to escape. But that was the last time it did so, and now there was nowhere for it to go. Little by little, quietly, without any clash of swords, it would come back to Asia, this time for ever. It would be a magnificent moment in the age-old history of China. The first country in Europe to be âSinifiedâ. And like a patch of leprosy, âSinificationâ would gradually spread northward, first to central Europe and then still further. It would be the first victory of Asia over Europe - a victory fraught with consequence. An epoch. making revenge. Therein lay the real significance of Maoâs owe achievement. Unfortunately very few eyes were capable of perceiving it. But great achievements are never seen from close to: only from a distance of years or even centuries can they be appraised justly. So moan away, you benighted fools, and write your anonymous letters: your sight is still as dim as that of a month-old baby. Whereas I am about to enter my eightieth year!
Once again Mao lost the thread; once again, after some time, he found it again. He pondered about how long the process of âSinificationâ would take. Perhaps the first results wouldnât be apparent until he was ninety years old, or a hundred and forty; but that didnât matter. Even if the change wasnât complete until he was a hundred and eighty or three hundred and twenty years old, it still didnât matter. Heâd started seeing life and death as indistinguishable long ago. In his opinion there was only a trifling difference between the two: until a certain year he would go on breathing and moving about. Afterwardsâ¦But this was of no more importance to him than moving to a new house or a new job was in the life of an ordinary individual. He saw his life, or perhaps rather his life-and-death, as one and indivisible. Perhaps that was the main reason why every so often he buried himself underground.
Again his mind wandered, and when he collected his thoughts it was the letter from Albania that came to mind. His anger seemed to be concentrated in his extremities, especially his hands. The one still leaning against the wall plucked at the stone as if to pull it down. Every time he did this he thought how earthquakes were caused. How silly of the Greeksâ god Zeus to think he could bring them about from a distance, from up in the clouds. The globe had to be shaken from below, from down among its foundations.
Maoâs hand was still on the rock, as if he had no doubt that the earth had begun to tremble and that a cataclysm was about to take place up above.
Thatâs the whole difference between you and me, said he, looking in the direction where he supposed Europe, the ancient Greeks, and the whole of white humanity to be.
3
THOUGH SILVA WALKED as fast as she could, she still arrived at the ministry slightly late for work.
Greeting, as she rushed past, a porter almost invisible behind his window, she hurried on up the stairs, and in the first-floor corridor almost collided with Victor Hila, an old acquaintance she hadnât seen for a
Once again Mao lost the thread; once again, after some time, he found it again. He pondered about how long the process of âSinificationâ would take. Perhaps the first results wouldnât be apparent until he was ninety years old, or a hundred and forty; but that didnât matter. Even if the change wasnât complete until he was a hundred and eighty or three hundred and twenty years old, it still didnât matter. Heâd started seeing life and death as indistinguishable long ago. In his opinion there was only a trifling difference between the two: until a certain year he would go on breathing and moving about. Afterwardsâ¦But this was of no more importance to him than moving to a new house or a new job was in the life of an ordinary individual. He saw his life, or perhaps rather his life-and-death, as one and indivisible. Perhaps that was the main reason why every so often he buried himself underground.
Again his mind wandered, and when he collected his thoughts it was the letter from Albania that came to mind. His anger seemed to be concentrated in his extremities, especially his hands. The one still leaning against the wall plucked at the stone as if to pull it down. Every time he did this he thought how earthquakes were caused. How silly of the Greeksâ god Zeus to think he could bring them about from a distance, from up in the clouds. The globe had to be shaken from below, from down among its foundations.
Maoâs hand was still on the rock, as if he had no doubt that the earth had begun to tremble and that a cataclysm was about to take place up above.
Thatâs the whole difference between you and me, said he, looking in the direction where he supposed Europe, the ancient Greeks, and the whole of white humanity to be.
3
THOUGH SILVA WALKED as fast as she could, she still arrived at the ministry slightly late for work.
Greeting, as she rushed past, a porter almost invisible behind his window, she hurried on up the stairs, and in the first-floor corridor almost collided with Victor Hila, an old acquaintance she hadnât seen for a
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