#jiang qing

[sanminzhuyi]

Zhou Enlai fomenting the Red Guards in Tiananmen Square, 31 August 1966.

"Long live the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution! Long live the great dictatoriship of the proletariat! Long live the great Communist Party of China! Long live the great and invincible Mao Zedong Thought! Long live our great leader Chairman Mao! Long live, long long live!"

[ahumourlessworld]

The Speech of Comrade Jiangqing on the Culture and Arts (c1970s)

“Jiang’s philosophy of heroism seems unusual for the wife of China’s most famous communist. Marxist analysis doesn’t obviously lend itself to individual valorization. But Marx was not Madame Mao’s teacher in these matters. That role fell to Friedrich Nietzsche.

Jiang was hardly the only Nietzschean in the red camp. Mao Zedong himself had been exposed to Nietzsche before Marx. Late Qing reformers had picked up Nietzsche’s ideas as they visited Japan and Germany; the young Mao devoured their work. The archives preserve Mao’s first writing on Nietzsche, scribbled in the margins of Cai Yuanpei’s translation of Friedrich Paulsen’s A System of Ethics. Mao admired the neo-Kantian Paulsen but had an instinctual sympathy with Nietzsche’s view that traditional morality needed to be upended. Only by harnessing powerful, buried forces did Mao see a path toward a new world.

The artists and thinkers of the early Republican period were likewise enthralled by Nietzsche, the rebel philosopher who believed in the power of culture. For those focused on sweeping away the dust of feudal China, his nihilistic attack on tradition and call to overcome slave morality translated well into the post-imperial context. It is no wonder that Nietzsche was idolized by Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao, who would go on to found the Communist Party.

Even once figures like Chen, Li, and Mao turned left, they continued to absorb Nietzschean ideas. His thinking permeated many of the Bolsheviks, as well as radical Russian intellectuals and artists. Vladimir Lenin, Leon Trotsky, Aleksandr Bogdanov, and Nikolai Bukharin all refer to Nietzsche explicitly or implicitly. Bukharin and Bogdanov, in particular, drew on him enough to be dubbed “Nietzschean Marxists” by scholars. In the words of historian Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, Nietzsche was “a vital element of Bolshevism,” animating an “activist, heroic, voluntaristic, mercilessly cruel, and future-oriented interpretation of Marxism.” This line of Soviet cultural revolution intensified under the leadership of Stalin in the 1920s and 1930s: monumental art glorified the proletarian hero. There was even room for the Dionysian excess of the Russian avant-garde, though Stalin eventually turned against it.

Jiang, moving in radical circles in the 1930s, absorbed these ideas. Her study of Nietzsche came through the scholar Lu Xun. Before becoming the patron saint of socialist literature in the People’s Republic of China, Lu was its foremost interpreter, translator, and popularizer of Nietzsche. Jiang idolized him, later declaring that while Mao was her political north star, Lu Xun provided her cultural guidance. While his books had been bowdlerized to remove more provocative texts, Jiang kept an unexpurgated 1938 edition of his collected work on her bookshelf deep into the Cultural Revolution, handbound in twenty volumes.

Lu Xun was a Nietzschean through and through. His reading of ​​Thus Spake Zarathustra in Japan in 1902 changed his worldview completely. In “On Cultural Extremism,” an essay published in 1908, he pointed to the ideals of Nietzsche as the solution to China’s ills—only the will to power of supreme individuals was capable of leading the benighted masses. Jiang would certainly have read “On Satanic Poetry,” which Lu wrote under the stated influences of Nietzsche and Lord Byron. In it, he called for spiritual fighters and savage rebels to destroy the ultrastable system of Chinese ethics. Like Maxim Gorky in Russia, Lu’s political allies downplayed his Nietzschean sympathies after he moved to the left, but they continued to energize his writing, theory, and criticism until his death in 1936.

When the communists took control of China in 1949, Nietzsche was in the bloodstream of the party. His thinking would inform the psychopolitical project of creating the New Socialist Man in the ashes of the old society. When Jiang led her Dionysian artistic assault on the Apollonian state, Nietzsche was with her.

Later, when Jiang sat in Qincheng Prison, her enemies used this lineage against her. In 1977, Cao Boyan and Ji Weilong sought to protect the party’s ideological continuity by condemning the Gang of Four as Nietzscheans who contradicted Maoism. Through 1978 and 1979, articles like Zhang Wen’s “The New Disciples of Nietzschean Philosophy” and Zhang Zhuomin’s “The Will to Power and Social Fascism” attacked the Cultural Revolution as an expression of the will to power. An essay by Dai Wenlin charged Jiang with trying to create a new social fascist model of the Übermensch.

The commentary against Jiang revealed for a moment what most historiography of socialist China has worked to conceal: Nietzsche haunts all of the revolutions that China experienced in the twentieth century.

Jiang’s entry into the practice of cultural struggle began in the early 1960s when Mao found himself sidelined by his own party. Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping were rising in the aftermath of the Great Leap Forward and the Seven Thousand Cadres Conference, with pragmatic policies that Jiang saw as unacceptably revisionist. She turned to culture to defend the cause. This was not merely a means to propagate political messages or attack enemies; following Nietzsche, Jiang believed that the world’s existence was justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon. Following Lu Xun, she also believed that culture could overcome the hegemony of conventional ethics.

(…)

This focus on heroic cadres laboring in the provinces was politically useful, since highlighting prominent leaders could backfire in the event of a later purge. But it was also part of the Maoist endeavor to create a new revolutionary culture among Chinese peasants and workers. In his “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art,” Mao had previously promoted the use of folk forms and the magnification of heroic traits. Jiang’s application went even further and demanded their complete transformation:

Out of the worker, peasant, and soldier, we must enthusiastically and by any means create heroic images. As Chairman Mao told us, the world represented in art can and should surpass reality. It should be stronger, purer, more perfect, and more idealized. Don’t be limited by real people and events. Stop writing about dead heroes when we are surrounded by living heroes.

Echoing Nietzsche’s division of art from truth, Jiang called for a break from the rules of realism, revolutionary or otherwise. Other Chinese thinkers had critiqued realist ideas with the concept of revolutionary romanticism as the Sino-Soviet split took effect. Jiang outstripped them, calling for heroes that defied reality itself.

(…)

While Jiang personally directed the productions created in this process of aesthetic reorganization, her fellow Gang of Four member Yao Wenyuan later systematized these ideas. He outlined the “Three Prominences” which Jiang and Yao believed all cultural productions should highlight: the prominence of positive characters in a work, the prominence of heroes among the positive characters, and the prominence of the major heroic protagonist among the supporting heroes. Nothing was left to interpretive chance: the protagonist would always be “Red, Bright, and Clear”—accompanied by a literal red glow, projecting an aura of willful positivity, and with an unobscured role and set of virtues. A third principle, “Tall, Mighty, Complete,” set forth that the main hero must physically dominate and appear to tower over surrounding characters with an overpowering presence, free of negative characteristics.

Anti-heroes and navel-gazing introspection about the cause had no place in the revolutionary operas. While these tropes later gained popularity in China and had already become more prominent in Western literature, the apparent “moral complexity” they allowed for only served to diminish the heroic consciousness. They cultivated a suspicion toward the heroic impulse, which became seen as a mask for morally compromised souls as lowly and unworthy as everyone else.

By contrast, Jiang’s insistence on the aesthetic and physical valorization of the hero made them more real than the world they struggled against. They did not fall into the trap of slave morality by letting their enemies define them. Vividly more worthy than those they fought against, they overcame them by sheer force of will. Their noble character also served to accuse those supposed allies with compromised commitments—they were without excuse for failing to live up to the heroic ideal. Again and again in the revolutionary operas, those who join the hero’s battle end up reflecting their beauty and vitality.

(…)

Jiang did not lack collaborators. The left-wing artists that had driven Chinese culture in the 1930s were given a long leash by a party leadership made up mostly of urban intellectuals. Dance, in particular, had become a refuge for artists and composers. Jiang was uninterested in the numerous modern dance dramas, which included topical productions about the Vietnam War and Patrice Lumumba, and in experiments in adapting folk dance. It was the revolutionary modern ballets that held the most appeal for Jiang. They exemplified high-art elitism. She loved her hardened, beautiful ballerinas and the heroic themes present in ballets like Red Detachment of Women and The White-Haired Girl.

As the Cultural Revolution progressed, her guidance saw revolutionary ballets become extensively modified. New pieces were composed or sections removed to push them toward pure heroism and compliance with the “Three Prominences,” “Red, Bright, Clear,” and “Tall, Mighty, Complete.” In her selection of artistic forms, Jiang maintained the standard that what was beautiful should not be debased at the hands of popular instincts. The ballet, opera, and cinema that defined the Cultural Revolution were not vulgar kitsch, unlike much of the literature of the time. Jiang was interested in high art and her speeches and writing gave no consideration as to whether or not these forms would be appropriate for the masses. Yet, they proved popular enough that they are still performed today.

The filmed version of Ode to Yimeng, released in 1975, is the pinnacle of Jiang’s vision for ballet. While it retains a scene from older renditions of the protagonist feeding a wounded partisan from her breast, in the hands of Jiang it is less a fable of feminine sacrifice than of individual ungendered heroism. With Cheng Bojia dancing as the lead, the tall, powerful beauty seems just as prepared to toss the wounded soldier over her shoulder as she is to suckle him. Her knife fight against local goons, charged in earlier versions with fear of the woman being overpowered, becomes slightly surreal as she seems to tower over her opponents while cast in a red glow and moving effortlessly en pointe. The reels were quickly transported around the country. Urban audiences sat in theaters and villagers gathered around projectors under the stars to watch Cheng Bojia as the national embodiment of Jiang’s Nietzschean heroine.

Meeting the technical, artistic, and ideological perfection that Jiang demanded was no easy task. The heroic art Jiang envisioned required her to mobilize the best and brightest. Yu Huiyong, a composer and theorist, became Jiang’s constant companion as she oversaw this program of cultural engineering. He had originally won the right to work on revolutionary opera in a contest held by Jiang in Shanghai in 1965. The contest reflected Jiang’s demand for raw aesthetic ability: twenty composers were charged with creating an original aria inspired by a lyric from Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy.

After Yu fell afoul of Jiang’s own atmosphere of persecution—he was attacked both for slavish devotion to Western forms and for failing to support Jiang’s call to add Western instruments to Chinese orchestras—she rehabilitated him. Jiang wasn’t going to be politically pedantic. Working with the right kind of visionaries came first. Those with ability could be forgiven for political transgressions that condemned the less-than-worthy. Drafted into service alongside many of the best artists and musicians, he worked with Jiang to fine-tune her favorite works in a production process similar to the Hollywood studio system.

The revolutionary opera On the Docks became a shared masterpiece between Yu and Jiang. Yu had worked earlier on experiments in combining Chinese and Western instruments and tuning, as in the incorporation of “The Internationale” as a leitmotif in The Red Lantern, and On the Docks would be the perfection of these attempts. This arrangement of Chinese and Western orchestras would eventually become common, but Yu was the first to pull it off. Yu’s compositions, like the choreography for the revolutionary modern ballet, forged something new from the deconstruction of indigenous folk forms and Western high art. The result is considered a triumph of Cultural Revolution art.

Perfection was the rule. When a film version of On the Docks was shot in 1972, it only circulated for a brief time before Jiang’s careful review found deficiencies: the color grading was too pale, robbing her heroes of their red glow, and the cinematography failed to live up to the demands of “Red, Bright, Clear.” A reshoot appeared the following year, using the same performers and crew.

(…)

When her political luck ran out, she refused submission. As one biographer wrote: “She held fast to her moral sovereignty as an individual.” Charged under Article 103 of the Chinese criminal code for committing counter-revolutionary acts that caused grave harm to the state and the people, death was a likely outcome. On the stand, she gave her final performance as the hero in chains, persecuted by the rabble. “I fear nobody,” she thundered. “I am above the law of men and of Heaven!”

In the end, Jiang lived long enough to see what Deng Xiaoping’s cultural bureaucracy did to the program she had created. Reform and Opening Up became an age of individualist ressentiment, rather than cultural affirmation. Envy, persecution, and petty hatreds became the obsessions of new waves of art and film. Writers turned to “scar literature,” detailing their suffering under the Cultural Revolution.

Popular films showed the persecution of intellectuals by the Gang of Four. The victims, unlike the peasant girl in Red Detachment of Women, did not rescue themselves. Instead, they were made pure by their suffering. Artists were encouraged to turn inwards, to find their deepest pain. In Nietzschean terms, it was a full re-embrace of the slave morality that finds moral worth in the negation of health, power, and vitality—traits now associated with the art of the Cultural Revolution. Mobilization for economic development was acceptable to the leadership, but grand visions now risked political conflict. Politically, it was more expedient for artists to brood on the troubles and resentments of daily life.

The theories of Jiang’s reformation, including both the Nietzschean impulse and the orthodox Maoist call for artistic engagement with the masses, were reversed with market-driven mass media. Cinema in this period degenerated into violent pornography; many films made in this period, like the 1988 productions Silver Snake Murders and Obsession, could not be released to overseas markets without extensive cuts by local censorship boards and cannot be screened in China today. Experiments in stream-of-consciousness work, abstract impressionism, and performance art became popular.

Compared with Jiang’s mobilization of the best artists and musicians into large-scale productions with heroic ideological goals, the new era was a managed descent into cultural chaos. The ideal artist was now an entrepreneur that could keep themselves afloat on the seas of the market economy. Locked into private competition, shock and vulgarity were the best ways to inch ahead of one’s rivals. It was not conducive to heroic impulses or high-minded political action.

The “Campaign Against Spiritual Pollution Debates” and “Campaign Against Bourgeois Liberalization” were launched in 1983 and 1986 as attempts to rein in the excesses by restoring guard rails on expression, but reformers allied with Deng ultimately cut these campaigns short. The intellectuals and artists that the party gave space to repudiate the Cultural Revolution kept going right up until the summer of 1989 when China was rocked by nationwide protests.

The years since 1989 have seen an attempt to contain what was unleashed by this cultural free-for-all. This has sometimes involved marketization, banking on the fact that existentialism is not profitable, but also an abortive revival of the Jiang Qing line. The Central Ballet staged Red Detachment of Women for the first time since the Cultural Revolution in 1992. China Central Television still broadcasts new productions of Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, and the films made under Jiang Qing’s leadership in the 1970s were never actively suppressed.

But it is hard to find the heroic aesthetic of the Cultural Revolution in the official art promoted since 1989. Jiang Qing commanded high art for the masses, without any competition from the market. The newer works merely ape some of the principles.

The worthwhile lesson of Jiang Qing is in her refusal to impose powerlessness and victimhood on her subjects. She refused to sanction what Pierre Bourdieu, invoking Nietzsche, once called a “sociologically mutilated being” as a model of human excellence. Instead, she invited the masses at gunpoint to contemplate beauty and strength. The power of her project can be seen in the transformative chaos of its age. As she learned from Lu Xun, also invoking Nietzsche, the artist must be capable of driving men mad.

The popular audience for Jiang’s elite high art was large and enduring enough that these works were performed long after the appreciation mandated by the Cultural Revolution had ended. Folk culture was not, in practice, displaced; instead, it existed alongside a popular audience for the revolutionary ballets. The goal of Jiang’s art was not to push aside all that came before; it was to absorb and transform it. In her vision, the dominant must not impose ressentiment on the dominated—to do so would be aesthetically disgusting. Jiang’s heroes were personalities to aspire to, not moral battering rams. This vision was accomplished by nurturing individual and collective creativity, pursuing technical perfection, and tolerating the transgression of traditional ethics.

These were Jiang’s lessons for China and artists. The tyranny of irony can be cast off by heroic sincerity. Mythology can become a true ethos. By giving up on victimhood, one gives up on misery. Without the narcissistic compulsion for representation of one’s petty flaws, it is possible to imagine true heroes.

The pinnacles of such art require the same kind of mass mobilization as any other achievement of modern society. As far back as the 1920s, directors like Fritz Lang commanded masses of people and machines with a firm hand to create masterworks of cultural production. But this apparent stiffness shelters the artist’s disruptive impulse. Jiang tolerated the transgressions of once-in-a-lifetime geniuses like Xue Jinghua or Yu Huiyong for a reason. The real crime she did not allow was the aestheticization of petty transgressions into ideals.

Jiang was under no illusions that the average viewer would be directly transformed into a great hero by their aesthetic experience. Her own “Three Prominences” assume that such heroes are few. But by refusing to valorize the sociologically mutilated individual, Jiang swept away the conditioning of powerlessness and victimhood. Her struggle was to inculcate a new heroic consciousness. In her works, the enemy became an adversary against which the heroes test their courage, nobility, and commitment to the cause. Jiang does not allow her villains to produce envy and deforming hatred in her protagonists or her audience. Instead, the fate of the enemy is that they will be forgotten entirely in the glorious finale, swept aside by the unstoppable, superior personalities of the protagonists.

Jiang’s core message, and her alternative to the celebration of victimhood by contemporary cultural orthodoxy, was the power of heroic ideals to make even overwhelming opposition irrelevant. Armed with her culture of self-justifying strength and beauty, her noble-souled heroes cast off any thought of victimhood to pursue their own glorious visions for their own sake.” - Dylan Levi King, “Madame Mao's Nietzschean Revolution”, (Palladium Magazine; 17 March 2023)

[consortmadness]

Who the most ruthless and why

Öljei Khutuk, Empress Ki

Wu Zetian

Yehe Nara Xingzhen, Empress Dowager Cixi

Liu Er, Empress Liu

Jiang Qing, First Lady of the People’s Republic of China

Empress Jia Nanfeng

Voting ended onApr 19, 2024

[chineseredcarpet]

Qu Chuxiao and Jiang Qing for Another Man

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

March 19, 1914: Birth of Comrade Jiang Qing, a leader of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in socialist China.

"When the imperialists and the reactionaries speak of Jiang Qing as the most hated woman in China, they are merely venting their own hatred of a revolutionary. They pour their venom upon her precisely because she was an unflinching and devoted adherent of the cause of revolutionary communism."

- Sam Marcy, "Jiang Qing and the Cultural Revolution"

[jnpwt]

The necessary Union of Taoism and Anarchy

Refers to:

-Tao Te Ching by Laozi

-Adam Curtis' BBC Anarchist propaganda

-Past Experiences when at one with the Tao/at True Anarchism (not longer the case)

If you watch Adam Curtis' "Can't Get You Out Of My Head" an emphasis is made on certain individuals, contrasting them with the emotional state of their societies at the time. These individuals share many things, the most common being their fight against Power Structures. The most interesting, which only takes into account a set few of the individuals chosen to be observed, are those whose Ego seems to be immense. The case of Jiang Qing is the most fascinating in how clear the demarcation between the Rise and Fall are.

Jiang Qing wanted to be the best actress in 1930s New China, post Qing collapse. Her abilities to act were excellent, but she came across a better actress, Li Lili, who upstaged her in the production of "Bloodshed on Wolf Mountain". The Director chose Li over Jiang. The Power Structure of cinema at the time got in the way of Jiang. Therefore she left, and found herself allied with the most determined Revolutionary in China at the time. Revolutionaries whose purpose was to destroy Power. Jiang and Mao were a glamourous couple, together, they were undefeatable and could not be stopped. All the Chinese Communists were enthralled, and for all the flaws of the couple, they were doing their best as Revolutionaries. Then, a man more powerful but more cynical, Stalin, split the couple on behalf of a jealous few within the existing Communists. This marked the end of the inspiring couple, and both fell into cycles of despair, jealousy and all sorts of negative emotions, while retaining their skills in Charisma. Such Charisma ensured Mao could make the mistake of the Great Leap Forward, and Jiang's Charisma enabled the CCP to act out its Cultural Revolution. All traceable back to a moment where the USSR, a more powerful nation, interfered with the affairs of a couple who were truly glorious.

The pattern of proud, inspired individuals or couples throughout history, excelling in their field and encouraging others to join their revolutionary cause, whether in arts or politics, is made extremely clear by Curtis. Fortunately, the details of when the Power Structure interfered and made these individuals fall from their heights is left in so the viewer can connect the dots. One may look back at the legacies of Political Revolutionaries such as Mao and Lenin, as well as Artistic Revolutionaries such as John Lennon or Eduard Limonov, and be able to see them as good people until a certain point in time. The point in time when a pre-existing Power Structure was unable to be broken, as they are not all connected directly. It takes effort to convert Political Power to Economic Power (the effort of corruption), and therefore one could imagine a pair of structures, where the biggest one (nowadays economic power) dominates the other, and therefore dominates those who try to destroy such power structure. Money Corrupts even the most ardent geniuses, whether they be a genius in art, politics, crowd charisma, or humour (one can realise that these strengths are one and the same, but applied to different contexts).

And now we get to Taoism. Not the entirety of it, simply the original text of the Tao Te Ching by Laozi, who is attempting to describe their current state of "Enlightenment" with the language at hand. When wanting to completely understand the concept of reaching either Enlightenment, Nirvana, monotheistic Salvation, the original Brahmin, the Ubermensch, or in this case, Tao, one must also take into account the language such texts were written in. Latin became crucial due to the Bible, Arabic from the Koran, and of course Mandarin, enabled by the works of Laozi and Confucius, who "wrote down" what sages were sharing verbally, making history of tradition. The Tao Te Ching makes many references to different kind of ideas regarding morality, morality which the sages at the time spent much time understanding. Reaching Tao is an attempt to transcend morality by placing oneself in the shoes of all, not just all people, but all things, as the Tao is all.

Quote drop:

-Being and non-being produce each other.

-> everything is relative

-If you overvalue possessions, people will begin to steal.

-> unnecessary pride causes jealous envy

-The Tao is like an empty container

->reaching Tao frees one of desires that are to be considered sins

-Heaven and Earth are impartial

-> there is NO OBJECTIVE MORALITY OF ACTION

-The best leaders are those the people hardly know exist. The next best is a leader who is loved and praised.

-> Goebbels and Hitler (who shared a hatred of the Elite which they foolishly believed to be entirely composed of Jews, a foolish take that became evil action)

or

-> Mao Zedong and Jiang Qing (Mao was loved, but Jiang aided in the background, leading her to not be seen as "valuable" by the other communists, especially Stalin)

or

-> Eduard Limonov and Yelena Shchapova (allied in the arts until Yelena switched to sucking up for money, leaving Limonov seething against money and become anti-capitalist radical, but no longer an inspired poet)

-If a ruler abides by its principles, then their people will willingly follow. Heaven would then reign on earth, like sweet rain falling on paradise. People would have no need for laws, because the law would be written on their hearts

->The best leaders of any particular Power Structure are those that have reached Tao, due to their inability to be corrupted

-The Tao of Heaven nourishes by not forcing. The Tao of the Wise person acts by not competing.

-> The most interesting quote, as at no other point in the text was the detail that two forms of Tao exist.

end of Quote Drop

This last distinction is the most important, as we can pivot off this to understand the successes of Monotheistic Philosophy and Eastern Philosophy. The term Monotheistic Philosophy is used because an absolute conviction that a God exists can be used for a person to reach a form of Tao. A Tao where one is nourished by not forcing, emotionally nourished knowing that this anthropomorphized version of morality will give them Heaven. The catch is, God doesn't exist. Christ did. He had reached a form of Tao where one could nourish the confusion of others by not forcing. That is until the Power Structure of the Roman Empire got in the way.

Christ was an early Anarchist. He wanted to give the people around him a morality that superseded the laws of the Romans, who themselves simply applied what made the most sense to them, as Urban Dwellers with cool lore. In the stead of Christ, were born something strange, unexpected. Martyrs. They wouldn't teach morality, but apply it, in whatever way they knew possible, which when confronted with the unknown, would fail. Martyrs made great tales for the Bible and for the effort of conversion, but also inspired Crusaders to go on a pilgrimage, one that necessitated bloodshed due to the politics of the time (another issue of Power, but one too complex to flesh out here). Martyrs and Crusaders were trying to reach a different form of Enlightenment, where you would give yourself up to another person, a brave, proud individual who would fight against evil, you would be nourished for purpose by not forcing away the teachings of another, one more wise.

Europe re-learnt this lesson as they grew sick and tired of incompetent leadership. France begun the tradition of Western Anarchism, in the forms of democracy, unions and strikes. Robespierre inspired a nation to get rid of not just the King, but a corrupt and self-serving court. Unfortunately, bloodlust once unleashed cannot be stopped. Robespierre did not try to describe morality, as all the efforts of French Intellectuals at the time could only go as far as to say "I think, therefore I am", without anything practical. Such philosophies were philosophies of destroying Power Structures, but not one of finding good leaders. And then a drunk neuro-divergent German, pissed off at the control money had over his life and his marriage, wrote a Manifesto. One that would inspire a century of Revolutions, a century of Great Leaders, Enlightened Leaders. And yet, none managed to sustain the connection between the Tao of Heaven and the Tao of the Wise due to Power Structures splitting such individuals up. Communism for Morality, the Morality of all being equal in the eyes of Power, or whatever structure we delegate resource management to. Anarchy as a system to allow flexible changes of leadership, so that those who have reached the Tao can rise as far up as they are required to.

TO BE NOTED: in some cases ignorance holds power over an individual, this need not exist thanks to the Internet.

WHAT CAN YOU DO?

-criticize my work. It sucks, my writing style was developed independently of any criticism. write something better

-encourage me to write more

-reach Tao, through meditation with moral mantras (the Tao Te Ching has many useful mantras to be used)

-be moral, but understand that without amorality, there is no morality. pity, then forgive those that are currently amoral, and encourage them to be more moral. this applies to yourself too. what is morality? just guess lmao no one rly knows, as long as you keep doing your best relative to your limitations (including the limitation of your current position relative to whatever power structure stops you from doing what you REALLY want)

[dweemeister]

Jiang Qing (played by Kathleen Kim) and Mao (Robert Brubaker) teach those motherfuckers how to dance in the surreal final act of Nixon in China (1987 opera) -- composed by John Adams; broadcasted live on February 12, 2011

Janis Kelly plays Pat Nixon; James Maddalena plays Richard Nixon.

[milkboydotnet]

If a rightist, anti-communist coup occurs in China, my conclusion is they will not have peace, and it is quite possible that it will be short-lived. This is because all the revolutionaries, who represent the interest of more than 90% of the people, will not tolerate it. At that time, the right will possibly use my words to secure power for some time, and the left then will definitely use other of my words, organize, and defeat the right.

Mao Zedong’s Private Letter to Jiang Qing: July 8, 1966