阎连科的《丧家犬的一年》，发表在纽约时报上，原文名The Year of the Stray Dog，中文翻译：刘少华。
旧习难改。尽管离开农村老家已三十多年，我却从未将元旦作为一年的开始。在我家乡，一年真正的开始是大年初一。
农历的2011年，对我来说，就像一条长长的隧道，没有一丝光亮。
黑暗的2011年始自我儿子找工作。那时他已完成在英国的学业，带着法学硕士学位回到中国。他坚信，若想在中国有所作为，需在法律系统中谋到一份公职。然而，因为不是党员，他几乎没机会参加国家司法考试。
当他还在读本科时，不止一次考虑过加入共产党，每次都被我劝阻了：“难道人必须要成为党员，才能获得自己想要的生活”？作为一个父亲，儿子的经历使我感觉我应跪在党的领导面前，求他们给入党和未入党的年轻人同等的求职机会。
黑暗的2011并未中止。我最新的作品，《四书》–一本直面中国人民在上世纪50年代末的大跃进以及随之而来的饥荒中所受创痛的小说，被近20家出版社退稿。拒绝的理由几乎是一致的：谁敢在中国出版我的书，谁就将被关掉。
这部小说花了我20年构思，2年时间写作。作为一个作家，这本书对我来说非常重要，我也知道它将成为中国文坛一部重要作品。然而，中国出版业的现状就是如此，对我来说，除了接受，别无它选。我只能长吁短叹。
厄运连连。伴随着书不能在大陆出版的梦魇，我在北京的房子也被强拆了，理由是附近有条公路要拓宽。强拆如飓风来临。没人向我和邻居们出示任何官方文件；赔偿没有商量余地，不管原有面积多大，盖房子花费多少，一律只有50万。大家还被告知，“谁愿意跟政府合作，将会额外奖励70万。”两项加起来共有约19万美金，看起来数额很大，实际上在今天的北京，这些钱在好地段也就能买个厕所。
居民们与强拆队之间剑拔弩张，大家发誓，要用生命维护财产和尊严。
斗争持续了数月之久。一天黎明，小区的墙被强拆了。一些疲于应战的老居民不得不被送到医院去。随后，一系列的盗窃案出现在小区，大家心知肚明，这只是用来吓唬居民们的策略而已。报警毫无价值，其幼稚程度与小学生报告说铅笔被偷无异。
11月的最后一天，离强拆期限只剩一天了，我在新浪微博上贴了一份对H和W的公开信，呼吁政府不要再跟被拆迁者玩 “猫鼠游戏”。我当然知道，这封信不会到达它该到的人手里，但我希望它能吸引足够的注意力，从而向当地政府施压，在强拆期间避免流血冲突。
我的公开信被大量转发，几乎立刻传遍全国。然而，它所产生的影响，如同在风中窃窃私语一般微弱。
12月2日，凌晨五点，一队戴着头盔的便衣男女，从窗户闯入我邻居家中。在向入侵者声明他反对拆迁后，我邻居被带走关了起来。他家的一些大型家具被搬出门外，随后房子被推土机铲平。后来他回忆说，那天早晨他看到200多个戴头盔的便衣围在自家房子边上。
整个12月里，有30多户被迫同意拆迁，我黑暗的2011年也就此结束了。这次经历使我意识到，一个公民和作家的尊严，尚不如一只饿犬向主人摇尾乞食重要；一个公民可享有的权力，还不如一个人手中握住的空气多。
我很想哭。有时我甚至会想，若能在北京中心的天安门广场哭一场，也是一个不小的特权吧。
在这个社会中，人们像狗一样活着。我梦想能在我的书中大声喊出这一切，并将我的呐喊变成优美的乐曲。这怪诞的人生和奇妙的梦境维持着我的生命，有时甚至给予我信心。然而，我也不断的灰心、丧气。
我身心俱疲，只想离开这黑暗的2011年的北京，回到自己的家乡去。我渴望能在家乡开始一个全新的2012年，跟我的母亲和亲人们待在一起，让他们简单的温暖带走一切冰冷、焦虑和恐惧，远离那些在2011年黑暗的隧道中包围我的东西。
我回到了位于河南西部的家乡嵩县，与我80岁的老母、兄长、嫂子、侄女们一起过了十天。我们一起回忆过去、说笑话、打麻将。无人提及我的作品或是经历过的不幸，我们像过着完美的生活一般。
每日所见，皆是灿烂阳光。每日所感，都是亲人关爱。那十天，我们坐在电视前，一起看肥皂剧，看春节联欢晚会。电视节目很一般，但家里的暖意驱走了黑暗的2011年。我感觉很安心。
除夕夜，我们按照传统，一起吃了顿饺子。母亲把她的一些饺子分给我，以示关爱。一小缕头发垂下来，她的脸上洋溢着幸福：“我们国家现在富强了，这多么美妙！”她说，“我们现在能吃肉馅的饺子了，隔三差五吃，就跟以前穷的时候吃野草一样多！”
我哥哥终其一生都是一个骑自行车到处送信的邮差，现在他退休了，开着我用版税给他买的车子。“为什么有人会恨政府呢？”一次他载我去看望一个住在山村里的亲戚时，在路上问我。“我们生活的很好，这还不够吗？”
我两个姐姐都是农民。她们很爱看一个清宫肥皂剧，剧中的皇帝很聪明，做事游刃有余。姐姐们希望我也能写一个那样的肥皂剧本，既有钱，又有名。她们说，只要写出一个成功的肥皂剧就会让整个家族脸上有光。
我不知道我的家人是真相信这些东西，还是只想安慰我而已。我不知道这几年获得的财富，是否真的让中国人民坚信，吃得饱、穿得暖真的比权力和尊严更重要？或者，在他们看来，一盘饺子，口袋里的一点钱，比权力和尊严更有用？
我没问，也不想深究，因为我知道，根本就没有明确的答案。于我而言，我更愿意保持尊严，即便那意味着饥饿至死。这信仰在我的血液中流淌，这也应是文化人的基本原则。然而，在今天的中国，对许多人来说，这只是一派胡言。可是，我为何要抱怨？就连文化人都将食物和钱置于尊严之上，我怎能以此来批评我的亲人们呢？
大年初六是出门的吉日，我该走了，亲人们都赶来与我道别。与以往一样，每逢这种场合，母亲都会掉眼泪。但直到最后一刻，她才开口。
“多和有权有势的人交朋友”，她在我耳边低诉。“别做让那些人反感的事。”
我走之后，哥哥给我发了一条短信。“大过年的，我就没说给你听。要记住：别管是为了什么事，都别惹政府。”
我外甥陪着我到了最近的高速入口斜坡处。“我妈让我告诉你”，那孩子吞吞吐吐地说，“照顾好自己的身体。别写太多了。如果一定要写，就写点夸政府和国家的。别越老越糊涂。”
我点了点头。
“告诉你姥姥、舅舅和妈妈：别担心我，我很好。我写的东西很好，我也应付的来。除了皱纹和白头发越来越多，没别的烦心事儿。”说完后，我开车离开。
一边开车，没来由地，眼泪倏然而至。我只是很想哭。是为我母亲、兄长、亲人们以及那些同样有了吃的就忘了尊严的陌生人们？还是为那些像我一样热爱权力与尊严却活得像丧家犬之人？我不知道。我只想大声哭泣。
我停下车，任涕泪肆意横流–落到我的脸上，流进我的心中。很久之后，眼泪干涸了，我又发动了车。我在开回北京的路上，喘着粗气、焦虑万分，就像一只迷失在黑暗隧道中的丧家之犬。
The New York Times： The Year of the Stray Dog
By YAN LIANKE
Published： April 20， 2012
BEIJING — Old habits die hard. Despite leaving my home in the countryside more than 30 years ago， I never feel that the first of January marks the start of a new year. In my hometown， the true beginning of a new year is the first day of the Chinese Lunar New Year.
The year 2011 for me was as long and dark as a tunnel without light.
My dark 2011 started with my son’s search for a job. He had finished his studies in Britain and returned to China armed with a master’s degree in law. He believes that to make a difference in China he must start his career as a public servant within the legal system. However， because he is not a member of the Chinese Communist Party， it is almost impossible for him to sit for the national civil service exam to get the job he wants.
He considered joining the Communist Party more than once when he was an undergraduate. I talked him out of it every time， saying， “Do people have to be party members to get on in this life？” As a father， my son’s experience makes me feel I should kneel down in front of the party leaders and beg them to give young people who are not party members the same career opportunities it gives to those who have joined.
The darkness of 2011 continued. My latest work， “Four Books” — a novel that directly confronts the Chinese people’s traumatic experiences during the Great Leap Forward of the late 1950s and the subsequent famine — was rejected by almost 20 publishing houses. The reasons I was given were all along the same lines： Anyone who dares to publish my book in China is certain to be closed down.
The novel took me 20 years to plan and two years to write. It is important to me as a writer， and I know it will be an important contribution to Chinese literature. However， I am fully aware of the realities of publishing in China， so I have no choice but to accept the fate of my book. All I can do is sigh.
COMPOUNDING the nightmare of my book’s nonpublication in China was the forced demolition of my house for a road-widening project in Beijing. It came like a hurricane. No one bothered to show the evicted residents in my neighborhood any official documents relating to the project； the non-negotiable compensation was set at a flat 500，000 yuan (about $79，000) per household， regardless of the area of the land or the original construction cost. The residents were told， “Whoever cooperates with the government will be further rewarded 700，000 yuan.” That’s approximately $190，000 in total. This seemingly large sum in fact is only enough to buy a toilet in a good neighborhood in today’s Beijing.
The conflict between the residents and the demolition crew was intense. Residents pledged to defend their properties and dignity with their lives.
The battle raged for months. One day the wall surrounding the neighborhood compound was demolished at dawn. Some elderly battle-weary residents had to be rushed to the hospital. Then came news of a series of “burglaries” in the compound， which everyone knew was a tactic intended to intimidate residents. Reporting the burglaries to the police was as meaningless as an elementary school student reporting a lost pencil.
On Nov. 30， one day before the forced demolition deadline， I wrote a petition to the general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party， Hu Jintao， and Prime Minister Wen Jiabao and posted it on Sina Weibo， the Chinese equivalent of Twitter， urging an end to the game of cat-and-mouse played with people whose houses were about to be demolished. I knew the letter would not reach its intended recipients， but I hoped it would attract enough attention to pressure the local government to avoid bloodshed during the demolition.
My letter was widely reposted and spread nationwide almost instantly. Still， it had no more impact than a whisper in the wind.
AT ABOUT 5 a.m. on Dec. 2， a group of uniformed men and women wearing helmets broke into my neighbor’s house through a window. After having told the intruders that he objected to the demolition， my neighbor was taken away and locked up. A few large pieces of furniture were moved outside and his house was bulldozed. He later recalled that when he was taken away that morning， he saw more than 200 people， all uniformed and wearing helmets， surrounding his house.
In December， more than 30 families were finally coerced into agreeing to the demolition. That marked the end of my dark 2011. The experience made me realize that in reality the dignity of a citizen and a writer is no more significant than a hungry dog begging its master for food； in reality， the rights a citizen can actually enjoy are no more than the air a person can hold in his hand.
I wanted to cry. Sometimes I imagine it would be a great privilege to be able to cry aloud in Tiananmen Square in the center of Beijing.
People live like dogs in this society. I dream of being able to bark out loud in my books， and of turning my barking into exquisite music. This strange life and this strange dream keep me alive， and sometimes even give me confidence. At the same time， I am constantly disheartened.
Emotionally exhausted， I longed to leave the dark Beijing of 2011 behind me and go home. I longed for a new beginning in 2012 — a new beginning in my hometown， to be with my mother， to be with my relatives， to let their simple warmth take away the coldness， anxiety and fear that had enveloped me in the dark tunnel of 2011.
I WENT home. For 10 days I spent all my time with my 80-year-old mother， my elder brother and his wife and my nieces in our hometown of Songxian， in Western Henan province. We talked about the past， told jokes and played mahjong. Not a single word about my writing or my unhappiness was mentioned. It was as if we all lived perfect lives.
All I could see was bright sunlight. All I could feel was the love of my close relatives. For 10 days， we sat in front of the TV. We watched silly soap operas and the CCTV Spring Festival Gala. The TV programs were mediocre， but the love of my family pushed away the darkness of 2011. I felt safe.
On the eve of the Lunar New Year we ate a traditional meal of dumplings together. Mother gave me a portion of her dumplings to show her love. A few wisps of white hair fell onto a face that was beaming with happiness. “Our country is rich now. Isn’t it wonderful！” she said. “We can now have meat-filled dumplings， as often as we ate wild grass when we were poor.”
My elder brother was a postman who rode a bicycle to deliver letters all his working life. He is now retired and drives a car I bought with royalties from my books. “Why do people hate the government？” he asked me while driving to visit a relative in a remote mountain village. “Our lives are good. Isn’t that enough？”
My two elder sisters are farmers. They loved the soap opera about a wise Qing dynasty emperor who treated his subjects well. My sisters want me to write a soap opera script like that to garner fame and fortune. Just one successful soap opera would let the whole family bask in glory， they said.
I don’t know if my family truly believes these things， or whether they were just trying to comfort me. I don’t know if their newly acquired wealth makes the Chinese people truly believe that warm clothes and a full stomach are more important than rights and dignity. Or did they always think that a plate of dumplings and a bit of money in their pockets are more useful than rights and dignity？
I didn’t ask and didn’t really want to delve into it because I know there’s no clear-cut answer. As for myself， I’d rather uphold my dignity even if it means dying of starvation. This belief is in my blood. It is supposed to be the guiding principle for all men of letters， but for many in today’s China it is no more than gibberish. Why am I complaining？ If even men of letters choose a bit of food and a little money over dignity， how can I criticize my less-educated relatives？
THE SIXTH day of the Lunar New Year is an auspicious day to travel. It was time to leave. All my relatives came out to say goodbye. Mother was in tears as always on such occasions. She was quiet until the last moment.
“Make friends with people in power，” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t do anything to annoy them.”
My brother sent me a text message after I left. “I didn’t say this to you because it was a festive time. Remember： Never do anything to annoy the government， no matter what.”
My nephew accompanied me to the nearby highway entrance ramp. “My mother asked me to tell you，” said the boy hesitantly， “Look after your health. Don’t write too much， and if you really must write， then write something that praises the government and the nation. Don’t become foolish with age.”
I nodded.
“Tell your grandma， uncle and your mother： Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. My writing is going well. I’m doing well. Apart from acquiring some wrinkles and white hair， nothing bad will happen to me.” I drove away.
As I drove， tears streamed down my face for no apparent reason. I just wanted to cry. Was it for my mother， my brother， my relatives and the strangers who forget about their dignity as long as they have enough to eat？ Or for people like me who worship rights and dignity but live the life of a stray dog？ I don’t know. I just wanted to cry out loud.
I pulled over and let my tears flow — down my face and in my heart. After a long while， after my tears dried， I started the car again. I was on my way back to Beijing， panting and anxious， like a stray dog lost in a dark tunnel.
Yan Lianke is a Chinese writer of novels and short stories based in Beijing. His works include “The Dream of Ding Village，” about the blood-selling scandal in his home province of Henan. This article was translated from the Chinese by Jane Weizhen Pan and Martin Merz.
