Mao Zedong harbored a deep, personal resentment toward intellectuals from the Republican era, stemming from his own humiliations as a lowly library assistant at Peking University. According to legend, Mao was once slapped by the university president, Fu Sinian, because of his careless work, leaving a lifelong psychological scar. Whether from feeling unrecognized despite talent or being dismissed by senior scholars, Mao’s animosity toward intellectuals had roots.

Later, Mao told the American journalist and writer Edgar Snow: “Because my position was low, people avoided me. Part of my job was to record the names of those coming to read newspapers, yet most did not regard me as a person. Among them were prominent New Culture Movement leaders such as Fu Sinian and Luo Jialun. I was deeply interested in them and tried to discuss politics and culture, but they were too busy to hear a southern-accented library assistant.” This sense of being disregarded helped shape Mao’s later authoritarian personality, much like Hitler’s early artistic failures shaped his later psychology.

Once in power, Mao rigorously persecuted intellectuals. From the founding of the People’s Republic, all intellectuals were forced to submit, self-deprecate, and endure humiliation, even those overseas scholars eager to serve the new China. Every intellectual had to yield to his authority, from moderate figures like Guo Moruo, who became near-lifelike sycophants, fawning for Mao’s favor.

By 1957, Mao launched the “rightist purge,” officially targeting 550,000 but in reality persecuting over three million, many starving or killed. Yet Mao’s appetite for domination was not sated. During the Cultural Revolution, intellectuals continued to be brutalized, imprisoned, whipped, or killed.

Chen Yinke was exceptional—he alone resisted, asserting conditions to the Communist Party. When invited to head the Institute of History at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, he demanded that Marxism-Leninism not be imposed. Mao could not tolerate such independence, yet Chen remained untouchable for over a decade.

One day, the Jade Emperor in Heaven, reviewing records, read Chen’s works and learned he had been persecuted by Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution. He summoned Chen to testify.

The Jade Emperor said, “I have long admired you. You were the only scholar in New China daring to demand not to teach Marxism-Leninism. Mao must have been furious, yet you remained safe for years.”

Chen replied, “In 1953, I was invited to Beijing to head the Second Historical Institute at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. I set two conditions: 1) freedom from studying politics or revering Marxism-Leninism, 2) a written permit from Mao or Liu to shield me. I insisted that top leaders share my views, or academic research would be impossible. I was not appointed and remained at Sun Yat-sen University. This was revealed only in the 1980s.”

The Jade Emperor said, “Your courage and independence are remarkable. No wonder Fu Sinian said you were unmatched in scholarship and daring over three centuries.”

Chen said, “I never let politics dictate my research. I neither doubted antiquity nor was constrained by it, blending old and new, Chinese and foreign, without political influence.”

The Jade Emperor said, “I read your theory: nomadic civilizations periodically revitalized agrarian culture, injecting vigor into China’s declining traditions. This is fascinating.”

Chen said, “Studying Qin and Han, I understood Chinese culture as centered in Guanzhong, with a northwestern focus.”

The Jade Emperor said, “In old age you went blind yet remained mentally sharp. No wonder Yu Ying-shih said of you: ‘Seeing the rise and fall, blind eyes; residual poems and tears testify solitary integrity; a scholar in both literature and history, insight piercing the world’s calamities.’ You were a master among masters.”

Chen said, “During the Cultural Revolution, only Tao Zhu looked after me. At Sun Yat-sen University, Tao Zhu treated me well. In 1962, I fell in the bathtub, breaking my right leg; Tao sent three nurses in shifts to care for me. But by the Cultural Revolution, Tao fell, my salary was frozen, forced to report, my large collection of books and manuscripts looted. I wrote a poem: ‘Low tears before cows’ clothing, ruined and hard to conceal.’ Liu Jiedai took some blows for me, yet rebels set loudspeakers at my bedside. Unable to endure, I died of heart failure in 1969 at seventy-nine. Eleven days later, the official obituary read: ‘Chen, a member of the National Committee of the CPPCC, deputy curator of the Central Research Institute of Culture and History, professor at Sun Yat-sen University, passed away.’ My ashes were kept at Galaxy Cemetery; in 2003, reinterred in Lushan Botanical Garden, Jiangxi.”

The Jade Emperor said, “You were a victim of the Cultural Revolution. This account must be charged to Mao Zedong. Having witnessed all of China’s vicissitudes, what is your verdict on Mao?”

Chen said, “Mao was like Zhu Yuanzhang. Zhu quickly restored Confucian temples and promoted peace; Mao began killing, leaving countless dead, over a hundred million died from starvation. History and world over, Mao was the cruelest tyrant. He was the greatest slaveholder; all Chinese were his slaves. Compared to US founding fathers like Washington, who protected their slaves, Mao’s subjects were worth nothing, not even slaves.”

The Jade Emperor said, “Mao’s subjects were less than slaves, mere ants. He once said: ‘Not afraid of atomic bombs; let three hundred million die, I still have three hundred million. I want world revolution; one-third of the world die, I will be world king.’ Such a demon cannot be spared; he belongs in Hell.”

Chen said, “Placing Mao in the eighteen levels of hell is right. That is my recommendation.”

The Jade Emperor said, “Thank you for your advice. I will consider it carefully.” And with that, he departed.

NEXT: 116. Fu Lei (1908–1966)