While Mao was alive, he knew that He Jiadong had been implicated in the case of the novel Liu Zhidan, but he did not know the details. Recently, after reading The Collected Works of He Jiadong, Mao was surprised by the depth of the arguments in the essays. He very much wanted to meet him and explain things face to face. Mao’s request was approved by the Jade Emperor.

Mao began bluntly: “You’re the editor of that anti-Party novel? How did you get dragged into it?”

He: “I was just an inconspicuous editor. I became somewhat known for writing Give Everything to the Party, and that’s why they came to me when they wrote the novel. At the time, I didn’t even understand what ‘anti-Party’ meant.”

Mao: “Do you know what the situation was in 1962? Lin Biao was elevating me—studying Mao’s works in universities, raising Mao’s banner. Whom did the novel Liu Zhidan elevate? It elevated him instead of me. If that’s not anti-Party, what is?”

He: “I only understood that later. So it turned out that I offended you—elevating Liu Zhidan instead of you was anti-Party. But it was only a novel. I didn’t think it had such power.”

Mao: “Once things escalate, it’s hard to say. The power of a novel must not be underestimated. Problems must be eliminated in the bud—killed before they emerge. Before you were involved in Liu Zhidan, you had already been purged, hadn’t you?”

He: “Yes, twice before. The first time was during the ‘Three-Anti’ and ‘Five-Anti’ campaigns in 1952 to ‘beat the tigers.’ Because I was in charge of the Workers’ Publishing House and had made profits and built a large building, I was labeled a ‘tiger.’ After the economic charges were cleared, historical issues were dredged up. They said I was a Kuomintang agent. I had indeed been arrested several times by the Kuomintang and by the Japanese, and that history was seized upon again. I was expelled from the Party and demoted to proofreader. The next year the espionage case was clarified, but my Party membership was not restored.”

Mao: “When did you join the Party?”

He: “I joined the revolution at fifteen and first applied to join the Party at seventeen, but it wasn’t approved.”

Mao: “Why not? Too young?”

He: “Not because of age. It was because I once said, ‘The united front is immoral.’ They said I was questioning Party policy.”

Mao: “Why did you think the united front was immoral?”

He: “I made a joking rhyme: ‘United front, united front—borrow a nest to lay eggs; openly united, secretly fighting.’ Just wordplay.”

Mao burst into laughter: “At seventeen you already saw through the intent behind my design of the ‘united front.’ A true genius! And it rhymed so smoothly—clever metaphor, full of literary flair. You said what I meant but never stated. You called it immoral, speaking from Confucian ethics. If the Communist Party had followed Confucius’ moral code, could it have seized power? So when did you finally join?”

He: “At twenty-two. In 1945 I went to Beiping to work in journalism, and they accepted me as an underground Party member. In 1949 I joined the Workers’ Daily.”

Mao: “How did you later become a Rightist?”

He: “Because as an editor I published Liu Binyan’s Internal News of This Paper, and I was implicated and labeled a Rightist.”

Mao: “Liu Binyan became a Rightist because he wrote things I didn’t like. You were just performing routine editorial duties. It shouldn’t have involved you. Weren’t you always writing your own works?”

He: “Even after being expelled from the Party and labeled a Rightist, I kept writing with conviction. In 1954 I wrote Give Everything to the Party; in 1957, My Family and Zhao Yiman; in 1958, Fang Zhimin and With a Million Troops in the Heart—Chairman Mao in Northern Shaanxi.”

Mao: “In those years, your books were bestsellers. Young people read them as the Bible of Communism. You guided youth into the communist ideal—no small achievement.”

He: “In 1960 my Rightist label was removed, and I helped edit Liu Zhidan. I didn’t expect it to cause trouble again. In 1965 Kang Sheng said the Workers’ Daily was impure; I was again called a Rightist and anti-Party element and sent down to Chengwu County in Shandong for ‘reform.’ When the Cultural Revolution began, I was dragged back to Beijing for struggle sessions, locked in a cowshed, and made to clean toilets. My eldest son suffered internal injuries and died in hospital. My second son committed suicide in despair. My elderly mother fell to her death during the Cultural Revolution. Not until 1979, when the Liu Zhidan case was redressed and the Rightist label corrected, was my Party membership restored and I returned to the Workers’ Publishing House.”

Mao: “Your life was full of hardship—two sons and your mother lost during the Cultural Revolution. In the 1980s and 1990s, you accomplished much, didn’t you?”

He: “That was my golden period. Inspired by Deng Xiaoping and Hu Yaobang’s call to emancipate the mind, I reflected on the past while working with Li Shenzhi and Chen Ziming. With Chen Ziming I founded an administrative correspondence university with 150,000 students, established the Institute for Social and Economic Research, and started the Economics Weekly, which Hu Yaobang supported and praised. I co-authored China’s Road with Li Shenzhi, and wrote China’s New Orthodoxy—From Liang Qichao to Li Shenzhi.”

Mao: “Did you encounter further setbacks?”

He: “In 1984, after publishing Liu Binyan’s The Second Loyalty, it again displeased the authorities. I faced heavy pressure and had to retire in 1985. After that I lived independently, under surveillance—my movements tracked, my phone tapped. When I died, my collected works had just been printed, but they were destroyed and the editor’s home was raided.”

Mao: “What did you write that was so serious?”

He: “Nothing but sincere reflection and hope for reform—especially institutional reform. I did not incite rebellion. As for reform, we elderly people did not demand giant strides forward, only small steps—what you once called the ‘bound feet woman’s steps.’ Are we conservative or radical rebels? Even so, we were not tolerated. We were called ‘true at both ends.’ In the 1950s we sincerely promoted communist ideals; in the 1980s we sincerely reflected and advocated democratic constitutionalism. In 2000 I co-authored China’s Road; in 2001, with Chen Ziming, The World and China in the 21st Century, both advocating democracy and constitutionalism. Based on Confucian orthodoxy, I proposed a modern ‘new orthodoxy,’ represented by Liang Qichao—Hu Shi—Gu Zhun—Li Shenzhi, contrasted with the line of political succession from Sun Yat-sen to Yuan Shikai to Chiang Kai-shek to Mao Zedong. I argued that moral orthodoxy is more important than political succession.”

Mao: “Moral orthodoxy is indeed more important. When political figures abide by it, the nation prospers; when they do not, chaos follows. I failed to uphold it and caused great disorder. Your life, from communist idealism to democratic enlightenment, has spanned generations. You are worthy of being called a sage of the Party. What advice do you have for me?”

He: “Lin Biao called you the ‘Four Greats’—that was hollow. I give you four ‘greats’ that are real: great military strategist, great tactician, great poet, great calligrapher. What you lack most is moral character—ordinary human feeling and reverence, even reverence for Heaven.”

Mao: “How do I compare with other leaders?”

He: “Liu Shaoqi led by example. Zhou Enlai had a dual personality—not a model. Zhu De and Chen Yun kept themselves clean and did not go along with wrongdoing; they could serve as examples.”

Mao: “How do I compare with Cao Cao?”

He: “You like to speak of Cao Cao. He was a crafty hero in chaotic times and a capable minister in peaceful times. You turned peace into chaos—a hero among villains. Your ideal ‘great order’ was nothing more than ‘thin gruel in idle times, dry grain in busy times.’”

Mao: “I belong to Marx!”

He: “Your thought does not truly belong to Marx’s system; it was transplanted from Lenin and Stalin in the Soviet Union—tamed communism.”

Mao: “You said I am the greatest military strategist?”

He: “Yes. You synthesized military thought like no one else. But you applied military methods to politics—devouring one side with another, seeing enemies everywhere. All allies were temporary and destined to become enemies. All policies, Party charters, and constitutions were ‘open schemes,’ without binding force.”

Mao: “I once said I did two things in my life—surely they count as achievements?”

He: “You did overthrow Chiang and Liu. But Chiang revived in Taiwan; Liu’s policies revived after his death. What remains of you is a shell. Yet your immoral way of thinking still influences generations; your successors have inherited your mindset.”

Mao: “You have deep insight—honed by decades of suffering.”

He: “After enduring suffering without resentment, I advocate broad-mindedness, forward-looking thought, forgiveness, and compromise. My motto: compromise is golden.”

Mao: “The Communist Party opposes compromise; to speak of it is Right deviation. There is no such word in its dictionary.”

He: “Exactly. It has rebellion but not compromise. After decades of painful lessons, I restored compromise to first place. History advances through combined forces, and combined forces arise from compromise. Violent rebellion only destroys. Your decades of revolution devoured your wife and children, leaving ruin. So I conclude: morality is white, theory is gray, violence is black, compromise is golden.”

Mao: “You speak of China’s road as democratic constitutionalism. What is the concrete path?”

He: “Learn from Chiang Ching-kuo. Ten years after Chiang Kai-shek’s death, he carried out reforms, transforming the Kuomintang from a semi-Russian revolutionary party into a modern democratic party—lifting press and party bans, holding democratic elections. He was elected president for his reforms. The Communist Party must do the same. The Soviet Union has successfully transformed into a modern system. You must urge your successors. Hu Yaobang had the best chance to be like Chiang Ching-kuo, but he did not compromise well with others…”

Mao responded perfunctorily: “Your views are truly unique. Speaking with you surpasses ten years of reading. I will continue to reflect and urge my successors to learn from Chiang Ching-kuo to atone.”

He: “Good. Reflect on communism, return to Confucian moral ethics, realize democratic constitutionalism. You must thoroughly repent for thirty years of wrongdoing and urge your successors to reform.”

Mao again replied perfunctorily: “You are right. I am repenting and will soon face the Jade Emperor’s public judgment. If you have the chance, please put in a good word for me so I may escape the eighteen levels of hell.”

With that, he rose, bade farewell to Elder He, and they parted ways.

NEXT: 89. Dong Shijin (1900–1984)