[08.07.28 The New Yorker] 愤青（Angry Youth）

赤壁白云

NewYorker记者笔下的愤青-Angry Youth

记者在四月份看了一个新浪网上的6分钟的有意思的nationalism录像"2008 !China
Stand Up! 2008,中国，站起来！"，在第1周半内有1百万访问。于是，记者就找到录像
作者，"愤青"Tang Jie进行了一次(见照片中间的人)面谈,采访交流有关"愤青"的思想
观点: He believes that American attempts to contain China may spark “a new
Cold War.”

Tang是26岁的复旦大学phenomenology 博士生，正在写他的关于西方哲学的博士论文，
还有他要为出版社翻译的文章。他精通英语和德语。他还能使用代理越过防火墙浏览被
阻挡的网址内容。他用他的联想电脑(P4,1GB)和MovieMaker制作了录像.

－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－

【来源】The New Yorker
【链接】http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/07/28/080728fa_fact_osnos/?currentPage=all
【标题】Angry Youth

2月前发帖求助应对Newyorker采访，现报道已出。全文如下，主角是我的一个朋友

【正文】

Angry Youth

The new generation’s neocon nationalists.

by Evan Osnos July 28, 2008

Tang Jie (center) believes that American attempts to contain China may spark “a new Cold War.” Photograph by Ian Teh.

On the morning of April 15th, a short video entitled “2008 China Stand Up!” appeared on Sina, a Chinese Web site. The video’s origin was a mystery: unlike the usual YouTube-style clips, it had no host, no narrator, and no signature except the initials “CTGZ.”

It was a homespun documentary, and it opened with a Technicolor portrait of Chairman Mao, sunbeams radiating from his head. Out of silence came an orchestral piece, thundering with drums, as a black screen flashed, in both Chinese and English, one of Mao’s mantras: “Imperialism will never abandon its intention to destroy us.” Then a cut to present-day photographs and news footage, and a fevered sprint through conspiracies and betrayals—the “farces, schemes, and disasters” confronting China today. The sinking Chinese stock market (the work of foreign speculators who “wildly manipulated” Chinese stock prices and lured rookie investors to lose their fortunes). Shoppers beset by inflation, a butcher counter where “even pork has become a luxury.” And a warning: this is the dawn of a global “currency war,” and the West intends to “make Chinese people foot the bill” for America’s financial woes.

A cut, then, to another front: rioters looting stores and brawling in Lhasa, the Tibetan capital. The music crescendos as words flash across the scenes: “So-called peaceful protest!” A montage of foreign press clippings critical of China—nothing but “rumors, all speaking with one distorted voice.” The screen fills with the logos of CNN, the BBC, and other news organizations, which give way to a portrait of Joseph Goebbels. The orchestra and the rhetoric climb toward a final sequence: “Obviously, there is a scheme behind the scenes to encircle China. A new Cold War!” The music turns triumphant with images of China’s Olympic hurdler Liu Xiang standing in Tiananmen Square, raising the Olympic torch, “a symbol of Peace and Friendship!” But, first, one final act of treachery: in Paris, protesters attempt to wrest the Olympic torch from its official carrier, forcing guards to fend them off—a “long march” for a new era. The film ends with the image of a Chinese flag, aglow in the sunlight, and a solemn promise: “We will stand up and hold together always as one family in harmony!”

The video, which was just over six minutes long and is now on YouTube, captured the mood of nationalism that surged through China after the Tibetan uprising, in March, sparked foreign criticism of China’s hosting of the 2008 Summer Olympics. Citizens were greeting the criticism with rare fury. Thousands demonstrated in front of Chinese outlets of Carrefour, a French supermarket chain, in retaliation for what they considered France’s sympathy for pro-Tibetan activists. Charles Zhang, who holds a Ph.D. from M.I.T. and is the founder and C.E.O. of Sohu, a leading Chinese Web portal along the lines of Yahoo, called online for a boycott of French products “to make the thoroughly biased French media and public feel losses and pain.” When Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi denounced China’s handling of Tibet, Xinhua, China’s official news service, called her “disgusting.” State-run media revived language from another age: the magazine Outlook Weekly warned that “domestic and foreign hostile forces have made the Beijing Olympics a focus for infiltration and sabotage.” In the anonymity of the Web, decorum deteriorated. “People who fart through the mouth will get shit stuffed down their throats by me!” one commentator wrote, in a forum hosted by a semi-official newspaper. “Someone give me a gun! Don’t show mercy to the enemy!” wrote another. The comments were an embarrassment to many Chinese, but they were difficult to ignore among foreign journalists who had begun receiving threats. (An anonymous letter to my fax machine in Beijing warned, “Clarify the facts on China . . . or you and your loved ones will wish you were dead.”)

In its first week and a half, the video by CTGZ drew more than a million hits and tens of thousands of favorable comments. It rose to the site’s fourth-most-popular rating. (A television blooper clip of a yawning news anchor was No. 1.) On average, the film attracted nearly two clicks per second. It became a manifesto for a self-styled vanguard in defense of China’s honor, a patriotic swath of society that the Chinese call the fen qing, the angry youth.

Nineteen years after the crackdown on student-led protests in Tiananmen Square, China’s young élite rose again this spring—not in pursuit of liberal democracy but in defense of sovereignty and prosperity. Nicholas Negroponte, the founder of M.I.T.’s Media Laboratory and one of the early ideologists of the Internet, once predicted that the global reach of the Web would transform the way we think about ourselves as countries. The state, he predicted, will evaporate “like a mothball, which goes from solid to gas directly,” and “there will be no more room for nationalism than there is for smallpox.” In China, things have gone differently.

A young Chinese friend of mine, who spends most of his time online, traced the screen name CTGZ to an e-mail address. It belonged to a twenty-eight-year-old graduate student in Shanghai named Tang Jie, and it was his first video. A couple of weeks later, I met Tang Jie at the gate of Fudan University, a top Chinese school, situated on a modern campus that radiates from a pair of thirty-story steel-and-glass towers that could pass for a corporate headquarters. He wore a crisp powder-blue oxford shirt, khakis, and black dress shoes. He had bright hazel eyes and rounded features—a baby face, everyone tells him—and a dusting of goatee and mustache on his chin and upper lip. He bounded over to welcome me as I stepped out of a cab, and he tried to pay my fare.

Tang spends most of his time working on his dissertation, which is on Western philosophy. He specializes in phenomenology; specifically, in the concept of “intersubjectivity,” as theorized by Edmund Husserl, the German philosopher who influenced Sartre, among others. In addition to Chinese, Tang reads English and German easily, but he speaks them infrequently, so at times he swerves, apologetically, among languages. He is working on his Latin and Ancient Greek. He is so self-effacing and soft-spoken that his voice may drop to a whisper. He laughs sparingly, as if he were conserving energy. For fun, he listens to classical Chinese music, though he also enjoys screwball comedies by the Hong Kong star Stephen Chow. He is proudly unhip. The screen name CTGZ is an adaptation of two obscure terms from classical poetry: changting and gongzi, which together translate as “the noble son of the pavilion.” Unlike some élite Chinese students, Tang has never joined the Communist Party, for fear that it would impugn his objectivity as a scholar.

Tang had invited some friends to join us for lunch, at Fat Brothers Sichuan Restaurant, and afterward we all climbed the stairs to his room. He lives alone in a sixth-floor walkup, a studio of less than seventy-five square feet, which could be mistaken for a library storage room occupied by a fastidious squatter. Books cover every surface, and great mounds list from the shelves above his desk. His collections encompass, more or less, the span of human thought: Plato leans against Lao-tzu, Wittgenstein, Bacon, Fustel de Coulanges, Heidegger, the Koran. When Tang wanted to widen his bed by a few inches, he laid plywood across the frame and propped up the edges with piles of books. Eventually, volumes overflowed the room, and they now stand outside his front door in a wall of cardboard boxes.

Tang slumped into his desk chair. We talked for a while, and I asked if he had any idea that his video would be so popular. He smiled. “It appears I have expressed a common feeling, a shared view,” he said.

Next to him sat Liu Chengguang, a cheerful, broad-faced Ph.D. student in political science who recently translated into Chinese a lecture on the subject of “Manliness” by the conservative Harvard professor Harvey Mansfield. Sprawled on the bed, wearing a gray sweatshirt, was Xiong Wenchi, who earned a Ph.D. in political science before taking a teaching job last year. And to Tang’s left sat Zeng Kewei, a lean and stylish banker, who picked up a master’s degree in Western philosophy before going into finance. Like Tang, each of his friends was in his twenties, was the first in his family to go to college, and had been drawn to the study of Western thought.

“China was backward throughout its modern history, so we were always seeking the reasons for why the West grew strong,” Liu said. “We learned from the West. All of us who are educated have this dream: Grow strong by learning from the West.”

Tang and his friends were so gracious, so thankful that I’d come to listen to them, that I began to wonder if China’s anger of last spring should be viewed as an aberration. They implored me not to make that mistake.

“We’ve been studying Western history for so long, we understand it well,” Zeng said. “We think our love for China, our support for the government and the benefits of this country, is not a spontaneous reaction. It has developed after giving the matter much thought.”

In fact, their view of China’s direction, if not their vitriol, is consistent with the Chinese mainstream. Almost nine out of ten Chinese approve of the way things are going in the country—the highest share of any of the twenty-four countries surveyed this spring by the Pew Research Center. (In the United States, by comparison, just two out of ten voiced approval.) As for the more assertive strain of patriotism, scholars point to a Chinese petition against Japan’s membership in the U.N. Security Council. At last count, it had attracted more than forty million signatures, roughly the population of Spain. I asked Tang to show me how he made his film. He turned to face the screen of his Lenovo desktop P.C., which has a Pentium 4 Processor and one gigabyte of memory. “Do you know Movie Maker?” he said, referring to a video-editing program. I pleaded ignorance and asked if he’d learned from a book. He glanced at me pityingly. He’d learned it on the fly from the help menu. “We must thank Bill Gates,” he said.

When people began rioting in Lhasa in March, Tang followed the news closely. As usual, he was receiving his information from American and European news sites, in addition to China’s official media. Like others his age, he has no hesitation about tunnelling under the government firewall, a vast infrastructure of digital filters and human censors which blocks politically objectionable content from reaching computers in China. Younger Chinese friends of mine regard the firewall as they would an officious lifeguard at a swimming pool—an occasional, largely irrelevant, intrusion.

To get around it, Tang detours through a proxy server—a digital way station overseas that connects a user with a blocked Web site. He watches television exclusively online, because he doesn’t have a TV in his room. Tang also receives foreign news clips from Chinese students abroad. (According to the Institute of International Education, the number of Chinese students in the United States—some sixty-seven thousand—has grown by nearly two-thirds in the past decade.) He’s baffled that foreigners might imagine that people of his generation are somehow unwise to the distortions of censorship.

“Because we are in such a system, we are always asking ourselves whether we are brainwashed,” he said. “We are always eager to get other information from different channels.” Then he added, “But when you are in a so-called free system you never think about whether you are brainwashed.”

[ 本帖最后由 Nicolle 于 2008-7-23 22:11 编辑 ]

赤壁白云

At the time, news and opinion about Tibet was swirling on Fudan’s electronic bulletin board, or B.B.S. The board was alive with criticism of foreign coverage of Tibet. Tang had seen a range of foreign press clippings deemed by Chinese Web users to be misleading or unfair. A photograph on CNN.com, for instance, had been cropped around military trucks bearing down on unarmed protesters. But an uncropped version showed a crowd of demonstrators lurking nearby, including someone with an arm cocked, hurling something at the trucks. To Tang, the cropping looked like a deliberate distortion. (CNN disputed this and said that the caption fairly describes the scene.)

“It was a joke,” he said bitterly. That photograph and others crisscrossed China by e-mail, scrawled with criticism, while people added more examples from the Times of London, Fox News, German television, and French radio. It was a range of news organizations, and, to those inclined to see it as such, it smacked of a conspiracy. It shocked people like Tang, who put faith in the Western press, but, more important, it offended them: Tang thought that he was living in the moment of greatest prosperity and openness in his country’s modern history, and yet the world still seemed to view China with suspicion. As if he needed confirmation, Jack Cafferty, a CNN commentator, called China “the same bunch of goons and thugs they’ve been for the last fifty years,” a quote that rippled across the front pages in China and for which CNN later apologized. Like many of his peers, Tang couldn’t figure out why foreigners were so agitated about Tibet—an impoverished backwater, as he saw it, that China had tried for decades to civilize. Boycotting the Beijing Games in the name of Tibet seemed as logical to him as shunning the Salt Lake City Olympics to protest America’s treatment of the Cherokee.

He scoured YouTube in search of a rebuttal, a clarification of the Chinese perspective, but he found nothing in English except pro-Tibet videos. He was already busy—under contract from a publisher for a Chinese translation of Leibniz’s “Discourse on Metaphysics” and other essays—but he couldn’t shake the idea of speaking up on China’s behalf.

“I thought, O.K., I’ll make something,” he said.

Before Tang could start, however, he was obligated to go home for a few days. His mother had told him to be back for the harvest season. She needed his help in the fields, digging up bamboo shoots.

Tang is the youngest of four siblings from a farming family near the eastern city of Hangzhou. For breaking China’s one-child policy, his parents paid fines measured in grain. Tang’s birth cost them two hundred kilos of unmilled rice. (“I’m not very expensive,” he says.)

Neither his mother nor his father could read or write. Until the fourth grade, Tang had no name. He went by Little Four, after his place in the family order. When that became impractical, his father began calling him Tang Jie, an abbreviated homage to his favorite comedian, Tang Jiezhong, half of a popular act in the style of Abbott and Costello.

Tang was bookish and, in a large, boisterous household, he said little. He took to science fiction. “I can tell you everything about all those movies, like ‘Star Wars,’ ” he told me. He was a good, though not a spectacular, student, but he showed a precocious interest in ideas. “He wasn’t like other kids, who spent their pocket money on food—he saved all his money to buy books,” said his sister Tang Xiaoling, who is seven years older. None of his siblings had studied past the eighth grade, and they regarded him as an admirable oddity. “If he had questions that he couldn’t figure out, then he couldn’t sleep,” his sister said. “For us, if we didn’t get it we just gave up.”

In high school, Tang improved his grades and had some success at science fairs as an inventor. But he was frustrated. “I discovered that science can’t help your life,” he said. He happened upon a Chinese translation of a fanciful Norwegian novel, “Sophie’s World,” by the philosophy teacher Jostein Gaarder, in which a teen-age girl encounters the history of great thinkers. “It was then that I discovered philosophy,” Tang said.

Patriotism was not a particularly strong presence in his house, but landmarks of national progress became the backdrop of his adolescence. When Tang was in junior high, the Chinese were still celebrating the country’s first major freeway, completed a few years before. “It was famous. We were proud of this. At last we had a highway!” he recalled one day, with a laugh, as we whizzed down an expressway in Shanghai. “Now we have highways everywhere, even in Tibet.”

Supermarkets opened in his home town, and, eventually, so did an Internet café. (Tang, who was eighteen at the time, was particularly fond of the Web sites for the White House and NASA, because they had kids’ sections that used simpler English sentences.) Tang enrolled at Hangzhou Normal University. He came to credit his country and his family for opportunities that his siblings had never had. By the time he reached Fudan, in 2003, he lived in a world of ideas. “He had a pure passion for philosophy,” Ma Jun, a fellow philosophy student who met him early on, said. “A kind of religious passion.”

The Internet had barely taken root in China before it became a vessel for nationalism. At the Atlanta Olympics, in 1996, as the Chinese delegation marched into the stadium, the NBC announcer Bob Costas riffed on China’s “problems with human rights, property right disputes, the threat posed to Taiwan.” Then he mentioned “suspicions” that Chinese athletes used performance-enhancing drugs. Even though the Web in China was in its infancy (there were just five telephone lines for every hundred people), comments spread instantly among Chinese living abroad. The timing couldn’t have been more opportune: after more than fifteen years of reform and Westernization, Chinese writers were pushing back against Hollywood, McDonald’s, and American values. An impassioned book titled “China Can Say No” came out that spring and sold more than a hundred thousand copies in its first month. Written by a group of young intellectuals, it decried China’s “infatuation with America,” which had suppressed the national imagination with a diet of visas, foreign aid, and advertising. If China didn’t resist this “cultural strangulation,” it would become “a slave,” extending a history of humiliating foreign incursions that stretched back to China’s defeat in the first Opium War and the British acquisition of Hong Kong, in 1842. The Chinese government, which is wary of fast-spreading new ideas, eventually pulled the book off the shelves, but not before a raft of knockoffs sought to exploit the same mood (“Why China Can Say No,” “China Still Can Say No,” and “China Always Say No”).

Xu Wu, a former journalist in China who is now a professor at Arizona State University, says in his 2007 book “Chinese Cyber Nationalism” that groups claiming to represent more than seventy thousand overseas Chinese wrote to NBC asking for an apology for the Costas remarks. They collected donations online and bought an ad in the Washington Post, accusing Costas and the network of “ignominious prejudice and inhospitality.” NBC apologized, and Chinese online activism was born.

Each day, some thirty-five hundred Chinese citizens were going online for the first time. In 1998, Charles Zhang’s Sohu launched China’s first major search engine. The following spring, when a NATO aircraft, using American intelligence, mistakenly dropped three bombs on the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade, the Chinese Web found its voice. The United States apologized, blaming outdated maps and inaccurate databases, but Chinese patriotic hackers—calling themselves “honkers,” to capture the sound of hong, which is Chinese for the color red—attacked. As Peter Hays Gries, a China scholar at the University of Oklahoma, details in “China’s New Nationalism,” they plastered the home page of the U.S. Embassy in Beijing with the slogan “Down with the Barbarians!,” and they caused the White House Web site to crash under a deluge of angry e-mail. “The Internet is Western,” one commentator wrote, “but . . . we Chinese can use it to tell the people of the world that China cannot be insulted!”

The government treated online patriots warily. They placed their pride in the Chinese nation, not necessarily in the Party, and leaders rightly sensed that the passion could swerve against them. After a nationalist Web site was shut down by censors in 2004, one commentator wrote, “Our government is as weak as sheep!” The government permitted nationalism to grow at some moments but strained to control it at others. The following spring, when Japan approved a new textbook that critics claimed glossed over wartime atrocities, patriots in Beijing drafted protest plans and broadcast them via chat rooms, bulletin boards, and text messages. As many as ten thousand demonstrators took to the streets, hurling paint and bottles at the Japanese Embassy. Despite government warnings to cease these activities, thousands more marched in Shanghai the following week—one of China’s largest demonstrations in years—and vandalized the Japanese consulate. At one point, Shanghai police cut off cell-phone service in downtown Shanghai.

“Up to now, the Chinese government has been able to keep a grip on it,” Xu Wu told me. “But I call it the ‘virtual Tiananmen Square.’ They don’t need to go there. They can do the same thing online and sometimes be even more damaging.”

Tang was at dinner with friends one night in 2004 when he met Wan Manlu, an elegantly reserved Ph.D. student in Chinese literature and linguistics. Her delicate features suited her name, which includes the character for the finest jade. They sat side by side, but barely spoke. Later, Tang hunted down her screen name—gracelittle—and sent her a private message on Fudan’s bulletin board. They worked up to a first date: an experimental opera based on “Regret for the Past,” a Chinese story.

They discovered that they shared a frustration with China’s unbridled Westernization. “Chinese tradition has many good things, but we’ve ditched them,” Wan told me. “I feel there have to be people to carry them on.” She came from a middle-class home, and Tang’s humble roots and old-fashioned values impressed her. “Most of my generation has a smooth, happy life, including me,” she said. “I feel like our character lacks something. For example, love for the country or the perseverance you get from conquering hardships. Those virtues, I don’t see them in myself and many people my age.”

She added, “For him, from that kind of background, with nobody educated in his family, nobody helping him with schoolwork, with great family pressure, it’s not easy to get where he is today.”

They were engaged this spring. In their years together, Wan watched Tang fall in with a group of students devoted to a charismatic thirty-nine-year-old Fudan philosophy professor named Ding Yun. He is a translator of Leo Strauss, the political philosopher whose admirers include Harvey Mansfield and other neoconservatives. A Strauss student, Abram Shulsky, who co-authored a 1999 essay titled “Leo Strauss and the World of Intelligence (By Which We Do Not Mean Nous),” ran the Pentagon’s Office of Special Plans before the invasion of Iraq. Since then, other Strauss disciples have vigorously ridiculed suggestions of a connection between Strauss’s thought and Bush-era foreign policy.

I saw Mansfield in Shanghai in May, during his first visit to China, at a dinner with a small group of conservative scholars. He was wearing a honey-colored panama and was in good spirits, though he seemed a bit puzzled by all the fuss they were making about him. His first question to the table: “Why would Chinese scholars be interested in Leo Strauss?”

Professor Ding teaches a Straussian regard for the universality of the classics and encourages his students to revive ancient Chinese thought. “During the nineteen-eighties and nineties, most intellectuals had a negative opinion of China’s traditional culture,” he told me recently. He has close-cropped hair and stylish rectangular glasses, and favors the conspicuously retro loose-fitting shirts of a Tang-dynasty scholar. When Ding grew up, in the early years of reform, “conservative” was a derogatory term, just like “reactionary,” he said.

But Ding and others have thrived in recent years amid a new vein of conservatism which runs counter to China’s drive for integration with the world. Just as America’s conservative movement in the nineteen-sixties capitalized on the yearning for a post-liberal retreat to morality and nobility, China’s classical revival draws on a nostalgic image of what it means to be Chinese. The biggest surprise best-seller of recent years is, arguably, “Yu Dan’s Reflections on the Analects,” a collection of Confucian lectures delivered by Yu, a telegenic Beijing professor of media studies. She writes, “To assess a country’s true strength and prosperity, you can’t simply look at GNP growth and not look at the inner experience of each ordinary person: Does he feel safe? Is he happy?” (Skeptics argue that it’s simply “Chicken Soup for the Confucian Soul.”)

Professor Ding met Tang in 2003, at the entrance interview for graduate students. “I was the person in charge of the exam,” Ding recalled. “I sensed that this kid is very smart and diligent.” He admitted Tang to the program, and watched with satisfaction as Tang and other students pushed back against the onslaught of Westernization. Tang developed an appetite for the classics. “The fact is we are very Westernized,” he said. “Now we started reading ancient Chinese books and we rediscovered the ancient China.”

This renewed pride has also affected the way Tang and his peers view the economy. They took to a theory that the world profits from China but blocks its attempts to invest abroad. Tang’s friend Zeng smiled disdainfully as he ticked off examples of Chinese companies that have tried to invest in America.

“Huawei’s bid to buy 3Com was rejected,” he said. “C.N.O.O.C.’s bid to buy into Unocal and Lenovo’s purchase of part of I.B.M. caused political repercussions. If it’s not a market argument, it’s a political argument. We think the world is a free market—”

Before he could finish, Tang jumped in. “This is what you—America—taught us,” he said. “We opened our market, but when we try to buy your companies we hit political obstacles. It’s not fair.”

Their view, which is popular in China across ideological lines, has validity: American politicians have invoked national-security concerns, with varying degrees of credibility, to oppose Chinese direct investment. But Tang’s view, infused with a sense of victimhood, also obscures some evidence to the contrary: China has succeeded in other deals abroad (its sovereign-wealth fund has stakes in the Blackstone Group and in Morgan Stanley), and though China has taken steps to open its markets to foreigners, it remains equally inclined to reject an American attempt to buy an asset as sensitive as a Chinese oil company.

[ 本帖最后由 Nicolle 于 2008-7-23 22:14 编辑 ]

赤壁白云

Tang’s belief that the United States will seek to obstruct China’s rise—“a new Cold War”— extends beyond economics to broader American policy. Disparate issues of relatively minor importance to Americans, such as support for Taiwan and Washington’s calls to raise the value of the yuan, have metastasized in China into a feeling of strategic containment. In polls, the Chinese public has not demonstrated a significant preference for either Barack Obama or John McCain, though Obama has attracted negative attention for saying that, were he President, he might boycott the opening ceremony of the Olympics. Tang and his friends have watched some debates online, but the young patriots tend to see the race in broader terms. “No matter who is elected, China is still China and will go the way it goes,” one recent posting in a discussion about Obama said. “Who can stand in the way of the march of history?”

This spring, Tang stayed at his family’s farm for five days before he could return to Shanghai and finish his movie. He scoured the Web for photographs on the subjects that bother him and his friends, everything from inflation to Taiwan’s threats of independence. He selected some of the pictures because they were evocative—a man raising his arm in a sea of Chinese flags reminded him of Delacroix’s “Liberty Leading the People”—and chose others because they embodied the political moment: a wheelchair-bound Chinese amputee carrying the Olympic flame in Paris, for instance, fending off a protester who was trying to snatch it away.

For a soundtrack, he typed “solemn music” into Baidu, a Chinese search engine, and scanned the results. He landed on a piece by Vangelis, a Yanni-style pop composer from Greece who is best known for his score for the movie “Chariots of Fire.” Tang’s favorite Vangelis track was from a Gérard Depardieu film about Christopher Columbus called “1492: Conquest of Paradise.” He watched a few seconds of Depardieu standing manfully on the deck of a tall ship, coursing across the Atlantic. Perfect, Tang thought: “It was a time of globalization.”

Tang added scenes of Chairman Mao and the Olympic track star Liu Xiang, both icons of their eras. The film was six minutes and sixteen seconds long. Some title screens in English were full of mistakes, because he was hurrying, but he was anxious to release it. He posted the film to Sina and sent a note to the Fudan bulletin board. As the film climbed in popularity, Professor Ding rejoiced. “We used to think they were just a postmodern, Occidentalized generation,” Ding said. “Of course, I thought the students I knew were very good, but the wider generation? I was not very pleased. To see the content of Tang Jie’s video, and the scale of its popularity among the youth, made me very happy. Very happy.”

Not everyone was pleased. Young patriots are so polarizing in China that some people, by changing the intonation in Chinese, pronounce “angry youth” as “shit youth.”

“How can our national self-respect be so fragile and shallow?” Han Han, one of China’s most popular young writers, wrote on his blog, in an essay about nationalism. “Somebody says you’re a mob, so you curse him, even want to beat him, and then you say, We’re not a mob. This is as if someone said you were a fool, so you held up a big sign in front of his girlfriend’s brother’s dog, saying ‘I Am Not a Fool.’ The message will get to him, but he’ll still think you’re a fool.”

If the activists thought that they were defending China’s image abroad, there was little sign of success. After weeks of patriotic rhetoric emanating from China, a poll sponsored by the Financial Times showed that Europeans now ranked China as the greatest threat to global stability, surpassing America.

But the eruption of the angry youth has been even more disconcerting to those interested in furthering democracy. By age and education, Tang and his peers inherit a long legacy of activism that stretches from 1919, when nationalist demonstrators demanded “Mr. Democracy” and “Mr. Science,” to 1989, when students flooded Tiananmen Square, challenging the government and erecting a sculpture inspired by the Statue of Liberty. Next year will mark the twentieth anniversary of that movement, but the events of this spring suggest that prosperity, computers, and Westernization have not driven China’s young élite toward tolerance but, rather, persuaded more than a few of them to postpone idealism as long as life keeps improving. The students in 1989 were rebelling against corruption and abuses of power. “Nowadays, these issues haven’t disappeared but have worsened,” Li Datong, an outspoken newspaper editor and reform advocate, told me. “However, the current young generation turns a blind eye to it. I’ve never seen them respond to those major domestic issues. Rather, they take a utilitarian, opportunistic approach.”

One caricature of young Chinese holds that they know virtually nothing about the crackdown at Tiananmen Square—known in Chinese as “the June 4th incident”—because the authorities have purged it from the nation’s official history. It’s not that simple, however. Anyone who can click on a proxy server can discover as much about Tiananmen as he chooses to learn. And yet many Chinese have concluded that the movement was misguided and naïve.

“We accept all the values of human rights, of democracy,” Tang told me. “We accept that. The issue is how to realize it.”

I met dozens of urbane students and young professionals this spring, and we often got to talking about Tiananmen Square. In a typical conversation, one college senior asked whether she should interpret the killing of protesters at Kent State in 1970 as a fair measure of American freedom. Liu Yang, a graduate student in environmental engineering, said, “June 4th could not and should not succeed at that time. If June 4th had succeeded, China would be worse and worse, not better.”

Liu, who is twenty-six, once considered himself a liberal. As a teen-ager, he and his friends happily criticized the Communist Party. “In the nineteen-nineties, I thought that the Chinese government is not good enough. Maybe we need to set up a better government,” he told me. “The problem is that we didn’t know what a good government would be. So we let the Chinese Communist Party stay in place. The other problem is we didn’t have the power to get them out. They have the Army!”

When Liu got out of college, he found a good job as an engineer at an oil-services company. He was earning more money in a month than his parents—retired laborers living on a pension—earned in a year. Eventually, he saved enough money that, with scholarships, he was able to enroll in a Ph.D. program at Stanford. He had little interest in the patriotic pageantry of the Olympics until he saw the fracas around the torch in Paris. “We were furious,” he said, and when the torch came to San Francisco he and other Chinese students surged toward the relay route to support it. I was in San Francisco not long ago, and we arranged to meet at a Starbucks near his dorm, in Palo Alto. He arrived on his mountain bike, wearing a Nautica fleece pullover and jeans.

The date, we both knew, was June 4th, nineteen years since soldiers put down the Tiananmen uprising. The overseas Chinese students’ bulletin board had been alive all afternoon with discussions of the anniversary. Liu mentioned the famous photograph of an unknown man standing in front of a tank—perhaps the most provocative image in modern Chinese history.

“We really acknowledge him. We really think he was brave,” Liu told me. But, of that generation, he said, “They fought for China, to make the country better. And there were some faults of the government. But, finally, we must admit that the Chinese government had to use any way it could to put down that event.”

Sitting in the cool quiet of a California night, sipping his coffee, Liu said that he is not willing to risk all that his generation enjoys at home in order to hasten the liberties he has come to know in America. “Do you live on democracy?” he asked me. “You eat bread, you drink coffee. All of these are not brought by democracy. Indian guys have democracy, and some African countries have democracy, but they can’t feed their own people.

“Chinese people have begun to think, One part is the good life, another part is democracy,” Liu went on. “If democracy can really give you the good life, that’s good. But, without democracy, if we can still have the good life why should we choose democracy?”

When the Olympic torch returned to China, in May, for the final journey to Beijing, the Chinese seemed determined to make up for its woes abroad. Crowds overflowed along the torch’s route. One afternoon, Tang and I set off to watch the torch traverse a suburb of Shanghai.

At the time, the country was still in a state of shock following the May 12th earthquake in the mountains of Sichuan Province, which killed more than sixty-nine thousand people and left millions homeless. It was the worst disaster in three decades, but it also produced a rare moment of national unity. Donations poured in, revealing the positive side of the patriotism that had erupted weeks earlier.

The initial rhetoric of that nationalist outcry contained a spirit of violence that anyone old enough to remember the Red Guards—or the rise of skinheads in Europe—could not casually dismiss. And that spirit had materialized, in ugly episodes: when the Olympic torch reached South Korea, Chinese and rival protesters fought in the streets. The Korean government said it would deport Chinese agitators, though a Chinese Foreign Ministry spokeswoman stood by the demonstrators’ original intent to “safeguard the dignity of the torch.” Chinese students overseas emerged as some of the most vocal patriots. According to the Times, at the University of Southern California they marshalled statistics and photographs to challenge a visiting Tibetan monk during a lecture. Then someone threw a plastic water bottle in the monk’s direction, and campus security removed the man who tossed it. At Cornell, an anthropology professor who arranged for the screening of a film on Tibet informed the crowd that, on a Web forum for Chinese students, she was “told to ‘go die.’ ” At Duke University, Grace Wang, a Chinese freshman, tried to mediate between pro-Tibet and pro-China protesters on campus. But online she was branded a “race traitor.” People ferreted out her mother’s address, in the seaside city of Qingdao, and vandalized their home. Her mother, an accountant, remains in hiding. Of her mother, Grace Wang said, “I really don’t know where she is, and I think it’s better for me not to know.”

Now in summer school at Duke, Grace Wang does not regret speaking up, but she says that she misjudged how others her age, online but frustrated in China, would resent her. “When people can’t express themselves in real life, what can they do? They definitely have to express their anger toward someone. I’m far away. They don’t know me, so they don’t feel sorry about it. They say whatever they want.” She doesn’t know when she’ll return home (she becomes uneasy when she is recognized in Chinese restaurants near campus), but she takes comfort in the fact that history is filled with names once vilified, later rehabilitated. “This is just like what happened in the Cultural Revolution,” she said. “Think about how Deng Xiaoping was treated at that time, and then, in just ten years, things had changed completely.”

In the end, nothing came of the threats to foreign journalists. No blood was shed. After the chaos around the torch in Paris, the Chinese efforts to boycott Carrefour fizzled. China’s leaders, awakening to their deteriorating image abroad, ultimately reined in the students with a call for only “rational patriotism.”

“We do not want any violence,” Tang told me. He and his peers had merely been desperate for someone to hear them. They felt no connection to Tiananmen Square, but, in sending their voices out onto the Web, they, too, had spoken for their moment in time. Their fury, Li Datong, the newspaper editor, told me, arose from “the accumulated desire for expression—just like when a flood suddenly races into a breach.” Because a flood moves in whatever direction it chooses, the young conservatives are, to China’s ruling class, an unnerving new force. They “are acutely aware that their country, whose resurgence they feel and admire, has no principle to guide it,” Harvey Mansfield wrote in an e-mail to me, after his visit. “Some of them see . . . that liberalism in the West has lost its belief in itself, and they turn to Leo Strauss for conservatism that is based on principle, on ‘natural right.’ This conservatism is distinct from a status-quo conservatism, because they are not satisfied with a country that has only a status quo and not a principle.”

In the weeks after Tang’s video went viral, he made a series of others, about youth, the earthquake, China’s leaders. None of his follow-ups generated more than a flicker of the attention of the original. The Web had moved on—to newer nationalist films and other distractions.

As Tang and I approached the torch-relay route, he said, “Look at the people. Everyone thinks this is their own Olympics.”

Venders were selling T-shirts, big Chinese flags, headbands, and mini-flags. Tang told me to wait until the torch passed, because hawkers would then cut prices by up to fifty per cent. He was carrying a plastic bag and fished around in it for a bright-red scarf of the kind that Chinese children wear to signal membership in the Young Pioneers, a kind of Socialist Boy Scouts. He tied it around his neck and grinned. He offered one to a passing teen-ager, who politely declined.

The air was stagnant and thick beneath a canopy of haze, but the mood was exuberant. Time was ticking down to the torch’s arrival, and the town was coming out for a look: a man in a dark suit, sweating and smoothing his hair; a construction worker in an orange helmet and farmer’s galoshes; a bellboy in a vaguely nautical getup.

Some younger spectators were wearing T-shirts inspired by China’s recent troubles: “Love China, Oppose Divisions, Oppose Tibetan Independence,” read a popular one. All around us, people strained for a better perch. A woman hung off a lamppost. A young man in a red headband climbed a tree.

The crowd’s enthusiasm seemed to brighten Tang’s view of things, reminding him that China’s future belongs to him and to those around him. “When I stand here, I can feel, deeply, the common emotion of Chinese youth,” he said. “We are self-confident.”

Police blocked the road. A frisson swept through the crowd. People surged toward the curb, straining to see over one another’s heads. But Tang hung back. He is a patient man. ♦

[ 本帖最后由 Nicolle 于 2008-7-23 22:16 编辑 ]

Nicolle

感谢楼主提供新闻！

但烦请留意，AC论坛所有转载境外媒体的新闻，必须发布在“外媒传真版”；您发布的这三个帖子，已被合并处理，并转移到此版。

同时，传真版发帖请务必注意以下两个重要要求：

１）提供新闻原文的有效链接；
２）按照同意统一的格式发帖，包括标题格式和正文格式。

关于格式问题，详情请参阅链接 http://bbs.m4.cn/thread-81939-1-1.html

[ 本帖最后由 Nicolle 于 2008-7-23 22:33 编辑 ]

Tao

终于看完了,好长. 写的还是比较客观的.

Nicolle

这么快看完了？好啊好啊，嗯。。。。。。可愿帮忙翻译一下以飨网友？最近翻译量比较大，都是长帖子。。。。

ctenbp

文章的日期为什么比发贴的日期还晚呢？

luyi99

原帖由 ctenbp 于 2008-7-26 00:47 发表
文章的日期为什么比发贴的日期还晚呢？

报纸搞错了吧? 可能是7月18日, 也可能是周刊的缘故，一般周刊上头写的日期比实际发行要晚。

先占座位，下去翻译了

[ 本帖最后由 luyi99 于 2008-7-26 02:49 编辑 ]

luyi99

新一代的保守的民族主义者


图片说明: 唐杰（中）认为，美国企图遏制中国，可能引发“新的冷战” 。

4月15日上午，一个题为“ 2008年，中国站起来” 的短视频出现在新浪网站。影片的起源是一个谜：不同于一般的YouTube式的剪辑，它没有主持人，没有叙述者，也没有签名，除了英文缩写“ CTGZ” 。

这是一个自制的纪录片，开头是一个色彩鲜艳的毛主席的画像，光芒四射。沉默之后是管弦乐作品与如雷的鼓声，黑屏闪动 ，用中文和英文写着毛泽东语录： “帝国主义亡我之心不死” ，然后切换到日前的图片和新闻片段，与阴谋和背叛的短距离赛跑 -- 中国现在正面临“一连串闹剧，阴谋和灾害”。中国股市爆跌（外国炒家“疯狂操纵”中国股票价格，和诱惑新手投资者亏钱的结果）。消费者苦恼于通货膨胀，屠夫反而“ 吃猪肉成了奢侈。”以及警告：这是全球性的“货币战争”的开始 ，西方打算让中国人为美国金融危机买单。

然后切换到另一画面：暴徒在西藏首府拉萨抢劫商店和喧闹。“所谓的和平抗议！ ”字眼横贯面的同时，音乐逐渐加强。剪辑的外国新闻媒体批评中国的片段，“谣言，众口一辞的造谣”。画面中充斥着CNN，BBC和其他新闻机构的标志，让路给约瑟夫.戈培尔的肖像。音乐减弱和文字最后显示： “很明显，背后是一场包围中国的阴谋。一场新冷战！” 音乐变成喜悦，显示中国的跨栏比赛选手刘翔在天安门广场高举奥运火炬 ，"象征着和平与友谊“ ，然而，最后一个奸诈的行为：在巴黎，示威者企图从官方传递者手里夺取奥运圣火，迫使警卫将火炬熄灭--一个新时代的“长征”。视频的结束画面是中国国旗在阳光下闪耀，并庄严承诺： “我们将站起来，团结一致成为一个和谐的大家庭” ！

(译者注: 这两段是对视频的详细描写，有点乱，大家可以自己看视频。)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSTYhYkASsA

这支刚刚超过六分钟的视频现在传到YouTube上，记录了3月份的西藏起义引起了外国批评中国举办08年奥运会之后，民族主义高涨的情绪。市民们对批评的反应是少见的愤怒。数千人在法国连锁超市家乐福中国分店抗议，报复法国对亲西藏活跃分子的同情。麻省理工学院博士和中国门户网站搜狐的创始人及总裁张朝阳，在网上呼吁抵制法国产品，“使彻底偏见的法国媒体和市民感受到损失和痛苦”，当美国众议院议长佩洛西谴责中国处理西藏的方法，中国官方的新闻服务新华社称她“令人作呕” 。消失很久的辞汇又出现在国有媒体上，杂志"展望周刊"警告说， “国内和国外的敌对势力已经把北京奥运会当成渗透和破坏的焦点”。在一个不愿透露名字的网页，礼仪恶化。在一个半官方报纸主办的论坛， 一位评论员写道:“谁用嘴放屁，我就让谁嘴里塞满了屎。” 另一个人写道:“给我一把枪！对敌人毫不留情！ ” 这些评论让许多中国人感到难堪，但受到威胁的外国记者更难以忽视。 （一封无名氏的信发到我北京的传真机，警告说， “澄清中国的事实。否则你和你的亲人会希望你死了” ） 。

在头一个半星期，CTGZ的视频得到了100多万点击和数以万计的支持评论。它上升到该网站的第四流行。（一个打哈欠的新闻主播电视剪辑是第1名）平均而言，这视频每秒钟被点击2次。它成为一个自称是先锋的宣言，捍卫中国的荣誉，和被中国称为"愤青"，愤怒的青年的一个爱国社群。

天安门广场学生领导的抗议活动受到镇压十九年后，今年春天中国的年轻一代再次行动，但不是在追求自由民主，而是在捍卫主权和繁荣。麻省理工学院的媒体实验室创始人，早期互联网的思想家之一，Nicholas Negroponte，曾经预测说，全球的网络将改变我们对国家的看法。他预测，国家将蒸发“就像一个樟脑丸 ，从固体直接变成气体” ， “民族主义将不会比天花有更多的空间。 ”在中国，事情已经有所不同。

我一位年轻的中国朋友，大部分时间都在上网，追查到CTGZ的一个电子邮件地址。它属于上海一个28岁名叫唐杰的男研究生，这是他的首支视频。几个星期后，我在中国名牌大学-复旦大学门口会见了唐杰，复旦大学现代化的校园从2栋30层钢铁和玻璃的高楼向四面八方发散出去，走过那两栋楼你会以为那是公司总部。唐杰身穿蓝色的牛津衬衫，卡其布裤子和黑皮鞋。他有明亮的褐色的眼睛和圆圆的脸-每个人都告诉他有孩子气，和下巴和上唇的一小撮胡子。他蹦蹦跳跳地欢迎我，我刚从一辆出租车里出来，他试图付我的车费。

唐杰的大部分时间花在西方哲学的专题论文上。他擅长于现象学;具体来说是“内在主观性”的概念，现象学理论由德国哲学家爱德蒙胡塞尔创立，爱德蒙胡塞尔影响了萨特等人。除使用中文外，唐可以很容易的读英语和德语，但他很少说，所以有时他很抱歉地改用其他语言。他在学拉丁语和希腊语。他是这样勤奋和温和，他的声音有时会小到听不见。他很少笑，好像他在节约能源。他的乐趣是听中国古典音乐，虽然他还喜欢香港明星周星驰的无厘头喜剧。他自豪地不赶时髦 。网名CTGZ是两个难解的古典诗词：长亭和公子 ，合在一起为“长亭公子”。不像有些中国学生精英，唐杰从来没有加入共产党，因为害怕它影响到作为一个学者的客观性。

唐杰邀请了一些朋友在"胖兄弟??"四川餐厅与我们一起吃午饭，饭后我们爬楼梯到他的房间。他独自生活在六楼一个不到七十五平方英尺的单元，储藏室被改成一个过分讲究的寮屋。他的房间极有可能被误认为一个图书馆，所有面上都放着书，有一大堆目录在他书桌上的书架里。他的藏品涵盖了人类思想的跨度：柏拉图靠着老子，维特根斯坦，培根，富斯特尔德朗，海德格尔，可兰经。当唐杰想扩大他的床几寸，他把胶合板做成整个框架，用成堆的书来支撑。最终，书多得房间装不下了，它们被装在硬纸板箱里头，摞在门外靠着墙。

唐杰坐到他的办公桌前。我们谈了一会儿，我问他对他的视频如此受欢迎怎么想。他笑了。 “看来我表达了一个共同的感觉，共同的看法， ”他说。

他旁边坐着刘光，一个开朗，脸宽宽的政治学博士生，最近他刚把保守的哈佛大学教授哈维曼斯菲尔德一篇题为"男人味"的演讲翻译成中文。身穿灰色运动衫爬在床上的是熊温池，去年拿到了政治学博士学位，然后去当老师。唐杰左边坐着曾可为，一个瘦消和时尚的银行家，他在进入财经界之前取得了西方哲学的硕士学位。像唐杰一样，每个朋友都是二十多岁，而且是家里第一个大学生，并且对学习西方思想兴趣浓厚。

“中国在整个近代史上是落后的，所以我们总是在寻求西方强大的原因。”刘说。 “我们向西方学习。受过教育的人都有这个梦想：向西方学习而变得强大。”

唐杰和他的朋友们非常有礼貌，对我来倾听他们的想法非常感谢，我开始怀疑是否去年春天中国的愤怒应被看作是一个偏差。他们恳求我不要犯那种错误。

“我们学习西方的历史这么久，我们也很理解， ”曾说。 “我们认为我们爱中国，我们支持政府和这个国家的利益，不是一个无意识的反应，而是对事实进行认真思考之后得出的 。

事实上，他们看待中国的方向跟中国主流的看法是一致的，虽然他们也说些刻薄话。十个中国人里头有九个赞同中国目前的发展，这是今年春天由皮尤研究中心在24个国家做的调查中，分数最高的。 （在美国，10里头有2个表示赞同）。出于更加自信应变的爱国主义，学者发起反对日本加入联合国安理会的请愿书。最后它得到超过四千万签名，相对于西班牙的全部人口。我让唐杰示范如何做视频，他转过去面对他的联想台式电脑屏幕，电脑的设置为奔腾4处理器和1 GB的内存。 他问: “你知不知道Movie Maker？ ”这是一个视频编辑程序。我承认不知道，询问他是否从书上学的。他怜悯地看我一眼 。他是从帮助菜单现学现卖的。 “我们必须感谢比尔盖茨， ”他说。

自从3月份拉萨暴乱事件开始，唐杰就密切关注新闻。一如以往，他从美国和欧洲的新闻网站，以及中国的官方媒体得到资料。和其他同龄人一样，他毫不迟疑地突破了政府的防火墙。政府的防火墙由一个广阔的基础设施，数字滤波器和人类检查员组成，以阻止中国个人计算机看到政治上令人反感的内容。我的年轻的中国朋友把防火墙比喻为多管闲事的泳池救生员---偶然会打扰你，但大部分时候是不相干的。

要解决它，唐杰通过代理服务器绕路--一个连接用户与被封锁网站的，海外的数码中途站。他在网上看电视，因为他家里没有电视机。唐杰还从中国留学生那里收到外国新闻剪辑。 （据国际问题研究所教育统计，在美国大约有6万7千名中国留学生 -- 在过去的十年里增加了近三分之二），他感到困惑，外国人可能想象他一代人并不太知道(新闻)检查的扭曲。

“因为我们在这样的制度下，我们总是自问，我们是否被洗脑了。”他说。 “我们总是渴望从不同的渠道得到其他的资料， ”然后他补充说： “不过，当您处在一个所谓的自由制度下，你永远不会想想你是否被洗脑了。”

那段时间，有关西藏的新闻和意见充满了复旦大学的BBS，批评外国对西藏的报道。唐杰看到了被中国网民指责误导和不公平的一系列的外国新闻剪报。举例来说，CNN网站上的一张照片，被裁剪成军车推向手无寸铁的示威者。但原版显示一大群示威者就在旁边，有人扬手向军车投掷东西。唐杰认为这种剪裁等于蓄意的歪曲。 （CNN否认，说图片说明客观地描述了现场） 。

“这是一个笑话，”他苦恼地说。这张照片和其他的照片一起，加上潦草写就的批判，通过电子邮件传遍中国，而人们补充了刊登在伦敦泰晤士报，福克斯新闻，德国电视，和法语电台的更多的例子。相当多的新闻机构，和那些倾向于看到它这样的， 制造了一个阴谋。它使得唐杰和其他相信西方新闻界的人震惊，但更重要的是，它触怒了他们。唐杰认为他处在中国近代史上最繁荣和最开放的时代，但世界似乎仍然以怀疑的态度看待中国。好像他需要确认似的，CNN评论员杰克卡佛蒂称中国“在过去的五十年一直是一群流氓和恶棍。”在中国该话被引用在头版新闻中，之后CNN道歉。像他的许多同侪，唐无法弄清楚为什么外国人对西藏这么激动--在他看来西藏是一个贫穷落后的地方，而中国几十年来试图帮助西藏文明化。从他的逻辑看，以西藏的名义抵制北京奥运会，等于因为抗议美国对待切诺基印第安人而抵制盐湖城奥运会。

他在YouTube搜索驳斥偏见，澄清中国的视频，但他没有发现任何英语的视频，除了亲西藏的影片。他本来很忙，他已经跟出版商签了合同，翻译一本莱布尼兹的“形而上学话语”和其他论文--但他却无法动摇代表中国说话的想法。

“我想，好吧，我来做些什么， ”他说。

然而，动工前他必须回家几天。他的母亲曾告诉他收获季节要回去帮忙。她需要他帮忙在田间地头挖竹笋。

唐杰出生在东部城市杭州附近一个农村家庭，是四个兄弟姐妹中最年轻的。因为违反了中国的一胎化政策，他的父母用粮食来支付罚款。唐的出生花了他们200公斤糙米的成本。 （ “我不贵， ”他说。 ）

他的父母都不识字。四年级以前唐杰没有自己的名字。根据排行他被叫做"小四"。实在不行了，他的父亲开始称他为唐杰，因为他最喜欢喜剧演员唐杰忠 。唐杰忠是一对著名的相声演员之一。

在这个热闹的大家庭里，唐杰显得书呆子气，话不多。他喜欢科幻小说。 “我可以告诉你这些电影'的一切，比如'星球大战。” 他告诉我。他是一名好学生，虽然
不是非常引人注目。但他对思想表现出早熟的兴趣。 “他并不像其他的孩子用零花钱食物，他存钱买书，”大他7岁的姐姐唐晓玲说。他的兄弟姐妹没有一个读到八年级以上，他们把他当作一个令人钦佩的怪胎。 “如果他找不到问题的答案，他就无法入睡， ”他的姐姐说。 “要是我们就放弃了” 。

在高中时，唐学习成绩很好，并且作为一个发明家在科学展览会取得了一些成功。但他感到沮丧。 “我发现，科学不能帮助您的生活， ”他说。他偶然看到一本挪
威幻想小说“苏菲的世界”的中文译本 ，这本书的作者是哲学教师乔斯坦贾德，讲述一个十几岁的少女遇到伟大的思想家的历史。 “就在那个时候我发现了哲学， ”唐说。

在他家里爱国主义并非特别强烈的存在，但一个民族进步的标志成为他青春期的背景。唐杰上初中时，中国还在庆祝该国的第一条高速公路建成。 “当时非常有名。我们感到自豪。我们终于有高速公路了！ “他笑着，回忆那天我们奔驰在高速公路去上海。 “现在到处有高速公路，即使在西藏” 。

在他的家乡开始有超市，后来网吧也有了。（当时18岁的唐杰尤其喜欢白宫和美国航天局的网站，因为有专门给孩子的区域，并且用简单的英语句子。）唐就读于杭州师范学院。作为兄弟姐妹中第一个上大学的，他归功于他的国家和他的家人。在2003年他来到复旦大学之前，他一直生活在一个思想的世界里。 “他对哲学有纯粹的热情， ”早就认识他的哲学学生马军说。 “有点象宗教热情” 。

在成为民族主义的血管之前，互联网才刚刚在中国扎根不久。在1996年亚特兰大奥运会上，中国代表团走进香港大球场时，美国NBC播音员鲍勃科斯塔斯提到中国的“人权问题，产权纠纷，和对台湾构成的威胁”然后，他提到对中国运动员使用兴奋剂的"怀疑"。即使网站在中国处于起步阶段（每100人有5条电话线），海外华人纷纷发布评论。更微妙的是：改革和西化十五年之后，中国作家被好莱坞，麦当劳，和美国的价值观念击败。 当年春天，一本慷慨激昂的名为“中国可以说不”的书出版，第一个月售出超过10万本。该书的作者是一群年轻的知识分子，它责怪中国“迷恋美国” ，压制了全国的想象力，大量追求签证、外国援助，中国成为美国广告最广泛的受众和最热情的传播者。如果中国不抵制这种“文化扼杀， ”中国将成为“奴隶” ，延续外国入侵的屈辱历史。这段历史从第一次鸦片战争中国失
败和1842年英国收购香港开始。中国政府对快速扩散的新思路存有戒心，最终把这本书撤出了货架，不过在此之前，一系列书籍试图开发相同的情绪（ “为什么中国可以说不” ， “中国仍然可以说不“ ， ”中国总是说不“ ） 。

吴旭曾经在中国当过记者，现在是亚利桑那州立大学的教授。他说，在他2007年出版的“中国网络民族主义”书中，声称代表超过7万海外华人的团体写信给NBC，要求为科斯塔斯言论道歉。他们在网上募捐，花钱在华盛顿邮报刊登了一个广告，指责科斯塔斯和NBC“不光彩的偏见和不好客 ”，NBC道歉了，中国网络激进主义由此诞生。

每一天大约有3500名中国公民第一次上网。1998年，张朝阳的搜狐推出中国的第一大搜索引擎。第二年春天，当北约飞机使用美国情报误炸中国驻贝尔格莱德大使馆，中国网站发出它的声音。美国道歉，归咎于过时的地图和不准确的数据库，但中国爱国黑客-自称为“红客” -发起攻击。俄克拉何马大学的中国学者Peter Hays Gries在“中国的新民族主义”里头详细写道: 他们在美国驻北京大使馆网站的主页贴满了口号: “打倒野蛮人！” 以及众多愤怒的电子邮件造成白宫网站崩溃。“互联网是西方的， ”一位评论员写道， “但...我们中国人可以用它来告诉世界人民，中国不能被侮辱“ ！

政府小心翼翼地对待网上的爱国者 。他们为中华民族骄傲，不一定为党。而领导者正确地感觉到网民这份热情可以转向对付政府。2004年网监关闭了一个民族主义网站，一位评论员写道， “我们的政府跟羊一样弱！”在某些时刻政府允许民族主义增长，但另外的时候却紧张的控制。第二年春天，当日本批准了新的教科书，批评者声称该书掩饰战争的暴行，北京的爱国者草拟了抗议计划，并通过聊天室，论坛，和短信传播。多达1万示威者走上街头，向日本驻华使馆投掷油漆和瓶子。不顾政府禁止的警告，之后一周在上海数千人游行--近年来中国一个最大的示威活动--破坏了日本领事馆。为此上海警方切断上海市中心的手机服务。

“到目前为止，中国政府一直能够控制民族主义。 ”吴旭告诉我。 “但我称之为'虚拟天安门广场' ，他们不必去那里。他们在网上可以做同样的事情，有时破坏性更
大“ 。

在2004年一个晚上，唐杰与朋友一起吃饭时，遇见了万漫璐(音) ，一个典雅的中国文学及语言学博士生。她人如其名，最好的玉器(译者:wan manlu不知道哪个字是这个意思)。他们并排坐着，但几乎没有说话。后来，唐搜到她的网名- gracelittle，然后通过复旦大学的BBS给她发了一个私人消息。他们开始了第一个约会，犹如故事“伤逝 ”发生在现实里。

他们发现，他们两个都对中国肆无忌惮的西化充满了挫折感。 “中国的传统有很多好的东西，但我们已经抛弃了它们， ”万告诉我。 “我觉得必须要保留下来。”
她来自一个中产阶级家庭，唐杰的谦卑出身和老式的价值观给她留下了深刻的印象。 “我这一代人大多数有一个顺利的幸福的生活，包括我在内， ”她说。 “我觉得
我们的性格缺乏某种东西。比如说，爱国心或者征服困难的毅力。在我自己和很多同龄人身上我看不到这些美德了“ 。

她补充说， “而他来自这样的背景，家人没有受过教育，没有人帮他的功课，还有极大的家庭压力，所以他得到今天的一切并不容易。”

他们今年春天订婚了。他们在一起的几年时间里，万希望唐杰一起跟随有魅力的复旦大学哲学系教授丁云。39岁的丁云是政治哲学家里欧斯特劳斯的翻译，里欧斯特劳斯的仰慕者包括哈维曼斯菲尔德和其他新保守派。艾布拉姆shulsky 是一个斯特劳斯的学生，1999年曾经联合撰写了“斯特劳斯和世界的情报”，在美国入侵伊拉克之前负责五角大楼的特别计划办公室。自那时以来，其他斯特劳斯的弟子大力嘲笑斯特劳斯的思想和布什时代的外交政策之间有关联的暗示。

5月的时候曼斯菲尔德第一次来中国访问，我在上海看到他与一小群保守的学者在一个晚宴上。他当时戴着蜂蜜色的巴拿马帽，精神面貌很好，但他似乎对关于他的争议有点纳闷。他的第一个问题是： “为什么中国学者会对斯特劳斯感兴趣?”

丁教授教导斯特劳斯理论关于经典的普遍性，鼓励他的学生振兴中国古代思想。 “在1980-1990年代，大部分知识分子对中国的传统文化的看法是负面的， ”他告诉我。他有短短的头发和时尚的方眼镜，并喜欢复古宽松的衬衫，象一个唐代学者。丁成长在改革开放最初几年， “保守”是一个贬义词，就像“反动的， ”他说。

.....

最近忙，翻译得有点拖拉和粗糙，请原谅。
未完待续

[ 本帖最后由 luyi99 于 2008-7-30 04:46 编辑 ]

我心匪石

很可爱的男孩，很中国

蓝月谷

怎么还没有翻译完啊，等着看下文呢。

嘲风

占楼等翻译，自己看实在太累了。

血性与理性

超级强大超级牛！
佩服

fskr_sb

感谢。等待下一部分翻译

无可就要

中国的愤青为什么让他们感到害怕？！

来自内蒙古

期待下文。

直角

中国的愤青为什么让他们感到害怕？！

wyd2008

我也在期待下文，
帅帅的唐杰 很有思想

武汉的

斑竹好好休息啊~~  
我们还期待着精彩下文呢~

891794587

非常感谢版主的辛勤劳动，你们是AC的支柱。