The Crazed by Ha Jin

Current Counterrevolutionary,” he announced, still using the outdated language. “Bush has the blackest heart and guts. We must overthrow him, beat him to the ground, and trample on him, so that he will never stand up again!” The ferocity in his voice could hardly arouse any interest from the breakfasters. This was a daily show, of which people had wearied.
    Having sensed he didn’t have a responsive audience today, Little Owl tried something different. He burst out singing:
    The east wind blows

While the battle drums roll.

Who fear whom on the globe?

People are not afraid

Of the American imperialists,

Who actually fear people. . . .
    He sang hysterically, beating time with his tiny fists, one of which had a battered knuckle. Nobody listened to the song, which had been long out of fashion. But today his crazed voice grated on my nerves, so I cried, “Shut up!”
    All eyes turned to me as if I were a madman too. Little Owl yelled ecstatically, “Look, comrades, he’s on the side of American imperialism!”
    Several girls giggled, looking my way. One of them had a carmine dot on her forehead like an Indian woman. I picked up my bowl and started for the door. To my surprise, Little Owl followed me, brandishing his fists and shouting, “Down with this imperialistic lackey! Down with him! Down with this American running dog!” It was as if I were being paraded on the street. I could do nothing but ignore him.
    I placed my bowl on the ground under a large elm tree, squatted down on my heels, and resumed eating. I peeled an egg, but no sooner had I taken a bite of it than a hand was thrust before my face. It was Little Owl’s dirty, scabbed paw. He wanted to share my breakfast.
    “Get lost!” I said.
    He declared vociferously, “Chairman Mao has instructed us: ‘We come from all corners of the country and have joined together for a common revolutionary cause. So our cadres must show concern for every soldier, and all people in the revolutionary ranks must care for each other, must love and help each other.’ Now, you must give me some grub, I’m your soldier. You cannot discard me like a cracked pot just because you’re a big shot now.”
    “Give me a break!” I snapped. Meanwhile, more than twenty people were gathering around to watch.
    He wouldn’t leave me alone and went on quoting instructions from Chairman Mao, as if the Great Leader were still alive. Too embarrassed to remain the target of his harangue, I put my uncracked egg in his palm. He grabbed it, whisked around, and scampered away to the hot-water room, holding the egg above his head and shouting, “Long live Chairman Mao! Long live the Communist Party!” That was an old way of expressing one’s joy, but now the shibboleth sounded farcical.
    Despite his pitiable condition, Little Owl ate better food than most of us. Usually people were generous to him, and he could eat his fill in the kitchen. My roommate Mantao often quipped that China was a paradise for idiots, who were well treated because they incurred no jealousy, posed no threat to anyone, and made no trouble for the authorities—they were model citizens through and through. Indeed, most of the retarded and the demented were taken care of by the state. Mantao went so far as to claim that this “pseudo-philanthropy,” a word he actually used, had caused China to degenerate intellectually as a nation.
    After breakfast I was so distressed that I didn’t go to Mr. Yang’s office to review my notes on ancient prosody as I had planned. Instead, I went to the library and spent two hours browsing through some journals and magazines. Afterward I decided to take a break for the rest of the morning to get myself ready for the afternoon. It was depressing to sit with Mr. Yang, and I’d better unwind a little.
    In town there was an exhibition of artwork by some painters from the Southern coastal provinces, mainly from Fujian and Guangdong. I had seen an advertisement for it on the side wall