讀“范進中舉”感想

從范進到我自己：一段關於高考、苦難與希望的回憶錄

范進的故事，一個窮苦書生在中了舉人之後狂笑昏厥的情節，乍看之下，或許只是清代諷刺文學中的一段趣聞。然而，對於我們這一代在二十世紀下半葉成長於中國農村的學生來說，范進的經歷卻真實得令人心痛。他的絕望、屈辱、脆弱的成功，不僅是文學中的象徵，更是無數人親身經歷的寫照——我便是其中之一。

自1949年中華人民共和國成立之後，特別是1958年起，中國進入了長期的政治運動與意識形態鬥爭之中。階級鬥爭不斷，政治整肅頻繁，“大躍進”和“文化大革命”等災難性政策摧毀了國家的正常運行。知識分子被迫害，教育體制被否定，而本是寒門子弟唯一改變命運之路的全國高考，也被徹底取消，取而代之的是混亂、極端和對“成分”的狂熱崇拜。

在毛澤東統治下，農民子弟根本沒有現實途徑可以實現社會階層的躍升。沒有考試、沒有學位、沒有稱號，連被“痛苦地折磨”的機會都沒有。在這樣的社會中，連做一個苦熬中舉的范進都是一種奢望。人們可以承受苦難，但卻不能懷有希望。那時的社會，沒有階梯，只有圍牆。

轉機出現在鄧小平掌權之後。毛澤東逝世後，鄧小平於1977年恢復了全國高考，標誌着“改革開放”政策的真正起點。這一政策雖然並未根本打破社會結構中的不平等，卻為寒門學子重新打開了一扇通往未來的窄門。對我們而言，高考既是詛咒，也是希望。它競爭殘酷，錄取率極低。我們從清晨學習到深夜，七天無休，幾乎用盡全部精力，只為“跳出農門”。許多同學多次復讀，反覆應考；我們承受着來自家庭、社會乃至內心的巨大壓力，身心俱疲。

然而，這正是現代中國歷史中最深的諷刺：高考，這種折磨人的制度，竟然是我們內心感激的對象。它讓我們受盡痛苦、疲憊不堪、滿身創傷，卻依然感謝它的存在。因為在毛澤東時代，這條路根本不存在。通往更好生活的夢，雖然艱難，但至少重新出現了。高考帶來的痛苦巨大，但它也帶來了改變命運的可能——再微弱也是希望。

我有幸第一次考試就被錄取。當我收到大學錄取通知書時，我沒有痛哭流涕，也沒有狂喜呼喊，而是感到一種內心的平靜釋然——仿佛屏住多年的一口氣終於緩緩吐出。當然，苦難並沒有就此結束，那些長期積累的精神創傷也並未消失，而是深深埋藏在心底。有時我會想：如果那時我像范進那樣放聲大笑、歇斯底里地哭喊，也許那些痛苦可以得到釋放。但我是一個慣於自我克制的人，一向沉默多於宣泄。

范進的故事不僅是諷刺，更是寓言。它揭示了一個社會的現實——在這個社會中，知識被奉為神明，而人性卻被遺忘；一個考試可以決定人的一生，而所謂的“成功”，往往帶來的不是喜悅，而是崩潰。這也是我們那一代人的真實寫照：痛苦竟然成為一種“恩賜”，而奮鬥竟然意味着“逃離”，在那樣一個時代，哪怕只是有機會成為一個卑微的“范進”，也是許多人無法企及的奢望。

即便今日的中國已不再是毛澤東時代那般極端，但結構性的等級體系並未消失。至今，仍有數以百萬計出身農村或底層家庭的孩子，唯一能改變命運的方式，依舊只有高考這一條窄路。他們早起晚睡，承受着沉重的學習壓力，只為在那一次考試中獲得“身份轉換”的機會。如今的創傷或許更加隱蔽，但卻依然真實存在。

因此，這篇文章不僅是個人記憶，更是一個道德抗議。它是對體制壓迫、階級固化與歷史遺忘的沉默控訴；是對改革所帶來那一線曙光的感恩；同時更是對那橫亙幾十年的專制陰影的譴責。教育，原本應是啟蒙的道路，卻被扭曲成一條絕望的逃生之梯。這篇文章，是寫給那些從未有機會發聲的人，是為那些在沉默中受苦的人留下的見證——是對那個年代的一個吶喊：連“受苦的權利”，也曾被剝奪。

這不僅是我的故事，更是中國那尚未完成的歷史。

From Fan Jin to Myself: A Memoir of Examination, Suffering, and Hope

The story of Fan Jin, a poor scholar who collapses in laughter and madness upon passing the imperial examination, might appear, at first glance, as a quaint satirical tale from Qing Dynasty literature. Yet for those of us who came of age in rural China in the latter half of the twentieth century, Fan Jin's story felt achingly real. His desperation, his humiliation, his fragile triumph—these were not simply literary symbols, but reflections of the lived experiences of millions. I was one of them.

In the decades following the founding of the People's Republic of China in 1949, especially from 1958 onward, the country descended into a period of near-constant ideological struggle. Class warfare, political purges, and disastrous policies like the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution devastated the nation. Intellectuals were persecuted, education was devalued, and the national college entrance examination—the only means by which the children of peasants could hope to change their fate—was abolished altogether. In its place stood chaos, dogma, and the worship of class labels.

Under Mao Zedong's rule, the children of peasants had no realistic path to social mobility. There was no exam to take, no degree to earn, no title to fight for. In such a world, even the chance to be a tormented Fan Jin was a privilege. One could suffer, but not hope. There was no ladder to climb—only walls.

Everything changed when Deng Xiaoping came to power. After Mao’s death in 1976, Deng ushered in an era of “Reform and Opening-Up,” and in 1977, he restored the national college entrance examination (gaokao). This policy, though it did not dismantle the structural hierarchy of society, reopened a narrow but critical doorway for youth from rural backgrounds. For us, the exam became both our curse and our hope. It was brutally competitive, with an extraordinarily low success rate. We studied from dawn to midnight, seven days a week. We lived with a singular purpose: to escape. Many students repeated their senior years and retook the exams several times. The pressure from family, society, and ourselves was immense. It wore down our minds and bodies alike.

Yet herein lies the tragic irony of modern Chinese history: the very thing that tormented us—the national college entrance examination—was something we were, and still are, profoundly grateful for. For all the pain, exhaustion, and mental scars it inflicted, we appreciated its existence. Why? Because under Mao, even this narrow path did not exist. The dream of a better life, however grueling, had at least returned. The suffering was immense—but the possibility of transformation, no matter how remote, was real.

I was fortunate to succeed on my first attempt. When I received my university admission letter, I did not weep or shout. I felt a calm, quiet release—like a breath held for years, finally exhaled. The suffering did not end, of course. The emotional trauma I had accumulated did not vanish. It settled deep inside me. Sometimes I wonder: if I had laughed madly, or cried uncontrollably, like Fan Jin, would my trauma have been released? Perhaps. But I have always been a man of self-restraint—of silence rather than spectacle.

The story of Fan Jin is not just satire. It is prophecy. It speaks to a society where learning is worshipped but humanity is forgotten, where a single exam can make or break one’s future, and where success, when it finally comes, arrives not with joy, but with collapse. And it reminds us of the painful paradox of our youth: that torment could be a gift, that suffering could mean opportunity, and that in a certain time in China, to be a humble Fan Jin was itself a privilege many were denied.

Though the China of today is no longer the China of Mao’s era, and the torment is not as grueling as it once was, the structure remains fundamentally unchanged. Millions of children born into rural or low-status families still face only one narrow, punishing path to escape their fate—the national college entrance examination. These young “Fan Jins” still rise before dawn and study into the night, under immense pressure, in hopes of transforming their identity through a single moment of recognition. The trauma may be quieter now, more invisible—but no less real.

This essay stands not only as a personal memory, but as a moral protest—a quiet yet unyielding cry against a system sustained by control, inequality, and historical erasure. It is a reflection of gratitude toward the small mercies of reform, but also a denunciation of the long shadow cast by authoritarian rule, which for generations has turned education from a path of enlightenment into a desperate ladder of escape. It is a voice for those who could not speak, a lament for those who suffered in silence, and a call to remember that even the privilege of suffering was once denied to millions. This is my story. But it is also China’s unfinished story.

Wordings aided by ChatGPT