“她赤身裸体地，石像似的站在荒野中央，于一刹那间照见过往的一切：饥饿，苦痛，惊异，羞辱，欢心，于是发抖；害苦，委屈，带累，于是痉挛；杀，于是平静。”
－－鲁迅《颓败线的颤动》
“有我所不乐意的在天堂里，我不愿去；有我所不愿意的在地狱里，我不愿去；有我所不乐意的在你们将来的黄金世界里，我不愿去/然而你就是我所不乐意的/朋友，我不想跟随你了，我不愿住”
－－鲁迅《影的告别》
“故人命兮有当，孰离合兮可为？”
－－屈原《楚辞·九歌·大司命》
I
Fate is ugly. In our cultural context, it seems veiled by a layer of ominous shadow. It signifies constraint—an ultimate form of bondage that comes from the highest realm of existence. In Greek mythology, the Three Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos—embody this supreme authority: one spins the thread of life, one measures it, and one cuts it. Even Zeus himself could not alter their decisions. To the ancient Greeks, therefore, fate stood above the gods; it transcended divine will. Zeus, as depicted in the Iliad, possesses the worldly aura of a king, but the Three Fates exist beyond such earthly sovereignty. Their power is purely divine. From the very beginning, fate was endowed with a sacredness that no human or godly force could defy. In art and literature, the discussion of fate has always circled around two poles—submission and rebellion. In early works, the oppression of fate symbolized divine authority; later, it came to represent royal power; and finally, a combination of both. Hence, resistance against fate gradually became a recurring theme in literature. The sanctity and supremacy of fate, its dominion over all worldly forces, and humanity’s endless curiosity toward the unknown—all these made it an eternal topic for early poets and writers.
The divinization of fate arose from its unknowability. In ancient times, the right to conduct sacrifices belonged solely to the state; common people had no access to the mysteries of heaven. This distance made fate even more inscrutable. Bound tightly to religion and deities, fate was approached through prayer and supplication, as people sought a smooth and blessed destiny. Both Chinese and world literature were born from ritual, religion, and magic. Inevitably, therefore, the earliest literary expressions of fate contained elements of invocation and prayer. In primitive China, philosophy, religion, and art were one. Philosophers, poets, and diviners were often the same people. The patterns scorched onto tortoise shells by fire required priestly interpretation. During the rituals, priests would strike drums and dance, seeking communion with the gods and revelation of divine will. The incantations of Daoism trace their roots back to ancient shamanic rites—often composed of four- or six-character phrases with strong rhythmic qualities. Later, under the influence of Han rhapsodies (fu), these incantations strove to depict miracles and proclaim the horrors of the underworld. During the Shang dynasty, sacrificial ceremonies were national events. As in ancient Greece, the Chinese emperor’s religious duties far exceeded his political ones. The Shang kings “consulted the oracle on all matters,” and thus, divination was frequent and solemn. Since poetry, religion, and shamanism were inseparable in that era, the concept of fate in early Chinese literature carried an unmistakable divine essence. A prime example is the Songs of Chu (Chuci). Here, fate is not merely a personal destiny but also the fate of a nation, the expression of personal ideals, and a vehicle for moral contemplation. The sacred nature of fate rendered poets profoundly pessimistic. For instance, in “The Great Lord of Fate” (Da Siming), it is written: “Human life is ordained—who can alter its course of union or division?” The poet laments that human destiny is a gift from heaven, beyond the reach of mortal effort. According to the Book of Han, “Siming is the star that governs life and death, assists heaven in the transformation of all things, punishes the wicked and protects the good.” Thus, the divine nature of fate in Chinese literature becomes evident. Moreover, the poet’s creative “ecstasy” resembles the trance of divine possession in ancient shamanism—a reflection of the ritualistic culture of the Shang and Zhou dynasties, when communication with spirits was sacred. This imbued the concept of fate with an enduring mystery.
During this period, fate in Chinese literature often appeared as lamentation over the nation’s destiny, as a declaration of noble ideals, or as the expression of personal ambition. The Chinese, since early times, have viewed history as a mirror. At this stage, fate had already acquired human traits—it became the other face of destiny. In poetry, this was conveyed through the use of allusion, which implied that fate was not entirely immutable. Behind these allusions lay a poet’s hidden will to resist, a belief that human effort could indeed reshape destiny. In Li Sao, Qu Yuan writes:“Those like Yao and Shun were upright and noble, following the true Way and finding their path. But those like Jie and Zhou were violent and depraved, taking shortcuts and ending in ruin.” Through such historical allusions, Qu Yuan admonishes his contemporaries and subtly reveals his desire to transform the world. This embodies the human aspect of fate—a faint yet persistent rebellion against divine predestination. People began to doubt the gods’ dominion over destiny; human will could intervene. Yet literature is inseparable from the writer and his age. Qu Yuan, as a minister of Chu, remained restrained in his thought—a man leaning toward obedience rather than defiance. His Nine Songs (Jiu Ge), written for ritual offerings to deities, illustrate this reverent attitude toward fate.
“Across the Nine Provinces confusion reigns—who shall live long or die young? It lies in me!” (Da Siming)
And in his hymns of devotion:
“Together we fast, my lord and I, and lead the Emperor through the Nine Paths.” (Da Siming)
The Great Lord of Fate governs life and death, while The Lesser Lord of Fate, a goddess, presides over love and the continuation of humankind. Compared with the austere Da Siming, the Shao Siming is gentler, more intimate:
“In the hall of beauties, she alone met my gaze.” (Shao Siming)
The chief shaman’s affection for the goddess is portrayed vividly:
“With you I bathe in the Nine Rivers; the wind rises, and waves are stirred. With you I bathe in the Salt Pool; your hair dries in the sunlit hills.” (Shao Siming)
Compared with the solemn hymns to Da Siming, these verses brim with warmth and tenderness. The goddess’s compassion contrasts with the god’s authority.
“Sword in hand, she shields the young and weak; she alone is fit to rule over humankind.” (Shao Siming)
Here, the Lesser Lord of Fate appears humane and benevolent—a symbol of gentler destiny. Together, the two deities represent the dual perception of fate in early Chinese thought: its cruelty and its mercy. Yet even the rebellion implied in Shao Siming—the belief that she, not he, should “rule for the people”—remains faint and powerless. In the end, divinity still dominates. This reflects not only the author’s personal restraint but also the overarching supremacy of divine order in his time.
II
Essentially, the two faces of fate—submission and rebellion—have coexisted since the dawn of human consciousness. They represent two fundamental ways in which humankind perceives destiny. Submission, paradoxically, can also function as a form of resistance, for it maintains order within chaos. Since ancient times, divine authority has been the medium through which rulers controlled both kings and subjects. Until the modern era, this divine power remained largely unchallenged. Submission to fate was, in truth, submission to divine authority—and by extension, to political power. The surrender to God and to the sovereign mirrored obedience to feudal morality and patriarchal hierarchy. In Chinese literature—particularly in modern works of the May Fourth era—writers began to turn their gaze toward the destructive influence of this moral and social subjugation. They questioned the oppressive structure of feudal ethics and its binding force over human will. Lu Xun’s fiction, such as Blessing, Tomorrow, and Medicine, vividly embodies this intellectual rebellion. Beneath these narratives lies the other face of fate: resistance. Fate, from any perspective, carries the color of domination. Yet rebellion—its opposing force—embodies defiance against that domination. It is an act of metaphorical killing. In the evolution of literary history, rebellion awakens the will to “kill”: to kill power, to kill oppression, to kill the predetermined destiny. This murderous impulse finds a visceral expression in Lu Xun’s short story The Tremor of the Decaying Line. The story recounts a dream—one in which a woman leaves home. In the dream, her son plays with a reed, pretending it is a knife, shouting the word “kill.” This cry awakens something long dormant in the woman. Once numb under oppression, she suddenly finds the strength to depart. Thus, the root of rebellion in Lu Xun’s fiction lies in his will to “kill”—to slay tyranny, to slay feudal morality, and ultimately, to slay fate itself.
In Lu Xun’s works, rebellion is almost always stained with blood and violence. Yet this violence is not individual—it is the collective consciousness of the oppressed awakening within a single person. Fate becomes a symbolic medium through which this awakening is dramatized. Not only in his prose poems of Wild Grass (Ye Cao), but also throughout his fiction, Lu Xun consistently portrays fate as both a background and a battlefield—a vast, unseen presence that shapes human existence while provoking defiance. In modern literature, fate often retreats to the backdrop of the stage. Everyone in the audience can sense it looming, but only those who look closely can truly see it. This withdrawal of fate to the margins grants greater freedom to rebellion; it liberates the poet’s inner resistance. In poetry, where expressive power is heightened, this rebellious emotion intensifies. In Call to Arms (Nahan) and Wandering (Panghuang), Lu Xun’s protagonists seem calm and subdued—the collective fate overshadows their personal struggle. But in his prose poems, where emotion is distilled and condensed, rebellion erupts in full symbolic force. Works like The Farewell to the Shadow, The Lost Hell, Epitaph, Revenge, and Revenge II are charged with this rebellious energy. Among them, The Farewell to the Shadow stands as the most vivid and complete expression of defiance.
People often say, “A man and his shadow are inseparable.” Yet in sleep, the shadow departs from the body. The shadow and the man thus become two opposing yet interdependent entities—a dual symbol rich with meaning. When the shadow leaves the man, it signifies rebellion: the object rebelling against its subject, the subordinate rising against its master. However, such rebellion brings no victory. It is a rebellion that wounds the self—a rebellion of bone against flesh, a revolt where separation itself becomes agony. And when the act of defiance is done, a new tragedy begins:
“The darkness will devour me; the light will make me vanish. I will not wander between light and dark—I would rather be swallowed by night.”
The shadow’s wandering embodies a state of exile after liberation—a condition of freedom without belonging. For the shadow, the body was both a prison and a home; without it, the shadow cannot exist. Its nocturnal flight is therefore not one of necessity but of courage—reckless, irreversible courage. This departure mirrors Nora’s flight in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Lu Xun once pondered what became of Nora after she left home. In The Farewell to the Shadow, he seems to have given his answer. Humanity, like the shadow, cannot escape fate. Even rebellion itself is written within the script of destiny. The shadow cannot exist without the body; man cannot flee from his fate. And yet—the shadow’s courage to rebel, to abandon all safety for the sake of freedom—is the same courage that drives humankind to challenge destiny. In The Farewell to the Shadow, the imagery of “shadow,” “light,” and “darkness” unmistakably reflects Lu Xun’s own spiritual landscape. He was a man for whom neither light nor darkness offered refuge. Feudal morality was the darkness that devoured him; the new enlightenment was the light that erased him. But still, he had the courage to resist—to defy both annihilation and absorption. That is rebellion. Even if fate retains its ancient divinity, rebellion possesses a deeper humanity that dares to confront it. Thus, in literature, there will always be those whose fates are tragic—individuals or groups crushed beneath the wheel of destiny. Yet whether they choose submission or revolt, every gesture, every moment of struggle, reflects the radiance of human nature—the light of courage.
“My friend, the time is near.”
Reference:
- Tu, Minhua, and Cheng Qun. “The Literary Character of Taoist Incantations.” Journal of Guangxi Normal University (Philosophy and Social Sciences Edition), vol. 47, no. 1, 2011, pp. 77–81. DOI:10.16088/j.issn.1001-6597.2011.01.006.
- 3. Xu, Jiawei. “The Influence of Shamanistic Culture on the Lyricism of Classical Romantic Literature: A Case Study of The Songs of Chu.” Journal of Hubei Vocational and Technical College, vol. 18, no. 2, 2015, pp. 42–44+60. DOI:10.16347/j.cnki.cn42-1742/z.2015.02.009.
- Stavrianos, L. S. A Global History: From Prehistory to the 21st Century. pp. 199–200.
