2. ‘‘Most men are brainless and indulge in fantasies. They need us strong women to lead them. Especially today, when traditional aesthetic sentiments are under fire, we can see their cowardly nature even more clearly. In the end, some deviants pursue a kind of nihilistic, monstrous stimulant that is profoundly toxic and incurable, similar to homosexuality: both are unhealthy and abnormal. I think one reason for this phenomenon is women’s frailty. Because they lack confidence in their sexuality and are never active, they’ve lost control over men. They’ve surrendered to men’s tyranny and ended up with nothing but self-pity. In fact, it could have been quite different. We should have understood the function of our own bodies and attracted and controlled men that way and then tamed them. Although weirdos like Madam X live in this world, she’s certainly not omnipotent. This much I know. I could reel in every man she’s had a relationship with whenever I want. Each of them would drool over me. If my nature were different, I might become another Scarlett O’Hara, but this is my nature, and it’s only because of this that a misfit like X can prevail for so long-and carry on with her occult activities. It’s because X knows my nature so well that she can act like this without worrying. She puts me in an untenable position. I look ‘hot,’ but decades of self-cultivation dissipated my lust a long time ago. The result is that I can’t act to prove her deceit and weakness. Nor will I stoop to fight with her for affection. I can’t degrade myself by doing that…’’
3. ‘‘Men’s sexual power is useless; it has no impact on life. Yet, a woman’s sex is her magic weapon for defeating the outside world and revealing the significance of her existence. I simply can’t imagine men with sexual power. Maybe women see all men-ugly, handsome, old, young-as basically the same as long as their organs are functioning. They all exert themselves in action. Maybe some are a little stronger than others, but there’s no essential distinction among them. Sexual power is unique to women: it is a kind of selfconsciousness about one’s bodily functions. When this consciousness sharpens, a woman becomes like a goddess. At that moment, each of her movements-each frown, each smile-makes men weak: they are shaken to the depths. (From these few words, it’s clear our widow has reached a high level of philosophical understanding. We can’t but admire this: she has dug deeply into the science of sex, and has done so on her own.) Under such conditions, if a woman can control herself and abstain from sex, her mysterious sex appeal will become fuller and riper until it sweeps all before her. (These words outraged the young and middle-aged men on Five Spice Street; they were unanimous: ‘If a woman exists just for the sake of this nutty idea, isn’t she just a ‘‘flower vase’’?’ They also said if there were a woman like this in their family, they’d ‘beat the shit out of her.’) Society these days is so prurient, and all the blame lies with us women: we’re too lax, too lethargic.’’
The widow had a lot more to say, but we can’t go into it all here. It’s worth mentioning that while she was researching the science of sex, she sometimes also engaged in fieldwork. Without a thought for the hard work and slanderous gossip about her, she formulated a unique method that enabled her to get hold of credible original materials without being noticed. The guilty had no idea how their secrets had leaked out. They all wondered if the walls had eyes. Ever since Madam X and her husband moved to Five Spice Street, the widow made their sex life an important part of her investigation and employed various approaches. Sure, she couldn’t fly over walls and walk on cliffs, nor was she ‘‘an invisible person.’’ She completed her investigation using rigorous logic alone. The result was: Madam X and her husband’s sex life was ‘‘particularly anguished,’’ and their relationship was ‘‘filled with hatred.’’ You could say that ‘‘there was no sex life’’ between them, just a kind of ‘‘abnormal sexual psychology.’’ She said, “You can see the problem just by looking at the huge difference in their physiques: one is so strong, the other so frail. How could their sex be any good? Of course, the man is impotent, but the more impotent he is, the more he hangs on to unrealistic daydreams: he thinks he’s strong, but when he really starts doing it, he shows once more that he’s sheer rubbish. As for the woman, she’s a tease, tantalizing all the men, while in fact she never follows through. These two were made for each other: they’re a couple of jokes. Normal people can’t figure out what kind of sexual relationship they have.’’ She continued, ‘‘Where sex is concerned, they’re as cold as ice. Maybe they’re still ‘virgins’! Their son, Little Bao, bears no physical resemblance to them. Maybe they brought him home from an orphanage — we don’t know. Let’s have a look at Madam X’s buttocks and breasts-I’ve always suspected that she’s still a virgin. This is entirely possible. I think it’s in order to cover up this shameful reality that she purposely projects a wild, lascivious image. All the men who consort with her suffer, yet-as if bones were stuck in their throats-they can’t speak out. Otherwise, why wouldn’t even one man say a word about X’s private life? Isn’t this strange?’’ Now, with a ‘‘brazen’’ person-Mr. Q-appearing in Madam X’s private life, the situation is becoming even more significant. The widow decided to carry out a thorough investigation and finally expose Madam X’s ‘‘unsavory background,’’ so that people would recognize the danger at last and would voluntarily ‘‘maintain the traditional aesthetic consciousness.’’
At this point, doubts pop up again in the readers’ minds. If we say that this widow has all along kept herself as pure as jade, then perhaps she was also like this with her deceased husband. Maybe it’s she (and not X) who is still a virgin? Is she qualified to prattle on about ‘‘sexual power’’? Could she have tricked us? Did she make monkeys of us? Let’s listen to her explanation. She said that she had had sex with only one man-her husband. Although she was unquestionably open, vibrant, spirited, and extraordinarily charming, she always strictly adhered to our traditional virtues and kept herself pure. As for her years of living as a widow, they were a little lonely and humdrum, yet it was precisely this quiet life, this kind of conscious self-cultivation, that now and then allowed her to reach the highest plane. There, she was sometimes moved to tears. No other enjoyment in the world held the same magnetic appeal, so she never did it with other men. Even if those crazy men broke the glass, prized open the door, and charged in, they wouldn’t get what they wanted.
But this isn’t to say that she’s this way by nature. When she and her husband lived together, she enjoyed worldly pleasures. She doesn’t deny this: she had a singularly fierce sexuality, to the point that ‘‘even seven or eight times a night couldn’t satisfy her,’’ and at any moment she could ‘‘come up with countless variations.’’ Her husband (back then, he was a virile young guy) was no match for her, nor was he as imaginative. And so not long after they were married, he became impotent and grew thinner by the day. Before long, he died. For years, whenever anyone mentioned this, she sobbed convulsively.