Bertold Brecht’s worker wondered: ‘Where, the evening that the Great Wall of China was finished, did the masons go?’ In fact, ordinary people are better-represented in the history of China than almost anywhere else, not least because of their huge and frequent peasant revolts. Many of these were even successful. But while China could be egalitarian—anyone could take the imperial exams, and the Mandate of Heaven might fall on an ordinary peasant—Chinese history is also marked by a near-total absence of any democratic institutions, citizens’ councils or noble parliaments. Until the nineteenth century, revolt was always political in its character rather than social: the victorious peasants would, like the successful invaders, simply found a new dynasty. Why does the history of China keep to such a tight rhyme scheme? What were the seductions of its autocratic rule? Is there any hope for democracy in the lands once held by the Great Qing?
From now until September, Numb at the Lodge will be in China, investigating these questions and more. Paid subscribers can join us in a brain-melting tourist odyssey across the past and future of Chinas real and imagined. This is a travel blog now.
Today I’m writing from Xi’an, which might be my favourite city in the world. The vibes in Xi’an are impeccable. Streets are thronged, people ride motorbikes on the pavement, the food is so good I keep spontaneously grinning for hours afterwards, and while the big apartment and office buildings are individually quite ugly they all come together to form a city that’s undeniably beautiful in its sheer unabashed mirrored-and-colonnaded y2k tackiness. There's a local Orangina-style soft drink called Peak Ice and it’s pretty good. At night, wannabe wanghongs pose in hanfu before the Bell Tower while their boyfriends take photos. I love it all.
Unfortunately, I am also sick as a dog. Every time I try to breathe in through my nose it produces a pathetic little sandpapery snuffle, and every time I exhale two great pendulous columns of yellow snot dangle alarmingly from my nostrils. So I’m holed up in my wondefully grotty hotel room (in a hotel where all the room numbers start with an 8, entirely irrespective of the floor they’re actually on), while my girlfriend swans around at the spa and this gorgeous city buzzes outside my window, with nothing to do except read. I have been reading about emperors.