读“范进中举”感想

读“范进中举”感想

从范进到我自己：一段关于高考、苦难与希望的回忆录

范进的故事，一个穷苦书生在中了举人之后狂笑昏厥的情节，乍看之下，或许只是清代讽刺文学中的一段趣闻。然而，对于我们这一代在二十世纪下半叶成长于中国农村的学生来说，范进的经历却真实得令人心痛。他的绝望、屈辱、脆弱的成功，不仅是文学中的象征，更是无数人亲身经历的写照——我便是其中之一。

自1949年中华人民共和国成立之后，特别是1958年起，中国进入了长期的政治运动与意识形态斗争之中。阶级斗争不断，政治整肃频繁，“大跃进”和“文化大革命”等灾难性政策摧毁了国家的正常运行。知识分子被迫害，教育体制被否定，而本是寒门子弟唯一改变命运之路的全国高考，也被彻底取消，取而代之的是混乱、极端和对“成分”的狂热崇拜。

在毛泽东统治下，农民子弟根本没有现实途径可以实现社会阶层的跃升。没有考试、没有学位、没有称号，连被“痛苦地折磨”的机会都没有。在这样的社会中，连做一个苦熬中举的范进都是一种奢望。人们可以承受苦难，但却不能怀有希望。那时的社会，没有阶梯，只有围墙。

转机出现在邓小平掌权之后。毛泽东逝世后，邓小平于1977年恢复了全国高考，标志着“改革开放”政策的真正起点。这一政策虽然并未根本打破社会结构中的不平等，却为寒门学子重新打开了一扇通往未来的窄门。对我们而言，高考既是诅咒，也是希望。它竞争残酷，录取率极低。我们从清晨学习到深夜，七天无休，几乎用尽全部精力，只为“跳出农门”。许多同学多次复读，反复应考；我们承受着来自家庭、社会乃至内心的巨大压力，身心俱疲。

然而，这正是现代中国历史中最深的讽刺：高考，这种折磨人的制度，竟然是我们内心感激的对象。它让我们受尽痛苦、疲惫不堪、满身创伤，却依然感谢它的存在。因为在毛泽东时代，这条路根本不存在。通往更好生活的梦，虽然艰难，但至少重新出现了。高考带来的痛苦巨大，但它也带来了改变命运的可能——再微弱也是希望。

我有幸第一次考试就被录取。当我收到大学录取通知书时，我没有痛哭流涕，也没有狂喜呼喊，而是感到一种内心的平静释然——仿佛屏住多年的一口气终于缓缓吐出。当然，苦难并没有就此结束，那些长期积累的精神创伤也并未消失，而是深深埋藏在心底。有时我会想：如果那时我像范进那样放声大笑、歇斯底里地哭喊，也许那些痛苦可以得到释放。但我是一个惯于自我克制的人，一向沉默多于宣泄。

范进的故事不仅是讽刺，更是寓言。它揭示了一个社会的现实——在这个社会中，知识被奉为神明，而人性却被遗忘；一个考试可以决定人的一生，而所谓的“成功”，往往带来的不是喜悦，而是崩溃。这也是我们那一代人的真实写照：痛苦竟然成为一种“恩赐”，而奋斗竟然意味着“逃离”，在那样一个时代，哪怕只是有机会成为一个卑微的“范进”，也是许多人无法企及的奢望。

即便今日的中国已不再是毛泽东时代那般极端，但结构性的等级体系并未消失。至今，仍有数以百万计出身农村或底层家庭的孩子，唯一能改变命运的方式，依旧只有高考这一条窄路。他们早起晚睡，承受着沉重的学习压力，只为在那一次考试中获得“身份转换”的机会。如今的创伤或许更加隐蔽，但却依然真实存在。

因此，这篇文章不仅是个人记忆，更是一个道德抗议。它是对体制压迫、阶级固化与历史遗忘的沉默控诉；是对改革所带来那一线曙光的感恩；同时更是对那横亘几十年的专制阴影的谴责。教育，原本应是启蒙的道路，却被扭曲成一条绝望的逃生之梯。这篇文章，是写给那些从未有机会发声的人，是为那些在沉默中受苦的人留下的见证——是对那个年代的一个呐喊：连“受苦的权利”，也曾被剥夺。

这不仅是我的故事，更是中国那尚未完成的历史。

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