Alchemised: Summary & Key Insights

By the late 1920s, after completing *Call to Arms* and *Wandering*, Lu Xun’s creative outlook had grown increasingly sober and anguished. *The True Story of Ah Q* had stirred great debate but also widespread misunderstanding: many readers laughed at Ah Q’s folly rather than seeing him as a chilling reflection of themselves. Disheartened, Lu Xun acknowledged that the 'Ah Q spirit' still thrived on the streets, merely dressed in new forms. His idea for a sequel arose as a direct response to this disillusionment. He sought to reveal a harsh truth—revolution may redistribute power, but it does not necessarily free the mind. Ah Q’s death, in this sense, marked only the end of the body; the persistence of his delusional 'spiritual victories' was the true tragedy. In his conception, the story would unfold in the aftermath of revolution: new slogans raised, new officials in power, old hierarchies toppled but old submission left untouched. Lu Xun wanted to ask whether, beneath the surface of the 'new society,' people still knelt in spirit. Would Ah Q return in disguise, surviving at society’s margins? Would he be forgotten, mocked by the very revolutionaries who claimed to have transcended him? Through such possibilities, Lu Xun was shifting his focus—from condemning the old civilization to doubting the sincerity of the new. History, he realized, changes swiftly, but the human spirit lags far behind.

Lu Xun’s vision for *The Sequel to The True Story of Ah Q* represents his deepest inquiry into the psychological paralysis of modern China. In the original story, Ah Q consoled himself through his 'spiritual victories'—turning humiliation into pride, defeat into triumph. But in the sequel’s conception, Lu Xun came to view this phenomenon as more than personal delusion; it was a collective social disorder. Even with the revolution’s success, such self-deception would endure, merely reborn under new ideological guises. Lu Xun once toyed with the phrase 'Ah Q changes his surname to Revolution,' suggesting that blind faith and servility could easily cloak themselves in revolutionary fervor. Citizens might shout slogans and don uniforms, yet remain inwardly enslaved, unable to grasp the nature of freedom. This tragic paradox—the slaves of the revolution—would become Lu Xun’s most haunting prophecy. He wanted to illustrate that while Ah Q himself perished, countless new Ah Qs flourished, proud of their supposed enlightenment yet still captive to illusion. They justified disappointment with triumphalist rhetoric, numbed personal loss with collectivist devotion, and mistook conformity for conviction. The sequel would thus expose how ignorance could wear the mask of righteousness. This line of thought resonates with works from Lu Xun’s later period, such as *The Rabbit and the Cat*, *Divorce*, and *Forging the Sword*, where he portrayed the spiritual desolation that follows social upheaval. His tone softened from anger to sorrow—a grief born of recognizing a nation forever chasing victory in dreams, yet perpetually evading truth.