The early 20th century was a turbulent period of political and cultural transformation in China. The collapse of the Qing Dynasty, the pressure of Western imperialism, internal conflicts, and calls for reform had created a dynamism in the country’s intellectual and social fabric. Intellectuals, caught in the contradictions of the time, proposed solutions for saving China’s future, grounded in the class and values they represented.
During this period, the Self-Strengthening theses of imperial bureaucrats — encapsulated by the phrase “Chinese learning as essence, Western learning for utility” (中学为体，西学为用; proposed as a principle in 1895 by Zhang Zhidong) — advocated modernization while preserving China’s unique Confucian monarchical order. Over time, these theses proved ineffective. The problem was not merely one of tools, but of possessing a socio-cultural and political structure capable of organically integrating those tools into society. A rational culture that could grant the people initiative in production processes, and a revolutionary will to guide this process, were essential. Zhou Shuren (周树人) was born into this struggle — and within it, he became the Lu Xun we know today.
Life and Education
Lu Xun, born Zhou Shuren (周树人), entered the world on September 25, 1881, in the eastern coastal city of Shaoxing, into an educated family as the eldest of three brothers (Zhou Shuren, Zhou Jianren, and Zhou Zuoren). His childhood unfolded in a classical environment dominated by traditional Confucian education.
On his father’s side, Zhou’s grandfather had been a high-ranking official in the imperial court. This position brought the family both financial means and prestige. However, in 1893, Zhou’s grandfather, Zhou Fuqing, became embroiled in a bribery scandal, causing the family’s name to lose its honor. Zhou Fuqing was sentenced to death, a punishment later commuted to “death with reprieve” (死缓). He spent eight years in prison and was released in 1901.
The same year his grandfather was imprisoned, Zhou’s father, Zhou Boyi — despite his mastery of Confucian classics — was unable to pass the imperial examinations that could have secured him social status. The family’s standing steadily declined. That year, Zhou Boyi fell ill, likely with tuberculosis or liver cirrhosis (traditional sources call it “dropsy”). The family’s limited resources went toward his treatment, yet contemporary remedies often relied on bizarre superstitions and brought no results.
Lu Xun later recounted these experiences in his essay My Father’s Illness (父亲的病), included in the memoir collection Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk (朝花夕拾), where he criticized the superstitions entangled with traditional Chinese medicine and the corruption of the time:
“(The healer) normally charged 1.4 yuan for home visits; in emergencies, 10 yuan; at midnight, double; if he traveled out of town, again double. One night, a girl in a nearby village fell seriously ill. They called for him. By then he was so rich that unless they paid him 100 yuan, he wouldn’t go. They had no choice but to agree. When he arrived, he merely glanced at her, said, ‘Nothing to worry about,’ wrote a prescription, pocketed the 100 yuan, and left.”
“…One day he came to examine my father, asked about his condition, and then, with feigned seriousness, said, ‘I’ve exhausted my knowledge. There’s someone named Chen Lianhe who surpasses me. Call him…’ Chen’s fee was the same: 1.4 yuan. His prescriptions were even stranger: ‘Sugarcane frostbitten for three years,’ ‘a pair of locusts from the same nest,’ and ‘broken drum skin pill.’”
“‘Broken drum skin pill’ was made from the hide of a shattered old drum. Since one name for dropsy was ‘drum swelling,’ broken drum skin was supposed to cure it!”
When his father died in October 1896 at age 35, Zhou Shuren was 15. The family had exhausted all their means on medical expenses, and after the funeral they had to sell some household items to pay debts.
In this period, the monarchy’s reformist initiatives had introduced foreign instructors into some schools. Lessons were often given in the instructor’s native language — mostly English or German. In May 1898, Zhou left for Nanjing to further his intellectual development and learn a practical skill.
He first enrolled at Jiangnan Naval Academy, where classes were taught in English four days a week, and the other days were devoted to Chinese classics and traditional essay writing. Although nominally a naval school, some students had never even seen the sea, and the school made no effort to change that. The restrictive traditions of the school dissatisfied Zhou, who was eager for real knowledge, prompting him to transfer to the Railway and Mining School in the same city. There, modern sciences such as geology, chemistry, and physics — in line with contemporary Western curricula — were taught. Zhou believed he could finally gain “real knowledge” here. During this time, he encountered works like Evolution and Ethics by T. H. Huxley, which reinforced his faith in scientific thinking.
Graduating in 1902, Zhou and other top students were awarded government scholarships to study in Japan by the governor of Jiangsu, Anhui, and Jiangxi provinces. Zhou first enrolled at the Kobun Institute (Kobun Gakuin) in Tokyo to learn Japanese. Afterward, he moved to Sendai and entered the Sendai Medical School (now Tohoku University’s School of Medicine).
“…In this school, I first learned that the world had fields such as ‘science,’ ‘mathematics,’ ‘geography,’ ‘history,’ and ‘physical education.’ There was no physiology course, but we had seen woodblock-printed books like A New Perspective on Human Anatomy and The Theory of Chemical Hygiene. Comparing the age-old healer doctrines and prescriptions with what I was learning, I gradually realized that traditional Chinese medicine was, inevitably, a form of deceit. This realization filled me with deep pity for the deceived patients and their families. I also learned from translated histories that Japan’s Meiji Restoration had been largely driven by the influence of Western medicine.” (Preface to Call to Arms, 3 December 1922)
From 1904 to 1906, Zhou continued his medical studies in Sendai. In spring 1906, a microbiology class screening of a war film — shown using a magic lantern projector — made him reevaluate his path.
“…When I returned to China, I had dreamed of curing patients like my wrongly treated father, of serving as an army doctor in wartime, and of strengthening my people’s faith in reform. I don’t know what advanced methods are used for microbiology now, but at that time magic lantern projectors were used to show microbes; if class ended early, the instructor would fill the time with scenic views or news images. The Russo-Japanese War was current, so there were many war films… one day I saw a film featuring some Chinese; one was bound, others stood around. They were all strong men, but looked utterly indifferent. I was told the bound man was a Russian spy and was to be beheaded by the Japanese army as a warning; the others were Chinese who had come to watch.” (Preface to Call to Arms)
The execution scene, and the spectators’ indifference — even amusement — deeply shocked Zhou. It led him to conclude: “There is no point in physically curing a people whose spirit is sick.” In his view, the first task was to “treat” the mind, and literature was the best means to achieve this.
“…Before the school term ended, I had already returned to Tokyo, because after that incident I realized medicine was not so important after all. A people who are ignorant and weak in character, however healthy and strong their bodies, can only serve as meaningless displays or spectators; there was no need to grieve for those who died of illness. The most urgent task was to change their spirit. At that time, I thought literature was the best way to do so, and thus I decided to launch a literary movement. Most Chinese students in Tokyo were studying law, science, police work, or engineering — almost none were interested in literature or the arts…” (Preface to Call to Arms)
Before his ideas could take full shape, in summer 1906 his mother, Lu Rui (鲁瑞), wrote a letter saying she was gravely ill and urging him to return home immediately. Rushing back to China, Zhou found not a sick mother, but wedding preparations. Years earlier, the families had arranged his engagement to Zhu An — the two had never met. Zhu An was a woman deeply bound to tradition, though this was less a matter of choice than a product of the feudal order.
The practice of foot binding (缠足), which had been fashionable among palace women during the Song dynasty (10th–13th centuries) as a marker of nobility, had long since spread to the upper and middle classes. By the early 1900s, many girls from such families still had bound feet. Zhu An was one of them.
She grew up in a middle-class household, was raised with Confucian traditions, and was literate. On her wedding day, in a traditional red dress, with tight shoes and a pale face, she embodied the customs of her era. Zhou married her reluctantly, stayed in China for about a month after the wedding, and then returned to Tokyo to resume his literary ambitions. At the time, Zhu An was 28, Zhou was 25.
By late 1906, Zhou was back in Tokyo, while Zhu An lived with his mother.
The first to respond to Zhou’s call for a literary movement was his fellow townsman, Xu Shoushang (许寿裳), who would later play a major role in compiling Lu Xun’s works and was his most frequent correspondent. Their lifelong friendship began at the Kobun Institute in 1902. By 1907, the two, along with others, were starting new projects.
“…By chance, in that cold weather, I found a few comrades. I invited a few more I deemed necessary, and we decided that our first step would be to publish a magazine. We named it Xin Sheng (新生), meaning ‘New Life,’ because at the time we all had a tendency toward ‘reviving the old’…” (Preface to Call to Arms)
This endeavor, launched with great enthusiasm, was short-lived. As the publication date neared, supporters began to withdraw one by one. In the end, the core group — Zhou, Shoushang, and another friend (likely Qian Xuantong) — were left alone. New Life never saw the light of day. Soon after, the three temporarily went their separate ways.
“…It was from this incident that I first experienced a kind of boredom I had never felt before. At first, I didn’t understand why; later I realized that if a person’s ideas meet approval, it spurs them forward; if they meet opposition, it compels them to fight. But when you cry out among the living and receive no response — neither approval nor opposition — it is as if you are left helpless in a boundless desert. That is a tragedy beyond words. What I felt then was a true loneliness…” (Preface to Call to Arms)
