He has paid sorely for his political passions. Despite his underground status, Guo was never imprisoned and his illness–diagnosed in the ’70s as schizophrenia–has clinical, not political origins. Still, he felt the barb of Jiang Qing’s ire; she denounced his work as “unhealthy” in 1970. Soon afterward, Guo became depressed and delusional; his family agreed to stints of institutional care. Guo’s breakdown, friends believe, was partly triggered by the chaos that consumed his youth.
Today Guo’s poems are being read once again. Though digging up details of power struggles is still taboo, Cultural Revolution literature is increasingly abundant–and appeals to fellow members of Guo’s generation, disillusioned former radicals who were caught up in the political frenzy. A collection of Guo’s poems was published in 1998, and another book of his works is due out this year. He was recently awarded a literary prize. Gray-haired intellectuals recall the purity of tone in Guo’s famous “Believe in the Future,” evoking the hope and sorrow of “puzzled anomie.” In another poem, written when he was 16, fish in an ice-covered canal swim desperately–but futilely–to reach the “freedom” of the sun’s warm rays. The verse appealed to “Red Guards who first believed in the Cultural Revolution but later suspected they had been used,” says friend Lin Mang, who edited the 1998 collection. In a rare interview, Guo expressed wonder at his work’s renaissance. “After all,” he joked, “I’m just a madman.”
Guo is still deeply affected by politics. His delusions worsened after he saw news reports of NATO’s bombing of the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade. Yet in recent interviews he animatedly recited his poetry and discussed his favorite foreign works, such as “Catch-22.” He’s a celebrity not only to the literati but also in the sanitarium outside Beijing, where he shares a spartan room with four other patients. “Guo’s been in an asylum for 20 years,” says literary critic Bei Ling, “so he has no enemies.” In his own way, Guo is free at last.
