The Tragedy of Modern China
The Tragedy of Modern China: Fatalism and Missed Opportunities in the Historiography of Modern China, 1951-1974
In 1969, James Thomson looked back at Western books on China published in the 1920s and 1930s. He found that their titles alone evoked a sense of “instability and portentousness” indicative of the mind-sets of Western observers at the time. He listed the titles as follows:
China Awakened (1922), The Awakening of China (1926), What’s Wrong with China (1926), Whither China (1927), Explaining China (1928), What and Why China (1928), China at the Crossroads (1928), China: A Nation in Evolution (1928), China: The Collapse of a Civilization (1930), Tortured China (1930), China in Revolution (1931), The Great Wall Crumbles (1935), Chaos in China (1939), and Deadlock in China (1940) (Thomson 1969, 6).
If Western writers on China in pre-1949 China felt overwhelmed with a sense of uncertainty mixed with both hope and fear, other demons plagued the writers of the decades surrounding Thomson’s own book: fatalism and its close cousin tragedy.
The authors discussed in this essay wrote on different periods and subjects in Chinese history, and they wrote from a variety of political perspectives. What they shared was a sense that a great possibility had dissolved into tragedy. But within that shared sense, there was much upon which they did not agree. What went wrong, and when? Could it have gone right, or was doom inevitable? If tragedy was contingent, what could have led China down another, less gloomy path?
To a great extent, the authors’ portrayals of Chinese history derive from their own political and philosophical perspectives. For many, a deep dissatisfaction with the changes Mao brought to China fueled their feelings of despair. Others – and particularly those writing on earlier periods – looked back on a century or more of hardship with grim resignation, convinced that the pain had been inevitable or even necessary for China’s emergence in the modern world.
Another way of classifying these diverse views is along an axis of inevitability and contingency. For some authors, Chinese history is like a snowball rolling down a mountain, gaining momentum until nothing can stop it, and, like an avalanche, it crushes those who – intentionally or not – stand in its way. Other authors point to a specific condition or set of conditions that caused the tragic outcome. If only x had been y , they claim, China’s fate would have been different.
Over the course of the historiographical period studied, China and the United States underwent dramatic political changes. The Cold War, the Korean War, the war in Vietnam, and the Cultural Revolution all profoundly shaped the books on modern Chinese history published during these years. Yet, throughout these changes, the theme of tragedy remained remarkably consistent. This paper will examine how each author understood the tragedy of modern China, its causes, and its alternatives. An exploration of the works in chronological order of the period discussed will reveal how the history of modern China itself was woven into the tragic narrative.
The Opium War
It is fitting that the tragedy of modern China should begin with the Opium War. This event is widely understood to be the moment at which China was suddenly made aware of how far it had “fallen behind” the European powers. It is thus particularly fitting that it should begin with The Opium War through Chinese Eyes, the title of Arthur Waley’s popular book, published in 1958. As a scholar of literature who specialized in translating the classics, Waley’s work does not seek to provide a grand historical narrative. In other words, he does not explicitly use the Opium War to explain the future course of Chinese history. The tragedy for Waley lies in the actual experiences of the Chinese people who participated in, or had inflicted upon them, the Opium War. By weaving together selections from the diaries of such actors, Waley paints a poignant picture of doom, of brave heroes and ordinary people fighting a hopeless war against an intractable enemy.
The first and longest chapter is an exploration of Commissioner Lin Zexu, the most visible Chinese actor in the story of the Opium War. Lin was a humble and scrupulously honest man charged by the emperor with an impossible task: to stem the tide of opium flowing from ships backed by a far superior military power. “Lin [Zexu] failed through no fault of his own, but simply because what he had been told to do was, given the military superiority of the English, not humanly possible” (Waley 1958, 156). The story is made more tragic by Lin’s ignorance of this disparity and thus his confidence throughout most of the war that China, the righteous contestant, would prevail. Worse still, in the end Lin was exiled for his troubles, or more specifically for his failure to accomplish what was “not humanly possible.”
As gloomy as the picture looks at the end of this first chapter, the following story is perhaps worse. In “Songs of Oh Dear, Oh Dear!,” Waley relates the “strange and tragic episode [of] the great Chinese counter-offensive of March 1842” (Waley 1958, 157). The title of the chapter is drawn from the diary on which the chapter is largely based. It is an allusion to the story of a general in the fourth century who “after he was cashiered did nothing but sit all day tracing with his finger in the air the words ‘Oh dear, Oh dear, what a strange business'” (Waley 1958, 165)! The title perfectly establishes the tragicomic mood the story so brilliantly dramatizes. In the counteroffensive, Chinese troops composed of a motley crew of soldiers, fisherman, and aborigines with tiger-skin caps, and armed better with omens than with guns, attacked the British camp at Ningbo. Although the British lost three to death and twenty-three more were injured – “the heaviest loss that they had sustained in any action during the war” (Waley 1958, 175) – the Chinese losses were inevitably greater. In sum,
Superiority of fire-power and command of the sea and of the major waterways were what made the English invincible. No generalship, however talented or experienced, could have made the course of events go differently (Waley 1958, 185).
It could be argued that any account of the Opium War could not fail to present the material in this manner. A look at a work on the same subject by another author shows this not to be true.
The conclusion to Chang Hsin-pao’s book, Commissioner Lin and the Opium War, rings strangely optimistic after what is otherwise a sadly fatalistic account of the war and its consequences.
The roaring guns of the Opium War awakened the empire from centuries of lethargy. This ushered in a new era in Chinese history, and the people were started on the path toward modernization which, owing to China’s unwieldy traditions and years of complacence, was bound to be long, winding, and anguished (Chang 1964, 217).
It is optimistic because, despite the “anguish” of the road ahead, it leads to modernization, which for this Fairbankian author must be both good and necessary. Yet, in the preceding pages, Chang tells a much less encouraging story of the scourge that opium as a drug brought to China, even to Chang’s own friends and relatives in the twentieth century. He proceeds to make a strong case, as did Waley, for the inevitability of the war itself and of China’s defeat in it.
Chang sees several causes of what for him was the inevitable path to hostilities and war between China and Britain. The first cause was broadly cultural. Vastly different value systems and institutions led the Qing and British governments to clash over such issues as extradition, diplomatic conventions, and the freedom or restriction of trade. A second cause was economic. While the Qing state was committed to rectifying the outflow of silver brought about by trade (and specifically opium trade), the British state and merchants aimed to increase their profits in Asia, a goal they claimed only opium could fulfill. The final cause was moral in nature. Chang points out that opium trade was a trade in opium, a commodity with profound moral implications that made conflict inevitable. He argues that, contrary to some assessments, many western people of the 1830s did consider opium use and trade to be immoral (Chang 1964, 94-5). For Chang, this is a very personal issue. He identifies himself as a person who “witnessed hundreds of my countrymen and my closest relatives become its [opium’s] victims” (Chang 1964, xi).
Piecing together the bulk of Chang’s book with his concluding remarks, we arrive at a narrative of modern Chinese history that reflects in no uncertain way the concerns of historians of China writing in the West during the Cold War. To begin with, following the establishment of a communist state in China, readers in the West were receptive to stories about China that emphasized tragedy, and particularly inevitable tragedy, where no one individual or nation could be held entirely to blame. This much can be said also of Waley’s book. Chang, however, goes further. By framing China’s humiliating defeat as a necessary entree into the modernization process, Chang effectively erases the moral dimension with which he began his story. Not only is England in large part exonerated from responsibility, but it is credited with “awakening” China from the sleep of backwardness and leading it toward a modern future. At least one contemporary reviewer understood him to be making this kind of argument. Earl H. Pritchard praised Chang for seeing that Chinese “arrogance” and general backwardness, rather than “British perfidy,” stood as the main cause of the war (Pritchard, 286).
The Failure of Liberalism
The decline and fall of the Qing state and the collapse of Chinese “traditional culture” are the foci of another body of works written in the tragic mode. Mary Wright’s 1957 book, The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism, and Joseph Levenson’s 1953 Liang Ch’i-ch’ao and the Mind of Modern China are prime examples. For the purposes of this essay, however, let us leap ahead to the Republican period. As the story of modern China approaches the “1949 divide,” it becomes clear that the tragedy that weighs on the authors’ hearts is the tragedy of communism itself. A great number of the books published between 1951 and 1974 focus on the failure of liberals and liberalism to create a modern, non-communist future for China.
Chow Tse-tsung’s 1960 book, The May Fourth Movement: Intellectual Revolution in Modern China, is a case in point. The book is a sensitive account of the intellectual, social, and political work through which liberals involved in the movement sought to transform China into a modern nation state. Chow identifies strongly with the people he studies. For him, the success of these May Fourth liberals in establishing a new culture based on such modern notions as the scientific worldview and the emancipation of the individual was a prerequisite for the creation of a healthy modern Chinese state.
Unfortunately, the goals of these intellectuals were never fully realized, nor were their debates ever completely resolved. Indeed, in 1960 “the current Chinese political situation” could still be seen as a struggle over the issues raised by May Fourth liberals (Chow 1960, 14). The difference was that the liberals no longer had the influential voice they commanded in earlier years. Chow points to many reasons for liberalism’s failure to win out over its rivals.
First, Chow identifies such internal factors as a desire for economic equality, the traditionally anti-individual nature of Chinese society, and growing anti-Western sentiment to have posed difficult obstacles for the movement and to have provided the communists with an edge. These factors alone, however, did not necessarily spell doom for the liberals. Rather, failure was contingent on at least two external forces. Chow pins part of the blame on Chiang Kai-shek’s antagonism to the changes brought by the May Fourth Movement. In addition, western countries acting in their own interests neglected to support the movement’s struggle to defeat imperialism. Without such support, liberalism lost much of its credibility, and “the Chinese liberals turned conservative or inactive and provided no significant political counterweight” to the increasingly influential communist movement (Chow 1960, 368).
The May Fourth Movement is the subject of another book written in the tragic mode: Tsi-an Hsia’s 1968 work, The Gate of Darkness: Studies on the Leftist Literary Movement in China. Despite the common theme, Chow and Hsia locate both the tragedy itself and the cause of the tragedy differently. For Hsia, the tragedy is not that of society at large, but of individual writers and their subjugation by communist politics. As he put it, “The fate of individuals in a collective movement can be tragic; and the purpose of my work is to recreate that tragedy” (Hsia 1968, xx). Thus, the cause is simply the domineering politics of communist organizations, particularly the League of Leftist Writers.
Hsia’s brother, Chih-tsing Hsia, who edited the volume and wrote the introduction, summarized the plight of the intellectuals thus:
It is the tragic irony of modern Chinese history that the Communist revolution should now appear as the rightful and logical successor to the May Fourth Movement. But with the leftist writers at least, their early faith in communism has only rendered more poignant their subsequent disenchantment with the Communist Party and their belated attempts at defying its decree that they prostitute their talent in strict furtherance of its political objectives (Hsia 1968, xvii-xviii).
This passage perfectly introduces Tsi-an Hsia’s exploration of such May Fourth writers as Qu Qiubai, Jiang Guangzi, Lu Xun, and the “Five Martyrs.” Each portrait reflects a disturbing aspect of the relationship between Communist politics and leftist literature. Lu Xun, for example, sincerely sympathized with the Communist Party, but was abandoned by his communist friends when his ideals no longer fit Party strategy. Still more tragic is the story of the “Five Martyrs,” young leftist writers allegedly betrayed by the Communist Party and executed by the Guomindang in 1931.
A third work on the failure of liberalism is Jerome Grieder’s 1970 work on Hu Shi: Hu Shih and the Chinese Renaissance: Liberalism in the Chinese Revolution, 1917-1937. Tragedy permeates this book on several levels. First, Grieder finds the failure of liberalism to be of great consequence for people in the west. “[A]s citizens of the ‘modern civilization’ that [Hu] sought so earnestly to establish in China, we cannot forget that much of what he strove to accomplish was what we ourselves might have hoped to see done” (Grieder 1970, 347). Second, Grieder pays more attention than Hsia does to the larger social context in China, pointing to the desperate state of the rural areas and to the violence of internal warfare, in short “the tragedy that had descended upon [Hu’s] country and his people” (Grieder 1970, 338). In the end, however, Grieder’s book is if anything even more concerned with the individual than is Hsia’s. In a wistful conclusion, Grieder suggests, “There is thus an element of personal defeat involved in the defeat of liberalism that brings us, finally, to speak not in terms of the failure of a cause but of the tragedy of a man” (Grieder 1970, 345).
The causes of this multi-layered tragedy are more complex than Hsia’s explanation and more theoretical than Chow’s political critique. Hu himself failed because he superimposed his own understanding of “freedom” (that of individual thought) on the Chinese masses, who were in fact concerned with the freedom from hunger and oppression (Grieder 1970, 340-1). The greater movement for liberal reform in China failed for different reasons. The gradual process of social evolution could not solve China’s pressing social problems. Grieder considers liberalism itself to be paradoxical in this respect. Democracy can only arise from a democratic society: it offers no source of power other than public opinion, which cannot be effective where strategies of brute force dominate the social context (Grieder 1970, 345). Tragically, China’s liberals were forced either to abandon their liberalism for the politically more realistic cause of revolution or, as Hu Shi, to hold on to their liberalism and become increasingly irrelevant.
The Fate of the Gradualist Alternative
The Nanjing Decade (1927-1937) provided fodder for two other tragic accounts of China’s painful journey into modernity. James Thomson’s While China Faced West, published in 1969, explores the rural reconstruction efforts of American Christian reformers. Lloyd Eastman’s 1974 book, The Abortive Revolution, is a damning critique of the Guomindang and its ineffectual policies.
James Thomson was the son of missionaries active in China during the 1930s. As such, he finds personal grief in the failure of American reformers to achieve their goals and steer China toward a peaceful, gradual social transformation. He focuses on the Nanjing Decade because it was a time when private citizens rather than governments engaged in foreign assistance. The in-depth portraits of such famous reformers as George Shephard and Selskar Gunn heighten the sense of personal rather than political tragedy. Yet, Thomson never loses sight of the real victims of ineffectual reform efforts: rural Chinese people themselves. For Thomson, this is an ongoing horror. The Nanjing Decade, he says, “was a brief period of excitement, hope, creativeness, and promise. But it gave way to tragedy and to more violent collision which continues today, with no end in sight” (Thomson 1969, xi).
Thomson identifies multiple causes of this failure. In keeping with the tragic mode, time (or the lack thereof) looms large. In Thomson’s words, “gradualism required time; and time was the one element denied to the rural reconstructionists by external aggressor and internal rebel alike” (Thomson 1969, 150). Faced with the internal opposition of the Communists on one hand, and the external pressures of Japanese imperialism on the other, reformers struggled against a clock that was forever ticking, bringing China ever closer to full-scale war and revolution.
Taking these larger forces into account, the reformers’ failure appears inevitable. Yet, Thomson’s narrative is also fraught with tragically contingent factors. The reformers he studied faced a terrible dilemma: to seek support from the increasingly Christian-seeming Guomindang or to distance themselves from the clearly ineffectual and even reactionary approaches of the ruling government. Complicating matters, the reformers became increasingly aware that the communists’ activities far more closely approached their own objectives than did the Guomindang’s. The reform effort with the best chance of succeeding was the Rockefeller program under Selskar Gunn, which not coincidentally was also the least involved with the Guomindang. Yet, American reformers increasingly took what seemed to be the pragmatic course of aligning with the Nationalist state. This alliance had grave consequences for the immanent involvement of the United States government.
The wartime American commitment to Guomindang China built on the hopes and illusions of the reformers’ own commitment. It built on a ready willingness to recall only one side of the Nanking record. And it built on a continuing blindness to the polarization of the Chinese revolution… And so it was that the American effort in China became tied to the deepening tragedy of the Kuomintang regime. With the exile of that regime came the end of the American effort and the ouster of the would-be reformers, and with them went the last best chance for the gradualist alternative. (Thomson 1969, 240-1)
Had the Guomindang been more attentive to China’s rural crisis, had the reformers been more careful in their political alliances, had the American government not blindly followed the reformers’ lead, events may well have unfolded less tragically.
In his incriminating investigation of the Guomindang during the Nanjing Decade, Lloyd Eastman finds tragedy almost everywhere he looks. The quest for democracy in a country where “an authoritarian system of rule is perhaps better able to produce the ‘greatest happiness of the greatest number'” is “perhaps one of China’s tragedies during the twentieth century” (Eastman 1974, 179-80). There is also “a tragic irony in the fact that the political culture, which proved so disastrous for the Kuomintang, had served the Chinese well during the traditional period” (Eastman 1974, 310).
The biggest tragedy, however, is the Guomindang itself. Like Thomson, Eastman does not exactly mourn the Guomindang’s defeat to the Communists, but rather its failure to provide a worthy alternative to socialist revolution. Eastman shows that the Guomindang lacked unity, integrity, spirit, courage, and even a social base from which to build a strong nation. The Guomindang’s failure was primarily contingent on ineffectual decisions made by Chiang Kai-shek, an intolerant, temperamental, narrow, preachy, and bullying autocrat without economic savvy (Eastman 1974, 279-82).
Among Chiang’s many blunders, one stands out for its irreversible historic consequences. Beginning in 1927, Chiang began a violent purge of communists from the Guomindang ranks. The result was that the people genuinely committed to solving China’s horrific rural problems and willing to perform the hard work such an endeavor entailed were made the enemy, leaving the Guomindang populated only by those “self servers” or “careerists” who cared for little aside from their own prestige and financial gain. As Eastman put it,
Tragically, then, the Kuomintang dissociated itself from the mass movement at the very time when surgent nationalism and modern communications were transforming the masses into a prime source of political power (Eastman 1974, 8).
The Guomindang thus fell prey to the persistent “political culture” of careerism, nepotism, and bowing to authority that Eastman understands to be so unsuited to the building of a modern nation-state. Meanwhile, the Communist Party took advantage of its committed membership (composed of those who had been purged from the Guomindang precisely for this commitment) to effect a successful revolution. Had these individuals been permitted to contribute their ideas and labor to the Nationalist cause during the Nanjing Decade, history may have proceeded very differently.
The Socialist Alternative
Not everyone viewed 1927 to be a tragedy for the cause of gradualism or the possibility of a non-communist future for China. Harold Isaacs saw a different potential. The missed opportunity mourned in his book, The Tragedy of the Chinese Revolution, is that of the socialist democracy. When the book was first printed in 1938, Isaacs was an avowed Trotskyite. When it was republished in 1951 within the political context of the Cold War, Isaacs used the new preface to retreat from this commitment. Yet, the body of the book, together with its Trotskyist argument, remained unchanged.
The tragic revolution that concerns Isaacs is not that of 1911, nor of 1949 (which antedated the book’s original publication). Nor was it the Nationalist “abortive revolution” of 1927-37 discussed by Eastman. For Isaacs, the turning point in twentieth-century Chinese history was the failed Communist revolution of 1925 to 1927. Of all the books examined in this essay, The Tragedy of the Chinese Revolution makes the strongest case for contingency.
The tragedy of the Chinese revolution of 1925-27 lay precisely in the fact that it took place within the same period of years during which the Russian national dictatorship was coming into being. Had it occurred a few years earlier, the whole course of history would have been different (Isaacs 1951, 51).
Isaacs argues that the Russian engineers of the 1925-27 “Chinese Revolution” sacrificed the Chinese masses to the interests of the emerging Russian national dictatorship, namely finding an ally – any ally – in China. For this reason, the Comintern insisted on Chinese communist allegiance to the Guomindang, the most powerful potential ally for the Russian state. When Chiang Kai-shek betrayed the communists in his bloody counterrevolution, they lost the better part of their urban proletariat support. In consequence, Chinese communists failed to bring together the urban and rural oppressed classes, which not only squashed the peasants’ hope for liberation from their oppressors but also doomed the revolution to failure.
When Mao achieved victory for the communists in China, he did so without the benefit of a strong urban proletariat. The Guomindang’s counterrevolution had destroyed city labor organizations, and without them the Chinese Communist Party, according to Isaacs, could evolve into nothing but a dictatorship (Isaacs 1951, 299-316). The hope for a socialist democracy died because Stalin railroaded Trotsky, a political strategist who understood both the danger of allying with the Guomindang and the necessity of building a strong urban leadership for China’s rural revolution. The tragedy for Isaacs is that China could have been a pioneer in a global movement for democratic socialism, but instead followed Russia to become a tyrannical state.
Conclusion: A Sense of Loss
There are exceptions to this general trend of writing China’s modern history as a great tragedy. For example, Maurice Meisner found nothing to cry over in his study of Li Dazhao’s interpretation of Marxism and its legacy for Mao Zedong. While acknowledging “the failure of the republic as an institutional experiment” to have been “tragic,” Charlotte Furth nonetheless focused on the benefits even this failure created for “stimulating…the intellectual life of the time, creating an atmosphere of dynamic speculation and debate among men freed by social chaos from the restraints as well as the comforts of orthodoxy” (Furth 1970, 1). James Schrecker went so far as to understand the history of German imperialism in China as a victory for Chinese nationalism – a far more optimistic portrayal of the subject than most accounts have provided. Nonetheless, the historiography of modern China from 1951 to 1975 presents a gloomy picture and makes for depressing reading over all.
What is interesting about examining both the authors writing in the tragic mode and the exceptional authors presenting optimistic accounts is the diversity of political positions within each of these groups. Meisner’s book on Li Dazhao is very sympathetic to the communist cause in China. Furth’s work on Ding Wenjiang is solidly liberal. Schrecker’s thesis riled progressive young scholars with its apparently apologist take on imperialism (Esherick 1972, 9). Similarly, no political perspective unites the works of Isaacs, Hsia, and Thomson, to name a few of the authors covered in this paper.
Then what accounts for the overwhelming theme of tragedy that permeates the historiography of this period? Certainly, there is no dearth of unhappy events and experiences in modern Chinese history. But this is true of history in general, and happier stories can also be told about modern China.
Perhaps the answer lies largely in the process of writing itself, which is fundamentally about communication between an author and a larger audience. Historians write not just to recount events or even to argue for a particular solution to a historical problem, although these are important aspects of the craft. Historians, and authors in general, hope to engage a readership in a shared understanding, and in this task they draw heavily on the thoughts and feelings prevalent in the audience they imagine they are addressing.
During the first half of the twentieth century, Americans had been heavily invested – in both the economic and emotional senses – in China’s efforts to modernize. Through the Boxer Indemnity scholarships, missionary efforts to save China, and the U.S. support of the Nationalists against Japanese imperialism, Americans had been taught to care about China’s “fate.” In 1949, that investment was abruptly broken off. Regardless of one’s political views, this break must have been experienced as a loss and a great disappointment. The chilling effects of the Cold War and the troubling questions raised by the Vietnam War did little or nothing to lift the spirits of the American public regarding the relationship between the U.S. and China. It is not surprising that authors writing in this context sought to evoke a sense of tragedy as a common frame of reference for their readers. This also helps to explain why so many of the authors adopted such a personal tone. To engage their readers in shared sentiment, the authors often focused on the plights of individuals or stressed the closeness of the causes that failed to “our” own commitments and values.
None of this is to say that the intellectual and political differences among these authors are not important. Whether history is seen as inevitable or contingent is of profound concern in understanding what (if anything) people can do to influence the way the world is ordered. Furthermore, it matters deeply what political and economic systems an author promotes.
This being said, the narrative mode or stylistic tone used to convey these ideas is also of consequence. Taken as a whole, the historiography of modern China, 1951-1975, reflected the shared sentiments of authors and readers. However, these books undoubtedly also served to reinforce the idea that modern Chinese history has been a great tragedy. The problem lies in the inadequacy of this approach in making meaningful the many, less dreadful experiences that make up modern Chinese history. An awareness of how narrative mode shapes the writing of history is crucial for a nuanced understanding of both Chinese history and the historiography of China.
Chang Hsin-pao. Commissioner Lin and the Opium War. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1964.
Chow Tse-tsung. The May Fourth Movement: Intellectual Revolution in Modern China. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960.
Eastman, Lloyd E. The Abortive Revolution: China under Nationalist Rule, 1927-1937. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974.
Esherick, Joseph. “Harvard on China: The Apologetics of Imperialism,” in Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, Dec. 1972, pp. 9-16.
Grieder, Jerome B. Hu Shih and the Chinese Renaissance: Liberalism in the Chinese Revolution, 1917-1937. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970.
Hsia Tsi-an. The Gate of Darkness: Studies on the Leftist Literary Movement in China. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1968.
Isaacs, Harold R. The Tragedy of the Chinese Revolution. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1951 .
Levenson, Joseph. Liang Ch’i-ch’ao and the Mind of Modern China. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1953.
Meisner, Maurice. Li Ta-chao and the Origins of Chinese Marxism. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967.
Pritchard, Earl H., “Commissioner Lin and the Opium War” (book review), in Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 26:285-90, pp. 286.
Schrecker, John E. Imperialism and Chinese Nationalism: Germany in Shandong. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971.
Thomson, James C. While China Faced West: American Reformers in Nationalist China, 1928-1937. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969.
Waley, Arthur. The Opium War through Chinese Eyes. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1958.
Wright, Mary. The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1957.
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