face with wrinkles. Its skin was smooth and, when He was alive, it "glowed with health and vigour, and he enjoyed a ruddy complexion."
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He shone with the light of energy. In the crystal sarcophagus His face has lost the sheen of life and appears more solemn. He is majestic and aloof.
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He was an awesome Commander-in-Chief who subdued an age of restlessness through will-power alone. The raging torrents of the Yellow River and the Yangtze coursed through His veins. His massive chest rose like a great mountain. No force on earth could withstand Him; none could control Him. He was the enactor of His own will; it was like lightning or a tempest, both majestic and terrifying. He deployed it as a warrior would wield a weapon.
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He was a Lord of Destruction: swinging a shovel in His hands he buried Old China in an instant.
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He was a Master of Creation: using the methods that eliminated reactionaries He established a new order.
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Unity of thought, unity of will, unity of action: in clenching His fist he smelted the loose sands of China
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into a lead ingot, melding hundreds of millions of Chinese into one body.
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That profound gaze of His could see through everything.
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Nothing could escape His vision, not even the most subtle changes deep in the hearts of men. Therefore, He was able to discover all plots, starting with Zhang Guotao
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and right up to the time of Lin Biao and the "Gang of Four."
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In His speech He combined the talents of both lawyer and judge. The Hunanese accent sounded particularly powerful and moving when it issued from His lips. He used it to advocate causes throughout His life: for the "movement of the riffraff,"
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for a boat on the horizon, the morning sun and a baby,
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for democracy, freedom and dictatorship, in defence of the "Three Red Banners,"
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in inner party struggles, and so on and so forth. When speaking in favour of something every word would touch His listeners. His unshakable faith made it possible for Him to turn the tide in His favour. He delighted in contradictions, and in the face of conflict He would act as the arbiter of truth, settling the fate of the universe with unflinching certainty. But His arguments and decisions were never simplistic; they were like the sun that shines into every nook and cranny of society. The brilliant effulgence of His Thought lit up the souls of all Chinese. . . .
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Mao Zedong, the man who once stood on the rostrum of Tiananmen, now lies in front of it. The sun no longer shines on Him, and the holy aura that once surrounded Him has faded.
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Those who come to see Him experience many different emotions: some are sorrowful, others thoughtful, and there are those who are moved. But
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