In Do Not Say We Have Nothing, music symbolizes the expression of individual identity through art in the midst of cultural oppression. Zhuli and Sparrow are both dedicated musicians—Sparrow is a composer, and Zhuli is a violinist. At the Shanghai Conservatory in the 1960s, most composers give their compositions political titles about revolution or resistance. Sparrow, however, gives his only numbers as titles, suggesting that for him, music is not a form of political expression but rather one of personal expression. During the Cultural Revolution, Zhuli is tortured extensively by the Red Guards, who also destroy her violin. One day, she thinks to herself that if they broke her hands and she could no longer play her instrument, her life would no longer be worth living, and so she commits suicide. In some ways, readers can view the breaking of Zhuli’s violin as the destruction of her identity and, because she is unwilling to live without music, which is an integral part of her individual identity, Zhuli decides to end her life. Zhuli dies because she does not want to live in a culturally repressive society that does not allow for individual expression. Through illustrating in particular Zhuli’s commitment to music, Thien highlights the importance of individual expression to living a meaningful life.
Music Quotes in Do Not Say We Have Nothing
My father had once said that music was full of silences. He had left nothing for me, no letter, no message. Not a word.
Remember what I say: music is the great love of the People. If we sing a beautiful song, the People will never abandon us. Without the musician, all life would be loneliness.
“I am ready now,” she thought, “to bring all these flowers for…I will find all the flowers, even if I must steal them from the hands of our Great Leader, I will lay them at Prokofiev’s feet.” She had given every bit of her soul to music.
The official news program announced that Lao She, whose plays Wen the Dreamer had loved, and who had once been celebrated as “the People’s artist,” had drowned himself. To celebrate his death, joyful marching music danced from the speakers.
“The music you used to write, Ba, was it criminal music?” He could only say, “I don’t know.” That same night, he wrote a new banner for the front door which read, May the Red Sun keep rising for ten thousand years, in calligraphy that was accomplished but empty, a fixed smile. He might as well have written Joy! on a plastic bucket.