I have finally finished the lengthy tome on Kang Sheng, which proved a challenge at times. The authors, who obviously spent long hours on researching their subject, held the narrative line together moderately well, but the sheer volume of information and seemingly arcane lists of names and relationships made the going tough, now and then. But the picture of Kang was clear enough, a man of vast ambition and no conscience, for whom no treachery or distortion was too great.

It is a wonder how such people can live with themselves, for though we all harbor secrets, some darker than others, and while most of us reserve a part of ourselves for only ourselves, it is the scale of things that matters. There is a difference between telling a white lie, exaggerating a tax claim by a few dollars, possessing some workplace stationary, making the odd disparaging remark or insult, even throwing a punch out of jealousy or fear, there is a difference between these and many similar everyday foibles and the act of stepping over the still-warm corpses of others in pursuit of power.

Then again, maybe these people do not live with themselves after all. Perhaps, like Kang in old age and sickness, they ramble out of fear of being discovered, of being exposed by the sub-conscious.

The times suited Machiavellian ideologues such as Kang. Below, two photos from the chaotic Cultural Revolution, a period that privileged chaos and Mao worship.