人能常清靜，天地皆悉歸。 我命由我不由天。機在目。道法自然。 Since 1999
東吳大學社會學研究所97年石計生教授「當代社會理論」期末考題(open one book, 三選二，共100%，每題回答不可超過一頁)
1.請以馬克思《資本論》觀點解釋吳忠吉教授所繪之(B)圖中的△IHF為何？並舉一台灣實例說明其意義與解決方案？(必選, 50%)
以下二選一(50%)
2. 試以《馬克思學》中的凱因斯與馬克思的經濟社會理論分析台灣目前所遇到的經濟衰退，並說明兩者策略的異同。
3. 馬克思的基本概念至少有商品、商品拜物教、辯證唯物論、勞動價值論、剩餘價值論、階級，剝削、異化、偽意識和意識型態等，試舉一位你所知道的馬克思主義理論家，從概念史(conceptual history)角度，挑馬克思其中一個概念，闡釋其變化的社會意涵。
An economist’s legacy in words and deeds
Taiwan Journal, Vol. XXV No. 51 December 26, 2008
http://taiwanjournal.nat.gov.tw/ct.asp?CtNode=122&xItem=47454
Publication Date：12/26/2008 Section：Panorama
Taiwan’s renowned economist Wu Chung-chi will be remembered as a person with high professional and moral integrity. (Courtesy of Wu Wen-chu 吳文琚)
By June Tsai
Being an economist in Taiwan during martial-law rule was a tricky proposition at the best of times, especially if one saw things from the perspective of the working class. In recent years, however, the challenge has become one of remaining professional and offering sound policy advice while avoiding being labeled with a political affiliation. In the eyes of his students and colleagues, the late Wu Chung-chi (吳忠吉)excelled as an economist throughout both periods.
Wu’s passing Oct. 30 comes at time when Taiwan is facing one of its toughest economic challenges in an environment of global recession. Although his death did not draw as much attention as tycoon Wang Yung-ching(王永慶), who died one week before Wu, the renowned thinker leaves behind a legacy worth preserving for those who care about Taiwan’s society and how politics can help improve it as a whole.
Born in 1946 into a poor butcher’s family in Taipei, Wu pulled himself up by the bootstraps to become a university professor. A graduate of the Department of Economics at National Taiwan University, Wu’s academic talent was confirmed after being offered a faculty position upon completion of his studies. He taught at the university until the last months of his life and during the 1990s was chairman and board member of the nonprofit Consumers’ Foundation(消費者文教基金會). Wu was also an advisor to the Cabinet-level Council of Labor Affair (行政院勞委會)for the past 20 years, and worked with Kuomintang and Democratic Progressive Party think tanks from 1996 to 2000.
According to C.S. Stone Shih(石計生), a sociology professor at Taipei’s Soochow University, Wu’s humble background was probably the reason why he became one of the few economists in Taiwan able to generate solutions that took the needs of the common people into consideration. Shih explained that while most economists analyze problems from the perspective of a capitalist, Wu took a different path.
“Real economics exists only in the political economy,” Shih said, quoting what his professor Wu told him in the 1980s as the then student struggled to understand textbook economic modeling. Wu elucidated by discussing the theories of Adam Smith and Karl Marx–taboo names in any discussion on the island that considered itself one of the staunchest bastions against communism and socialism.
“Wu believed economic study should respond to contemporary problems, and that political structures and social changes have to be taken into consideration in order to form solutions,” Shih said. “I was so enlightened by his words as they differed greatly from mainstream economic theories.”
For example, Wu argued excess profit should be equally divided between workers and investors. Fair distribution of these profits, which also means sharing risks, could prevent disputes between labor and capital from erupting, Shih said.
On the issue of foreign workers, which Taiwan started to utilize in the early 1990s, Wu stated that they should not be regarded as “apple snails,” a common type of gastropod that easily adapts to foreign conditions. “Wu believed that policies and laws should be created so as to boost the productivity of various groups of working people,” Shih said. “He was good at using simple language or images to get to the heart of the matter. Moreover, though his ideas were sometimes radical, they were always feasible.”
Wu’s life-long efforts in helping protect workers’ legal rights impressed academia, unions and government. CLA Deputy Minister Pan Shih-wei (潘世偉)remembered Wu’s grand vision for Taiwan’s labor policies and his tireless efforts to implement it over the past two decades. “He helped set up references and discourses on minimum wages and issues concerning workers,” Pan stated. “His death is a loss for the working class in Taiwan.”
According to Li Shen-yi(李伸一), an honorary chairman of the Consumers’ Foundation, Wu defied industry heavyweights in the struggle to defend consumers’ interests and rights. He also foresaw the dangers of credit consumption as early as the 1990s, and helped draw up standard contract formats and dispute resolution procedures, Li stated.
While nearly all of these efforts were almost invisible, they carried enormous benefits for everyday people. The same could be said of what Wu viewed as small deeds in his profession as an educator. He was an NTU administrator in 1986 when student protests against the political interference of academics and threat to free speech swept the campus. Shih explained a student arrest list, said to have come from Wang Sheng(王昇), then political warfare director at the Ministry of National Defense, was given to Wu naming those “suspected of collaborating with communists and Taiwan independence advocates.”
Shih stated that Wu probably saved the students from incarceration after advising then NTU President Sun Chen (孫震)to ignore the order as the protests and government allegations were unconnected. “He rarely spoke of this episode to other people,” Shih said. “Behind his pragmatic and low-profile way of dealing with these kinds of issues was always the greater cause for justice. This had an enormous influence on me, as well as many more of his students in different fields of study.”
(吳忠吉教授清醒時最後身影，2008.8.13)
老師，今天是您離開人間世的第四九天，也就是頭七的日子。我到了外雙谿的研究室，一個照例面對碩大無朋的老榕樹坐好攤開書，聽著音樂開始一天的早晨，尋找新樂園。finding neverland。老師，這時層疊粗厚枝椏上不知從什麼地方飛來一隻烏鴉，以同語反覆的暗啞聲調覆頌著我心中的輓歌。CD裡是行雲流水的鋼琴聲，基調很明顯地是屬於為情憂傷一類的情緒，而烏鴉間歇性的間奏，有種天外飛來一筆的插話效果，彷彿說，那是電影，那是製造出來的浪漫，人生的真實是殘酷的死別生離。你不要再相信了。老師，我也不相信，但必須相信，您是已經不在了。風在窗外無聲卻有力地晃動著。被學校工人冷酷修剪後的老榕樹枝椏，這裡斷一截，那裡斷一截地不對稱地活著。我看著那不完整的一株樹，胸膛一陣翻湧，哽咽。
老師。那天您兒子來，帶來了 師母要送我的老師您的一件衣服和領帶，我如獲至寶地收下，打算春天來的時候再穿。阿琚並說起了今天是您的頭七，那是您的靈魂最後顧盼人間的日子，明天您就要遠行了。我本來說好晚上要去你家跟 師母以及家人唸經。繼而才想起晚上還有課，所以得上完課回家後才能為您唸唸《阿彌陀經》。這經我 父親過世時也唸過，而且是反覆唸了一整年。剛開始不怎麼會唸，後來唸熟了就容易了。那經文說長不長，說短不短，加上香讚，咒語，佛號，也要一炷香時間。內容說著一個美麗新樂園，西方極樂世界，金色的瓊樓玉宇，各種祥和光芒照耀，不僅是人找到安心，連鳥啊池蓮啊等動植物都是神所幻化而成而祥和，它們都不是罪報所生。我記得的內容人和人來往不用言語。那似乎是一個用靈魂照面的世界，用類似音樂的旋律感覺愛著對方的世界。老師，我想這是現在這個階段，我能和您見面的方式吧。用旋律。用感覺唸經。它是一種對於行將遠行的祝福。說您要好好走啊，活下來的人雖然不捨，但是您請以憐憫之心回頭，還在紅塵裡打轉的人啊，何時解脫。
「不管我在哪裡，只要我活著，天空，雲彩和生命的美就會與我同在」老師，今天我讀的書是您也很熟悉的羅莎盧森堡(Rosa Luxemburg)的《獄中札記》(Briefe aus dem Gefängnis)，您應該會用這段話勉勵我好好活著吧。您真的看透了我的心事呢。相對於盧森堡為了「全人類的解放繫於每一個人的自由獲得解放」的革命理想流星般燃燒掉的短暫而精彩的四十八歲的一生，我在做什麼呢？例行化的學院生涯和行走，乾涸的湖泊裡翻白的魚肚，偶而泅泳而來的陽光笑意，一閃而過。是怎樣的人格，只要活著，天空，雲彩和生命的美就會與她同在呢？那不就是老師您的入世帶著正義感去愛人的人格嗎？此時灰濛的天裡冷冽的空氣從窗戶縫隙貫穿進來，老師，我突然覺得自己四處答應去演講十分可笑，當把那些所謂的學術的內容放在盧森堡的為生民立命的街頭慷慨陳辭前時，老師，我實在慚愧啊。1872-1919。七次入獄。1月15日。一個冷冽的冬天被殺害拋棄於河中隔日才浮現的偉大軀體。羅莎盧森堡的死。從此變成一個勇氣之母的象徵。老師，您的死，是塵世責任已了，受您照顧的人已經夠多，從此您成為站在弱勢者這一邊的精神象徵。finding neverland。那天上已經完美，地上的仍然苦難處處。老師，仍是的心，傷痕累累即使，在那很遠又很近的永恆的天裡，請也祝福我，我將以繼承您不斷茁壯增生的百年樹人之姿為輓歌。我從此不流淚，我以您喪禮上最為素白的花朵立誓，淚是要為他人而不是自己流。老師，明天醒來，您已遠行，我將也會是一個全新的人迎接晨曦。
輓歌三十一行
◎ 奎澤石頭
「刺眼地，我目送
海浪退回海平面的那端，雖是嚮午，但夜幕在眨眼間就低垂下來了
那是涉及對於被遺忘的逝去時光的救贖，
讓聲音回到沈默，讓無言自己說話。 –〈奎澤日記〉
茉莉花教唱的教室山邊說好的
拍手歡樂學習懸崖摩訶海峽
曾經木質的搖椅晃動過眼雲勢
暮鼓敲響安眠的斜塔歌聲扶正
夢的現實鋼筋混泥的觸擊波羅蜜
如見走來的包袱都卸下了
三或五月的涼風沁心透徹眺望不可能
消波塊設防潮蝕化雨崛起
粉筆書寫春風的心情方方正正
允諾上午十點鐘的陽光進來
簾幕遲滯關於下午四點鐘的方向
梅嶺結實肩挑的甜蜜送入對方
口中酸味震撼不自主神經
震撼，是五或三月是幡旗招展的季節
光的承迎一切水平的多想坐起
捧著課本圈點圖解綠繡眼的叼食
雨巷芒果墜落忠實的信任地心
引力要思考才靠近就不是真正吸引
比翼，或者所謂的那年春天
慣習萌發的姿態穿梭恐怖
空中飄滿了花粉的蠢動旋律
循環印象催促青春可能
因為有凋亡才有這些
觸動正襟危坐的失衡微微
嘴角牽動憂傷的痕跡
把頭轉過去拭去
含淚帶笑的活著時代
把頭轉過去回到我們的摩訶海峽
朗朗讀頌永不落地的雲海說：
逝去的不是逝者
輓歌只唱給自己親人聽
(2008.12.17)
石計生教授(C.S. Sone Shih)接受英文週刊Taiwan Journal專訪評論電影《海角七號》Vol. XXV No. 45 November 14, 2008
Taiwan Journal Website http://taiwanjournal.nat.gov.tw/ct.asp?CtNode=122&xItem=46100
Cape No.7′ provides outlet for suppressed memories, feelings
◎ By June Tsai
Released in August, “Cape No. 7,” the first feature film by director Wei Te-sheng, is still going strong, appealing to young and old alike as no other movie before. This romantic comedy, with its combination of characters reflecting the cultural and ethnic diversity of Taiwan, makes audiences laugh and cry in turn while delivering a universal message of tolerance. Taiwan Journal reporter June Tsai analyzes the movie’s success.
Many people believe it is a miracle.
Taiwan-made movies never become box-office hits, that is, until “Cape No. 7.” When on average a locally produced film barely reaches 3 percent of the total yearly box office, this motion picture broke every record, reaching over 8 percent with US$13.5-million sales in just two months. The movie by formerly unknown director Wei Te-sheng even outperformed Ang Lee’s “Lust, Caution” in Taiwan. “Cape No. 7,” which hit screens Aug. 22, is still being shown in theaters around the island and has become the best-selling Asian movie in the recent history of the country’s film industry.
Film producers have often complained over the past two decades about the public shunning local productions. It is therefore quite extraordinary that not only young people, but also the elderly, rarely spotted in movie theaters, all flocked to see Wei’s first full-length motion picture.
No one ever expected “Cape No. 7,” which started as yet another local production, to become such a blockbuster, with local media claiming watching it has become a “national movement.”
In a society where anything popular tends to be immediately pirated, netizens this time seem to have agreed tacitly not to offer the film on the Internet for viewing or downloading through file-sharing programs.
Needless to say, Hengchun, in the southernmost county of Pingtung where the movie is set, has been swarmed with tourists.
What caused such an enthusiasm? What kind of audience does this movie appeal to?
The title “Cape No. 7” refers to the address of a Hengchun girl a Japanese man loved but was forced to leave after Japan lost World War II and ended its colonial rule of Taiwan (1895-1945). On his way back to Japan, the man pours his love and regrets into seven letters that he never sends. Sixty years later, the man’s daughter finds the missives after her father’s death and decides to forward them to their rightful owner.
Meanwhile in Hengchun, Aga, an aspiring rock singer, has just come back to his hometown after failing to find success in Taipei. His stepfather–a town representative–is determined to set up a local band and have it play as the opening act of a young Japanese star’s concert. The band has three days to get ready. The movie follows the band’s preparations during this short period.
Viewers laughed throughout the movie before leaving the theaters with tears in their eyes. Many people saw it more than once and it generated many heated exchanges in blogs and newspapers.
“At first, movies in Taiwan were produced for the government. For the last 20 years, they were made for international film festivals. Now, directors are starting to make movies for the local public,” film producer and director Khan Lee pointed out laconically. Indeed, “Cape No. 7” shot to popularity mostly through word of mouth rather than corporate marketing or international recognition.
Lee said it was about time directors such as Wei, who worked really hard to achieve his dream, got recognized.
Wei, who was born in 1968, studied to become a mechanical engineer before following his true passion–film making. In 1993, without formal training, he began working with Edward Yang (1947-2007), an acclaimed director, and became his assistant three years later. Wei made a series of critically acclaimed shorts before shooting “Cape No. 7.” It was also revealed that Wei’s earlier, larger project–an epic movie about Taiwan’s aboriginal warrior Mona Rudao who led an uprising against Japan’s rule–had been rejected many times. Wei made “Cape No. 7” to prove investors he could make a commercial movie, even though he had to mortgage his own house to complete the US$1.4-million film, the most expensive ever made in Taiwan. 
“The movie itself and the production process successfully involve the largest possible section of Taiwan’s society,” said C.S. Stone Shih, a professor of sociology at Taipei-based Soochow University, “particularly at a time when global economic recession looms and people perceive hard times are ahead.”
Veteran director Wu Nien-jen, however, argued that rather than signaling the beginning of Taiwanese filmmaking prosperity, “the success of the movie has more to do with suppressed popular feelings having found an outlet at last.” The fresh film combines distinctive elements of the local Taiwanese culture that appeal to people’s feelings, in particular during politically perturbed times, he observed.
His views echo the editorials of some major Chinese-language newspapers. The Apple Daily described the film as “hitting right on the psychological reality of the rising Taiwanese consciousness.” The China Times praised it as a “love letter to Taiwan,” highlighting “the island’s collective memory.” The New Taiwan Weekly magazine said the film carves out an aesthetic appropriate to the country’s popular culture, systematically suppressed since the end of World War II under the Kuomintang rule.
Such comments are rooted in reality, Shih responded.The fact that the “Taiwanese identity” seems to have experienced a setback since the KMT came back to power, might explain the movie’s popularity. “Cape No. 7” portrays life in southern Taiwan, traditionally the stronghold of the opposition party. Yet Shih pointed out one should be cautious when making a political interpretation of the movie. The national identity should be construed from the movie itself, to the extent it involves every Taiwanese viewer, he explained.
Shih compared the Taiwanese-Japanese love story to a double bass playing in a symphony. “It was this double bass that elevated this otherwise simply humorous and cheerful movie to an aesthetic height, a height already achieved by two other renowned Taiwanese directors, Hou Hsiao-hsien and Edward Yang.”
Yet critics believe Wei differs from Hou and Yang in that he embraces the island’s history and local cultures in a more direct and open fashion. For one, “Cape No. 7” is the first film that touches on Japan’s pulling out from Taiwan.
The movie’s stance toward that period is an obvious breakthrough for in the past the dominant discourse was to depict Japan as the invader or enemy. Yang’s acclaimed “Yi Yi–A One and a Two” portrayed the Japanese as truthful and friendly people, but the film was never screened in Taiwan.
“There was a love-hate relationship between Taiwan and its colonizer, Japan. And I wanted to get back to that period of mixed feelings,” Wei said in a September interview. The movie brought back many unspoken memories moving some elderly viewers to tears.
“Cape No. 7” appeals to most viewers because it epitomizes the kaleidoscopic aspects of the country. The movie addresses its many contrasts without ever taking sides.
Choosing Hengchun as the backdrop is in itself symbolic as it contrasts with metropolitan Taipei, while the town shows signs of contradictions in its progress toward modernity. It has retained its old city walls but has built five-star hotels; it hosts the “Spring Scream” rock festival but is also home to Hengchun folk music.
Moreover, there is an aboriginal policeman and a Hakka salesperson to underline Taiwan’s ethnic diversity, while the 80-year-old postman and the nonconformist young pianist serve to encompass different age groups. Also the amateur band is training in Western-style pop. “Cape No. 7” may lack waishengren –mainlanders who immigrated to Taiwan from mainland China after the war–yet, Shih reminded, most of the young people in the movie speak Mandarin Chinese, and “it is this ‘absent subject’ that dominates the screen.”
When the KMT moved to the island after the Chinese civil war (1946-1950), it made Mandarin Chinese its official language, effectively banning Holo-Taiwanese. Such proscription influenced the media and created certain bias toward the language. Some viewers did criticize the prevalent use of grassroots slang in the film, while others claimed it is overshadowed by Japanese and American subcultures and lacks Taiwanese components.
However, “the use of these various language elements is deliberate,” Shih defended. “It is natural for the old postman to be able to speak Japanese to the Japanese program coordinator, for the aboriginal policeman and the failed rock singer to fight in Chinese.” Even the film’s motif, Schubert’s “Haidenroslein,” was carefully chosen because the lied was popular during Japanese colonial rule of the island.
“The director has interwoven all these ethnic and cultural elements very precisely to reflect the life of ordinary Taiwanese, and he depicted them in a warm and tolerant way,” he argued.
“It is the assimilation of these heterogeneous cultures that make up the Taiwanese identity,” Shih said, “‘Cape No. 7’ grasps that. It cuts right into the essence of the Taiwanese culture.”
“Taiwan experienced several rulers, but the people never had their say. We were educated in the rulers’ languages. Yet when it comes to our identity, I believe we assimilated aspects of various cultures into our own indigenous one to create a truly original Taiwanese identity,” the professor continued
Because the daily experiences of most people in Taiwan–the raucous wedding banquet, the macho gangster-like local representative, the depopulation of small towns and its related social problems, for example–are all so accurately represented, and because what was once considered as vulgar and cheap is depicted in a benevolent manner, “a viewer would feel he or she is part of this proud movie, and this feeling would probably help Taiwan’s filmmaking grow,” Shih said.
Director Wei attributed the popularity of “Cape No. 7” to the energy inherent to the people of Taiwan. “What Taiwan wants is a consensus [on its identity]. Once the consensus is built, an unimaginable energy would result from it,” he said. Judging from its performance, the movie might as well be the current common denominator for people of every political spectrum on the island.