当下困局有感而发｜Reflections on Current Predicaments
English translation generated by AI (without further editing) at the end.
最近有看新出的电视剧《长安的荔枝》吗？
原著篇幅短小，故事精炼。我在两年前的春节间，用了一个下午一口气读完了。总体来讲，我觉得电视剧的改编还是非常成功的。增加的郑平安一路的暗线，阿米塔赵氏孤儿般的人生经历，以及偶尔令人啼笑皆非的巧合以及日常相声斗嘴等等，不仅使历史变革的背景更加明显，还不曾忽略变革风雨前的市井生活气息。补充的人物形象也立体丰满，各有各的人格魅力。
单取一例，苏谅在李善德出发去长安寻求将荔枝转运法落地前，牵着马感犹豫一番说了真心话：
小老心里，有成千上万的无稽之谈，小老再说一句，记着，小老在岭南等你，万万不可有舍生取义之想。
一句“万万不可有舍生取义之想”，直击我的软肋，让藏身已久斑驳不堪的铠甲轰然崩塌。
原著中并未有这一句，但是编剧增加的这一笔精准无比的体现了苏谅这个在商场老手，对于李善德这类“耿直”的技术型文人内心的深刻理解。李善德沉思片刻后是怎么回复的呢？
等死，死国可乎？
这部文学作品以及电视作品最为打动我的地方，其实是我当下处境的相似性。或者更为概括的说，是大技术、复杂项目落地过程中的政治困境。这种写照的近似性，使我几乎可以一对一的找出剧中主要出场人物的现实对应人物，右相、鱼承恩、苏谅、何刺史、赵章书、阿童等等。出于种种不可明说的原因，当然我就不讲我生活中的对应人物了。而我的处境，融合了李善德运荔枝的明线，和郑平安由追求社会地位与身份认同转入政治任务的暗线。当然了，这两人的处境因为艺术创造需要清晰对立的矛盾，而显得较为极端。
但是，也是因为这种极端性，让我更加清晰的理解复杂局势的“复杂程度”。当李善德被同僚哄骗接了运荔枝的死差时，观众以上帝视角清晰的看穿了这种恶意制造以及利用信息差的行为。然而实际上，在迷雾重重的工作环境，哪来的上帝视角供我看清时局。偶然得来的额外信息会让人有种醍醐灌顶的顿悟，但是在片刻之后，又开始怀疑起新信息的可靠性，是否是又一轮的操控。我时常看着剧中人物的博弈，问自己，看得穿吗？不能，玩不转。小陀螺可以，大染缸就淹死了。
技术领导的格局与视野
说到由这部作品带来的最深刻反思，莫过于技术领导人应该具有怎样的全局观，才能在保证复杂项目成功落地的前提下，处理技术理性与政治权力结构之间的矛盾。
在一千三百年前，从岭南运荔枝到长安，驿道近三千公里。荔枝离枝三日便腐，平路靠骡驮马背，山路靠肩挑背扛。在这样的背景下想要把鲜荔枝送到宫里，需要方法延长荔枝保鲜期，人员马匹在驿传中的机动调度，运输道路与运输方法的匹配，钱粮后备补给在沿途的周密安排。这些都是技术问题，至少在表面上。技术本身可以很复杂很难，或者是多重的变量，或者是未知的不确定性，或者是资源的匮乏，但总体上技术面对的问题是死的，是不以观察者或者试验者的身份而改变。
非技术的问题则是这些复杂项目、复杂系统中的另一类要素。李善德运荔枝所涉及的非技术问题其实渗透在技术问题的方方面面：寻找到乐于配合，提供高质量、稳定供货的荔枝园（供应商），在项目求证阶段（高风险时期）获得资源性支持，拓展技术道路以达到多方共赢局面，沿途地方政府日常事务之外的特殊照顾，以及中央政府的明确指示。这些绝大部分都是流程之外的、责任边际模糊的，但是直接影响最终结果的因素。
这中间造成非技术性复杂度最重要的是人和人群。小到个人，倘若两人无话可聊，达成合作共识就难如登天。而人与人几乎不会在同一个人生阶段和工作重点，我同你讲职业发展，你同我讲家庭生活；我同你讲独立创业，你同我讲退休规划；我想提高技术壁垒，你要节约生产成本；我想创新寻求突破，你要延续追求稳定；我只好摆事实讲道理，你却云“不可说，不可说，你还太年轻（你个女人懂什么、第三世界来的人哪知道这些）”。这些捷径思维在主观角度都难以发现问题，但是就是这样的差异性让努力方向难以协调。再上一层，人是生活在人群之中。组织架构的差异，区域文化的差异，工作逻辑的差异又让人与人之间的沟通协调加了一层组织壁垒。
回到《长安的荔枝》，我们来看看李善德这个角色的成长。初次回到长安后，为牡丹驱虫而再遇鱼承恩是巧合，荔枝转运方案获得支持是能力，在诱导之下说出了那句极尽谄媚的“下官德薄力微，何敢觍颜承此重任。愿献与卫国公，乐见族亲和睦，足慰圣心。”是妥协。
说到这里，其实我也不是很想讲是非对错了。因为讲不出来。在没有上帝视角的加持，历史走向无法重新演算的低纬度视角，个人能做的，是追求更多的理解以及保持对复杂性的敬畏，不单单从技术角度。
“舍身取义”，是不是坚持“技术最优”的简单，偷懒，但代价极大的解法？
“一骑红尘妃子笑，没人知是荔枝来。”又是不是简单的、脱离现实的艺术性荒诞？
若再要荡开一笔，谈起狭义“文人风骨”、“烈士情怀”、以及“中庸之道”，篇幅就不够了。我的可用脑容量也告危了。
Have you watched the newly released drama Lychees of Chang’an?
The original novella is short and concise—I read it all in one sitting on a quiet afternoon during the Spring Festival two years ago. Overall, I think the TV adaptation is a great success. The addition of the hidden narrative thread following Zheng Ping’an’s journey, Amita Zhao’s orphan-like life story, the occasional farcical coincidences, and witty bickering reminiscent of cross-talk not only bring out the historical backdrop of sweeping reform more vividly, but also retain the bustling atmosphere of everyday life right before the storm of change. The added characters are three-dimensional and compelling, each with their own unique charm.
Take one example: before Li Shande sets off for Chang’an to implement the lychee transportation plan, Su Liang—an old hand in commerce—hesitates while holding the reins of a horse and speaks from the heart:
In this little one’s heart, there are thousands of absurd thoughts. But let me say one more thing: remember, I’ll be waiting for you in Lingnan. Do not—under any circumstance—die for the sake of righteousness.
That final sentence—“Do not, under any circumstance, die for the sake of righteousness”—hit me right in the softest spot, shattering the weathered armor I’d long hidden behind.
This line isn’t in the original text, but the screenwriter’s addition precisely captures Su Liang’s deep understanding of a “principled” technocrat like Li Shande. It reveals how an experienced businessman sees through the idealism of a technically gifted but politically naïve scholar. And how does Li Shande respond, after a moment of contemplation?
If death awaits, can one not die for the nation?
What moved me most about this story, both in literature and on screen, is how closely it mirrors my current circumstances. Or more broadly, it reflects the political entanglements that arise during the real-world implementation of major technologies and complex projects. The parallels are so striking that I can almost map each of the main characters to real people in my own life—Right Chancellor, Yu Cheng’en, Su Liang, Governor He, Zhao Zhangshu, Atong, and so on. For various unspeakable reasons, of course, I won’t reveal who they correspond to. As for myself, I embody both the overt arc of Li Shande transporting lychees and the covert arc of Zheng Ping’an, whose quest for social status and recognition is gradually subsumed into political obligation. Naturally, these characters are dramatized with clear oppositions for narrative effect, which makes their situations seem more extreme than reality.
But it’s precisely this extremity that sharpened my understanding of just how complex a “complex situation” can be. When Li Shande is tricked into taking on the suicidal mission of transporting lychees, we viewers, with our god’s-eye perspective, can clearly see the malice and exploitation of an information asymmetry at play. But in real life—shrouded in layers of fog—where can one find such a divine vantage point to discern the truth? When I occasionally stumble across some key piece of extra information, it feels like a sudden epiphany. Yet moments later, I begin to question its reliability—is it just another manipulation, another trap? Watching the maneuvering among the drama’s characters, I often ask myself: Can I see through it all? I can’t. I can’t play this game. In a small spinning top, I might last. But in a great dye vat, I’d drown.
The Vision and Scope of Technical Leadership
The most profound reflection this work prompted in me is this: What kind of macro perspective must a technical leader have to balance technical rationality with political realities, and successfully steer a complex project to completion?
Over 1,300 years ago, delivering fresh lychees from Lingnan to Chang’an meant traversing nearly 3,000 kilometers of postal roads. Lychees rot within three days of being picked. Flat roads required mule and horse caravans; mountainous terrain had to be crossed on human shoulders. Under such constraints, delivering fresh lychees to the palace meant extending their shelf life, coordinating staff and horses through relay stations, matching transport routes to transport methods, and meticulously arranging financial and material support along the way. These are all technical problems—or at least appear so on the surface. The technical aspects might be complex, difficult, full of variables or unknowns, or limited by resources—but they are, in essence, “dead” problems. Their nature doesn’t change based on who observes or tests them.
But the non-technical problems? They form the other side of these complex systems. The non-technical aspects of Li Shande’s mission permeate every technical detail: finding orchards willing to collaborate and supply high-quality lychees stably; securing resource support during the high-risk proof-of-concept phase; developing multiple technical pathways to achieve mutual wins; gaining special cooperation from local governments outside of their routine duties; receiving clear mandates from the central court. Most of these fall outside formal processes and reside in the murky gray zones of responsibility—but they have direct impact on outcomes.
At the root of this non-technical complexity is people—and groups of people. On the micro scale, if two people simply don’t connect, achieving mutual understanding becomes nearly impossible. And people almost never exist in the same life stage or share the same priorities: I talk to you about career advancement, and you respond with stories about family life; I speak of entrepreneurship, and you counter with retirement plans; I want to push technical boundaries, and you want to cut production costs; I aim for innovation and breakthroughs, and you pursue stability and continuity. I try to reason with data, and you dismiss it with “You’re too young to understand” (or “What would a woman know?” or “How could someone from the Third World possibly get it?”). These shortcuts in thinking often go unnoticed from a subjective point of view. Yet such mismatches make it hard to align efforts. On a larger scale, people operate within collectives. Organizational hierarchy, regional cultures, differing work philosophies—all these create yet more structural barriers to communication and coordination.
Let’s return to Lychees of Chang’an, and examine the growth of Li Shande as a character. Upon returning to the capital, he runs into Yu Cheng’en again while treating peonies for pests—coincidence. His lychee transport plan wins support—competence. Uttering the extremely flattering line, “This lowly official is unworthy of such a task. I gladly offer it to the Duke of Weiguo, in hopes it brings harmony to his clan and joy to His Majesty.”—that was compromise.
At this point, I honestly don’t want to moralize about what’s right or wrong. Because I can’t. Without the benefit of omniscience, and stuck in a one-way view of history where outcomes can’t be re-simulated, what one can do is pursue greater understanding, and maintain a deep respect for complexity—not just from a technical perspective.
So then—“sacrificing oneself for righteousness”—is it just a lazy, overly simplistic solution disguised as moral clarity? A way to stubbornly insist on “technical optimality” without grappling with the real cost?
And the line “A single horse kicks up red dust, and the consort smiles—no one knows it’s the lychees arriving.”—is that just poetic absurdity, beautiful but disconnected from reality?
If I were to keep going, and dig deeper into narrow definitions of “scholarly integrity,” “martyrdom,” or “Confucian moderation,” I’d run out of room. And quite frankly, my brain is running out of RAM.