By then the cult of personality had reached its apex. It couldn’t go any further. The moment the work day began, Mao was there waiting for you. Once you stepped out of your home, your ears would be assaulted by the loud, ceaseless Mao’s quotations and songs of his quotations blaring out of the loudspeakers installed in the streets one after another like a broken record; your eyes would be flooded by Mao’s pictures, images and statues, and bloody redness everywhere—red flags, red images, red slogans, red, red everything, the so-called “Red Ocean” meant to overwhelm the enemies. You would encounter the masses’ propaganda groups here and there proselytizing Mao’s instruction or dancing “Zhongzi Wu (loyalty dance)”. You could see Mao’s badge pinned on every chest, big and small, sometimes scores of them.

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