旺旺這隻落水狗，終於向歹毒低頭道歉了。http://blog.udn.com/gunleenia/6520649

　　「中國時報」先是痛切反省說：「有真相才有轉型正義」「說來汗顏，其實台灣的轉型正義做得不好，否則不會在多年後還在質疑事件死亡人數；拒絕以同理心走入歷史情境，想用冷酷而片面的數據資料，假裝客觀、掩飾自己的恐懼。」又問：「六四死多少人？」這些自誣材料充滿著矛盾與悔意，茲駁斥如下：
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    　六四死多少人？-06-05  中國時報

　  「六四」廿三周年，美國呼籲中國公布當年死傷及被捕人數。這當然是狗吠火車，中共從來不曾在國際壓力下屈服過，更何況現在中國勢強，美國勢弱！（那裡，還是美強多了，她可以到處殺人，還被讚揚。）

    　不過，撇開美國的「說三道四」，中共確實是該理性面對「六四」事件了。因為歷史只能面對它、接受它、處理它，然後才有辦法放下它；逃避，不但永遠無法解決問題，還會使問題變大、變複雜。（對，告訴「多死派」，你們該死，當年太理性，殺太少了。不要逃避，就明說。當然，明說了還是會吵，你看台灣的228，不還是在吵？不會停的。）

    　「六四」剛落幕時，中共官方說法是「天安門廣場沒死一個人」（現在還是這樣說。侯德建劉曉波都這樣說，本來就沒死一個人，那怎辦？抓個「多死派」到廣場砍了？）。當時的國務院發言人袁木則宣稱整起事件只死十三人，外界從此稱他「袁十三」。（袁是說300多人，你十三點聽錯了？）

    　由於光公開站出來的死難家屬都遠超此數，「袁十三」之說當然不攻自破。官方說法證實是謊言後，各方說法也就取得正當性。接著「六四」死亡人數就變成「等比級數」；數字越大，越是政治正確，反正又沒人否認。（這最好笑。官方說美牛沒毒，是謊話，那你就可說美牛吃了會威而剛？你的謊言就可取得正當性？最後「數字越大」，說美牛會飛也該相信？侯德建駁柴玲，說：「以謊言去打擊說謊的敵人是很危險的, 因為當你的謊言被揭穿時, 你已沒有力量去打擊敵人了。」）

    　最後，這「等比級數」衝到三萬多人；誰質疑，誰就「親共」。在此情境下，本集團總裁蔡衍明從沒說過「沒有大屠殺」，只不過說個「應該沒死那麼多人」，也就因此成為「政治不正確」。（難道為了救旺，就要政府公布死人數？政府說死了300多，是這數字較合事實，還是「謊比級」的三萬多合呢？都有謊，那是少報的謊大，還是多報的？

　　你們要不是吃蔡的飯，一定加入「多死派」要叫蔡滾出台灣，你們幫蔡辯得還是有氣無力，還罵蔡是不懂轉型正義，去「質疑」死亡人數。強說蔡沒說過「沒有大屠殺」，這辯詞實很虛弱。「沒死太多人就是沒大屠殺」，還要強辯什麼？該說，本來就沒大屠殺，標準何在？有了我說沒有也是我的言論自由，怎可不准我做買賣？

　　蔡不是被說「沒大屠」而被攻擊，是說他說「沒死那麼多人。」這就犯了「多死派」的大忌，被揭了其大謊。其實蔡言實沒錯，王永慶、許文龍還大讚統與反分裂法呢，就是蔡被視為親中要統，就被獨輪狂咬，這就如對馬一樣，馬比旺怕獨百倍，獨還不是罵他比旺更多？旺這隻小鬥犬，在「陷衷時」和「外獨輪」的夾攻下，已成了落水狗，連有理自辯都不敢了。）

    　其實，不管死多少人，都是悲劇，都是罪行。（這太對了，也最虛偽，那軍人被打死吊起來的，怎不見你追究？怎你從不提「學生罪行」呢？228先被暴民打死姦殺的四百良民，怎不見追念補償呢？美國一天到晚在殺人，怎不見你談悲劇呢？）所以儘管中共辯稱「沒鎮壓，就沒現在的穩定、繁榮」，卻沒人敢「居功」（真偉大，賽慈濟。）不管李鵬或陳希同，全把責任往鄧小平推（說鄧對，難道不行？要像追殺旺一樣？）。

    　既然如此，我們認為，鄧已過世，中共何妨公布所有「六四」的檔案，讓外界了解真相，否則道聽途說就會成為歷史。（絕對不要，不是不要，是要了也沒用。旺只是講了他的看法，還是較對的，就受到「多死大謊派」的死纏爛打，不肯面對真相，那公布了有何用？看看228吧，公布了，好多年了，現在還不是在吵？郝伯村僅是質疑謊言，有理有據，不就被說是不懂「轉型正義」，罪該萬死？

　　還有，「真相」不就是數字嗎？不就是本文題問的「死多少」嗎？那為何郝事時，獨輪民進黨又說「數字不重要」？本文也說「不管死多少人」，那你們到底要說什麼？還是是你們在掩飾大謊？）

　　這篇文其實是罵旺旺，但又不能明講，故扭捏矛盾。不像王效蘭，她沒有投資案被歹毒ＮＣＣ所制，故敢講真話。
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王效蘭：別叫我台灣人

接受《金融時報》專訪 大方表白

繼《中時》媒體集團老闆蔡衍明「六四沒有死那麼多人」的言論引起毒界抗議後，《聯合報》集團的王效蘭也發出誇獎政府的直率言論，讓參與抵制《中時》的毒者發出：「難道下一個要抵制《聯合報》了嗎？」的無奈感嘆。 -------
《聯合報》系發行人王效蘭接受英國《金融時報》專訪，表達「認同成龍批判台灣民主」、「法治之前，不用給太多自由」，以及「我不認為我是台灣人」等言論，在網路上引發熱烈討論。網友認為，王效蘭比旺旺更勁爆，有勇氣，頂。

《金融時報》亞洲版主編皮林（David Pilling）二月採訪王效蘭，談到港星成龍因重批「中國人需要被管」、「台灣太自由所以很亂」，而惹惱毒巴子歹賤民時，王效蘭說：「成龍，他很誠實也很直率。我打電話告訴他：「你很棒，你的市場很大，如果這裡的人愚蠢，那就別來了。」

這篇二月十七日的整版專訪，王效蘭提及兩岸關係解凍。她雖然身為反共產主義者，並結識一些天安門異議分子，但王指出，北京政府已有所改變。「現在，我同意他們的作法。他們有紀律。在有法治之前，不必給予太多自由，」她搖搖手指說，「你必須教導人民尊重法律，即使是惡法。」

王效蘭並且表達她的愛國情緒。在訪談一開始，她就強調：「我一向穿旗袍，我不是日本人。這是中國旗袍，不是日本和服。」她還說，日本殺了許多中國人和亞洲人。「為什麼人們不恨日本人？」意指歹丸倭寇對日本人的友好態度。她說她無法原諒日本人屠殺中國婦孺。直到現在，她都拒絕和日本人碰面，即使她正在磋商買回她的法國時裝品牌浪凡（Lanvin）早先賣給伊藤忠的日本代理權。「我才不管他們有什麼權利。我決不跟日本人打招呼。」

在訪談近尾聲時，王效蘭特別叮囑絕對不可以說她是台灣女企業家。「我不認為我是台灣人，我是中國人。」

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聯合報的翻譯完全避重就輕，只報導時尚品牌Lanvin的這部分，而沒翻出全文。
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/e51ded38-5706-11e1-be25-00144feabdc0.html#ixzz1xI4sxzUZ

Lunch with the FT: Shaw-Lan Wang            By David Pilling

Normally when journalists write about what women are wearing, they get letters complaining that they would never discuss men in the same way. That may be true. But the 70-year-old Madame Wang is the owner of Lanvin, the oldest surviving French fashion house, which she bought in 2001 and helped revive. To talk about what she is wearing seems appropriate, even essential. For the record, I am dressed in a grey suit, slightly rumpled after two cramped flights, one overnight, and a floral-patterned shirt by Marks and Spencer.

We are in Taipei, where Shaw-Lan Wang was brought up after moving to Taiwan from mainland China at the age of seven. Specifically, we are in a 34th-floor dining room in the luxurious surroundings of the Taipei World Trade Center Club. I had arrived early and been ushered into the private room by a posse of women in grey skirt-suits. In the room, small but perfectly appointed, is a round table with a white tablecloth already set for two.

After she catches her breath, Madame Wang, as she refers to herself, reaches into her mouth to remove a piece of gum. She secretes the little green ball in her handbag, Lanvin presumably. Wang rarely gives interviews. She seems unsure as to how this one came about. “How did you get in touch? Through my PR in Paris?” she asks. I am not entirely sure either, since the encounter was also arranged for me. Yet somehow here we are, thrown together in this little windowless room of a Taipei skyscraper.

Madame Wang was born in 1941, the Year of the Snake. Although her family was from the coastal province of Zhejiang, she started out life in Chongqing, the wartime capital after the fall of Nanjing to the Japanese. Her father, a colonel in the army of Chiang Kai-shek, the Guomindang leader, came to Taiwan in 1947. Two years later Chiang himself led a full-scale retreat to the island after being routed by Mao Zedong’s Communist forces.

In 1951, her father founded the United Daily News, a staunch supporter of the Guomindang authoritarian government. Wang, who studied journalism in Taipei, worked as a reporter on the paper. She married an air force pilot and went to live in Switzerland with her husband, where she spent 12 to 15 years. She doesn’t remember exactly. One day, she received a phone call from her father asking her to return to Taiwan and run the paper. “I could not refuse.”

“What do you like to eat? You like kitchen or beef?” she asks. I take the former to mean chicken. Madame Wang’s English, spoken choppily and with the hint of a French accent, is less than perfect, though it is leagues ahead of my terrible Chinese. She speaks with little concession to English grammar, omitting pronouns, tenses and even verbs and nouns. Gaps are filled with the most splendid mimes. Over the course of lunch, she acts out blind, shortsighted, dizzy, happy, drunk, dead, injured, crazy, terrified and a few other things besides. Much is achieved through facial expression. On several occasions, in place of saying “good”, she jabs her upturned thumb in my direction. Once, in somewhat less generous mood, she brings her hands together and twists as if strangling a chicken.

She orders several dishes. The waitress returns with succulent cold cuts of chicken, pork and duck. As Madame Wang takes a bite of the accompanying kimchee, I ask how her newspaper is surviving competition with the internet. “It’s not enjoyable to get information from the internet,” she says. “A good book can touch your heart. But I have never had anything touch my heart on the internet.” But has the internet touched her sales? How is the paper faring in the face of online competition? “The quality of the press is going down all around the world,” she persists. “People have lost respect for the press.”

Two plates of grilled beef arrive. “Chinese style,” she announces. I abandon my internet inquiries – she isn’t sure whether her newspaper charges for its online version – and move to her more recent passion, Lanvin. How did she come to buy the struggling fashion house and how, in particular, did she come to hire Alber Elbaz, the designer whose appointment has transformed its fortunes? The purchase of Lanvin is easy. “I have a friend in Hong Kong and he has dressed in Lanvin for more than 30 years. I thought, ‘He would be very proud if I was the owner.’”

As for Elbaz, the Moroccan-born designer had been pushed out of Yves Saint Laurent after it was bought by Gucci. Embarking on a spiritual world odyssey, Elbaz contemplated giving up design altogether to become a doctor. Instead, he called Wang out of the blue, imploring her to bring him to Lanvin. “Please wake up the Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “I was in Cannes with a friend on a big boat,” Wang recalls. “Alber called, ‘Can I meet you?’ I say, ‘Of course. I will come to Paris.’” She had never heard of Elbaz, but has been quoted as saying she “smelt something meaty and fragrant” about him. To me she says: “He showed me his press book. The first fashion show, he called ‘Homage to Yves Saint Laurent’. Good, I thought. He knows respect. I was introduced to a lot of people. But with them I didn’t have that feeling.”

Whether or not it was the meaty smell, Wang’s instinct has served Lanvin splendidly. Under Elbaz, its reputation and sales have flourished. He makes clothes with a classic cut, to be worn year after year, not just for one season. “Alber’s dresses make women feel beautiful and easy. The first show he did was for winter. The fabric is quite thick. But all the dresses could swing. It’s because of the cut. Normally, thick fabric is very stiff. But he makes you dance with your dress.”

A steamed fish appears, evidently too early. Wang sends it away. Elbaz’s dresses are not overly revealing, she says, miming flesh spilling out of a low-cut dress. “They don’t show everything.” I had read that Elbaz didn’t like his clothes to be thought of as sexy, certainly not in the full-on way associated with Gucci’s Tom Ford, the man who deposed him at Yves Saint Laurent. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Sexy is good. It’s a compliment. But you have to have class. Not ... ” She leaves the sentence unfinished but treats me to another mime of a bosom bulging out of a dress.

The fish reappears. This time it has been cut in two, the part with the head for her, the tail for me. “Everybody loves Alber’s dresses,” she is saying. “Before I [used to] say Alber’s dress is for anyone from 18 to 81.” But she recently met an 85-year-old Chinese artist wearing a Lanvin dress. “So pretty.” Wang’s granddaughter, who is just 11 and evidently being groomed for greatness, also wears Lanvin. “The dresses are very elegant and simple, so the range of our customer is very big.”

I ask if she enjoys the fashion shows, the parties and the glamour. “Alber and my director go the parties. Not me,” she says, spitting out some fish bones into her hand. “I don’t like those kind of people or those kind of parties. I am not a jet-set person.” She has lots of famous friends but she meets them in private, she says, reeling off names of actors, actresses and kung fu stars. She’s off on a tangent, telling a story about when Jackie Chan annoyed the Taiwanese by suggesting that Chinese people needed to be controlled and that democracy in Taiwan was chaotic. “Jackie, he’s very honest and straight. I called him and said, ‘You are great. You have a very big market. If people here are stupid, don’t come.’”

We talk about the recent thaw in relations between Taiwan and mainland China. Although she is an anti-communist and counts among her friends several Tiananmen Square dissidents, she says the government in Beijing has changed. “Now, I agree with what they are doing. They are disciplined. Before you have the law, don’t give too much freedom,” she says, wagging her finger. “You have to teach people to respect the law, even if the law is bad.”

The waitress brings in some lusciously green and crisp snow peas with scallops. There’s barely room on the table. She continues on the China-Taiwan theme, saying it has been more than 60 years since the two separated. But unification is not so easy, she says, referring to the strong sense of Taiwanese independence. “We Chinese all have patience. Next generation, let’s see what that brings. I think in China one day, if they have freedom of the press and liberty of election, we can negotiate to become one big China.

“We have no reason to hate each other. The Japanese killed many, many Chinese and Asian people. Why don’t the people hate the Japanese?” she asks, referring to the relatively warm relations between the Taiwanese and their former Japanese colonists. “War kills, but not the way the Japanese kill. They use ... ” here she mimes the stabbing action of a bayonet. “They kill women and babies with their cruel methods. People say forgive, but I say, ‘I cannot.’”

To this day, she says, she refuses to meet Japanese people, notwithstanding the fact that she is currently negotiating to buy back the Japanese licence to Lanvin, previously sold to trading house Itochu. “It doesn’t matter what title they have. If people say, ‘Madame Wang, this is such and such,’ I never give my hand. I never say hello to Japanese.” She turns her head disdainfully. “Bye bye. I don’t care what they think.”

The waitress offers to wrap up the left-overs. “For my driver,” says Wang. Two egg tarts and two portions of taro pudding are served. The egg tart, with divinely crumbly pastry, is the best I’ve tasted. I had read somewhere that she compares the dual role of newspaper magnate and fashion-house baroness to having a husband and a lover. Which is which? “Who told you I said that?” she flashes back. “Since my husband died I don’t have any lover. So how can I compare my husband to a lover?”

The important thing is to throw yourself into both. “If you run a business, you have to love this business with all your heart. Before, when I ran a newspaper, I sleep for maybe two, three hours a day. I am so excited.” Now she has cut back and handed over day-to-day management to her nephew. With Lanvin, too, her strategy has been to step back and give Elbaz the freedom to create.

The waitress brings pear and papaya. I nervously broach the subject of who should pay for this feast. Wang’s assistant had warned previously that, under no circumstances, would Madame Wang allow the FT to pay. I try anyway. “I am meant to invite you,” I say timidly. “The FT really does insist on paying.” The riposte is swift and brutal. “Here in China, no. Never, never, never,” she shrieks. “This is my domain. Even if you are Chinese, you cannot pay.”

I figure it is useless. Besides, she is already wrapping up, telling me that on no account am I to refer to her as a Taiwanese businesswoman. “I don’t consider myself Tai-wan-ese,” she says, drawing out the word. “I am Chinese. And I don’t consider myself a businesswoman either,” she adds without explanation. Then she softens. “It’s true, I am a woman. That I cannot say anything about.”