A New Birth in September
All men are ants, but I wish to be a glittering ant.
— Winston Churchill
September 1st is the first day of the new school year, and every school is welcoming its new students. This date is a special one in China, as it has been for decades. On August 31 I said to myself: starting September 1st, I too will enter my own new school year in the posture of a freshman.
Waking on the morning of September 1st, the clear singing of birds outside the window filled me with delight, and I felt how wonderful life is. After a period of adjustment, my disordered life had begun to take on a new order; my mind was again fully clear, and I could be happy once more.
This time I cut through the tangles of life with a sharp knife. Once I had carefully maintained all sorts of relationships; this time I began to center on myself and, with clear banners, declare my bottom line. Having set my boundaries and no longer allowed others to cross them, and no longer caring about gain or loss, the noise of life vanished at once, and I became much quieter.
I have many times wanted to tone down my idealism, but at forty-four it still bared its fangs. Well then: I simply stop disguising it. I boldly display my idealism, accept it from the heart, and handle my life, work and relationships by it; everything fell into order.
Ten years ago I once said to my wife in all earnestness: the life partner you have chosen is an idealist; everything in worldly society means nothing to me, and I cannot live a worldly life. I only need a quiet corner to do the things I love, and you must not disturb it. If you can accept that, accept it; if not, there is nothing I can do. Being the spouse of someone like me is indeed not easy.
Going back more than ten years, when we were at school, it was precisely my strong idealism, plus a quiet inner strength, that attracted her. But in the daily life of rice, oil and salt, she seems to have forgotten I am an idealist, warmly pulling me into worldly life and letting it swallow my ideals; sometimes this made me utterly miserable.
I have no difficulty in dealing with people, and my personality tests show no problems. In my student days I was well-liked and served as class monitor and student union president; I can handle all sorts of relationships—a doctor deals with all kinds of patients every day, and could not do the job if he were truly unsociable. But after thirty I grew tired of socializing. The reason is simple: I had found my life's direction and thrown myself single-mindedly into scholarship.
My identity is very much that of an "independent amateur scholar," and I love this identity. Because it has no entanglements: I need not endure the various fetters of the system; I can do as I please, study what I want, think as I want. I cannot say this state is perfect, but I know this freedom suits me best—and what suits oneself is all that matters; why care about the rest?
The independent space of my ideal self is quiet, bright and tidy, with a large desk and few interruptions, where I read, think, work and write to my heart's content. I can study and work like this for fourteen hours a day without feeling tired; instead I grow more and more vital, filled with happiness. But if my life is full of noise and I cannot live this ideal state for a long time, I feel the frustration of a wasted life. As time passes, I feel depleted.
I have devoted my life to the ideal, but life is always trying to pull me out of it, and my thinking is constantly interrupted. If I cannot think deeply, I cannot write articles that satisfy me. Writing has become the most important part of my life; for me it is as indispensable as clinical practice. If one day I feel my well of inspiration run dry, or feel no more inspiration in clinical work, I will feel life is dull.
I want to become an outstanding writer and physician. Earlier, when I spoke of this ideal I was a little shy; now I feel no embarrassment. I am not trying to reach the sky in one step; I work hard every day, without interruption.
I can go on chasing this dream for another thirty years or more, and in thirty years I can produce a great many small works; accumulating little by little, I can become someone notable. I do not seek to amaze the world at a stroke; I seek to store up deeply and release sparingly, advancing a soldier a day toward my dream. I believe I will surely realize it.
My life is both frugal and highly disciplined. I do not like traveling; I like settling in one fixed place—probably forever near the National Library, with its rich book resources and superb reading atmosphere. The pandemic interrupted my library life for a few years, but I have recently been restoring it.
From my home, crossing Zizhuyuan (Purple Bamboo) Park, enjoying the flowers, grass and trees along the way, my mood is already joyful. Then entering the National Library, a wall away, and browsing freely the books I love—such a life is truly beautiful. Someone once said to me: you are like a tree by the National Library; the rocks and streams nearby are the anchors of your spirit. I felt a great sense of being understood by those words.
I am not very capable in practical life. Last time at Wuhan Station, it took me over an hour to find the hotel I had booked right beside the station, and once in I could barely work the air-conditioning. All my attention goes to reading, thinking, healing and writing; walking outdoors I often walk through red lights unawares, because my brain is always working on solutions to medical problems. So I live almost the same routine every day, taking fixed routes when I go out; familiarity
The older I get, the more I feel my time is running out and the more I dare not waste it. Life is short. Though I know the line that "you and your names alike shall perish, while the great rivers flow on for ever," I still feel that if I can leave behind a few valuable medical and philosophical works in this life, I will be a little happier and feel I have not lived in vain. How closely this resembles Churchill's feeling when he said, "All men are ants, but I wish to be a glittering ant."