From Blind Optimism to Cautious Optimism

Beyond inexhaustible truth there is no authority. And of truth, on the one hand, anyone may pursue it; on the other, no one may say he possesses the final truth.

— Karl Jaspers

Today I saw a joke. Someone asked on Zhihu: why is it said that 'a life undisturbed by philosophy is a very fortunate one'? The top answer: would you rather be a sorrowful Socrates or a happy pig? But in fact many people are not sorrowful Socrates—they are sorrowful pigs. To me this joke is more illuminating than a brick-thick professional philosophy book.

At around twenty I was an out-and-out blind optimist. I lived with my brother then, and we often debated things. My brother always saw why things could not be done and concluded they were not worth doing; I always saw the positive side, so I was the fearless calf trying everything, and when I failed I found another road.

Now in my forties I am no longer that brash youth. I have also been through two depressive episodes: one after my mother died, which plunged me into deep depression; the other not long ago, when life pressure and a midlife emotional crisis pushed me down again. Having lived through two such episodes, I have deeply felt the suffering of pessimistic, ruminative thinking in depression, and I have grown a great deal because of it.

Overall, I am still an optimist today, because the underlying tone of my life is positive and optimistic, and that cannot be changed. If my mother's death could not turn me from an optimist into a pessimist, then other things probably cannot break me either; after all, few pains in this world exceed the loss of a mother's love.

But I now truly recognize that the reality of life is not wholly positive and optimistic; it has a negative, pessimistic side. The eight sufferings—birth, aging, illness, death, parting from the beloved, meeting the hateful, not getting what one seeks, and the blazing of the five skandhas—are endured by everyone. To call these positive and optimistic is to say one is not in one's right mind. Mentally normal people, when they meet such things, also grieve, suffer, fall into depression and anxiety. Medicine does not treat these as diseases, only as short-term stress reactions.

But after passing through such great sorrows and joys, one gains enlightenment. We see the naivety of earlier ideas. In the past, when I heard someone say a thing could not be done, I might have scorned the claim, believing personal effort would likely make it succeed. Now I am not so sure, though I will still work as hard as ever. In this world, negative and pessimistic factors cannot be underestimated; some we simply cannot overcome. Once a negative outcome occurs, beyond acceptance there is nothing we can do. At the moment my mother died, I could not accept it—but what of it? The dead cannot return; she was simply not coming back.

Without exaggeration, I now face life and death every week; some patients are too far gone and die despite treatment. Such negative outcomes I must accept. If I do not, I will only collapse in constant self-denial. Everyone dies; I will lose other beloved people, and one day I too will face death; these too I must accept.

Inability to accept oneself and one's lot in life is the greatest suffering; many people sink into it and, over time, develop intractable depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and other mental illnesses. If we cannot let go of the past, we cannot move into the future. Once a person is sunk in ruminative thinking caused by non-acceptance, thinking becomes life's greatest disaster, because in that state thinking brings mostly pain. From this angle, a life undisturbed by philosophy is indeed fortunate.

But others, by nature fond of thinking, feel joy while pondering philosophical questions. For them, a life disturbed by philosophy is a happy one.

Yet philosophy, psychology, and psychiatry can all be bottomless abysses; when we overthink we fall in. On the matter of thinking, one must also know when to stop. If thinking tires us, we should live more in real life. This is what we call combining mental and physical labor and balancing work and rest; only so can we stay healthy and not go mad from thinking.

I refuse to treat any writing on human nature and the human heart as final truth. Everything related to spiritual philosophy—including the Buddhism I love so much—has flaws and points worth questioning. Any doctrine that thinks too highly of itself is not worth fully believing; the closer to real truth, the more humble. We may never grasp the so-called final truth; I read every book with a questioning mind. Otherwise it is easy to be poisoned.

In high school my teacher guided my reading in a very special way. Every week he brought me several to a dozen extracurricular books—classic works of philosophy, sociology, literature, and history. So many books I could not have finished even without schoolwork. But he never required me to finish them, nor even cared whether I read them; he simply left them on my desk for me to browse, reading what I liked and skipping the rest.

The books were wildly varied, belonging to no single school or field, and their authors contradicted one another. The greatest benefit of this method was that it cultivated my ability to absorb widely, synthesize, critically digest, and innovate. Reading this way, we do not superstitiously believe anyone, do not parrot others, and gradually form independent thinking. My teacher also hoped I would integrate Chinese and Western thought and bring it together. He warned me to hide my light and build deep foundations, not to flash and stop at the surface. Living to this day, I still feel his teachings have been deeply meaningful.

Now, when I learn a new subject, after finishing I reflect on what I gained and how much of that subject may be dubious. For a particular question the doctrine discusses, if we looked from another angle, might we get a different result?

Take the schizotypal trait of Western personality psychology: in traditional Chinese cultural terms, it may be exactly the 'worldly-renouncing' recluse, one of the highest ideals the Chinese reader has long pursued. Under the influence of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism, Chinese readers love to do worldly things with a detached heart. In our cultural setting, someone who lives apart, enjoys farming and reading, yet does not forget to give back to society, is not called schizotypal—he is called a recluse. A recluse's life can be rich and colorful; it is simply not for outsiders to know.

Likewise, relationships between the sexes, in Western psychology, are built on mutual exploitation. A relationship marked by personality disorder is a chilling flattery and deception aimed at plundering resources. On this view, all love has no true feeling; it is merely a transaction, or a perverted transaction, between the sexes in the biological struggle for survival resources. After studying such theories one shudders and doubts the genuine feelings one has known, feeling one hardly dares look into the human heart.

But we must see how extreme a view this is. Between people it is not so utilitarian. A psychology experiment on empathy shows that humans are innately altruistic; as long as it does not harm themselves, anyone may act altruistically. Love can inspire very noble motives and acts. It is undeniable that some love is utilitarian, but most is not. Recognizing this, we need not despair when we meet similar claims that love is a utilitarian act.

Books like these can only be written by ruminative authors. Of course, from their own perspective their thinking is correct and their logic rigorous; they simply grew up in negative environments, saw the pessimistic side of life, and missed the optimistic side. They believe human nature is evil and so judge others by evil; that is not their fault, for they suffered much evil in their upbringing, and their thinking has hardened into the habit of seeing human nature as evil.

Mr. Ji Xianlin said that, having lived into his nineties, he finally realized that there are bad people in this world. In my first forty-four years my parents, elder brother, relatives, and lovers kept warning me not to assume the best of people, but to beware of the bad. This may be because, growing up, I had never met anyone truly bad beyond forgiveness. I received enough care and love, so I naturally assumed everything was positive and optimistic—which is why my brother once labeled me a 'blind optimist.'

The elderly Ji Xianlin forgave those who had persecuted him during the Cultural Revolution; when he regained power he did not make things difficult for them or give them small shoes. Ji said: if I, Ji Xianlin, had stood in their place, I might not have done better, so nothing is unforgivable. Such generosity is a sublimated personality, transcending worldly grudges, and he is not one to nurse petty vengeance.

I believe that when Ji, in his nineties, said he had finally realized there are bad people in the world, it was only a moment's irritation. Turned around, he would still forgive everyone and not easily stamp anyone as evil. Ji inherited the Confucian way of loyalty and reciprocal consideration, so a passing mood could not alter his long habits.

For someone raised in an environment of love, even those the world condemns as irredeemable have something forgivable. People do evil not because they subjectively wish to, but because genes and upbringing have reinforced each other to form an antisocial personality. The philosopher's duty is to find the reasons behind people's evil and forgive them; the physician's duty is to forgive and have compassion, and to treat and save those souls.

Moreover, behind the so-called personality disorders there are also causes in society's suppression of human nature. The society we have built is itself imperfect; because we cannot accommodate people whose behavior is out of the ordinary, they are excluded and become the 'problem' people. If our society were perfect enough and fully valued each individual's personality, the so-called personality disorders might not exist.

There are conflicts between people, between nations, and between civilizations. Huntington famously proposed the clash of civilizations, arguing that humanity will ultimately fight over civilization. Is a person whose cognition, beliefs, and habits clash with his society and who fights with those around him any different from civilizations clashing and fighting? In essence it is all because a dominant power cannot tolerate the diversity of personalities and civilizations.

But the direction of biological evolution is diversity; without it, where would the rich variety of species on Earth come from? Personality diversity and civilization diversity are inevitable results of biological evolution; it is merely narrow-minded humanity that cannot embrace them.

So any book is just for reading. All the philosophical reflections others or we ourselves make need not be taken completely seriously. The final truth has not appeared; no authority or religious leader is worth our prostration. If we like being a happy pig, then now and then lay aside reflection and, for a moment of the day, be a happy pig.