Grief and Joy Have a Generational Gap—and Individual Differences
Below, a man is dying; next door that family plays the gramophone; opposite, someone dandles a child; upstairs two people laugh uproariously, and there is the sound of cards; on a boat in the river a woman weeps for her dead mother. The joys and sorrows of humanity do not communicate; I only find them noisy.
— Lu Xun, Erji Ji·Minor Random Thoughts
A few days ago a young man who calls me "Uncle Zhou" said he felt my happiness did not look like real happiness. I told him that joy has a generational gap; by the time he understands middle-aged happiness, he too will be middle-aged. He said he hoped he would never have such a moment, but regrettably the years spare no one; everyone moves step by step into middle age, old age, and finally death, so sooner or later he will know the middle-aged state of mind.
Lu Xun said human joys and sorrows do not communicate; this holds in every era and society. Grief and joy not only have a generational gap but also individual differences. Everyone's joys and sorrows differ from others'; even among peers, the standards may differ. Since ancient times, drinking-and-meat friends are easy to find but kindred spirits hard to come by. A kindred spirit is someone with whom joy and sorrow communicate; most people may never find one in a lifetime. I have my kindred spirits, but few can enter my inner world; on reflection, perhaps fewer than ten share my joys and sorrows.
Of course, someone like me who writes online is transparent, and many can become my kindred spirits. As some readers have commented, they know me deeply, while I do not yet know them. If I were social, finding kindred among readers would not be hard; after all, people with similar upbringings are everywhere.
Most people, unlike us writers, are not adept at expressing their inner world through writing, so their chances of finding kindred may be a little fewer. But if they are extroverted, they can seek like-minded people in other ways.
Yet for someone over forty, too rich a life and too many relationships are a burden and tether. We prefer inner quiet and doing our work undisturbed. Because we spent too many years of our past on a colorful life, we have reached the point of finding such life boring. So a few people with whom joys and sorrows communicate, chatting occasionally while otherwise busy on our own, is enough for happiness and contentment.
In youth we knew no limits and longed to fly high; in young adulthood, hormones surge and we love a bustling life; in middle age we are the mainstay of the family, supporting the old and raising the young, hoping most that relatives and friends stay healthy and safe, that the world be at peace, politics be upright, and accidents be few, leaving us more leisure and solitude; in old age and decline, needing outside help just to live, we hope both for family company and not to be a burden, and to pass away peacefully in due course. This is the usual arc of life, but many lives are altered by disaster and disease; for them, early relief from disaster and illness is what makes them happy again.
When I was young, reading Lu Xun on the non-communication of human joys and sorrows, I would sigh; now I read it calmly. I do not blame those who laugh cheerfully while others grieve. Everyone has their own life, their own birth, aging, illness and death, their own joys and sorrows, and their own pressing problems. In daily life, there is no need to grieve at others' pain or laugh at others' joy.
If we understood others' situations well enough, I believe most people would sincerely bless the happy or sincerely sympathize with the unfortunate. But our energy is limited, and we know and care about only a finite number; others' energy is limited too. Ultimately, everyone's joys and sorrows can only be shared within their own small circle; one such circle is enough, and we need seek no more and complain no more. If we have no such circle, we should reflect on whether we have been too harsh toward others, ending up so alone.