On Innate Nature, Reading, and Writing
Of all the hobbies I have kept throughout my life, the two that have lasted longest are reading and writing. When I was in primary school, I first finished the books in my own home—actually not many, just some Chinese classics of literature. Then I finished the books in my fourth uncle's home; he bought more books than my father. My fourth uncle liked painting and calligraphy, so his home had more miscellaneous books, but not by much—altogether fewer than a hundred.
By upper primary school, my elder brother had entered junior high. Once in junior high, he became a book-buying maniac: he spent my pocket money, New Year money, his own pocket and New Year money, and the surplus of his living expenses on buying books. He bought all kinds of literary classics, mostly foreign ones. Because my brother and I had both read through our home's and our fourth uncle's collections. By then Chinese literary classics no longer appealed to us brothers, so my brother bought home books in whole snake-skin sacks.
As a child I always wore my brother's hand-me-down clothes, and it was the same with reading: he bought, and I followed along reading. He was possessive—he owned the books—but he was willing to share them with me. By upper primary school, I had pretty much read through the foreign literary classics. In fourth grade, an essay I wrote was seen by the head of our town's education station. He was astonished that a primary-school child could write at that level and thought I had real talent. He praised me lavishly; spurred by his encouragement, I—who had been very naughty and even a bit school-averse—suddenly saw the light and began to study hard. My grades in every subject smoothly went from dead last to first, a successful turnaround.
Of course my father had another explanation; he thought it only natural that I later did well. My father said that as early as the first few months after I entered school, he had asked my first teacher. My first teacher told him: “Your youngest son is very bright, just too mischievous; if one day he sees the light and turns his mind to study, he can do very well, no worse than your eldest son”—my brother was always scoring first at the time. My father was a very broad-minded man; he did not fret about when I would “see the light,” and turned a blind eye to my naughtiness.
How naughty was I when I first entered primary school? I often went into the mountains to rob birds' nests and catch snakes, bringing the captured birds and snakes into the classroom to play with. My head teacher was a woman; seeing me gave her a headache, and she always punished me, but I was not afraid. Sometimes I even pranked her daughter—who was my classmate—without malice. I was a tree-climbing expert; several-meter-tall trees I could scamper up in a flash. Coming down, sometimes for thrills I would jump off halfway down, never fearing that I might fall to my death. Venomous snakes that everyone else feared I could catch calmly and nimbly, and I was never once bitten.
Later, when reading works on anthropology, I came across a concept called the “snake selection theory.” This is a view proposed by some anthropologists: they hold that the human brain and the visual system evolved into their present shape entirely thanks to snakes. Because humans fear snakes and encountered so many of them in nature, it was to avoid snakes that we evolved as we did. When I read this “snake selection theory,” I found it funny. For someone like me who is not afraid of snakes, snakes could hardly have driven my evolution. Now I think the reason I was so bold as a child was probably that I had inherited the genes of an adventurer.
Besides giving me the name “Zhiyuan” (meaning “far-reaching ambition”), my father also gave me a courtesy name, “Qingmin.” I was of the “Qing” generation; choosing “min” (agile) was my father's hope that I would be quick. He himself was a man whose mind turned fast and whose movements were agile, so he hoped I too would have a quick mind and agile movements in this life. As a child he even trained my walking speed; he did not want me to do things or walk slowly. Under his training, my pace was fast, beyond ordinary people, and I never dragged my feet at anything. I am very grateful to my father for this upbringing.
My parents let me play to my heart's content at the age when one should play. Although they did hope I would become somebody—as clear from the name my father gave me—they were never impatient, never forced growth, and just let nature take its course. They only forbade me from doing bad things and bullying others. After reading many works on pedagogy, I realized that this is in fact the best family education.
Besides climbing trees to rob birds' nests and catching snakes in the grass, I also loved diving. There was a river in our village with a bridge over it; the bold boys of our village often jumped from the bridge into the river as children. I loved this sport most of all; every afternoon when I went to bathe in the river, I would jump ten to dozens of times, only stopping when I'd had my fill. I also loved turning a bench upside down as a scooter and riding it down the village's high slope, getting injured many times for it, yet still loving the sport. The wildness of a boy found full expression and development in me; my parents did not stop me—or perhaps they could not. This also made me fear setbacks throughout my life and always dare to press forward.
My feeling is that only after a person has played enough as a child can they study efficiently when they truly want to learn. So when my son was small and loved playing skateboards, rollerblades, yo-yos, and Sanguosha and such games and sports, I never forbade any of it. I let him play as long as he liked, until he naturally turned his hobby toward study. I always believed there would come a moment when he turned to learning. Because curiosity is one of human instincts; everyone who comes into this world has a desire to seek out the truth of the world. When one day we become interested in seeking the truth of the world, we will be ravenous for knowledge and no longer crave play.
I myself probably began to have a strong thirst for knowledge from fourth grade; after that I no longer craved play and studied hard. By then my brother had also entered junior high, and he bought home all kinds of literary classics that opened my eyes wide. In my spare time I was absorbed in reading these literary classics. It was also from then that I began to love writing—writing is a dialogue with one's own inner self. My experience is that the most effective way for a person to grow mentally is reading and writing.
By the first year of junior high, I had begun organizing a literary society at school, recruiting about a dozen classmates interested in literature and starting a literary society, with myself as president. When my head teacher found out, he ruthlessly disbanded my literary society; he thought we were neglecting our proper work. In his view, a junior-high student who did not study hard for exams but started a literary society was simply fooling around.
I had two head teachers in first year of junior high. My other head teacher appreciated me greatly. At that time, besides organizing the literary society, I was also dissatisfied with the class monitor, who bullied classmates, led the class in smoking, drinking, and causing trouble, and made a racket in the dorm at night. One late night I went to my head teacher's room and volunteered to ask him to appoint me monitor, so that I could reform the class conduct.
After hearing my impassioned speech, my head teacher was first dumbstruck, then full of praise. He said he had taught all his life, his hair now white, about to retire, and this was the first time he had met a student who so took his breath away. He encouraged me, saying I would surely achieve great things. And he really did as I wished: removed the original monitor and made me monitor.
Our original monitor later tried every means to take revenge on me. At my current age, I understand his behavior well, but he really had been spoiled terribly by his parents. Back then I had a fearless spirit; he teamed up with a group of classmates who were friends with him and did poorly in studies to threaten me. One Monday, after the school flag-raising ceremony, I strode to the rostrum and asked the principal to let me say a few words. Then, filled with righteous spirit, I openly declared before the whole school that I never bullied anyone, but now a few guys kept trying to bully me. I could stand here and promise those few who wanted to bully me: I was not afraid of you at all. If you dared touch a hair on me, I would fight you to the death. Push me and I would be a desperate outlaw; we'd see who was afraid of whom.
As I spoke, my voice rang out firm and decisive, my expression resolute and fearless; that unassailable, hard-edged bearing made even the principal look at me anew. After the morning assembly, he pulled me aside and said: in all my years of teaching I have met only one student like you; wherever you go in future you will be a leader. Even if you went back to a production brigade, you would be its captain.
After that, for the rest of my three years of junior high, no one dared bully me, and the principal and teachers all knew to protect me. Many teachers and classmates in school came to appreciate me, and I later became president of the student union. That junior-high classmate who liked bullying others never corrected his bad habits, fighting everywhere, and died before twenty in a mass brawl. This shows how serious the consequences can be when parents' education of their children goes wrong.
I think now: if my parents had over-controlled me as a child, stifling my adventurous, exploratory nature, I could never have so proactively founded a literary society in junior high, nor so bravely volunteered myself, nor been so fearless when bullied. Precisely because I was not suppressed during my upbringing, I dared to express and defend myself and to innovate. To this day I still have this personality, only softened with age.
When I was in junior high, my brother still loved buying books. But by then he gradually began buying novels in pure English, and I read along. My family's means were limited; my parents gave my brother more living expenses than me at the time, because the living standard at my junior high was indeed lower than at his high school. My brother was still better off than me; the books I could read were mainly those he bought. In first year of junior high, I actually finished an English novel my brother had bought, dictionary in hand. This kind of reading greatly improved my English; throughout my secondary school years my English grades were excellent.
My head teacher and Chinese teacher—the one who disbanded my literary society—often borrowed books from me to read. In our era there were not so many entertainment options; people generally loved reading, so my teacher loved reading too. He once told me: in volume of reading, I as your teacher am no match for you, but you must also study every subject well and raise your exam scores; don't let your grades be lopsided. However many books you read, if you can't get into university it's all in vain. So this teacher was actually a well-meaning one; I remain very grateful to him. Under the baton of exam-oriented education, his approach was not wrong.
A person's reading interests inevitably change with age. Starting in high school I lost interest in literary classics; an important reason was that I felt they were too shallow. Now I know this is because, as a boy reaches late adolescence, the prefrontal cortex begins rapid development and enters the stage of gradually forming rational thinking. So my reading then began to lean toward philosophy, sociology, and history, and in study I kept all subjects advancing in tandem; eventually my brother helped me choose the science track.
My high-school Chinese teacher provided me with a great many works on philosophy, sociology, and history. Few high-school teachers had a collection as large as his; his reading spanned literature, history, philosophy, sociology, and more, and at this stage he appropriately raised my reading to a new level. This is a person's luck; I always feel I have been full of luck on my educational path. Although I did not have a rich father, at every stage of my growth there was unexpected good fortune, and I never lacked books to read.
By high school my writing had further improved. The essays I wrote then were beloved by all the Chinese teachers in our school; some felt humbled, thinking they could not have written so well. Other Chinese teachers in our school borrowed books from me to read—generously spending other people's property, I passed on the books my beloved teacher had lent me to other teachers, and as a result lost one and damaged a few. My beloved teacher had a wonderful temper and doted on me, never minding. Not only that, he even covered my medical expenses. He practiced the educational philosophy of nourishing students with love and letting them grow freely, so I have deeply admired him my whole life.
Recently, while reading medical literature, I came across a report: an American study shows that high-school education has decisive significance for a person's whole life. The level a person reaches in high school determines their lifelong achievement; which university they later attend, or whether they attend at all, is actually no longer important. The study tracked a large number of cases and reached a reliable conclusion. This means I have no “elite-school complex” when it comes to educating my own child.
My high-school years were very happy: there were ample books matching my interests at the time, and my teachers even gave me the privilege of skipping class and not doing homework, giving me the full right to self-study and freely manage my own time, as long as I did not disturb other classmates. Because my grades in every subject were good and my self-study drive was strong, I needed no urging. With this privilege, my high-school education truly qualified as quality education. My beloved teacher often gave me a few words of guidance when I was lost, and based on his own observation of me, carefully selected books that could enlighten my wisdom for me to read on my own.
Besides reading, I was always actively writing—not writing to meet assignments, but free writing after my daily reading and thinking. After writing essays I would show them to my teacher for his guidance. In this way he understood the direction of my intellectual development and the evolution of my style, and continuously gave me well-targeted comments based on my stage-by-stage performance, carefully cultivating me.
My beloved teacher loved a plain style. For a while I was very taken with essays carpeted with ornate phrases, and tried to write that way myself. He promptly corrected me. He told me that the best writing is plain speech; the more learned a person, the less they like to posture or write obscurely. The highest realm of writing is to tell the deepest truths so that the most ordinary person can understand. So he had me read many masters whose style was plain. My current writing style was entirely shaped by his handiwork; I suppose that when university master's and doctoral supervisors advise graduate students, they can hardly do better, and perhaps not even this well. A good teacher can play an enormous role in our life's journey; the Chinese tradition of respecting teachers is not without reason.
My beloved teacher also guided me to read without any partisan prejudice. His ideal scholarly principle was “well-versed in antiquity and the present, and conversant with both China and the West”—these eight characters are truly rare. Although he was my teacher, he never regarded himself as such, only treating me like a younger brother. After I left school, I asked to relate to him according to the principle that “one day as a teacher, a lifetime as a father,” which he firmly declined. He asked that our friendship continue on the principles of “clear accounts even between blood brothers” and “the friendship of a gentleman is as plain as water.” As a result, our teacher-student bond has deepened over more than twenty years, without ever a unpleasant moment. What a wise teacher he was!
When educating people, he always followed the principle of subtle influence, valuing guidance over lecturing, refusing to stand on ceremony or act the part of the teacher. His style of not being eager to teach others was like a gentle breeze. After encountering in society many shallow yet know-it-all people, I love my beloved teacher even more. Rarely have I seen anyone as erudite as he—even now I dare not say I have read more than he; he still always has something to teach me, yet he remains as low-key and sincere as a modest gentleman.
The foundation he laid for my scholarship and conduct has benefited me greatly in my later self-growth; I still stick to the daily reading and writing habits I formed in high school. More than twenty years ago my beloved teacher pointed out with surgical precision that the writing style I am best at is speculative writing, and that I should develop myself along this innate path. Now I can only marvel at his clairvoyant foresight. Our life's journey seems colorful, yet there is always someone who can foretell our future—how wondrous!
Nowadays, religion, philosophy, history, and sociology are no longer my favorites; I have not read such works for years. My interests have gradually turned toward the life sciences, toward popular-science works that are more rational and more evidence-based than philosophy, history, and sociology. The reading directions a person loves change with age. The scenery we once saw, which we thought exquisite beyond compare, always has even more splendid scenery ahead.
Middle-aged men become ever more rational and factual, and their reading interests change accordingly. If a person likes only one genre of reading all their life, that is a sad thing; it shows that their mind has not truly grown. “Having watched a thousand sails pass, none was the one; in the lingering sunset the waters flow on.” When the storms of life have taught us much about how to live, when we have tasted enough the sweets and bitters of life and grown used to parting and death, we will know that what we truly need is simply the ordinary, the plain, and the real.