Plunging Into the Deep Mountains, Ignoring the Right and Wrong of the World
The pandemic rages, public opinion boils, and politicians around the world shift the blame, tell lies, and blow their own trumpets. The news makes one want to throw up. As an ordinary citizen, I am helpless against all of this—we have nothing but dissatisfaction, yet can change almost nothing. We are just tiny beings in this era, with negligible influence on the world.
The greatest benefit the pandemic and economic recession have brought me personally is that I finally have more free time of my own. To get away from the loathsome political news, I turned off the television and hardly go online; I often ride my bicycle into the mountains.
I live not far from the Western Hills of Beijing. My home is not far from Xiangshan in Haidian, Badachu in Shijingshan, and the mountain ranges of Mentougou; whether by bicycle or electric scooter, getting to these places is convenient. Now my workload has been reduced by nearly half compared to before, and I can head into the mountains two or three times a week.
I used to long for the leisure to live the life of a mountain dweller, but I never had the time. Now I can finally settle down and savor this life of high skies and pale clouds in earnest. The right and wrong beyond the mountains grow ever more distant from me, and the cool world of the mountains has brought peace to my heart as well.
I often ride alone into a certain mountain, feast on the scenery for a while, then zone out facing the mountains or read a book—it is immensely pleasant. The only regret is the lack of a companion. Unlike Su Shi and Zhang Huaimin, who could, as they roamed the Chengtian Temple by night, sigh: "On what night is there no moon? In what place are there no bamboos and pines? But only two idle men like us are left to enjoy it."
Su Shi was an open-minded man, and the life he wrote of is enchanting. Most ancient Chinese literati, like Su Shi, loved to entrust their feelings to mountains and waters, which is why their pastoral poetry is so fine and their landscape paintings so beautiful. This may be regarded as a kind of spiritual compensation that heaven bestowed upon the intellectuals of ancient China.
For thousands of years, due to the control and suppression of intellectuals by feudal governments, Chinese intellectuals have lived in a state of deep frustration. They all held grand aspirations—"to establish heart for heaven and earth, to establish fate for the people, to perpetuate the lost teachings of the sages, and to open peace for all generations," and "to be the first to worry about the world's worries and the last to enjoy the world's joys"—yet one by one they were constrained by the system, rarely able to achieve anything politically. Most were forced, against their will, to become obedient good children within the system. Occasionally a literatus escaped from the system—unruly, romantic talents like Ji Kang and Li Zhi—but they too met violent ends because their ideological deviations angered those in power. Truly, "under the whole heaven, is there any land that is not the king's; on the shores of the four seas, is there any who is not the king's servant?" Escaping the surveillance of emperors and powerful ministers was no easy matter. The intellectuals of ancient times had such bitter fates; if they had not entrusted their feelings to mountains and waters, life would have been utterly joyless.
"The benevolent find joy in mountains; the wise find joy in waters" was an Ah Q-style self-consolation of ancient Chinese intellectuals. Most intellectuals who retreated into the mountains were those who had failed to realize their ambitions or could not adapt to life within the system. The sharp-tongued Zhuangzi and Tao Yuanming, who "picked chrysanthemums by the eastern fence and, looking up, saw the southern mountain," were typical representatives. Had they lived in a society where one could "think independently and express oneself freely," without having to "bow one's head and bend one's back to serve the powerful," would they really have chosen to retreat into the mountains? Personally, I have my doubts.
Political oppression was not without its redeeming features; the Chinese sages who suffered political oppression reaped rich rewards in philosophy and the humanities. The ultimate reflections of the Chinese sages on life are full of wisdom, and this may be said to be the brightest facet of traditional Chinese culture. Chinese philosophers saw through life and the world with great clarity and were remarkably philosophical about life and death, attaining the realm of "no distinction between self and things, and life and death as one." Chinese people have a particular fondness for pursuing spiritual realms, which Westerners find hard to understand; in their view, such pursuit is ethereal and belongs to mysticism. But Chinese people know that the quality of life of people at different realms differs vastly.
Tao Yuanming expressed his calm attitude toward life and death in these lines: "I drift my boat in the great transformation; neither pleased nor afraid. When it is time to end, then let it end, and no more anxious thoughts." This attitude is very representative. From Confucius onward, most Chinese intellectuals were atheists; Chinese philosophers had no need to rely on religious power to help themselves overcome the fear of death. Because they were not afraid of death at all, they were as philosophical as Zhuangzi, regarding death as a return to nature, that ultimate home.
Chinese intellectuals lived very concretely, able to find joy in themselves whether rich or poor. From ancient times to the present, countless Chinese scholars have been content in poverty and delighted in the Way; in matters of living, they were quite comfortable. Ancient China had not only happy hermits like Tao Yuanming but also players like Li Yu and gourmands like Su Dongpo, as well as the refined officials and wealthy merchants who left behind the Suzhou gardens; their lives were filled with poetry and painting. As for those like Yan Hui, who lived in a humble alley without changing his joy, they were too numerous to count.
When Bertrand Russell visited China and saw the leisurely, self-possessed, and tasteful way Chinese people lived, he felt as though he had instantly found a kindred spirit and was tremendously excited, eagerly recommending this unhurried attitude toward life to Westerners. At that time, the West was like China today: people were feverishly making money, with no leisure at all to enjoy life.
But I wonder whether Mr. Russell would have been so excited had he read Liu Zongyuan's "Eight Records of Yongzhou" and "Rhapsody on the Imprisoned Mountains." Written by the same Liu Zongyuan about the same landscapes of Yongzhou, "Eight Records of Yongzhou" presents a picture of peaceful times, while "Rhapsody on the Imprisoned Mountains" permeates everywhere with the author's deep-seated, irrepressible depression and grief.
Liu Zongyuan's depression and grief were not for himself. When Liu Zongyuan and Liu Yuxi were both demoted at the same time, and Liu Zongyuan saw that Liu Yuxi was to be banished to the harsh conditions of Zunyi in Guizhou, he actually asked the emperor to swap places, taking Liu Yuxi's suffering upon himself. How could the depression and grief of someone with such noble moral sentiments be due to mere personal interest?
Most Chinese intellectuals, like Liu Zongyuan, restrained and concealed their deep inner pain in the face of an unresisting reality. To say they had no political aspirations is utter nonsense. Many of them had deep feelings for their country and people; inspired by the spirit of the former sages, they hoped to "cultivate oneself when in straitened circumstances and help the world when in success," readily taking the benefit of the nation and its people as their own responsibility.
It is just that the unified central government, which has always set great store by imperial power, would not allow them to have too many personal ideas, and certainly could not tolerate them posing a threat to the stability of imperial power. The emperor needed them to handle affairs for the court but was extremely wary of them, ready to sacrifice them at any time for the sake of regime stability. The emperor's ideal ministers were those who could be sacrificed when necessary while at all times singing and dancing to celebrate the stability of imperial power; such people were the ideal court literati.
As for the ordinary Chinese people, on the one hand they hoped intellectuals would plead on their behalf and speak out for them—because intellectuals were a stratum sandwiched between the common people and imperial power, able to access both and to intercede on the people's behalf. On the other hand, once reforms launched by the intellectual class threatened the common people and risked destroying their stable lives, these same people would harshly attack the intellectuals. So in China, the fate of reformers could sometimes be extremely tragic, and crying out had double risks.
Mr. Zhang Dainian wrote in his essay "Reflections on Traditional Culture": "I believe that the content of culture comprises different levels, at least two. The first is high culture, namely academic thought, including philosophy, religion, science and technology, literature and art, and so on. The second is low culture, namely social psychology, comprising the popular concepts of the majority. The core of traditional Chinese high culture is the philosophy of Confucianism and Taoism. The traditional low culture of China is the secular values and the customs formed by two thousand years of small-scale peasant economy. Historically, the thought of philosophers and the consciousness of ordinary people in society have both influenced each other and differed greatly. The two are often far apart: for example, Confucianism advocates 'being content in poverty and delighting in the Way,' and Taoism even spurns wealth and honor, yet ordinary people still pursue wealth, honor, promotion, and profit."
Zhang Dainian's summary hits the nail on the head. Some hot-blooded intellectuals easily become objects of exploitation by all strata of society. Once everyone sees that something about them may be beneficial or harmful to themselves, these people become highly dangerous.
So from ancient times to the present, Chinese intellectuals have, deep down, been weary of ruthless politics, and from time to time have longed for "the tired bird returning to the forest," hoping to return to their hometowns to live a life of farming and reading, uncontended with the world.
From the age of forty, Su Shi repeatedly submitted memorials to the emperor, declaring that he was getting old, his health was failing, and he wished to retire to his hometown. After the Crow Terrace Poetry Case, Su Shi—trapped in a literary inquisition (literary inquisition can truly be counted as the Chinese people's fifth great invention, unfailingly effective against political rivals)—having seen through the political tricks, was like a startled bird, longing to escape politics as soon as possible and live the free life of "this small boat departing from here, spending the rest of my life on the rivers and seas." But it is easy to board a boat and hard to disembark; intellectuals of that age, aside from "a learned scholar taking office," had few other avenues, hence the sigh that "man's sorrow begins with literacy." So until his death, Su Shi could not completely "forget the clamor," and throughout his life could not attain "calm waters at night when the wind has died down."
Su Shi lived his whole life in a cage. He could only find joy in his own small world. Su Shi's freedom was exactly like the realization of Hu Shi in his later years—when one no longer feels unfree, that is freedom.
By Hu Shi's standard, the free time a person can enjoy in a lifetime is truly too short. Only when both body and mind can be at one's own disposal can it be called true freedom. How much of such free time can there be? So a person should bloom as brightly as possible while they can, rather than nursing regrets when old, weak, and sick.
I live in China and are deeply influenced by Chinese culture; what is in me is also complex. Sometimes I burn with passion, sometimes I tremble with fear, sometimes I am calm as still water, and sometimes I am filled with indignation. But as time has passed, I have finally learned to return to nature and find joy in mountains and waters.
On a recent trip to the mountains, I wrote a short poem, which I offer here to conclude this article:
Green mountains and clear waters are always at ease; blue skies and white clouds need no Zen.
The world's noise is endless, yet insects chirp and birds sing in joyful contentment.