If doing certain things does not achieve the intended purpose (and doing something else might achieve it), then one may well regret it. And if doing certain things does achieve the intended purpose, but later one discovers that this purpose is not what one truly wanted, then one may also regret it. But there are some things one will not regret doing afterward: namely, those whose very process is the purpose, or, to put it another way, those whose purpose can be obtained on the spot in the course of the process itself. The most typical examples are games, and communication.
Of course, you may regret becoming addicted to games, but in fact that is because at the time you did not go do many other things, and later came to regret that, not because you regretted having done certain things.
But many things in life are not as fun as games; people do them because of some intended purpose — I endure all this suffering, and in the end I will exchange it for certain gains; my purpose lies in that anticipated gain, so I am willing to do these vexing things.
To let the distant “future” participate in present decision-making is a human special skill; when that skill is carried to its extreme, the result is religion. It makes promises of something that can only be reaped at the end of life, thereby allowing people to endure suffering without limit.
But this does not seem to be the most ideal state of life. A more ideal state is this: on the one hand, there is always a beautiful future to look forward to and pursue; on the other hand, one can also take joy in every moment.
Some people who care only about present pleasure give up their dreams and pursuits, drift through life day by day, and accomplish nothing; while others who fix their gaze only on distant ideals scorn, even hate, present reality, becoming cynical and one-sided.
It is said that Feyerabend once said he never spent five minutes doing anything he was unwilling to do. I believe this way of life, if not that of an old-line angry youth, is at least something one can manage.
The trick is to let the purpose seep into the process, and to let the means also become ends; or, to put it another way, the purpose is not merely an abstract promise of the future that influences behavior, but also a living, flowing thing that constantly enters into the course of action. At the same time, the process in turn constantly points toward and constructs the purpose.
This sounds mysterious, but it is actually easy to understand. It is still best illustrated by taking games as an example: some complex games often have certain set goals, such as “clearing the stage.” To achieve this goal may require carrying out many dull and boring tasks, such as “leveling up.” If there were no possibility of “clearing the stage” as an end, and you were simply told to level up, that would be tedious; and if you did not need to make any effort at all, and were simply allowed to “clear the stage” directly, that would also be meaningless. Games are fun precisely because they often require a combination of ends and means. In this way, the arduous process of effort makes the hard-won victory exhilarating, while the possibility of victory in turn makes the process of effort exciting and moving. We know that the process of playing games itself is pleasurable; no one says, “I play games only in order to endure pain most of the time just for the brief pleasure of clearing the game at the very end.” The player enjoys almost all the fun of the game in the course of playing it; even if one ultimately gets Game Over, that cannot erase the enjoyment that was already cashed in on the spot while playing. But this enjoyment is not entirely the same as that kind of carpe diem-style gratification. This enjoyment itself needs the future (the possibility of clearing the stage) as support, yet it is indeed cashed in on the spot.
Aside from gaming in the narrow sense, a similar pattern can be constructed in many activities. For example, falling in love is another easily understood situation. Suppose someone asks you to get up bright and early and rush to the train station for no reason; that would certainly not be something you would be eager to do. But if there happens to be someone you fancy waiting there, the situation is completely different, and you may very well be willing, even eager, to fight for such a thankless chore. The key point is that her existence is not there to make you willing to endure suffering; rather, it is that her intervention turns what was originally a painful thing into a pleasure. Even if, in the end, you rush over in high spirits only to find that you went to the wrong station, even if in the end she actually dumps you, none of that can erase the enjoyment that was already cashed in on the spot in those things because of her presence. So those mutual complaints after a breakup in love, feeling that one’s own contribution was not worth it, or accusing the other person of having let one down after one’s own contribution — all of these are untenable, because in a truly loving state, all contributions should be, at every moment, cashed in on the spot. The reason “love” is such an incomparably marvelous thing is precisely that it can provide an inner meaning, so that all activities permeated by affection are given a meaning that is both enduring and constantly cashed in on the spot.
To let the purpose seep into the process is not an attitude of ignoring the future and seizing the day; nor is it asceticism fixated on empty promises. Rather, it is through constantly letting the purpose be present within the process that the process itself transcends the purpose and gains freedom in itself.
July 15, 2009
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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