Philosophy and I: The Romance Chapter

Long before 《Gongqing Garden》 issued its call for submissions under the title “Me and Philosophy,” I had already been thinking of writing up some reflections on my contact with philosophy over these past few years. At the time, I roughly planned to divide it into three parts: encounter — romance — entanglement. Now that I am submitting something to 《Gongqing Garden》, and don’t want to write something long-winded and foul enough to annoy my junior classmates, I might as well write this middle piece first.

What is meant by “romance” is nothing more than attachment and affection. Strictly speaking, there is quite a difference between the two words “romance” and “love” — “romance” emphasizes those things that have already been “won,” and signifies unwillingness to part, unwillingness to lose, attachment, nostalgia, reluctance to let go… whereas “love” often extends into the meanings of desire, pursuit, or admiration and yearning; if one is still pursuing, then it should belong to the “unattained.” Thus, when the two words romance and love are combined, a certain paradoxical state is formed. The state of romantic love between men and women is exactly like this: it seems attained, yet also seems unattained, full of paradox and uncertainty. Otherwise, why are men and women in love so often mad, irrational, and reckless? Hehe, just kidding.

In many cases, attachment and pursuit do not always coincide. For example, when I say that I felt extremely reluctant to leave my high school campus, I obviously did not really long to stay there and study for a few more years.

Before I fell in love with philosophy, I first became attached to her.

When you discover that you have become attached to something, you ought to begin thinking and making a decision — besides confirming your own feelings, you must judge whether this thing is truly worth desiring. For example, if you discover that what has made you unable to extricate yourself is actually some drugs or narcotics, then you had better retreat with your whole body before the situation becomes completely uncontrollable; but if what fascinates you is indeed something you like and identify with, then open your arms and pursue it!

This thing called philosophy was, from the outset, something that plunged me deep within it, impossible to quit. Some people think philosophy is a tranquil and peaceful activity, but I rather doubt that. Fishing, woodcutting, farming, and reading are indeed peaceful ways of life, but philosophy is not just reading books; it also involves reflection and questioning. And this reflection and questioning often drive one into anxiety, agitation, helplessness, frenzy… and even toward despair and collapse.

Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living, and that is very true. But what is the result of reflection? Again, as Socrates said: the only thing I know is that I know nothing. Knowledge of one’s own ignorance is the starting point of philosophy; however, this starting point is clearly not very pleasing. Once one falls into philosophy, through reflection and questioning, one after another of the things that were originally clear and certain become uncertain and suspicious, and that is precisely philosophy’s work — to question where there is no doubt, to reflect on things taken for granted, to inquire into the foundations of knowledge. When philosophy began to operate in me, that was by no means a pleasant thing.

Everyone is a born philosopher — almost everyone, at some stage of life, will become entangled in certain philosophical “big questions” — what is love? what is the self? what is good? what is truth? … and especially, what is death? No one can avoid running headlong into this question.

It is precisely these questions that everyone has faced that constitute philosophy’s eternal themes. They are eternal because, regarding these questions, there will never be a final, definitive, unanimously accepted answer. But ordinary people merely escape from these questions: either they persuade themselves to stop engaging in these unanswered reveries and simply get on with life, or they settle for answers in front of them that cannot stand up to scrutiny. In short, they discover that philosophy is a drug or narcotic that can make one sink deeply into it, and thus choose to withdraw from it as quickly as possible.

Philosophers, however, are unwilling both to evade these nagging questions and to deceive themselves with a false answer; they choose that endless abyss — to keep asking, to keep thinking, until they find the answer that truly satisfies them.

Fortunately, philosophers are not completely alone. In the history of philosophy, those pioneers left behind for later generations an inexhaustible wealth; they spoke of what they had gained and pointed toward the directions they recognized, yet every latercomer still has to begin from scratch and find his or her own path.

Therefore, philosophers are not necessarily all people who “love philosophy”; some of them may simply be unable to help themselves. Philosophers are “lovers of wisdom,” but not necessarily “lovers of philosophy.” In fact, the phrase “love philosophy” is a strange one — if “philosophy” means “love of wisdom,” then wouldn’t “love philosophy” mean “love love of wisdom”? What does that mean?

The activity of philosophy is precisely the “pursuit” of “wisdom” (or truth, goodness, beauty, freedom, certainty, or whatever else). But those who pursue such things do not necessarily enjoy “pursuit” itself. For example, when I say that I will work hard to get into Peking University, I am by no means saying that I also very much enjoy the hard work of striving itself. The best-case scenario, of course, is that I get into Peking University without having to strive very much; if I had to be given several more years just to strive for it, then that would obviously be bad.

Or one might say that if the object of pursuit is, after all, a finite thing, then to say that one both pursues it and pursues the pursuit of it will be contradictory. Because if you pursue it, of course you would rather obtain it sooner, and would not wish to remain longer in the process of pursuit. But if the object of pursuit is infinite, fundamentally impossible to fully reach, then the situation is different. This endless pursuit will no longer merely be some means you use during one stage of life to achieve some goal; it will permeate your whole life, become an inseparable part of your life, and even become life itself. By this time, I too gradually came to love this way of life, which, though full of bewilderment and pain, was nevertheless always passionate and steadfast.

Romantic love between men and women is similar. When you feel that the pursuit has been satisfied, the fiery romance also comes to an end; what follows is either a peaceful life or the other person’s departure. But when you realize that people can never truly possess one another, that the truly ideal love can never be brought to completion, then romance does not come to an end, and romance itself is unimaginably beautiful.

Of course, throughout all this, my putting philosophical romance and romantic love between men and women side by side is nothing more than metaphor and borrowing; it absolutely must not be extended too far. For example, to say that because I fell in love with philosophy I gave up romance — such a statement is absurd and detestable.

This article is rather chaotic, but fortunately it is still short enough. I’ll stop here for today.

November 9, 2007

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Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.