About reading and writing, I said earlier that these two activities alternate in a cycle and become my mode of thinking: thought begins in reading and comes to a pause in writing. But that is too general a way of putting it, so the essay “The writer, one who pours forth” described my style of writing, and the more recent “How I choke out a paper” added a discussion of the specific mode of writing called paper-writing. Now, if I add a note on my method of reading, the picture is even more complete.
Still the old saying: my style is not worth boasting about, much less imitating. In particular, if you want to do scholarship in a down-to-earth way, you should not take my methods as a reference.
But if you are only reading for the sake of reading, with no lofty academic plan, or if you never intended to take root and establish yourself in academia in the first place, then perhaps some of what I say may strike you as interesting.
Of course, as I have somehow gradually mixed myself into academia, my reading methods will certainly change with the times too. Especially when it comes to reading foreign-language works, I will certainly have to adopt a completely different strategy. Even now I am still groping my way forward; I am only recording the basic style I have followed up to this day.
As I said before, ever since I was little I loved reading books and buying books. In those days I was most fascinated by Doraemon and Dragon Ball; in middle school I turned to The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and many other Chinese classic chaptered novels; in the third year of junior high I began devouring martial-arts novels, and at the same time I read A Brief History of Time in that same year; in my first year of high school I devoured all kinds of popular science books; from my second year onward it was history, philosophy, and other such books; and by the time I got to university it was all sorts of not-quite-professional academic books.
In fact, my interest in these books has been continuous and of a piece—reading martial-arts fiction and reading comics; reading popular science and reading martial-arts fiction; reading academic books and reading popular science—the pleasure I get from them is similar.
Of course, unlike reading comics and novels, a considerable part of my reading now is “compelled” reading. That is to say, for the sake of some course or paper I have to read certain books. But there is no essential difference here. It is like this: I can certainly enjoy the banquet meals I am obliged to attend for the sake of social niceties; eating those dishes may not arise from an automatic, conscious desire, but very often the delicacies I am forcibly dragged off to eat by others are more delicious than what I go out and find for myself at a little street-side restaurant. Therefore, a good academic environment is indeed important. In such a circle, the things one is “forced” to eat are often tasty and healthy.
Philosophy is playful and interesting. If a person has never loved play, how could he ever grasp the charm of philosophy? Loving philosophy is something like this: first one enjoys simple card games like comparing sizes, playing Old Maid, or racing to the top; then one gradually becomes dissatisfied with monotonous ways of playing and introduces additional rules (such as scoring or tribute); or one introduces new rules for games that allow more skill and variation, such as Dou Dizhu or Shengji; and in the end, still not satisfied, one may even devise a whole competitive system, challenging other experts with more refined rules and more practiced techniques.
Experts may perhaps grow bored with overly simple games, but if they had never been enthusiastic about those “low-level” games in the first place, how could they ever have grown into experts? Unless, of course, they never really liked the game they were playing at all, and merely took it up as, say, a job for making money. People who labor over game technique in order to win prize money may also achieve fairly high accomplishments, but I still prefer to believe that a true master who can “work the world” must love their game.
I have always pursued things that are more fun and more interesting—I love reading comics, love watching animation, love playing games… So I like doing mathematics, and then, by extension, philosophy. Of course, once I came into contact with newer games that were more complex and richer, some things that had once fascinated me ceased to be quite so endlessly interesting. For example, once I was watching One Piece, I had long since lost interest in Ultraman; once I was playing Civilization, I no longer liked Minesweeper; and once I was playing philosophy, I was no longer keen on math problems. The shift of interests is unavoidable, and a preference moving from A to B does not necessarily mean that there is any objective hierarchy between A and B. All I know is this: all along I have been full of passion, and academic books are as gripping as martial-arts novels—that is the motive for my reading.
Speaking of academic books and martial-arts novels, I must mention one feature of my reading: in many cases, I can read through one academic book faster than I can get through one martial-arts novel. During university I did not read much martial-arts fiction, but I still reread The Twin Dragons of the Tang Dynasty twice, and The Legend of the Borderlands once (two of Huang Yi’s rare, huge-volume works that are suitable for children and young readers). Some classmates could read three or five books in a day, whereas even if I kept reading from morning till night, at best I could barely finish a little more than one. And bear in mind that with the same amount of time, I could knock out two or three ordinary academic works without difficulty. Besides, I had already read The Twin Dragons of the Tang Dynasty at least a third time, yet it seemed to get slower with each reading; there was no way to force it to speed up.
Why is that? Of course, it has to do with the way I read. When I read novels, what the author presents to me is a whole story, and that story contains scene after scene. When I read, it is as though I myself were inside the world of the novel, experiencing one scene after another as the story unfolds. It is like watching a film or a TV series: whatever the plot’s rhythm—tight or sluggish—it is very hard to fast-forward or skip around. Either you give up partway and stop watching, or if you insist on watching to the end, you inevitably have to move forward in a certain rhythm.
Reading academic books is different. At this point, there are no longer scenes unfolding one after another that need to be experienced. The feeling of reading academic books is less like flowing downstream in a river than like being caught in rain or riding the waves. Some books strike my inner self like raindrops, stirring up ripples; others hit my whole body like a tide, making me lurch about while my heart surges. At times, the quiet pond or broad lake that some books present to me tempts me to row a boat into its depths, but even then I usually only glance in passing and do not linger long. Only the greatest philosophers present to me “the ocean”—vast with violent storms and sweeping waves, yet at the same time serene and peaceful. All seas are connected to one another; the sea, the sky, and the earth are all interconnected too.
My prose can only express things to this degree. Simply put, reading novels is like going downstream; although one can adjust the speed, the basic process still depends on the condition of the river itself. But walking in the rain or surfing at sea is different: there is no fixed direction, and there is not even a starting point or endpoint; both speed and direction are under one’s own control.
Reading an academic book comes in several situations: first, as entertainment; second, in search of inspiration for writing a paper; third, when one already has an idea for a paper and goes looking for relevant materials with a question in mind. The strategies for reading differ in these three situations, but what they have in common is—fast.
As for “close reading,” my method is nothing more than “rough reading” several more times, or pausing a few more times while reading.
Such a way of reading is certainly bound to draw contempt—how could I treat those academic works so carelessly? How could I lie in bed, flipping through the works into which others have sunk so many years, as casually as if I were reading comics? What could I possibly gain by reading like this, never striving to understand things thoroughly? Isn’t that far too impatient and restless?
Indeed, I am not a proper scholar who honestly follows the bright and upright path; I take the pirate’s road. The only difference between me and the inflated amateurs in science and philosophy is this: I will be able to compete on the same stage with proper scholars, and I can also firmly establish myself on a few hills. Without that bit of ability, how would I dare boast that I could roam the four seas? But once I have taken a hill, I will only erect a stele and inscribe it there—“I have been here”—and not build a grand castle and claim the hill as my own. I want to be the pirate king who roams freely at sea, not a king who carves out a domain on land.
Therefore, you may certainly use the way I read and the attitude I take toward reading to accuse me of being how impatient and disrespectful I am toward scholarship. But I will bring results to compete with you. You can, of course, conscientiously and seriously pursue scholarship in an honest, down-to-earth manner, while I insist on studying with a grin, with an irreverent attitude, and in a carefree and joyful way. In the end we will both write our papers, and then let’s see whose understanding is more accurate and whose work is more interesting—wouldn’t that settle it? If the papers are equally brilliant, then isn’t it the side that works with ease and naturalness, achieving twice the result with half the effort, that wins? “Diligence” then becomes the excuse many people use to comfort themselves—“I did my best; if I can’t produce good results, you can’t blame me.” You are free to comfort yourselves in this way, but you have no reason to despise others for producing brilliant achievements simply because they did not work as hard as you did.
The more crucial issue lies in my understanding of philosophy as an activity—I think philosophy is not a specialized technique, and not something where the more effort one puts in, the more achievement one is guaranteed to have. This is not to say that I think philosophy requires genius; in fact, excessive genius can sometimes become a stumbling block. The harm genius does to philosophy is not that it makes people lazy and unmotivated, but that it may cause them to mature too early, to establish too many prejudices too early, and to become overconfident in those prejudices. For philosophy, what matters most is always the “philo”—the love, the desire to keep pursuing.
Philosophy pursues understanding; it is about continually questioning and continually seeking, and thus continually breaking through prejudice and continually transcending oneself. But I feel that reading certain specific texts too seriously may cause one to sink deeply into them, to dig deeper and deeper until one can no longer pull oneself out. In the end one cannot part with the achievements one has painstakingly built, and here that becomes the sailor’s burden.
Sailors also need burdens, but not too many, and not too deep. Former glories need only be recorded in the logbook, marked on the chart, and branded into the sailor’s memory; they should not have to be carried around at all times. If too many treasures are loaded aboard the ship, they will become a burden on the voyage and will also wear down the sailor’s ambition.
Books are what are called “spiritual food”; and food, as such, only reveals its value when it is eaten into the stomach and turned into feces. They transform into invisible forces that nourish my growth. By contrast, exquisitely prepared dishes wrapped in cling film and displayed in a shop window do not realize their true meaning. Chewing slowly and carefully aids digestion, but excessive fixity and attachment are also not good for health. Many tasty fast foods are nutritionally worthless junk, while dependence on food that is too exquisitely refined is likewise bad for health. The best menu ought to be rich and varied.
Philosophy or thought is, in the end, each person’s own affair. Human thought, like an organism, constantly draws nourishment from its surroundings, but ultimately grows according to its own inner logic. Food is a necessary source of energy, but one should not expect any particular food to leave any particular mark in the body. Things that settle inside the body through food and cannot be promptly expelled are often nothing good—such as dioxins, dichlorvos, heavy metals, and so on. Reading is similar: through reading, my thought is continuously infused with vitality and continuously grows on its own, and that is the best thing. But if, through reading, more and more difficult-to-expel sediment were to seep into my thought, that would absolutely not be a happy thing.
Therefore, my “not seeking to understand in any depth” when reading is not merely out of laziness; there is a deeper reason as well. That reason is that, in my view, the meaning reading brings me is not embodied in those things I “remember,” but in being digested by me and becoming an invisible force. Only when the “products” that witness this digestive process themselves turn into ugly feces and are discarded by me does the value of the book truly come into view.
So the papers I write are, in a sense, “feces.” This metaphor is apt not only when I talk about how I “choke out a paper,” but remains equally on point now that I am talking about how I read. They really are shit. They can certainly make a resounding thud on the ground and let others marvel at my digestive ability, but that is all. Even if there are still many things within them that could be further digested, I have no interest in processing them again. So when I have just finished a paper, I often do not even have the enthusiasm to read it through carefully once. Only when circumstances have changed and I have almost forgotten how I felt at the time do I have the mind to pick up again the topic I worked on back then, eat through the relevant materials once more, and excrete a new pile.
What is it that one pursues in doing philosophy? The fundamental pursuit is always to perfect oneself and enrich oneself, not those things that flow out from within oneself. Right now most of my writing is the crudest of excretions; later I will write with my own blood, and in the end, like a cicada shedding its shell, I will imprint my whole form and leave it to the earth. But these, in the final analysis, are still “excretions.” I will take responsibility for them for my whole life, but I will never regard them as treasures.
But does reading really leave no imprint at all? Not at all, and that is impossible too. After reading books, it is impossible simply to forget all the knowledge. There are many techniques for improving memory, but deliberately trying to forget is difficult. The good choice is not to be too deliberate, to let things take their course, and let one’s love do the choosing.
This is like how, in life, we remember our friends’ names, as well as their backgrounds, personalities, preferences, and so on. Do we need to memorize these deliberately? No! More meetings, more contact, and affection—then naturally one will remember, and never forget in a lifetime. Why should reading the history of philosophy not work this way? If you treat philosophers as your friends, if you have affection and interest in them, then by seeing them repeatedly, you will naturally remember the things that ought to be remembered. In the end it may be entirely possible to talk about them “as if one knew their property like the back of one’s hand.” Why deliberately memorize? Especially if, before you have had any deep contact with a friend, you learn all his characteristics from second-hand information and memorize that information before going to deal with him in person—does that help your understanding of him, or harm it? Even some impressions you obtain through direct interaction, if you fix them into a series of assertions and then always use those rigid frames to understand your friend afterward, is that a worthwhile way to proceed? So, in my view, reading the history of philosophy or philosophical works should by no means be satisfied with having acquired one, two, three, or four items of knowledge. Such crystallized knowledge is not only useless, but harmful. When dealing with friends, one can of course often summarize some features of their character and behavior, but one must absolutely not treat such knowledge as rigid and fixed. A few concise introductions may help you make new friends and may help stir your interest in getting to know them, but this information is dead, and is not worth being attached to or burdened by.
I am about to set off back to Shanghai, and since I am writing in a hurry, let this article end here. In principle it is to be continued, and I have not yet specifically written about my reading method. But I’m afraid that when I get back I’ll be too lazy to continue it… We’ll see…
January 21, 2009
Latest Comments
- Sanbai Jushi 2009-01-23 22:31:17 Anonymous 124.206.38.39
“Philosophy is playful and interesting. If a person has never loved play, how could he ever grasp the charm of philosophy?”
The article is very long, so I’ll first praise this sentence.Yunzi
2009-01-28 21:02:45 Anonymous 221.225.80.148
Not bad, many apt and fitting metaphors~~ But in the present world, where are there so many people criticizing and opposing you with things like “not diligent, impatient” and the like?
2009-01-28 22:00:28
Of course, almost no one criticizes me face to face, but objections of this kind certainly exist broadly, and besides, things like not being diligent are all true as well; such criticism is completely correct. Such criticism could even come from my own mouth—if you are not, like me, choosing the pirate’s road, the road of adventure, the road of the philosopher, but instead hope to do scholarship in a down-to-earth way and make real achievements in academia, then my kind of conduct is absolutely no good. I am very clear that my adventure, the price one must pay to gain exploration, is that one may very likely be despised and excluded by academia, and oneself also fail to make any great breakthrough, ending up accomplishing nothing. I have enough resolve regarding the road of exploration, which is why I can both understand and yet not accept those possible criticisms.
Yunzi
2009-01-29 17:13:49 Anonymous 221.225.80.148
I am only doing my best. Because in actual practice, it is also impossible to simply reduce things to being either down-to-earth or impatient. So I also won’t label the path I’m on. I think that whether something is of interest to oneself or something one must complete, one should still try to explore a little more—but on the premise that one does not make oneself too tired in the end; getting something out of it is enough. As for achievements, they are inherently very difficult to control.
Actually, I always feel that you do not need to emphasize so deliberately the distinctiveness of your path. - Guchu2009-02-03 03:35:04
“Being different” is what I strive for; emphasizing it a bit more is natural. Of course, if it starts to look too deliberate, that’s not good—thanks for the reminder. In any case, I think someone who has taken the path of philosophy should be aware of how his path differs from others. You can notice that what I am emphasizing is not how different my intelligence, insight, thinking, knowledge, and so on are; in fact, I do not think philosophers differ from ordinary people in any particularly noteworthy way in those respects. So where does the difference lie? If I were exactly the same as everyone else, that would not be good either; avoiding difference runs counter to my philosophical interests. I want to seek out difference, so if the difference is not in intelligence and not in insight, then where is it? That is why I emphasize this and that: precisely to locate myself clearly and soberly.
- Xiaoyue 2009-02-09 15:50:53 Anonymous 116.242.238.152
“ The bad thing about genius for philosophy is not that it makes one unwilling to strive for progress, but that it may make one mature too early, establish too many preconceptions too early, and become too confident in those preconceptions.” You do have a very clear understanding, but I feel that genius itself is unable to overcome this flaw…
I really understand your One Piece road! I’m even more looking forward to the sequel to your reading method!
How can one possibly skim through two or three professional books in a day? I really want to learn; I hope you can introduce it in detail in the next installment. Thanks! - Xiaoyue 2009-02-09 16:00:04 Anonymous 116.242.238.152
There is nothing wrong with emphasizing being different. Saying it out loud is not only to make oneself aware of it; it can also let people who, like you, think differently know. If you don’t try, how can you find like-minded people?
At least I really identify with your One Piece road. Maybe it’s because, like you, I’m someone who loves to play and loves adventure… As for whether such a road can lead to history, who knows, right? - Gu Chu 2009-02-09 16:23:31
The next installment also can’t possibly introduce a way to skim through two or three professional books in a day. In fact, I don’t really have any reading method at all; if I were to write a sequel, I would only talk about what I am like when I read—there is no “method” to speak of. As for speed, some people who have specifically trained in speed reading are definitely several times faster than I am.
Reading several academic books in a day has conditions: either they are all relatively shallow introductory or secondary readings, or else I happen to be in the midst of conceiving or writing some paper.
Looking at your IP, are you in Zangye? If there’s a chance, we can meet offline~ This year I’ll be doing more offline activities and will try to launch my philosophy salon. - Xiaoyue 2009-02-10 09:46:35 Anonymous 116.242.238.96
My level is limited right now. If I were lucky enough to attend your salon, listening in would be fine, haha. QQ182002629. If your salon gets started, let me know!
- Gu Chu 2009-02-10 11:01:05
Oh, come off it~ When will your level become “unlimited”? Everyone’s level is limited, but human possibilities are infinite.
- Xiaoyue 2009-02-10 11:03:20 Anonymous 116.242.238.96
Strange, I clearly added you, so why can’t I see you? Or is it that if you don’t say anything, I can’t see you? Add me again…
- Chern 2009-02-10 11:23:59 Anonymous 64.255.180.56
Is there wine at the salon? If there is, I’ll come^^
http://steorra.spaces.live.com
This is my SPACE, public; I’ve given away all the BBS IDs. In the future, if you see MIST, just remember that ta is not me.
Chern - Gu Chu 2009-02-10 11:39:09
There’s always wine in a café; I can treat you to a cocktail too..
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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