The Moral Law Above My Head and the Starry Sky in My Heart

This semester I’m preparing to start gnawing on Kant’s third Critique. Every time I come to the café I bring that brick with me, but unfortunately I still haven’t yet felt the impulse to open it up, so… let’s talk about it later…

In any case, in recent days Kant’s ghost seems to have been hovering around me all the time, poking me from time to time, as if complaining about how I’ve been neglecting him…

When I was a sophomore, I wrote “The Same Starry Sky” to discuss Kant’s science and religion, marking the moment when I was truly lured through the door of philosophy;

When I was a junior, I wrote “Negative Ontology” to discuss Kant’s first Critique, marking the moment when I decided to take Kant as my own “starting point.”

For my senior thesis, I wrote “Kant’s Ethics”…… discussing the second Critique, marking the end of my undergraduate studies, as well as the moment when I took Kant to be my highest “opponent” — because I am not a follower of Kantian philosophy, especially in ethics. So first I had to defend Kant against contemporary mainstream ethics, and only then could I return to Kant and seek a new path there.

In short, ever since I was abducted by Kant, it seems I have had to prod him once every year. But this year there seems to be no chance of forcing me to write a paper on Kant anymore. Please don’t blame me, old Kant brother; at worst, by summer vacation I can at least manage a reading note on the “third Critique,” hmm.

Recently I’ve been vigorously proclaiming that philosophy ought to involve communication, enthusiasm, and so on, and someone asked me: isn’t Kant, whom you used to be so passionate about, just a counterexample? My answer was, first, that it’s not “used to be,” but still now—I’m still passionate about him, even if the honeymoon period is probably over; in fact, my bond with Kant has only become more solid. Second, although Kant seems cold and stiff, in my view he is also a repressed, passionate man, and his inner world is still full of fiery emotion. It was precisely as if I had sensed that brilliant flame within Kant’s heart that I first read my way into a real feeling for him. Third, Kant may not have hung out in cafés, but he certainly did not churn out the three Critiques by shut-in tinkering all by himself. Kant was one of the first generations of professional philosophy professors in history, and the university system in Königsberg provided him with an environment for exchange. Moreover, Kant also emerged from the earlier Wolffian school, not to mention the exchanges carried on through letters, elite gatherings, visits, and the like. In short, although my philosophy does indeed look much noisier than Kant’s, Kant remains the model philosopher in my mind. Perhaps Kant truly deserves to be called the “great demon king” who can overturn heaven and earth; compared with that, my magic can at best be called a mere trick…

Thinking of Kant often means thinking of the starry sky, and vice versa. When I previously said that my philosophy could bear the name “Internet Game Philosophy,” some people were surprised and asked why it wasn’t called “Starry-Sky Philosophy.” Indeed, I have always been talking about starry-sky philosophy—have I perhaps recently neglected that too? Of course not. The starry sky is engraved in my heart; no matter how much I try to erase it, I can’t. It’s just that lately I’ve increasingly felt that “starry-sky philosophy” is something difficult to put into words. Whereas “Internet game philosophy” is merely about thinking how to “package” my philosophy with a distinctive label. “Labels” are always stuck on the outermost packaging, while the “starry sky” is the deepest, most hidden part revealed only after tearing away layer upon layer of wrapping—truly the “core” of my entire philosophy. That should be the very thing kept most secret and unspoken.

Of course, I still keep the statement about “starry-sky philosophy” that I happened to come across in high school hanging high at the top of Suixuan; in other words, it is like being posted right at the “main entrance” of my philosophical world. But for most people, this main entrance is a road to nowhere, with the gate locked tight. For I no longer elaborate much on my “starry-sky philosophy,” or rather, my whole philosophy is an interpretation of it, and “it” itself is almost a kind of mystical, experiential thing, something that cannot be put into words. If in the future I want to try to guide later generations into my world, I will spend my energy putting up signposts along several side doors and back doors. One side door would be called “Internet Game Philosophy,” or perhaps “anime” could be included as well; the back door would, of course, be “philosophy of love.” Although love itself is also hard to put into words, I will use that concept to interpret many other issues, so there is still a route to follow. At the same time, although the front door and the back door may not face each other directly, they still echo one another from afar, connecting the central axis of the entire philosophical world. But if you want to feel your way in from outside to the back door, I’m afraid you would need to hold onto the outer wall and make a big detour. If you haven’t experienced enough of that outer contour, then coming straight at my philosophy of love, I’m afraid you won’t see much of anything.

Back to the point (though this article actually doesn’t have much of a point), when I think of Kant’s starry sky, I naturally think of Kant’s famous line about “the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me,” and then it occurs to me that, when put in my own terms, it may be more appropriate to say the reverse—namely, “the moral law above my head and the starry sky in my heart.”

The first half expresses my rebellion against Kantian ethics, because although I also recognize the concept of “conscience,” in my view what can exist “in the heart” is only some kind of “morality itself” and absolutely not “law,” or rather, “rule.” Borrowing Kant’s wording, “law” is established by human understanding; this is true of both laws of nature and moral laws. And the possibility of this legislation requires “objectifying” cognition, that is to say, one must confront the thing-in-itself through the senses, and only after undergoing a filtering by sensibility and understanding can one see something lawful, something orderly. In this way, in fact, I see the “moral law” from “outside” myself, whereas what manifests itself within my body is a force, or an impulse, or desire, or conscience, or character—but in any case it is always primitive and vague, never “law.” Law is not only external, but also social and cultural; so rather than saying the moral law exists in the inner heart, it would be better to say it hangs high above our heads.

As for the “starry sky,” in fact, it is indeed no longer above our “heads.” Whether in Shanghai or Beijing, the stars in the urban night sky are always few and far between, so for me the starry sky is really hard to say as being “overhead”; the starry sky is in my heart. This is something I declared very early on already (The Starry Sky in My Heart).

I often mention that my decision to enter academia came from writing Ecological Philosophy in my freshman year. And the origin of that paper, apart from the accidental taking of several courses in environmental ethics and the like, was, for me, the inner driving force or “problem” of: “Why has the starry sky disappeared?”

Recently, when introducing philosophy of science and technology to younger students in their first year, I could not help bringing up this story again. My intention was to use myself as an example to emphasize that when doing philosophy one should not first worry about “what problems the field of philosophy of science and technology studies.” Philosophy is first of all questioning; it must raise questions that belong to oneself, questions arising from one’s own heart, and then seek reference materials and personally pursue the inquiry, rather than merely solving those “ready-made” problems in a technical way. And the advantage of this “field” of philosophy of science and technology is that it is loose and broad, so there is no need to worry that the questions you raise will fall outside what is called “philosophy of science and technology.”

But after saying it, I also found it a little funny myself—could they really grasp “Why has the starry sky disappeared?” as such a personal and significant “problem”? I stress that philosophical thinking should arise from inner perplexity or longing, and pursue those “big problems” that have entangled human beings for hundreds and thousands of years. So, for instance, life and death, love, freedom, justice, truth, meaning, and so on—only questions like these count as “big problems,” right? Compared with them, what on earth is “the starry sky has disappeared”?

Perhaps only in the hearts of myself and a few others does the question “the starry sky has disappeared” actually stand comparison with “God is dead,” despite being a contemporary, historical, and local question, it is nonetheless extremely important and knotty. The contradiction behind this question had already been hinted at in the “preface” to that paper at the time: enjoying the living environment brought by modern civilization, yet the prosperity on earth has obscured the brilliance of the stars—what have we lost? And what should we do? … This question drove my thinking about ecological issues, and in turn led me toward inquiries into nature, science, and technology.

Later still, it was again the starry sky that led me to Kant, and thus formally onto the path of philosophy. What “abducted” me by Kant was, besides the depth of his thought, initially still Kant’s “starry sky.” Apart from that famous line, what suddenly gave me some kind of deep, integrative insight into Kant’s philosophy was the passage at the end of Kant’s An Outline of a General History of Nature and Theory of the Heavens: “On a clear night, looking up at the starry sky…” That passage suddenly made Kant come alive for me, as if I could feel the emotion and tension deep within Kant’s heart—on the one hand, the Kant who proposed the nebular hypothesis and confidently used human intelligence to explain the origin of the starry sky; on the other hand, the Kant who was deeply shaken beneath the starry sky and even carried a certain romantic and mystical mood. The knowability and mystery of nature, the greatness and smallness of human beings, pride and reverence, reason and romance, understanding and sensibility, composure and passion, science and religion, critique and faith…… this whole series of entangled oppositions is unified beneath the starry sky. This kind of complex feeling, and these contradictions, must be the hidden starting point of Kant’s philosophy, and at the same time the hidden starting point of my philosophy. Such things are difficult to put into words. Apart from the exclamations in a few “concluding remarks,” Kant does not really interpret his own obsession with the starry sky much in theoretical terms, but perhaps that is precisely the source of the power of Kant’s philosophy.

If I were to force myself to further characterize and describe this feeling, the five characters I found in 《The Tree of Philosophy》 are the most apt—“silent astonishment.” As a philosophy introduction book that has had the greatest influence on me, this book is even higher in my esteem than The Big Questions; its real significance lies in leading me toward Kant (the author is a Kant fan). If The Big Questions left me with the impression of that huge “?” formed by the names of philosophers, then when I think of The Tree of Philosophy, the first thing that appears in my mind is these five characters: “silent astonishment.” Although when the author mentions these words, he is neither specifically referring to Kant nor discussing the starry sky, but rather talking about a basic ontological attitude. Yet isn’t this precisely the feeling the starry sky gives us? Silence and astonishment, that pair of seemingly contradictory emotions, are in fact brought into the most natural unity precisely in the experience of gazing at the starry sky, or in the world of philosophy. And so, with this set of words—“looking up at the starry sky,” “science and religion,” “silent astonishment”—I suddenly found myself reading Kant with real feeling, and thus could be lured into the world of philosophy.

However, what the “starry sky” gives me does not seem all that “silent”; more often it is the urge toward frenzy, a religious form that has not yet shaken off superstition. For example, as for my first girlfriend, if you ask what factor made me take a liking to her, what was it? Appearance? Character? Personality? … Looking back, apart from the objective circumstances, what really excited me was perhaps only one thing: her screen name contained the characters “星辰” [stars]. Honestly, I myself can hardly believe it—just that was enough to excite me? Where had my reason gone? My philosophy, after all, emphasizes how one should clear away the confusion of words, step out of the illusion of concepts, and thereby protect and preserve immediate sensory experience and so on. Come to think of it, I myself was actually the first fellow to be easily obsessed with words! Still, ordinary words cannot ensnare me; only the starry sky and rain are exceptions. The starry sky is the worst offender of all: hearing that word is like hearing the name of God, and the fervent mystical emotions within me begin to stir. Although I later reined myself in somewhat, I must admit that this bizarre mystical obsession still lingers, to the point that I later made another mistake when dealing with unic—normally, no amount of agreement with me can fool me; only difference and interest can arouse my interest, yet unic alone became an exception, and her agreement really did capture me. In the final analysis, it was probably because I knew she was a stargazer, an astronomy enthusiast—if the starry sky is my God, then those who know the stars are almost in the role of angels, or at least apostles, or failing that, priests—even the most domineering Great Bull Demon King has no choice but to reveal his true form in front of a shepherd, becoming either an honest old ox or a bull charging about in a frenzy with a sack over its head. Although I would not prostrate myself so easily, I could not avoid forgetting reflection and scrutiny because of frenzy and piety. Fortunately, I finally woke up before repeating the same mistake, though the outcome still seems to have been rather tragic. Of course, of course, nowadays my ability to control reason and emotion is no longer what it once was, but to be honest, when I learn that someone is a stargazer, the complexity in my gaze will increase exponentially; the purest reverence and the most wicked desire surge up at the same time…… Of course, this is mainly in the case of beauties; as for seeing a man carrying the name of the starry sky, it seems more likely to provoke my aggressiveness (hmm? You, kid, are also called Starry Sky? Hah?……).

Within a religious group, the believers at the lowest level are often the most superstitious and fanatical; I am probably one of that lowest level. Because I myself am not a stargazer, still less someone who knows the stars, and there is no need to mention an astronomer or astrologer. Not only do I not often look at the stars, I have never even once gazed at a truly brilliant starry sky. Perhaps in childhood before I had memories, I could still see the scattered stars in the Shanghai night sky; when I first began to remember things, I also learned how to find the North Star. But now if you were to teach Shanghai children how to recognize the Big Dipper and the North Star, that would probably be a joke. In recent years, at most, whenever I travel I pay some attention to the local starry sky and the like, but so far I still haven’t had a chance to see any really splendid starry sky; as for in the city, at most it is only occasionally when I take a night walk that I stare at one or two stars (often there are only one or two that can be seen), and watching them wink at me is always a delight. But since I usually travel by bicycle, safety comes first, so in fact I rarely do even that. My fatal laziness has also meant that I have not participated in astronomy clubs and the like, nor have I bothered to memorize the names of the stars.

If that’s the case, is the starry sky in my heart just an abstract concept, an empty word, sheer delusion and deception from beginning to end? I once doubted this too. When I close my eyes and daydream, a scene facing the sea while gazing at the starry sky often rises before my mind. Originally I said that images of the starry sky seldom appear, but recently, when I began imagining the new image of my Chihane Demon King, the background could only be that picture of the starry sky and the sea, and it would not go away. (By the way, even though my recent new image has added scarlet wings symbolizing blazing love, I’m still standing on a reef, and still unable to fly……) The key issue is that this image is illusory, because I have never personally seen such a starry sky, let alone gazed at one by the sea. Where on earth did this image, and the feelings related to it, come from? It seems I vaguely detected the scent of anime in it, after all I am exactly from the generation that grew up watching Saint Seiya.

Of course, Saint Seiya was probably only a kind of preparation; what ultimately “imprinted” the starry sky in my heart in a mysterious and instantaneous way was undoubtedly that simulated starry-sky experience at the Gezhi Middle School Observatory in fourth grade.

Though it was only a simulated, false starry sky, though it was only a one-off, though by then the scene itself had in fact already been thoroughly and cleanly forgotten… still, I want to say that for any mystical thinker, “the experience of divine revelation need only happen once!” The lights went out, the starry sky emerged, and God manifested himself to me in a mere instant. If I had not been utterly shaken, if I had needed to go through the experience three or five more times before confirming how I felt, then it would hardly count as divine revelation. So I was captured by the starry sky on the spot, and immediately swore to go to Gezhi Middle School, in order to join its astronomy club.

Of course, that “swearing” did not come to pass. I not only never went to Gezhi, I also never joined any astronomy club or astronomy society. But I still believe that was a true conversion; the true object to which I swore allegiance was not something like the Gezhi Middle School astronomy club, but that profound starry sky. Anything uttered in a vow is forever just words; words and concepts are never permanent. Only that emotional experience can stretch onward and be handed down, still burning even to this day. To my mind, that deep inner emotional force is like a flame: it is never fixed for a single moment, forever leaping and also consuming itself, endlessly craving the fuel around it and endlessly radiating light and power outward. Precisely for that reason, it can be something truly eternal. However solid and dense a shield may be, it cannot avoid decay and transformation; only the living flame can burn on without end. Concepts and words are those “solid” things: they can build a proper lampshade, allowing the flame to remain steady and lively within it; they can also, through self-criticism, through active self-dissolution, supply the energy for combustion; they can further provide proper guidance and filtering, making the flame’s light appear more magnificent, more gentle, or more dazzling. Of course, if not controlled properly, concepts and words may also suppress or even extinguish that living flame, or else run out of control and catch fire themselves, thereby triggering a huge disaster. What should be held responsible for those errors and disasters ought not be human emotions and desires, but always people’s reason.

In short, what I want to say is that perhaps it was precisely the “starry sky” that lit up my spiritual world for the first time; the spark was planted then, and that mysterious flame is exactly the inexhaustible source of my magic. In the end, this force did not push me to study astronomy, but it did become the energy source for my entire philosophical world.

By the way, perhaps as fate’s scornful joke at my disinterest in playing the zodiac game, I feel that I am increasingly developing into a typical Scorpio man—passion and indifference, reason and mystery, forceful and solitary, evil and bizarre… I might as well accept the title unceremoniously and take the lot as it comes. Of course, the more “interpretations” you see online are all nonsense and still completely useless to me. Through philosophy I interpret my entire personality; the final work of this art is myself. Compose with philosophy, perform with life.

This article is a major accounting for the desolate and lonely “Starry Sky—Rainwater” section. You ask what sort of articles this section is really meant to hold? I can’t quite say either. In short, they all seem to be uncanny pieces that reflect the contradictions, entanglements, and secret longings within my heart. For this series of articles, readers need not puzzle over them too carefully, and I myself have not set out any systematic argument here. If you can vaguely sense the existence of that leaping flame within me, then that is enough. If you cannot sense it, that is no matter; the rest of my philosophy is equally soaked in my blood, and as long as you find the right focal point, you can touch my pulse. — Orderly, vast, inclusive, silent, astonishing, resplendent, magnificent, gentle, profound, transparent, mysterious, simple yet complex, scattered yet whole, making one at once leisurely and solemn, obsessed and tranquil… these are the characteristics of the starry sky, and also what my philosophy seeks. Perhaps in the end I am a believer in superstition after all, presuming to imitate the form of God; but in any case, this is my art,

March 10, 2009

Latest Comments

• Xiaoyue

  2009-03-11 19:37:15 Anonymous 58.31.78.153

  So you really are a scorpion… I must have had a grudge against scorpions in a past life… speechless……



• yunzi

  2009-03-13 21:29:52 Anonymous 124.205.77.28

  Hehe, I really like this passage~
  love is a fallacy
  For example, as for the first girlfriend I was looking for, what do you think made me take a liking to her? Looks? Character? Personality? … Thinking it over, apart from the factor of objective circumstances, perhaps the only thing that really struck me was that her screen name contained the two characters “stars” (星辰).

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