Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts: Stories and Essays

We dislike filth, so we profess to cherish purity. Consequently, those obsessed with hygiene would prefer not to bathe than to have to borrow someone else’s bathing implements. Distinguishing between dirty and clean becomes a way of differentiating self from other. A person who considers himself clean will always despise others as filthy, even going so far as to believe that his own dirtiness is preferable to others’ cleanliness. Though he may reek of sweat and bad breath, he will disdain to borrow a toothbrush or towel that someone else has used.¹ We can see from this that “love of cleanliness” is really narcissism. The idiom “preserve one’s purity” carries a profound psychological observation.² In truth, worldly distinctions between right and wrong, good and bad, deviant and upright, and so on sometimes boil down to the difference between self and other. This is no different from the dirtiness or cleanliness of the body. Thus, if you want to pass yourself off as a good person, the first thing to do is to call everyone else a scoundrel, and if you want to pass yourself off as being of upstanding moral character, the first order of business is to adopt a stern demeanor and condemn others as immoral hypocrites. Having written to this point, we are reminded of the she-ghost’s reply to the fox-fairy in Liaozhai: “You say I’m inhuman, but are you human?”³

I’ve long found it curious that the world has so many people undertaking to serve as mankind’s moral guide, and publishing essays every day to chide him. “That animal called man”⁴ cannot be completely written off, since a few are still capable of self-sacrifice. More puzzling to me is that with such an abundance of moral guides mankind still has not improved much. This is of course like asking why it is that with so many skillful and attentive doctors in active practice mankind still suffers from illness. For although the doctor cures illness, he hopes at the same time that more people will get sick, the better to get a sweet price for his bitter medicine. By saving other people’s lives he saves his own, since patients must eat medicine in order for him to eat food. It is thus completely unsurprising that human nature has not improved despite the existence of such leaders. What’s real food for thought is that people undertake the responsibility of instructing and guiding mankind despite the incorrigibility of human nature. Mankind may be impervious to moral instruction, but didactic essays about the current state of affairs fill a need even if they have no practical value. It’s akin to how we feel compelled to send for a doctor and take medicine when we get sick, even though doing so may not cure the illness. If man really was a quick study and no longer needed moral instruction, wouldn’t all those people die of idleness? Thus, they write about everything from the individual’s responsibilities in life to the attitude of the critic, their words flowing as volubly as an outdoor sermon. Their essays may not be worth a dime, but at least the ink and paper didn’t cost them a penny.⁵

Middle age and moral instruction appear to be intimately correlated. We can appreciate this curious fact just by looking at authors. Upon reaching forty or so, many men of letters suddenly task themselves with saving the world. Everything and everyone around them they curse and seek to put right. Well-known British examples include Matthew Arnold, John Ruskin, William Morris, T. S. Eliot⁶ (who is still living), and J. M. Murry. Even the aesthete Oscar Wilde had a change of heart on his deathbed and preached socialism. We can find more examples among our friends, should we be so inclined. The goals of such an honorable transformation are of course as pure as fresh-fallen snow: to rescue the world and educate mankind. Yet pure goals may well have complicated motives. Bellowing with the force of righteousness may be a cover-up for declining literary creativity, despair and frustration with life, a way of exploring a career change, or middle-aged envy toward one’s peers or juniors. When a middle-aged woman can no longer hide her loss of good looks with makeup, for instance, she naturally cuts down on socializing and willingly settles into the role of the proper housewife. What’s more, she will not abide the bizarre and sexy way that young women dress. Jules Janin called Balzac the Columbus who discovered forty-year-old women. Forty-year-old men, apparently, are still waiting to be discovered. Sages like Confucius didn’t really understand the particular nature of middle-aged people. As a result, the “Ji Family” chapter in The Analects records only three prohibitions in life: youthful lust, fighting in one’s prime, and old age covetousness—forgetting middle-aged moralizing. Of course, there are also those who enjoy preaching from an early age. At most this reveals that they were middle-aged at birth and should be congratulated on having reached ninety or one hundred when they turn sixty.

Just as one person’s idea of personal finance is simply to borrow money without repaying it, so another’s moral philosophy is to chide others even though he himself lacks moral character. Ancient books tell us that a “good man” is one who “doesn’t give better than he can take,” but this is an inescapably shallow view. A man who is truly good will give without taking and instruct others without ever accepting their instruction. This is what is known as “the spirit of self-sacrifice.”

One could say that the change from an artistic philosophy of life to a moralizing philosophy of life is the product of a new phase in life. Yet the beginning of each new phase also marks the end of another. For instance, to a man with a job, breakfast is the beginning of the day, and once he has eaten his fill he can go to work. But to a member of the leisure class who spends his whole night playing cards and dancing, breakfast is just the conclusion of the previous night, and once he has eaten his fill he is ready to sleep. The onset of moral instruction may well mark the death of literary creation, but here I have no intention of passing judgment on the relative merits of each, since that depends completely on the individual.⁷ Some people’s literary works essentially constitute preaching with a mask on, but this is inferior to flat out moralizing. Conversely, some people’s moralizing can make something out of nothing and pass off fiction as fact and thus can be dubbed “creation” as justifiably as poetry, fiction, rumors, and lies.

The simpleminded might object that an immoral person who goes around chiding others is a hypocrite. To this we reply: what’s wrong with hypocrisy?⁸ Compared to true morality, hypocrisy is even more difficult to accomplish and therefore all the more estimable. A moral person offering moral instruction is unremarkable, but to lack morals and instruct others takes real skill. A man of learning can teach, but his learning is self-evident. To teach others despite being ignorant is like doing business without capital—a veritable art. A true moralist promoting morality, like a shopkeeper advertising his inventory of goods, cannot avoid self-promotion. It is only when someone absolutely lacking in morals talks of morality that we can understand the true meaning of selflessness, and the delight he takes in speaking of man’s goodness further attests to morality’s greatness. We might take this one step further and say that a truly moral person who trumpets morality will in fact see his original morality gradually erode. La Rochefoucauld writes in Maximes supprimées: “The moralists, and Sénèque above all, have not done away with men’s crimes through their precepts; all they have done is use them to build up their own pride.”⁹ Should you think that other people are bad and in need of your instruction, you cannot help but adopt a certain posture. You will say at first that other people lack ideals, and then gradually begin to think yourself an ideal character and force others to emulate you. Should you lord your learning and talent over other people, your pride will not cause you to forfeit your learning. Should you lord your poverty and lowliness over other people, your pride will not make you rich and noble. Morality and pride, however, cannot coexist. The greatest evils and cruelties in the world—and no evil is greater than cruelty—are mostly the work of people with genuine moral ideals. When the immoral man commits a crime he knows it’s a crime, but when the truly moral man hurts others he maintains that it is the price of morality. God sometimes punishes mankind with a famine year, sometimes with pestilence or war, and sometimes by producing a moralist who harbors ideals too lofty to be attained by ordinary mortals. Accompanying these are a confidence and zeal that are in direct proportion to his ideals, which merge into an unself-conscious pride. Christian philosophy holds pride to be one of the seven cardinal sins. Volume three of Wang Yangming’s Chuanxi lu says, “Life’s greatest affliction lies in one word: ‘pride.’ Self-pride is the chief of all evils.”¹⁰ Put this way, genuine morality can be considered the early stage of evil. Conversely, hypocrites who promote morality actually tend to turn fiction into reality, transform habit into second nature, and truly improve moral conduct. Flirting can turn into love; imitation leads to innovation; mingling with men of letters and posing as a lover of culture can cultivate expert appreciation; and numerous real goods start as bogus brands. Thus, hypocrisy can be said to be an apprenticeship for genuine morality. However, whether phony or genuine, goodness will be repaid in kind. Genuine morality may ascend to the halls of Heaven after death, but living hypocrisy ascends to the lecture hall. What a relief!