Finding a literary turn of phrase in a nonliterary book is like going through old clothing and suddenly discovering a dollar bill or spare change in a pocket.
1 Even though it was yours to begin with, you still feel unexpectedly delighted. One autumn three years ago, for example, I happened to be flipping through Nicolai Hartmann’s masterpiece,
Ethik, when I came across a curious item. Its gist is that there exists a certain type of person who can’t tell good from bad or distinguish good from evil, the same way a color-blind person can’t tell green from red or black from white, and that this person can be said to be suffering from “value blindness” (
Wertblindheit). I found this metaphor to be simultaneously delightful and novel, never thinking that I would be quoting it today. Of course, borrowing a great methodological philosopher (and a German besides) for the opening of a casual essay seems like overkill—using antiaircraft guns to exterminate mosquitoes.
2 However, if one doesn’t make a mountain of out a molehill, will anyone pay attention? That’s why when we open up a small shop or school we always find a way to invite the local headman to attend the ceremony, and when we publish a short book we beg a celebrity to grace its cover with his calligraphy.
3Value blindness is characterized by a lack of aesthetic sensibility, the complete inability to appreciate works of literature and art. Following the example of color blindness, we might well dub this symptom “literary blindness.” On this point, Su Dongpo and I are in complete agreement. When Dongpo passed the examination but Li Fangshu did not, Dongpo wrote a poem bidding him farewell, which reads: “Having followed you for so long I have reason to doubt the elegance of my literary style / In the past we talked casually of ancient battlefields / Now, what passes before my eyes makes me confuse the five colors of the sunlight.”
4 You see, he long ago compared failing to appreciate literature to being unable to differentiate colors. Odd though it may seem, those who make literature their profession appear to suffer from literary blindness even more acutely. Indeed, when it comes to the merits of poetry and prose, many literary scholars are utterly unappreciative and undiscriminating, but we need only expand our field of vision to realize that such a commonplace shouldn’t raise an eyebrow. Reading literary books without being able to savor them is perfectly analogous to the imperial age when the people guarding the rear palace and spending entire days mingling among a bevy of women were court eunuchs—they had the opportunity but lacked the means! Perfection is an unreasonable demand, and enemies inevitably cross paths; if it were otherwise, how could there be the farce of life?
This expression “literary blindness” is too perfect; we should demand it from the educators of the masses. Literate people, after all, may yet be literature-blind. For example, no one on earth knows more characters than the linguist, but some experts on writing and language can never avoid fouling the air and suffering from cloudy vision when they read literary works. A linguist once remarked: “All literary criticism is rubbish. Only the shape, meaning, and tone of each character have any foundation.” Having had the privilege of hearing such brilliant views, we cannot help thinking of Gulliver in Brobdingnag gazing up at the jade-white bosom of the empress and seeing her hair follicles but not her skin. Should a fly be able to read characters—and I think it could, as evidenced in the
Records of Fujian of the
Book of the Jin—should a fly be able to read characters, I say, its view of literature would certainly be the same as that of a linguist.
5 With such tiny eye sockets, its vision presumably would not be terribly far-reaching. Reading poetry or prose it would see only individual characters, and looking at people it would see only individual hair follicles. I must admit that the worldview of the fly is rich with poetic meaning. Apart from Blake himself, the fly, too, may be credited with the breadth of mind “to see a world in a grain of sand / And a heaven in a wild flower.”
6 It can find a treasure island in a pile of meaty bones, and when flying from one pinch of garbage to another it appreciates the joy of a long-distance Eurasian flight. So long as it does not believe that no paradise exists beyond meaty bones or that no world exists beyond garbage, we should not hesitate to let this little creature buzz contentedly to itself. Exegetical studies and phonology are extremely useful and interesting fields. Our only fear is that these scholars’ brains are relics from the “plain study”
7 period of the Qing dynasty, and that they are convinced that no learning exists beyond their own field, or that literary research involves nothing more than the examination and correction of characters and so forth. The high-handedness of plain study scholars is a fearsome thing. Sainte-Beuve points out in volume six of
Nouveaux Lundis that learning how to read but not how to appreciate literature and instead devoting one’s efforts to philological work is akin to failing in one’s pursuit of a young lady and having to resort to her maid as a substitute.
8 Unfortunately, a maid is the one sort of person you should not provoke, because as soon as you show her favor she will want to outdo the priceless young lady. How many maids in the world would not want to emulate Aroma from
Dream of the Red Chamber?
9Color-blind people never become art critics, but people with a blindness for literature sometimes do air their views on literature and do so, moreover, with particular verve and passion. What then is produced is a type of impressionistic literary criticism, which is also sometimes referred to as “self-expressive” or “creative” literary criticism. Of course, artistic connoisseurship can never be completely free from impressions. But exactly how such impressionistic criticism can be construed as “self expression” is something I do not understand. Common sense would have it that the literary work in question is what gives rise to the impressions in the eyes of the critic. One cannot say that the critic is expressing his own inner self. The impressions are what the work has engendered in him and cannot count as examples of his self-expression. At any rate, when these “impressionistic and creative critics” hold forth on literature, things get really lively! Probably because these persons are so lacking in aesthetic sensibility, their writing is especially colorful. Could it be that this is an example of what psychoanalysts call the “compensatory effect”? I dare not say. These critics will alternately cry out in anger, shout wildly, or even refrain from uttering a single word—thus entering the realm of “the sublime that transcends language.” They do no analysis—who has the patience? They offer no judgments—that’s too pedantic. Inspiration, Purity, Truth, Life—they misuse every word. Misusing big words is like not begrudging petty change, which indicates the boldness of their literary style. They’re not short on “impressions”—they have a whole string of worn-out and rotting metaphors. One may write an essay discussing Shelley, but you will find little Shelley in his essay. All you’ll find is a lengthy paragraph describing searing flames, a long section depicting the howling west wind, and an even bigger pile of carefree flying skylarks. These three nondescript things are said to be Shelley. But wherefore? It would be a miracle if the wind didn’t blow out the fire or the fire roast the skylarks. So, every time you come across a line like “His life is a beautiful poem,” you know that what inevitably follows is not a beautiful poem, but prose. Calling such literary and artistic connoisseurship “creative” or “impressionistic” criticism is still not quite apt. We might attempt a little alchemy and change one character in each. “Creative” [
chuangzao] becomes “fabricated” [
niezao], in the sense of having a dream while “pinching” [
nie] one’s nose
10 and “making things up” [
zao] out of one’s head. As for the “impressionists” [
yinxiang pai]—we of course still remember the story of the four blind men feeling [
mo] the white elephant [
xiang]—they can be changed to “elephant feelers” [
moxiang pai]. What do you think? This fits the literature-blind even better.
How do fabricationists distinguish value when they basically repudiate artistic appreciation? Anything that matches their honorable tastes is good, and anything that does not is trash. Here we see even more clearly that literary blindness is a type of value blindness. A rich and fashionable lady once told the great painter James McNeill Whistler: “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.”
11 Whistler bowed and responded politely, “My dear madam, your view on this matter is the same as that of a wild beast.” Indeed, the difference between civilized humans and savage beasts is that humans possess a transsubjective point of view. For this reason, humans are able to divorce questions of right and wrong, authenticity and falsity from their own personal gain and loss, and separate questions of good and evil, beauty and ugliness from their individual likes and dislikes. Man is not, in fact, inextricably bound to daily life. Rather, he does his utmost to escape his human body and criticize himself. This is how he knows truth beyond pragmatism; learning beyond teaching and submitting manuscripts for publication; and art beyond posters of movie stars.
12 Though he cherishes life, he also understands the value of sacrificing oneself for one’s country or religion. Being born of humankind, he will inevitably do stupid things and make mistakes, eat forbidden fruit and love unworthy things.
13 Yet his mind will stay balanced and he will not confound right and wrong or blur good and bad in order to protect himself. He understands that the things he has to do may not be those he likes to do. This division of the self, this fork between knowing and doing, results in tragedy during times of crisis and satire in times of repose. Only birds and beasts are born with their thoughts and actions united as one, oblivious to any higher ideal than their own personal sensual desires. Evolving from monkey to man was hard enough. To now confuse value with one’s own predilections and become a beast in human form is really a bit of an injustice to Darwin.
14There is no need here to mention people who hate literature. Those with a thorn in their eye are bound to be blind. Even s0, though their eyes may have problems, their noses are extremely acute, since they often say they detest the stench of literary men. “Those to whom Heaven gave feet it deprived of horns, and those to whom it gave wings it deprived of teeth.” As for the fairness of the Creator, we can only sing His endless praises.