Chapter Forty-Two: Philosophy, Poetry, and Love (2)

At first, Cheng Xiaoyu was stunned, then he recalled that philosophical debate he once had with Su Yuxi. He had forgotten that the formidable Su Yuxi was, at heart, a girl of philosophy.

If one were to ask, what is the greatest enemy of poetry? It is certainly not politics, for politics stands above poetry. In essence, philosophy is poetry's greatest adversary. (Stanley Rosen pointed out: “In Book X of The Republic, Socrates addresses the longstanding quarrel between philosophy and poetry. From a political perspective, both are tools of the city-state, neither superior to the other. Philosophy’s superiority lies in its ability to explain what it understands through intelligence. Yet, in terms of poetic intelligence, poetry surpasses philosophy.” —Stanley Rosen, translated by Zhang Hui, “The Quarrel between Philosophy and Poetry.” Of course, the debate between poetry and philosophy is a subject too complex to address here.)

So when Cheng Xiaoyu, the most outstanding poet of his school, used poetry to answer the question posed by Su Yuxi, the most formidable philosopher of the institution, it was not unlike a Chinese chef defending Chinese cuisine before a French master, arguing over which is the world’s finest fare.

More terrifying still is the philosopher’s view of love—a chronicle soaked in blood and tears.

Cheng Xiaoyu remembered a story told by a university professor: she had a senior colleague, a philosophy professor at a major university, who was strikingly beautiful, owned a car and a house, came from a well-off family, yet refused to marry. Many pitied her, but she herself was untroubled. The professor said that true philosophers possess a touch of “madness,” markedly different from ordinary people. Another acquaintance, a renowned philosophy professor, famous as one of the “Northern Li and Southern Zhao” in the academic world, lived to seventy-four, unmarried to the end.

We are also familiar with lifelong bachelors like Schopenhauer and Kant. To Cheng Xiaoyu, such phenomena are understandable, hardly surprising. Is the philosopher’s solitary life an exception or the rule? Do philosophers truly experience love? He felt this was a question worth exploring, perhaps even fit for a thesis.

The great master Socrates chose a “shrew” as his wife, claiming it was to temper and test his capacity for endurance and tolerance. Historical records say Socrates “was born ugly but died beautifully,” with little more said of his appearance, suggesting perhaps he was somewhat abstract in looks. His love and marriage are only cursorily mentioned. He himself wrote nothing, his fame preserved by his two disciples. Why did he choose a shrew as his wife? Was it truly to test himself, or merely an excuse?

If Socrates was compelled by his ugliness to marry a shrew, Kant was entirely different. Kant, reputedly handsome, was the focus of admiration among the young ladies of Königsberg, always impeccably dressed and witty, yet he kept a certain distance from women. It is said he was long enamored of the Countess von Keyserling, a beautiful widow who returned his affection, but due to social hierarchy, they never united. After she remarried, Kant never again engaged with any woman. This inevitably calls to mind the story of Jin Yuelin and Lin Huiyin. Kant was a legendary figure in philosophy, but in life and love, there was nothing legendary—Heine aptly remarked that Kant “had neither life nor experience.”

Philosophers possess a love for wisdom unimaginable to most, a passion greater than any other, even to the point of martyrdom for knowledge and wisdom. In the prefaces of many philosophical works, one finds phrases such as, “He dedicated his inexhaustible energy to such-and-such a field,” or “He gave his life to such-and-such a discipline.” These are not platitudes or compliments—at least not in the world of philosophy, where there are many such “martyrs.”

The history of philosophy is a history of war, an eternal battlefield of fierce contention; successors always stand atop the bones of their predecessors. Theories and systems are demolished and rebuilt, again and again, without end. Every philosopher is both a warrior and a martyr. They build their systems upon the ruins of others, never without a fierce struggle; yet their own systems are doomed to be assailed and eventually toppled, thus becoming martyrs themselves.

Looking upon Su Yuxi’s solemn face, Cheng Xiaoyu finally understood—the school’s most formidable case of adolescent delusions was none other than his own not-at-all-lovable sister.

Cheng Xiaoyu adjusted his glasses on his nose—a new, stylish pair of black Prada frames—yet on his plump face, they added little scholarly air. Perhaps if someone else had questioned him so, he would have let it pass with a smile. But faced with his proud sister, he refused to yield.

After some thought, Cheng Xiaoyu said, “So you want me to contemplate emotional love with rational philosophy? To tell you, as Nietzsche did, that women are ‘such dangerous, stealthy, prowling little carnivores’; that the foundation of love is ‘the irreconcilable hatred between the sexes,’ or ‘the poverty of two souls’; that marriage is ‘the end of brief madness, replaced by long stupidity.’ That as a philosopher, I must free myself from profession, women, children, country, and faith to attain liberty? That, for great philosophers, love is the best eugenics? Since love is nature’s deception, marriage must be its annihilation and inevitably leads to disillusionment. Only philosophers can find happiness in marriage, yet philosophers never marry.” At the end, Cheng Xiaoyu gave Su Yuxi a look that said, “See, that’s a cold joke!”

Su Yuxi ignored Cheng Xiaoyu’s self-important humor, replying coolly, “The essence of love is not mutual affection, but mutual possession. Sex is an animal instinct, later cloaked by culture under the guise of love, and then institutionalized by society into marriage. So don’t paint love as so beautiful, so noble, so rare and unattainable. Love is simply desire, a general urge in consciousness; if not directed at a specific other, it is mere self-interest, essentially the instinct for survival. But if sexual desire is focused on a particular person, it becomes the will to propagate the species. (This latter idea is from Schopenhauer.)”

Cheng Xiaoyu quickly retorted, “I’ve never separated sex from love. At the end of ‘Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality,’ Freud divides human love into three tiers. Simply put, the first is pure sexual drive toward the opposite sex; the second is based on sexual attraction plus mutual appreciation and affection on a spiritual level, one-to-one between man and woman; the third is love entirely divorced from sex—Platonic spiritual love. Freud himself advocated the second type: emotional bonds between man and woman, based on sexual attraction and mutual spiritual communication, with the hope of long-term companionship. Today’s values scorn the first, yearn for the second, and praise the third. Perhaps beautiful and passionate feelings cannot last forever, but that’s not reason to deny their existence. However love begins, it is illogical, vague, sometimes unreasonable yet marvelous. If you try to explain it logically, clearly, and philosophically, isn’t that too childish? And besides, you say I’ve never been in love—have you? Have you experienced the ‘ugliness’ of sex you so despise?”

To his sarcasm, Su Yuxi countered, “I have no time to experience such primal animal instincts—those are men’s amusements. The main purpose of your love is not the exchange of feelings, but the pleasure of possession. So, even the purest love cannot compensate for the lack of carnal pleasure. Conversely, someone with strong affection for a certain person can content themselves with mere physical possession, even without the exchange of love. This is proved by all premarital sex, by love bought with money or material goods, even by forced intercourse. For lovers, even if there is as yet no thought of ‘having specific offspring,’ that is always the true aim of love; the means to achieve it are mere accessories. As for lifelong fidelity, that is only a matter of habit—habit instilled by society’s morals, habit of shouldering responsibilities imposed by society, mere conformity, not true love.”

“You mean our parents,” Cheng Xiaoyu said after a pause, his voice soft, “You think you’re not a child of love, but a punishment of sex.”

Su Yuxi’s face turned a little pale, the stubbornness in her eyes evoking pity. Clever philosophers are often prone to obsession, rigorously self-disciplined with saint-like fervor. Yet when they attempt to interpret the world by their own spiritual standards, they find it filled with sin.

Su Yuxi’s fingers toyed with the hem of her dress, pale hands veined with blue. She turned her head and said, “It seems love is not a philosophically meaningful question.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Watching her solitary figure, Cheng Xiaoyu felt an inexplicable ache. He had no idea what had transpired in this seemingly harmonious family. For someone like Su Yuxi, whose intellect surpassed all others, he had no words of comfort. As a traveler from another world, he too felt a profound loneliness akin to hers. Su Yuxi’s solitude was that of one sober among the drunk—the thousand-li horse penned among sheep.

As he watched Su Yuxi recede into the distance, Cheng Xiaoyu called out, “The night gave me black eyes, but I use them to seek the light. That is the meaning of studying philosophy!”

Hearing his words, Su Yuxi paused slightly, but did not look back.

Winter sunlight, like clear, cold icicles, pierced the boundless fog, slowly absorbing its substance. Cheng Xiaoyu watched her lovely figure, her swaying ponytail vanishing at the horizon of his sight, then tore up “The Farthest Distance in the World” and walked off in another direction.

The farthest distance in the world is when a philosopher and a poet stand together, yet debate the nature of love.