Lin Yutang's Autobiography

Author: Lin Yutang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-07-01
Features: I was invited by the United States Book Bureau to write this personal profile because it gave me the opportunity to analyze myself, so I happily agreed. On one hand, this is more for my own than for others; a person should know what their thoughts and experiences are like, the best way is to pick up paper and pen and write them down. On the other hand, a memoir is just an expanded epitaph written by oneself. Chinese scholars have often enjoyed writing their own biographies since Tao Yuanming's "Biography of the Five Willow Scholar," using it as a means of passing the time. If these writings contain clever humor and a certain "self-awareness," they can indeed be delightful and enjoyable reading for others. I think this explanation is quite sufficient to understand the trend of modern Western literary memoirs. The author of a memoir does not necessarily have to be an arrogant self-centered individual, nor someone with excessive self-esteem. The meaning of writing a memoir is simply that the author is being honest with themselves. If they adhere to this principle, they can often make others find it interesting and not feel that the author's life is more important than that of their peers. —Lin Yutang excerpt: My Experience with Quitting Smoking Most people who smoke have had a moment of foolishness, making a grand vow to quit, determined to defeat the "smoking demon" within a certain period of time. After ten days or so, they come to their senses. I once took this wrong path and suddenly decided to quit smoking. After three weeks, I was plagued by guilt and regretted my decision. I swore I would never give in again, never lose control, and remain a loyal smoker until the end of my days. By that time, I might be tempted by the lies of the Young Men's Christian Association, the Fraternal Order of the Knights of Columbus, or the neighborhood gossips, and give up smoking because at this stage, one's will is weak, and one is easily influenced and cannot be held responsible. However, as long as the will exists, and as long as the truth is clear, one will not be tempted again. After this lesson, I realized very clearly that quitting smoking without reason deprives us of the spiritual pleasures of our soul, an immoral act that benefits no one but harms oneself. According to the British biochemist J.B.S. Haldane, smoking is one of the four most influential inventions in human history. The other three inventions include, I remember, a new technique for rejuvenating oneself by transplanting monkey glands. That is off-topic. During those three weeks, how delirious and weak I was! Knowing that a small cigarette would benefit my mind and body, I didn't have the courage to take it. It's truly a shameful story to recount. Now that time has passed, looking back, I can't understand why that delirium lasted for three weeks. If I were to describe the psychological journey during those three weeks in detail, it would be endless. Of course, in any case, the idea of quitting smoking was fundamentally foolish. Why should one quit smoking in this world? I can't answer that question now either. But human behavior is often without reason. Sometimes we deliberately do things we shouldn't, or when we have too much free time and nothing to do, we deliberately impose great responsibilities on ourselves, torturing our bodies and minds, depriving ourselves of food and drink, disrupting our natural tendencies, preparing to be great men. Except for this reason, I can't think of why I had such a baseless idea. It's a bit like Tao Kan moving bricks or modern people's fitness exercises—scholars and literati have no firewood to chop, no water to draw, no carts to pull, and their hands move up and down aimlessly in the air, exercising for the sake of exercising, contributing nothing to social and industrial production. Quitting smoking, quitting smoking—perhaps it is the fitness exercise of the virtuous and noble. Of course, for the first three days, there was a strange, itchy but not itchy sensation in my throat and upper trachea. This was easy to handle. I chewed mint candies, drank Tieguanyin tea, and held French-made throat lozenges. Within three days, I completely overcame that strange itching. This was the physiological phase of the quitting process, nothing extraordinary about it. Those who think that the difficulty of quitting smoking lies only in this forget that smoking is a spiritual matter; if you don't understand this, you don't deserve to talk about smoking. After three days, I entered the second phase of the spiritual battle. Only then did I realize that there are two types of smokers in the world: one is just like the fool from Nangxia, who smokes just to fit in. These people have no second phase; they quit smoking effortlessly. They say they can quit anytime they want, calling it "strong will." But have these people ever really smoked? If one can give up a habit, like selling an old piece of clothing, it's clear that it wasn't a habit in the first place. For these people, smoking is indeed a physical act, like brushing teeth or washing faces—something you can do or not do, with no need or meaning in the soul. Besides washing, eating, and holding children at home, their minds have no other demands. At night, reading fables with the wives of Young Men's Christian Association members is enough to put them to sleep. Xin Jiaxun's Ci poems, Wang Mojie's poems, Beethoven's music, Wang Shifu's quatrains—they have nothing to do with them. The Lu Mountain waterfall isn't just water flowing from above downward? Can one read Xin Jiaxun's Ci poems and Wang Mojie's poems without smoking? Can one? But for those who truly understand smoking, quitting is a problem that the Young Men's Christian Association and its members could never imagine. For us true smokers, after not smoking for less than three days, the meaninglessness and cruelty of this act become apparent. Reason and common sense ask: Why can't a person smoke, and why must they deliberately bury their intelligence, go against their conscience, and disrupt their nature, preventing us from reaching that state of ease and joy? Everyone knows that a writer must be full of energy, inspired, with an open mind, and with sharp wit to produce good writing. Reading must also be done with full understanding, without any blockage, and with the mind immersed in the text. How can one achieve this without smoking? At such moments, we feel that reaching for a cigarette is the only reasonable action; putting a piece of taffy in your mouth instead would be utterly vulgar. I will give you two examples. My friend B came from Beijing to Shanghai. We hadn't seen each other for three years. In Beijing, we often met in the morning and evening, especially at night, smoking and talking about literature, philosophy, modern art, and how to reform the world. Now that he was here, we were sitting by the stove in my home, reminiscing. We talked about the recent news of our old friends in Beijing and the changing times. Whenever something interesting came up, I would mentally reach for a cigarette, but on the surface, I would just stand up and sit down again or change my seating position. B, however, smoked naturally, enjoying himself. I had told him I had quit smoking, so it wouldn't be polite to break my promise on the spot. But even so, I felt a sense of loss and unhappiness in my heart. My mind was very clear; every time B spoke passionately, I could only nod in agreement, but in reality, I longed to be as excited and engaged as he was. We talked like this for an hour or two, and I refused to break my promise. My friend left. In terms of "strong will" and "perseverance," I was the victor, but in my heart, I felt gloomy and unhappy. A few days later, B wrote to me on the way, saying that I had changed, that I wasn't as excited or cheerful as before, and that my conversation was much worse. He said it might be because the air in Shanghai was too polluted. Even now, I regret not smoking that night. Another night, we were at a meeting, which was held once a week. After the meal, someone read a paper for discussion, which was usually a smoking session. This time, it was C's turn to read a paper titled "Religion and Revolution," which was full of witty remarks. I remember C saying that Feng Yuxiang had joined the Northern American Baptist Convention, while Chiang Kai-shek had joined the Southern American Baptist Convention. Someone then said that Wu Peifu would soon join the Western American Baptist Convention. In this kind of nonsensical talk, the smoke in the room thickened, and it was the perfect time for inspiration to flow. Poet H sat in the middle, leaning back in a chair, learning to make smoke rings, releasing them one after another, probably with his poetry rising with each ring. His demeanor was calm, as if there was nothing others could say about it. Only I, not smoking, felt like I was living in a foreign land, exiled to Sanwei. At this point, quitting smoking seemed even more meaningless. I suddenly realized how delirious I had been. I searched my memory but couldn't find a single reason why I had decided to quit. After that, my conscience troubled me from time to time because I thought that the value of thought lay in the spiritual inspiration of the moment, but how could a nonsmoker find that inspiration? One afternoon, I visited a Western lady. She sat at the table, smoking with one hand and resting her hand on her knee, her body slightly leaning outward, with a graceful air. I felt that the time for enlightenment had come. She offered me a cigarette. I slowly and calmly took one from the cigarette case, knowing that with this act, I had regained my way. When I returned home, I immediately asked the waiter to buy a box of white tin cigarettes. On the right side of my desk, there was a burn mark where I used to place my cigarettes, as I rarely stopped smoking. I had inscribed it as the "Pool of Wasted Time." I had originally planned that it would take about seven or eight years to burn through the two-inch-thick, but when I decided to quit smoking, I lamented that the pool was only half a meter deep. So when I placed the cigarettes back, my heart was filled with joy. Although there was still a long way to go, I could continue every day without fail. Later, when I moved, the study was small, and I had to sell the desk. The "Pool of Wasted Time" disappeared, which became the greatest regret of my life.