Life and Death -- A Series of Books on Culture

Author: Chen Pingyuan
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2005-05-01
Features: Is there truly a sage who transcends life and death, indifferent to both? Even such a sage, who merges with the universe, may not entirely disregard the issue of life and death. "Living without boasting, dying without sorrow, knowing that the end and beginning are unchangeable" (Zhuangzi, Autumn Waters), still follows the perception of life and adapts to it. Fear of death is one matter, while desiring or speaking of death is another. Throughout history and across cultures, there have indeed been those who feared death for various reasons, but apart from fools, who has never considered the issue of life and death? "What can be said of death? Joining the mountains and rivers" (Tao Yuanming), "No need to sing when alive, no need to weep when dead" (Wang Fanzi), the verses of these philosophers are indeed profound and open-minded. Yet, if so, why do they constantly speak of life and death? It seems that claiming to forget life and death is not as easy as it sounds.
After all, life and death are matters of great significance, and perhaps the most difficult temptation for humans to escape is the desire for life and the contemplation of death. These two are so closely intertwined that speaking of life inevitably brings up death, and speaking of death is to speak of life. Life and death are distinct paths; apart fromists and poets, who would truly equate death with life or life with death? The issue is that death must be defined by life, and life can only be understood through death. In a physical sense, once born, one is not dead; once dead, one is not alive. Yet in a philosophical sense, without life, there is no death, and without death, there is no life. Therefore, understanding life is understanding death, and vice versa. Thus, Confucius said, "Before knowing life, how can one know death?" (Analects, Advanced); Cheng Yi said, "Knowing the way of life means knowing the way of death" (Collected Works of the Two Chengs, Discourses on the Way).
Humans cannot control death, but they can control life, on one hand; on the other hand, they cannot know the origin of life but can clearly realize the approach of death. Based on the former, one should focus on life; based on the latter, one can discuss death. The actual outcome is a discussion of death within life (the shadow of death, the footsteps of death) and life within death (the beauty of life, the loveliness of life).
It is also acceptable to simply praise the beauty of youth and the value of life. However, only when facing the threat of death do these things truly reveal their significance. Death compels humans to seriously consider the value of life and the essential nature of humanity. A person who never thinks about death cannot truly understand life or gain profound insights. All religious figures, philosophers, and writers, when contemplating the world and existence, cannot avoid confronting the merciless reality of "death." Sometimes, this is even the foundation and inspiration for their thoughts. In this sense, "death" is far deeper than "life," and it is not unreasonable to invert Confucius's famous saying: "Before knowing death, how can one know life?"
Literati are often sentimental, and when it comes to the topic of life and death, they tend to lean toward the latter. Figures like He Qifang, who called "I can think of death very beautifully" (Solitary Talks), or Liang Yuchun, who humorously altered "life philosophy" to "death philosophy" (Philosophy of Death), are not uncommon among literati. Yet, those who enjoy discussing the pale yet beautiful face of death are not necessarily decadent or truly pessimistic. To say that a person's entire life is a continuous escape from the pursuit of the Death God is somewhat cruel; compared to fantasizing about flying to heaven and immortality or transcending life and death through "perfect love and infinite union" (Bing Xin, "The Boundary of Infinite Life"), it is more acceptable to ordinary people. The important thing is to overcome fear and, before the mysterious knock at the door comes, fully enjoy the pleasures of life. Here, the witticisms of writers sometimes blur the lines with the prayers of religious figures or the conversations of psychoanalysts—all offering spiritual solace. The difference lies in the elegance of expression and the emotional tone.
The value of "life" is well recognized by ordinary people, but the meaning of "death" needs to be argued. Not the ethical meaning of "killing oneself for virtue" or "giving one's life to feed tigers," but the positive value of death as the natural termination of life. To affirm death while affirming life may seem logically contradictory, but it is not. The reason for affirming death is that it benefits life. However, few truly believe in immortality today, even among the nobility, who could only weep at the prospect of leaving this magnificent country to die: "How can I leave this splendid country to die?" (Master Yan's Spring and Autumn Annals). Precisely because death is inevitable, it highlights the preciousness and loveliness of life. If immortality were possible, people might find life even more monotonous, boring, and empty—perhaps even the realm of immortals is not truly worth envying. Zhou Zuoren once quoted the witty saying of the 14th-century Japanese monk Kan Ho: "If life could be eternal and immortal, the world would lose all interest. The impermanence of the human world might be a wonderful thing" (Lü Xun and Kan Ho); and in the 18th century, the Chinese literati Qian Yong also had a similar view: "Life and death, like the flowers of plants, bloom and wither, and that is the rationality of life" (From the Garden of Footprints, On Immortals). To appreciate life and death in this detached way is to grasp the "interest" and "rationality" in their alternation.
Life in this world is not just about appreciating the birth and death of others and oneself, nor is it about passively waiting for the arrival of Death. Like the indomitable souls in Tang Tan's portrayal of a land of death, "I am not afraid of death, but I am more attached to life"; as long as the god of life "continues to give humanity life," "I will be attached to life" (Death). To be attached to life in the face of death's threat carries a tragic yet moving quality, stirring the heart and inspiring determination. Therefore, Yu Dafu summarized the positive value of death as: "Because of the awareness that life is limited and knowledge is endless, many people hasten to work hard and achieve their goals. This is indeed an active contribution of death to humanity" (On Death and Suicidal Passion).
Yet, most people are still afraid of death. For ordinary people, there is no need to whether the fear of death stems from a love of pleasure or reluctance to endure hardship, nor is there time to question whether death in the afterlife is becoming an immortal or a ghost. It suffices to remember this: "We can only seek the necessary peace and joy in this permissible time and this ordinary situation, and that is supreme happiness" (Zhou Zuoren, Meditations on Death). Indeed, because life is so beautiful and worth cherishing, humans place great importance on death and the rituals surrounding it. Life belongs to us only once, and so does death, and neither can be taken lightly. Ancients emphasized rituals, particularly mourning and sacrificial rites, for good reason; it is precisely in these two rituals that the meaning of life and death is most fully expressed. Therefore, Xunzi said, "Ritual is the careful regulation of the treatment of life and death" (Xunzi, On Ritual).
Whether the dead are conscious or not, whether they become ghosts or not, matters little to the rituals of mourning and sacrifice. Mozi criticized Confucianism for "obsessing over rituals without belief in ghosts" (Mozi, On Publicness), which actually highlighted the benefits of Confucianism. According to Confucianism, the living observe mourning and sacrificial rites not for the material enjoyment of the dead but for the spiritual comfort of the living. Unable to bear the thought of ancestors or loved ones disappearing forever, these rites serve to bridge the gap between the living and the dead, extending life; they can also be understood as marking the ultimate limit of life and death, reminding the living to cherish and fulfill their lives. Just as Buddhism advocates protecting life to protect the heart, Confucianism emphasizes the importance of death to promote life. "Mourn the dead as if they were alive, and treat the deceased as if they were present" (Xunzi, On Ritual). The key lies in the feelings of the living; the dead gain nothing. To say that mourning and sacrificial rites are performed for the living is both sarcastic and true. Yet, these rites cannot be abandoned—first, "it is merely human sentiment" (Rites of Zhou, Inquiry into Mourning); second, "to be filial and reverent, to pursue the ancestors, the people's virtue will return to thickness" (Analects, Learning and Reciprocity). Using Mao Zedong's words from "Serve the People," the former emphasizes individual feelings, while the latter highlights the significance in collective life. Later discussions on mourning and sacrifice often focus on these two aspects.
Confucianism, by emphasizing mourning and sacrificial rites, advocated for lavish funerals, which indeed satisfied individual emotions but also led to the wasting of vast resources and hindered the development of social productivity. Mozi, moved by the Confucian "lavish funerals that waste wealth and impoverish the people," proposed "saving resources and having simple funerals" (Huainanzi, Essentials), which benefited material production but seemed to undervalue human spiritual needs. Attributing the debate between lavish and simple funerals to "reflecting class divisions and also the opposition between idealism and materialism" (Liao Moshan, How to Handle Matters After Death?), is not entirely convincing. Modern people can easily see the absurdity of lavish funerals and the superfluous rituals surrounding them, and their writings are often tinged with satire. Yet, it is rare to appreciate the profound "human sentiment" hidden behind these rituals. Xia Jiejun mocked friends who calculated where to go to the movies on their way back from a funeral, truly living up to Tao Yuanming's words, "Relatives may mourn, but others have already sung" (Return from the Funeral); Yuan Ying satirized the children in mourning clothes, shedding tears and bowing their heads, who "were indeed sad and distressed, but were also silently calculating how to seize more inheritance" (Procession of Funerals). As for the customs of burning paper houses, paper money, and other paper goods, they were criticized by Mao Dun and Ye Shengtao as feudal superstition, believing that "all these efforts were only to benefit the 'life after death' of the deceased," which was foolish and absurd (Paper Houses, Unwilling to Be Lonely). In fact, the ancients were long aware of the illusory nature of life after death, and the need for these symbolic life goods was merely to express the wishes and emotions of the living. The Rites of Zhou states, "Confucius said that those who make funeral objects know the way of mourning. They are complete in form but unusable." "Complete in form" shows the feelings of the living, while "unusable" shows their reason. Conversely, "incomplete in form" would make the deceased seem indifferent to the living, while "complete in form and usable" would be futile for the living and useless for the deceased.
Of course, few people truly understand the spiritual meaning of these mourning and sacrificial rituals, and the common people often take them as true or play along. Over the centuries, rituals have remained, but the hearts of people have changed. To modern people who accept scientific thought and do not believe in ghosts, these rituals only add humor. However, I believe that one can mock the ignorant and numb performers of these rituals but should not blame the rituals themselves—behind the absurd and ridiculous rituals seen by modern people often lies the great compassion of the ancients and the true beauty of human sentiment. As Zhou Zuoren said, "We know this is superstition, but I am sure that even in this illusory superstition, there are elements of beauty and goodness" (Eulogy). To experience this requires empathy, but also a sense of distance. For those dedicated to social reform, the ignorance of the people and the necessity of reforming funeral rites are urgent matters, making it understandable that they have no time to consider the emotions embedded in the rituals. However, praising the demeanor of philosophers and advocating a tolerant view of life and death does not mean completely abandoning mourning and sacrificial rites. The specific rituals should be reformed, but the emotions behind them should not be lost. Hu Shi advocated removing "the many false rituals left by ancient funeral rites" and "the barbaric superstitions added later," with the goal of establishing "a funeral rite that is near human sentiment and suitable for modern life conditions" (My Views on Funeral Rites).
For those who have toiled and then departed gracefully, should the living not, as Li Jianwu described, "offer piety to their souls to gain peace of conscience"? (Great Sacrifice). Expressing emotions may be secondary; what is more important is that the living use this opportunity to understand the common fate of humanity and gain a genuine sense of compassion and empathy. In the early 20th century, when Liang Qichao said, "Those who commit suicide must be sincere people" (Bai Juyi's Free Book of Ice and Ice, On National Suicide), to the widespread praise of Chen Tianhua's suicide, to the diverse opinions on Liang Juchuan's suicide, to the harsh condemnation of Ruan Lingyu's suicide, to the generalization of all suicides as "cutting oneself off from the people" or "deserving death" in the 1970s, the changes in Chinese attitudes toward suicide over the decades are remarkable. This change carries profound cultural significance, making one wonder whether it reflects the increasing value Chinese people place on life or their gradual loss of the right to choose. Although many literary works and novels have recently exonerated suicide under special political circumstances, as a spiritual and cultural phenomenon, suicide has still not been well-studied.
Four. Terminating one's own life with decisive means is generally not advisable in ordinary circumstances. Life is inevitable, but life is still so bleak yet beautiful. To excessively admire "death" is pathological, while to praise life is childish. Not advocating the equality of life and death, but requiring a relatively detached perspective to appreciate both life and death. This seems to align more with the mindset of middle-aged people. In young people, the will to live dominates absolutely, with little consideration for death. In the elderly, the contemplation of death dominates absolutely, though their desire to live remains strong. Only in middle-aged people do "life" and "death" reach a balance, making their attitude more objective.
Compared to literati in the Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties, Chinese writers of this century are indeed more youthful. Without mentioning the many famous works praising youth and life, or the elderly who "turn eighty into eighteen" with, what deserves attention are the articles written by middle-aged writers describing the mindset of middle-aged people. Because "a life can reach the stage of 'just past dusk,' and the sunset may make one linger, melancholic" (Bing Xin, The Sunset), even the most open-minded person cannot refute it. To say, "Neither knowing old age nor mourning autumn" (Wang Yi, Aging) feels a bit pretentious. Throughout history, poets and scholars have had only a few lines to compose about aging, and they have repeated the same themes without much innovation.
Middle age is different. Ancients seemed to pay little attention to this important stage of life's rise and fall. Du Mu's poem goes, "Only thought that as one grows older, there would be less to do, but as one approaches middle age, there is more" (Outer Collection of Fan Chuan, Self-Reflection); Jin Shengtan's writing says, "At thirty, not to marry again; at forty, not to seek office again" (Fifth Master's Book of Water Margin, Preface), both vaguely recognizing that middle age is a turning point in life but did not define or discuss it seriously. One thing worth noting is that the descriptions of middle-aged people's mindset by figures like Feng Zikai were developed in the context of Western culture. It is not about quoting Western sayings like "life begins at forty," but rather about the absence of the praise of youth and life, and the criticism of the Chinese mindset of early aging, which led to the poetic "middle age" in modern writers.
Lacking the vigor of youth, but also lacking the wisdom of old age, the calmness, melancholy, tolerance, and enlightenment of middle-aged people all possess a unique charm. Everything seems so harmonious and composed that you might not notice its presence unless you pay attention, as if life suddenly shifts from youth to old age overnight. On the one hand, middle age is a necessary buffer in life, making the changes of life seem more rational and understandable, so that emotions do not struggle to accept the sudden onset of aging. On the other hand, middle age combines the strengths of both youth and old age, making it the most mature stage of life. Writers have unanimously used autumn to middle age, which is indeed most appropriate. Using the four seasons to, middle age indeed lacks the vigor of spring, the intensity of summer, and the withering of winter. Therefore, Lin Yutang said he preferred autumn because "autumn represents maturity. Compared to the bright and charming of spring, the dense and deep of summer, it is all experienced—nothing is new" (The Taste of Autumn). Yet, one cannot speak too broadly, suppressing spring and summer to praise autumn. Su Xuelin put it more realistically: "Stepping into an autumn garden, one sees red, deep purple, or golden fruits, shining with a strange light in the autumn sun. But if you want to enjoy the splendor of flowers, ah, that is too late—it is only spring's affair!" (Middle Age). In Su Xuelin's, Feng Zikai's, Yu Pingbo's, Ye Shengtao's, and Liang Shiqiu's articles on middle age, all adopt a low-key tone, with a touch of self-mockery, truly capturing the autumn-like mood of middle-aged people—lovable yet tragic, respectable yet pitiable.
Once again, many writers compare life to climbing a mountain, with middle age being the moment of a brief rest and hesitation at the summit. Before this is "happily and diligently moving forward"; after this is "feeling a different kind of taste" and "wanting to go home" (Yu Pingbo, Middle Age); before this is "there were many stumbling blocks on the road, knocking me to the point of being bruised and swollen"; after this is "the road ahead is downhill and much easier" (Liang Shiqiu, Middle Age). "Downhill road" or "wanting to go home" are all the attitudes of those who have been there. Everything is just like this—nothing extraordinary, neither surprising nor worth pursuing desperately. "At this age, everything has been experienced, every taste has been tried, everything has been seen through. Reality is satisfied. Hope is mostly illusory" (Su Xuelin, Middle Age). So, the calm and open-mindedness of middle-aged people actually contain a certain helplessness and decay.
Instead of stubbornly defending "middle age," it is better to analyze calmly the series of changes that occur in middle-aged people physiologically, psychologically, emotionally, and intellectually. Appreciating its arrival while not hiding its impending decline. If so, perhaps a deeper understanding of the meaning of life can be achieved.