There is a story about a Persian king who, upon taking the throne, ordered his ministers to compile a history of the world. After several years they presented him with six thousand volumes. Busy with affairs of state, the king had no time to read, so he ordered them condensed. The history shrank from thousands of volumes to a single book, but by then the king was old and bedridden, and he never opened it. The aged historian came to his sickbed and told him quietly that the six thousand volumes of human history came down to one sentence: they were born, they suffered, and they died.
The story reminds me of an anecdote about Qianlong. While touring a busy market in Yangzhou, he asked Liu Yong how many people were on the street. Liu Yong replied that there were only two kinds: those after fame and those after profit. If not for fame, who would rise early? If not for profit, why hurry about? All the bustle of the world comes down to fame, profit, and busyness.
Years ago, this kind of concentrated wisdom would have hit me like a splash of cold water or a sudden blow to the head. It would have made someone like me sigh endlessly: isn’t life just this? Like flies fighting over blood or ants struggling over a hole, we seize and scramble, and in the end we are a handful of earth. As the song in Dream of the Red Chamber puts it, “a heap of grass has covered the barren grave.” For that moment I seemed to see through something, and a chill rose in my heart.
Now such stories barely move me. I read them and they are gone; if I hadn’t read them, it would make little difference. They pass like short videos, a flicker before the eyes, leaving nothing in the mind. After too many videos I feel tired; after too much of this kind of writing I feel bored. The “dry goods” are too dry.
Maybe the times have changed, or maybe age is catching up with me, but it is not only these neat little truths that leave me cold. Novels that once moved me are now merely readable. Films and shows that once absorbed me now seem just okay. I can watch stories of exemplary people without changing expression. I can watch tear-jerking scenes with a calm mind. I can switch off an astonishing performance without hesitation.
Every day I still meet people and see things through, but I feel myself drifting further from people, further from events. My words and gestures seem like programmed performances. I grin, though I am not that happy. I say something indignant, though I am not that angry. I do my work seriously, though I am not that devoted. Sometimes I feel that the person rushing about is not me at all. The real me is somewhere far away, watching this version of me and this world with indifference.
Liu Liangcheng wrote in “A Dog’s Life” that on a night full of barking, there is surely an old dog keeping silent. It is part of the night. It wanders through a village until it grows old; it is part of the village. I feel like that old dog, walking back and forth, my eyes full of scenes and shadows from years ago.