Humans, Beasts, and Ghosts Read online

  I couldn’t help asking, “Some people who have gazed upon your elegant countenance have said that the towering horns on your head look a bit like—”

  “That’s right,” he cut in, “sometimes I take on the appearance of a bull.‡ This of course is also symbolic. Since bulls are often used for sacrifices, I manifest a spirit of ‘Who will go to Hell if not me?’ Furthermore, mortals love to ‘blow their own bullhorn,’ but a bull certainly can’t blow itself—at least its biological structure won’t permit it to do so. So, my bull shape is indeed a symbol of modesty. When it comes to false courtesy, I can’t compete with you scholars and men of letters. The cocky ones, instead of refusing your flattery, will accept it as if you owed them a debt, regretting only that you didn’t pay them back with interest. False modesty takes other forms too. Some will respond to your praise with protestations that they are embarrassed and unworthy, like a bribe-taking superior who, finding the bribe too small, returns it intact so that his subordinates will double it and send it again. Lender and superior alike maintain that praiseworthy people still exist in this world—at the very least they themselves. But my modesty could not be more sincere. In my view, if I have nothing to be proud of, how could other people be proud of me? Having always been cursed by others, I completely lack such vanity. However, although I’m not a writer, many literary works have come about because of me. On that score, I’m more like . . .” He spoke without a trace of embarrassment—the nerve! The only color on his black face was reflected from the burning red coals in the brazier. “. . . a beautiful woman who doesn’t actually write poems herself but inspires countless love-struck poets to use their broken hearts—no!—their broken throats to sing her praises. Byron and Shelley, for instance, both wrote poems inspired by me.* The packs of lies6 one often finds in newspapers and magazines also owe to my influence.”

  “I’m impressed you have the energy,” I remarked. “Newspapers around the globe are talking about nothing but war. At a time like this, shouldn’t you be busy putting your destructive arts to work on massacres and invasions? How did you find the time in your busy schedule to come chat with me?”

  “You mean to send me on my way, don’t you?” he asked. “Well, I should be leaving. I forget that nighttime is when you mortals rest. We’ve chatted our fill today, but I still want to set you straight on a few things. You do me wrong by saying I’m involved in war. I have a peaceful disposition and absolutely oppose the use of military force. In my view, everything can be resolved with treaties. Just look, for instance, how civilized Dr. Faustus and I were when he swore a blood oath sealing the contract to sell me his soul!† I used to be inclined to violence, but after my coup failed and I was expelled from Heaven I took my underlings’ advice and accepted that a battle of wits is better than a battle of strength.‡ Since then, I’ve substituted temptation for fighting. As you know, I’m in the soul business. God selects a portion of mankind’s souls and the rest fall to me. Who could have guessed that during these past few decades business would be so light I’d be supping on underworld wind?7 In the past, human souls could be divided into the good and the bad. God would keep the good souls, and I would buy and sell the bad ones. The mid-nineteenth century, however, suddenly saw a great transformation. Apart from a small minority, almost no humans had souls, and those who did were all good people who fell under God’s domain. Soldiers have souls, for example, but their souls ascend directly to Heaven, so nothing is left for me. Modern psychologists promote ‘soulless psychology,’ a field that would never have emerged in ancient times, when everyone had souls. Now, even if there are a few souls left over from the ones God has selected, they’re usually smelly and filthy. If they don’t reek of laboratory medicine they’re either covered in a layer of dust from old books or stink of money. I’m of a fastidious temperament, and I refuse to pick up leftovers from the rubbish heap. Bad people exist in the modern era too, of course, but they’re so bad they have no personality or character; they’re as inert as inorganic matter and as efficient as machines. Even poets disappoint me. They go on and on about baring their souls, but once they’ve finished baring them nothing is left over for me. You think I’m busy, but I’m so idle I’m going stir-crazy. I, too, am one of the unemployed—a sacrificial object of modern material and mechanized civilization. Plus, I’m burdened with heavy family responsibilities: I have seven million offspring to support.* I do still have social engagements, of course—someone of my level of prestige always does. Tonight I came from a dinner. In times like these I don’t have to worry for lack of dinner invitations; I just find it depressing that people don’t let one use one’s talents to earn a meal.”

  He said no more. His loneliness filled the air, reducing the warmth of the brazier. I was about to ask him about my own soul when he abruptly stood up and announced he was off. Wishing me a good night, he said that we might have a chance to meet again. I opened the door and saw him out. The boundless darkness of the night awaited him in silence. He stepped outside and melted into it, like a raindrop returning to the sea.

  * * *

  * Book 1 of John Milton’s Paradise Lost describes how the Devil was demoted for having rebelled and created a disturbance in Heaven. Canto 34 in Dante’s Inferno says that the Devil suffers in ice.

  † Garçon and Vinchon’s Le diable, for example, collects a number of popular tales about the Devil.

  * In the “Witch’s Kitchen” section in part 1 of Goethe’s Faust, the witch blames the Devil for changing his form and the Devil replies that since world civilization constantly renews itself, he changes to keep up with it.

  † In canto 27 in The Inferno the Devil calls himself a logician. In the “Study” section in part 1 of Faust, the Devil says that although he is not omniscient, he is quite experienced and knowledgeable.

  * Both Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Devil’s Thoughts” and Robert Southey’s “The Devil’s Walk” describe the Devil using politeness and modesty to cover up his pride.

  † On the Devil’s lame foot, see Alain-René Lesage’s Le diable boiteux and Daniel Defoe’s The Political History of the Devil, part 2, chap. 4.

  ‡ Regarding the Devil’s frequent manifestation in the form of a bull, Psalms 106 in the Old Testament says that the heretics made a bull statue, which they worshipped. In later eras it was said that the Devil appeared in the form of a goat, which Defoe describes in detail.

  * The preface to Southey’s long poem “The Vision of Judgement” says that Byron and Shelley were both demonic poets.

  † Christopher Marlowe’s The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus records that Faustus pricked his arm and wrote the entire contract in blood.

  ‡ See Paradise Lost, book 2.

  * Johann Weyer’s De praestigiis daemonum records that the number of little devils totals 7,405,926.

  WINDOWS

  Spring has returned and we can start leaving our windows open. Spring comes in through the window, and when people indoors get restless they go out through the door. Yet outside springtime is too cheap! The sun shines everywhere, but it never seems as bright as the ray of sunlight that penetrates a dark room. Languid, sunwarmed breezes blow all about, but they, too, lack the vitality of a gust of air stirring up the gloomy indoors. Even the chirping of birds seems lackluster without the indoor silence as its foil. So we come to appreciate that spring should be seen set in a window, just as a painting is mounted in a frame.

  At the same time, we realize that doors and windows signify different things. Doors, of course, were made for people to go in and out of. But windows, too, are sometimes used as entrances and exits. In novels, for instance, we read about thieves and lovers making clandestine rendezvous—both are fond of climbing through windows. We can thus be certain that the fundamental difference between windows and doors is not simply whether or not people go in and out of them.1 Apropos of enjoying springtime, one might say that if one has a door one can go out, but with a window one doesn’t need to go out. Windows bridge the lack
of mutual understanding between nature and man, teasing in the wind and sun so that part of the room can share a bit of springtime. Instead of seeking spring outside we may sit and enjoy it where we are. Ancient poets like Tao Yuanming implicitly understood this essential quality of windows. One couplet in The Return [Gui qu lai ci] reads: “I lean on the southern window to express my pride / With just enough space for my knees, I find contentment.”2 Doesn’t this amount to saying that even a tiny room can be livable, so long as one has a window to gaze out of? He also wrote: “In the leisure of the summer months, I recline under the northern window / Feeling the clear breeze, I imagine myself living in the age of Emperor Fuxi.”3 In other words, a single window that lets in a breeze can transform a tiny room into a paradise. Even though Tao Yuanming was from Chaisang4 and had Mount Lu nearby, he didn’t need to climb it to escape the summer heat. Thus, doors, which allow us to pursue things, signify desire, while windows, which allow us to dwell, signify enjoyment. This distinction applies not only to people living inside but also sometimes to visitors from outside. Whatever his request or inquiry might be, a visitor who knocks on and enters through the door is at most a guest who must await his host’s every decision. Conversely, he who makes his way in through the window, whether to pilfer property or steal affections, has already decided to supplant you temporarily as the decision maker and not wait for your say-so. Musset’s poetic drama À quoi rêvent les jeunes filles [Such Stuff as Young Girls Dream Of] has an apt phrase, the gist of which is basically that a father opens the door to welcome the material husband (matériel époux), but that the ideal lover (idéal) always enters and exits through the window.5 Put another way, he who enters through the front door is the son-in-law in name only, because even if the father-in-law approves of him he has yet to capture the heart of the young lady herself. It is those who enter through the back window who are the true lovers to whom maidens surrender themselves body and soul. When entering through the front door, one must first be announced by the doorman, wait for the host to appear, and exchange a few pleasantries before explaining the purpose of one’s visit. What a waste of thought and time compared to the delightful expediency of coming in through the back window! It’s like using the index in the back of a book—a shortcut to learning that makes reading the main text from page one actually seem somewhat roundabout. This distinction, of course, is only relevant under normal social conditions. During extraordinary periods such as wartime one can scarcely talk about doors and windows when the room itself is in danger!

  Every room in the world has a door, but some rooms are without windows. This indicates that windows represent a higher stage of human evolution than doors. For a room’s inhabitant a door is a necessity, whereas a window is to some extent a luxury. The basic idea of a room is akin to that of a bird’s nest or a beast’s cave: one comes home for the night, closes the door, and is protected. When the wall has a window to let in light and air, however, it obviates the need to go outdoors during daytime and lets us live inside with the door closed. A room thus takes on an extra layer of meaning for human existence, since it is no longer simply a place to sleep or avoid the elements. Now, furnished and hung with paintings, it also becomes the stage upon which we think, work, play, and act out the tragicomedy of human existence. Whereas doors are entrances and exits for humans, windows may be said to be entrances and exits for Heaven. Rooms were originally designed to shelter man from nature’s harm, but windows lured in a corner of the sky and tamed it for human use within the shelter, roping and domesticating it like a wild horse. Thenceforth, we were able to experience nature indoors. Instead of going out in search of light or a breath of fresh air, light and air could come to us. Windows thus represent one of man’s victories over nature. This type of victory, however—like a woman’s victory over a man—appears, on the surface, to be a retreat. When one opens a window, air and sunlight come in and occupy the space, but the occupiers end up being occupied by the space! We mentioned just now that a door is a necessity, but what constitutes necessity is not for man to decide. For example, one must eat when hungry and drink when thirsty. When someone knocks on the door, one is obliged to go open it. Who will it be? Perhaps it will be the youths a generation younger than you, described by Ibsen, who want to rush in. Perhaps, as De Quincey says in “On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth,” the bright light of day wants to invade the world of evil and darkness. Perhaps the prodigal son has returned home, or perhaps someone has come to borrow money (or demand its repayment). The more unwilling you are to open the door for fear of who it might be, the greater your desire to open the door and find out who it is. Even the postman’s daily knock fills you with apprehension and longing, since you both do and don’t know want to know what news he brings. To open the door or not is out of your hands. But a window? Rising early in the morning, you need only pull aside the curtain to discover what greets you outside—snow, fog, rain, or sun—to decide whether or not to open the window. Windows, as I have said, are luxuries, and people choose to consume more or fewer luxuries depending on their circumstances.

  I’ve often thought that windows are like a building’s eyes. In Explication of Names [Shi ming], Liu Xi writes: “A window signifies wisdom. To peep out from inside is called intelligence.” This matches the opening lines of Gottfried Keller’s “Abendlied” [Evening Song]: “Eyes, my windows (Fensterlein), my fond delight / Giving me a lifetime’s cherished light.”6 He, too, tells only half the story. As windows to the soul, eyes let us see the outside world and at the same time allow others to see our inner thoughts. Our eyes change with our thoughts, which is why Mencius believed that the best way to know a man is through his eyes.7 Lovers in Maeterlinck’s plays don’t close their eyes when they kiss so that they can see how many kisses the other wants to elevate from heart to mouth. This is why when we converse with people wearing dark glasses we always feel we can’t fathom their intentions, as if they were wearing a mask. According to Eckermann’s record of his April 5, 1830, conversation with Goethe, the latter detested all people who wear glasses, since they could make out all the wrinkles on his face while he was dazzled by the reflection from their lenses and couldn’t read their mood.8 Windows let people on the outside look in while allowing people on the inside to look out, which is why people who live in busy places protect their privacy with curtains. In the evening, a visitor need only look for a light in the window to be able to guess whether or not the host is home; he need not open the door to ask. It’s like reading someone’s thoughts from his eyes before he opens his mouth. Closing the window, meanwhile, has the same effect as closing one’s eyes. Dreams, like many things in this world, can be seen only with the eyes closed. Should the voices and action outside one’s window grow too noisy, one may simply close the window to allow one’s soul to wander freely and be able to ponder in peace and quiet. Sometimes, closing the window and closing the eyes are linked. Suppose you feel dissatisfied with the mediocre world outside your window; or perhaps you wish to return to your hometown to see your long-lost friends and family. Sleep will take you there, but before you shut your eyes and seek them in your dreams, you get up and close the window. It’s only spring, after all, and the air is still chilly. Windows can’t be left open all night.9

  ON HAPPINESS

  Flipping through a copy of Vigny’s Journal d’un poète1 I picked up at a secondhand bookshop, I happened across an interesting item. Vigny wrote that in French the juxtaposition of “good” and “hour” in the word for happiness (bonheur) testifies that the road to happiness is not an easy one, since happiness is but the plaything of an hour (Si le bonheur n’était qu’une bonne demie!). Considering similar expressions in Chinese, we see that their implications are equally profound and lasting. The presence of the character quick [kuai] in the words joy [kuaihuo] and happiness [kuaile], for instance, indicates the mutability of all delights with supreme clarity. So we say with a regretful sigh, “When joyful we find the night too short!”2 For when a person is happy l
ife passes too quickly, but as soon as he encounters difficulty or boredom, time seems to move painfully slowly, as if dragging a lame foot. The German word for tedium (Langeweile), translated literally, means “long while.” In Journey to the West, the little monkeys tell Traveler Sun that “a day in Heaven lasts as long as a year on earth,”3 a myth which, as it turns out, perfectly mirrors the human psyche: Heaven is a happier and more comfortable place than earth; therefore immortals live more quickly than humans, and a year on earth is equal to a single day in Heaven. To extend the analogy, since Hell is more painful than earth, life there must be even slower. Duan Chengshi writes in Miscellaneous Morsels from Youyang4 that “three years with demons equals three days on earth.” People who complain about the brevity of life really are the “quickest living” [happiest]; conversely, people who truly “live quickly” [that is, happily] can all be said to have come to a premature end, no matter what age they expire. In this light, being an immortal is not all it’s cracked up to be either, since a person who lived a thirty-year lifespan in the mortal realm would be but a month-old child in Heaven. Nonetheless, there is an advantage to be gained yet through such “Heavenly reckoning.” Dai Fu’s Broad Collection of Anomalies,5 for example, records that when Adjutant Cui captured a fox-demon and “sentenced him to five blows with the peach branch,” Zhangsun Wuji complained that the fox-demon was being let off too lightly. To this Cui responded, “This is no mean punishment! Five blows in the spirit world is like five hundred in the mortal realm.”6 One can see from this that while it’s well and good to flaunt one’s old age or congratulate elders on their longevity on earth, punishments are best served in Heaven.