CXXIX - a tacit approval of things, appended

studying and playing away, the twilight of my young days. yet already i am the last of my kind. but let me not pause to reflect here, for one who has reflected enough and yet more, the twilight is no longer ideal. it is the waning light, the fading echoes of an afternoon glow, mere reveries of the best daytime. like the feeling one gets near the end of a beloved book, the thinning pages, the shallow hope which betrays in confusion as the story arcs to its end, the onset of nostalgia, of wistfully savouring the concluding paragraphs. let me but pause here to recite the end to the three musketeers, which has always been my first recollection of an example when it comes to such moments.

"Well," said he, "they likewise have refused me."
"That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself."
He took a quill, wrote the name of d'Artagnan in the commission, and returned it to him.
"I shall then have no more friends," said the young man. "Alas! nothing but bitter recollections."
And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks.
"You are young," replied Athos; "and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances."

so, what are my fears? none, and yet perhaps not none. i fear that my strengths will diminish, of course. enthusiasm. an hitherto robust curiosity and appetite for learning this world. joy at some things, childishness and an infectious amusement. time in myself. time spent thinking. yes, these are my fears. i am comforted by the strength i have grown to know in my solitude, and by the general belief that things are as they should be. and yet, by whose hand? it is a miracle that days go by for us at all, when some dark days it is a miracle we get by. the irony is perhaps that some days go by without pause to reflect.

i think that, from my reflections, the question chiefly on my mind is, who am i? some time ago it may have been, what am i? maybe why am i here? or what am i doing? and it's greater cousin, what am i supposed to be doing? it occasionally segues into, what time is it? and we sigh and leave off dreaming for a time. all of these are good and important questions in their own time. but for me it seems to have come full circle to revert to the question, who am i. and it is a short answer to say, i am ian ho. and yet it carries many things for me, because when i think of my name and by instinct or by intuition i generate my mental self-image, i recollect a profound image of myself, one which perhaps i hope to convey to those who know me. i think that who am i is the question which i have carefully protected and kept close to me, and which has returned to me that conviction which propels me onward. in fact, i think that it is the only question which is both necessary and sufficient for living as one's own being.

mercy then, for those who need to ask other questions to survive in this life.

----------

but let me go back and be a bit more precise. it is not that i ask myself this question; it is that i live as if i am constantly, albeit inadvertently, trying to divine an understanding of who i am. indeed i am afraid the moment one begins to put the answer to this question in words, what is gained is not what is sought for, that is, a mysterious, profound sense of who one is and is like. thought processes, emotions, interests, personality traits, the very exercise of the mind, the paths one treads subconsciously, these illustrate and are themselves part of who one is.

it seems to me that the other questions are meaningless, given time. yes, in retrospect, that is a terribly imprecise assertion to make. but it seems to me, when the pessimistic mood catches, that there are too many things i cannot right in this world that, whatever else i do, those things will be swallowed up by the unimaginably unwieldy and unkind remainder. in other words, the world will go on without me, for better or for worse, as it always has, cruelly, fatally cruelly. what is one drop of kindness in this ocean of suffering that is ours? what is one good intent, one kind deed, one warm word? the futility of it all! and what is more, perhaps my own state of affairs are such that i cannot even right the wrongs i do myself, much less the wrongs i see, correctly or not (and who is to say what is correct? dare i or not?) in my immediate reach.

but maybe the who-question is meaningless as well. what can it matter whether one man knows himself out of so many?

i can see that very quickly this discussion will turn teleological, that is, it will revolve around questions of purpose, aim and function. my instincts are wary of jumping too quickly to the side of teleological analyses, for it relies on the methodological assumption that one is given a purpose, or a job to do, by someone or something else. a god, or a shared idea, something like that. humanity, for instance. but there are as many beliefs about "final causes" as there are multitudes of reasonable (or not) men.

so as you see, we can go no further at the present. that is the chief complaint about such 'philosophical' inquiring. but i cannot say more than that it is better to know what you do not know than not to know at all; or was it the other way around? i guess it depends... and who can say who is right? sometimes the cat disappears first, but sometimes the smile. and shall one doubt the internal coherence of a Wonderland? shall one question another man's preference for say, ignorance?

CXXVIII - 依旧痴痴收藏落叶

song of the week - 张惠妹, 我无所谓
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSf-MEjnj80

CXXVII - on job

he performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.
when he passes me, i cannot see him; when he goes by, i cannot perceive him.
if he snatches away, who can stop him? who can say to him, ‘what are you doing?’
God does not restrain his anger; even the cohorts of rahab cowered at his feet.
how then can I dispute with him? how can i find words to argue with him?
though i were innocent, i could not answer him; i could only plead with my judge for mercy.
even if i summoned him and he responded, i do not believe he would give me a hearing.
he would crush me with a storm and multiply my wounds for no reason.
he would not let me catch my breath but would overwhelm me with misery.
... 

i loathe my very life; therefore i will give free rein to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul.
i say to God: do not declare me guilty, but tell me what charges you have against me.
does it please you to oppress me, to spurn the work of your hands, while you smile on the plans of the wicked?
do you have eyes of flesh? do you see as a mortal sees?
are your days like those of a mortal or your years like those of a strong man, that you must search out my faults and probe after my sin -
... 

is my complaint directed to a human being? why should i not be impatient?
look at me and be appalled; clap your hand over your mouth.
when i think about this, i am terrified; trembling seizes my body.
why do the wicked live on, growing old and increasing in power?
they see their children established around them, their offspring before their eyes.
their homes are safe and free from fear; the rod of God is not on them.
... 

can anyone teach knowledge to God, since he judges even the highest?
one person dies in full vigor, completely secure and at ease,
well nourished in body, bones rich with marrow.
another dies in bitterness of soul, never having enjoyed anything good.
... 

far be it from God to do evil, from the almighty to do wrong.
he repays everyone for what they have done; he brings on them what their conduct deserves.
it is unthinkable that God would do wrong, that the almighty would pervert justice.
...

here's what i think of the book on job. i take the point that God is omnipotent and omnipresent - although that is quite definitional, but nonetheless i take the point. but here's what i think from reading chapters 38-42 - i think that God bullied job into submission, when job's questions should not have required him to submit.

okay. so God says, procedurally, you don't ask me those questions. well, i think there's room, biblically speaking, for disagreement with God, so procedurally, it never is out of bounds to ask, and in any case i shouldn't think we need to be satisfied with this kind of dismissal. see romans 9:

therefore God has mercy on whom he wants to have mercy, and he hardens whom he wants to harden. one of you will say to me: “then why does God still blame us? for who is able to resist his will?” but who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘why did you make me like this?’” does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use? 

i daresay this is not satisfactory.

God seems to mainly rely on his omnipotence and un-knowability, which is to me a non-starter because i think God is required (well, obliged, honour-bound, dare i say, eager to defend himself) to reply on our terms if we seek him on those in good faith, and none the less so because he considers himself the well-spring of justice and mercy, and has "given" us good reason, desire and conscience, so as to appreciate those very virtues. we are, after all, encouraged to seek him, so it stands to reason that God would condescend a little and guide our puny human understanding in spirit and in truth. and yes, he created the heavens and the earth, and all that is in it. but the question remains, given some god-power, is it not possible that someone else might do a more reasonable job than God has?

the Lord said to job: 

will the one who contends with the almighty correct him? let him who accuses God answer him!”

then job answered the Lord:

“i am unworthy—how can i reply to you? i put my hand over my mouth.
i spoke once, but i have no answer—twice, but i will say no more.” 

then the Lord spoke to job out of the storm: 

“brace yourself like a man; i will question you, and you shall answer me.
“would you discredit my justice? would you condemn me to justify yourself?
do you have an arm like God’s, and can your voice thunder like his?
then adorn yourself with glory and splendor, and clothe yourself in honor and majesty.
unleash the fury of your wrath, look at all who are proud and bring them low,
look at all who are proud and humble them, crush the wicked where they stand.
bury them all in the dust together; shroud their faces in the grave.
then i myself will admit to you that your own right hand can save you.

if a human being told you this, he would be a tyrant. a tyrant.

if you told me the ultimate answer is Jesus Christ, i would take the point as well, but my question remains, what's up with the flood, etc. i assume you to agree with me that the only reason one is not saved is because he has refused it; would you therefore rightly claim that those people who died in the flood, etc., refused salvation?

CXXVI - but afternoon colours

"alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh -- and now? you have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, i fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! and was it ever otherwise? what then do we write and paint, we mandarins with chinese brush, we immortalisers of things which lend themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! alas, only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! alas, only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand -- with our hand! we immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! and it is only for your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone i have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds; -- but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved -- evil thoughts!"

- friedrich nietzsche, beyond good and evil