I. THE PROBLEM or HAPPINESS
THE enjoyment of life covers many things: the enjoyment of ourselves, of home life,
of trees, flowers, clouds, winding rivers and falling cataracts and the myriad things
in Nature, and then the enjoyment of poetry, art, contemplation, friendship,
conversation, and reading, which are all some form or other of the communion of spirits.
There are obvious things like the enjoyment of food, a gay parly or family reunion,
an outing on a beautiful spring day; and less obvious things like the enjoyment of
poetry, art and contemplation. I have found it impossible to call these two classes
of enjoyment material and spiritual, first because I do not believe in this
distinction, and secondly because I am puzzled whenever I proceed to make this
classification. How can I say, when I see a gay picnic party of men and women and
old people and children, what part of their pleasures is material and what part
spiritual? I see a child romping about on the grass plot, another child making daisy
chains, their mother holding a piece of sandwich, the uncle of the family biting a
juicy, red apple, the father sprawling on the ground looking at the sailing clouds,
and the grandfather holding a pipe in his mouth. Probably somebody is playing a
gramophone, and from the distance there come the sound of music and the distant roar
of the waves. Which of these pleasures is material and which spiritual? Is it so easy
to draw a distinction between the enjoyment of a sandwich and the enjoyment of the
surrounding landscape, which we call poetry? Is it possible to regard the enjoyment
of music which we call art, as decidedly a higher type of pleasure than the smoking
of a pipe, which we call material? This classification between material and spiritual
pleasures is therefore contusing, unintelligible and untrue for me. It proceeds, I
suspect, from a false philosophy, sharply dividing the spirit from the flesh, and
not supported by a closer direct scrutiny of our real pleasures.
Or have I perhaps assumed too much and begged the question of the proper end of human
life? I have always assumed that the end of living is the true enjoyment of it. It
is so simply because it is so. I rather hesitate at the word "end" or "purpose. "
Such an end or purpose of life, consisting in its true enjoyment, is not so much a
conscious purpose, as a natural attitude toward human life. The word "purpose"
suggests too much contriving and endeavor. The question that faces every man born
into this world is not what should be his purpose, which he should set about to achieve,
but just what to do with life, a life which is given him for a period of on the average
fifty or sixty years? The answer that he should order his life so that he can find
the greatest happiness in it is more a practical question, similar to that of how
a man should spend his weekend, than a metaphysical proposition as to what is the
mystic purpose of his life in the scheme of the universe.
On the contrary, I rather think that philosophers who start out to solve the problem
of the purpose of life beg the question by assuming that life must have a purpose.
This question, so much pushed to the fore among Western thinkers, is undoubtedly given
that importance through the influence of theology. I think we assume too much design
and purpose altogether. And the very fact that people try to answer this question
and quarrel over it and are puzzled by it serves to show it up as quite vain and uncalled
for. Had there been a purpose or design in life, it should not have been so puzzling
and vague and difficult to find out.
The question may be divided into two: either that of a divine purpose, which God has
set for humanity, or that of a human purpose, a purpose that mankind should set for
itself. As far as the first is concerned, I do not propose to enter into the question,
because everything that we think God has in mind necessarily proceeds from our own
mind; it is what we imagine to be in God's mind, and it is really difficult for human
intelligence to guess at a divine intelligence. What we usually end up with by this
sort of reasoning is to make God the color-sergeant of our army and to make Him as
chauvinistic as ourselves; He cannot, so we conceive, possibly have a "divine purpose"
and "destiny" for the world, or for Europe, but only for our beloved Fatherland. I
am quite sure the Nazis can't conceive of God without a swastika arm-band. This Gott
is always mil uns and cannot possibly be rnit ihnen . But the Germans are not the
only people who think this way.
As far as the second question is concerned, the point of dispute is not what is, but
what should be, the purpose of human life, and it is therefore a practical, and not
a metaphysical question. Into this question of what should be the purpose of human
life, every man projects his own conceptions and his own scale of values. It is for
this reason that we quarrel over the question, because our scales of values differ
from one another. For myself, I am content to be less philosophical and more practical.
I should not presume that there must be necessarily a purpose, a meaning of human
existence. As Walt Whitman says, "I am sufficient as I am. " It is sufficient that
I live and am probably going to live for another few decades and that human life exists.
Viewed that way, the problem becomes amazingly simple and admits of no two answers.
What can be the end of human life except the enjoyment of it?
It is strange that this problem of happiness, which is the great question occupying
the minds of all pagan philosophers, has been entirely neglected by Christian thinkers.
The great question that bothers theological minds is not human happiness,  but human
"salvation" a tragic word. The word has a bad flavor for me, because in China I hear
everyday some one talking about our "national salvation. " Everybody is trying to
"save" China. It suggests the feeling of people on a sinking ship, a feeling of
ultimate doom and the best method of getting away alive. Christianity, which has been
described as " the last sigh of two expiring worlds" (Greek and Roman), still retains
something of that characteristic today in its preoccupation with the question of
salvation. The question of living is forgotten in the question of getting away alive
from this world. Why should man bother himself so much about salvation, unless he
has a feeling of being doomed? Theological minds are so much occupied with salvation,
and so little with happiness, that all -they can tell us about the future is that
there will be a vague heaven, and when questioned about what we are going to do there
and how we are going to be happy in heaven, they have only ideas of the vaguest sort,
such as singing hymns and wearing white robes. Mohammed at least painted a picture
of future happiness with rich wine and juicy fruits and black-haired, big-eyed,
passionate maidens that we laymen can understand. Unless heaven is made much more
vivid and convincing for us, there is no reason why one should strive to go there,
at the cost of neglecting this earthly existence. As some one says, " An egg today
is better than a hen tomorrow. " At least, when we're planning a summer vacation,
we take the trouble to find out some details about the place we are going to. If the
tourist bureau is entirely vague on the question, I am not interested; I remain where
I am. Are we going to strive and endeavor in heaven, as I am quite sure the believers
in progress and endeavor must assume? But how can we strive and make progress when
we are already perfect? Or are we going merely to loaf and do nothing and not worry?
In that case, would it not be better for us to learn to loaf while on this earth as
a preparation for our eternal life?
If we must have a view of the universe, let us forget ourselves and not confine it
to human life. Let us stretch it a little and include in our view the purpose of the
entire creation the rocks, the trees and the animals. There is a scheme of things
(although "scheme" is another word, like "end" and "purpose", which I strongly
distrust) I mean there is a pattern of things in the creation, and we can arrive at
some sort of opinion, however lacking in finality, about this entire u-niverse, and
then take our place in it. This view of nature and our place in it must be natural,
since we are a vital part of it in our life and go back to it when we die. Astronomy,
geology, biology and history all provide pretty good material to help us form a fairly
good view if we don't attempt too much and jump at conclusions. It doesn't matter
if, in this bigger view of the purpose of the creation, man's place recedes a little
in importance. It is enough that he has a place, and by living in harmony with nature
around him, he will be able to form a workable and reasonable outlook on human life
itself.

II. HUMAN HAPPIN :SS Is SENSUOUS
All human happiness is biological happiness. That is strictly scientific. At the risk
of being misunderstood, I must make it clearer: all human happiness is sensuous
happiness. The spiritualists will misunderstand me, I am sure; the spiritualists and
materialists must forever misunderstand each other, because they don't talk the same
language, or mean by the same word different things. Are we, too, in this problem
of securing happiness to be deluded by the spiritualists, and admit that true
happiness is only happiness of the spirit? Let us admit it at once and immediately
proceed to qualify it by saying tliat the spirit is a condition of the perfect
functioning of the endocrine glands. Happiness for me is largely a matter of digestion.
I have to take cover under an American college president to insure my reputation and
respectability when 1 say that happiness is largely a matter of the movement of the
bowels. The American college president in question used to say with great wisdom in
his address to each class of freshmen, "There are only two things I want you to keep
in mind:read the Bible and keep your bowels open. " What a wise, genial old soul he
was to have said that! If one's bowels move, one is happy, and if they don't move,
one is unhappy. That is all there is to it.
Let us not lose ourselves in the abstract when we talk of happiness, but get down
to facts and analyze for ourselves what are the truly happy moments of our life. In
this world of ours, happiness is very often negative, the complete absence of sorrow
or mortification or bodily ailment. But happiness can also be positive, and then we
call it joy. To me, for instance, the truly happy moments are: when I get up in the
morning after a night of perfect sleep and sniff the morning air and there is an
expansiveness in the lungs, when I feel inclined to inhale deeply and there is a fine
sensation of movement around the skin and muscles of the chest, and when therefore,
I am fit for work; or when I hold a pipe in my hand and rest my legs on a chair, and
the tobacco burns slowly and evenly; or when I am traveling on a summer day, my throat
parched with thirst, and I see a beautiful clear spring, whose very sound makes me
happy, and I take off my socks and shoes and dip my feet in the delightful, cool water;
or when after a perfect dinner I lounge in an armchair, when there is no one I hate
to look at in the company and conversation rambles off at a light pace to an unknown
destination, and I am spiritually and physically at peace with the world; or when
on a summer afternoon I see black clouds gathering on the horizon and know for certain
a July shower is coming in a quarter of an hour, but being ashamed to be seen going
out into the rain without an umbrella, I hastily set out to meet the shower halfway
across the fields and come home drenched through and through and tell my family that
I was simply caught by the rain.
Just as it is impossible for me to say whether I love my children physically or
spiritually when I hear their chattering voices or when I see their plump legs, so
I am totally unable to distinguish between the joys of the mind and the joys of the
flesh. Does anybody ever love a woman spiritually without loving her physically? And
is it so easy a matter for a man to analyze and separate the charms of the woman he
loves things like laughter, smiles, a way of tossing one's head, a certain attitude
toward things? And after all every girl feels happier when she is well-dressed. There
is a soul-uplifting quality about lipstick and rouge and a spiritual calm and poise
that comes from the knowledge of being well-dressed, which is real and definite for
the girl herself and of which the spiritualist has no inkling of an idea. Being made
of this mortal flesh, the partition separating our flesh from our spirit is extremely
thin, and the world of spirit, with its finest e-motions and greatest appreciations
of spiritual beauty, cannot be reached except with our senses. There is no such thing
as morality and immorality in the sense of touch, of bearing and vision. There is
a great probability that our loss of capacity for enjoying the positive joys of life
is largely due to the decreased sensibility of our senses and our lack of full use
of them.
Why argue about it? Let us take concreic instances and cull examples from all the
great lovers of life. Eastern and Western, and see what they describe as their own
happy moments, and how intimately they are connected with the very senses of hearing
and smelling and seeing. Here is a description of the high aesthetic pleasure that
Thoreau0 got from hearing the sound of crickets:
P"irst observe the creak of crickets. It is quite general amid these rocks. The song
of only one is more interesting to me. It suggests lateness, but only as we come to
a knowledge of eternity after some acquaintance with time. It is only late for all
trivial and hurried pursuits. It suggests a wisdom mature, never late, being above
all temporal considerations, which possesses the coolness and maturity of autumn
amidst the aspiration of spring and the heats of summer. To the birds they say: "Ah!
you speak like children from impulse; Nature speaks through you;but with us it is
ripe knowledge. The seasons do not revolve for us; we sing their lullaby. " So they
chant, eternal, at the roots of the grass. It is heaven where they are, and their
dwelling need not be heaved up. Forever the same, in May and in November (?). Serenely
wise, their song has the security of prose. They have drunk no wine but the dew. It
is no transient love-strain hushed when the incubating season is past, but a
glo-ritying of God and enjoying of him forever. They sit aside from the revolution
of the seasons. Their strain is unvaried as Truth. Only in their saner moments do
men hear the crickets.
Thoreau is the most Chinese of all American authors in his entire view of life, and
being a Chinese, I feel much akin to him in spirit. 1 discovered him only a few months
ago, and the delight of the discovery is still fresh in my mind. 1 could translate
passages of Thoreau into my own language and pass them off as original writing by
a Chinese poet, without raising any suspicion.
And see how Walt Whitman's senses of smell and sight and sound contribute to his
spirituality and what great importance he places upon them:
A snowstorm in the morning, and continuing most of the day. But I took a walk over
two hours, the same woods and paths, amid the falling flakes. No wind, yet the musical
low murmur through the pines, quite pronounced, curious, like waterfalls, now stili'd,
now pouring again. All the senses, sight, sound, smell, delicately gratified. Every
snowflake lay where it fell on the evergreens, hollytrees, laurels, etc., the
multitudinous leaves and branches piled, bulging-white, defined by edge-lines of
emerald the tall straight columns of the plentiful bronze-topt pines a slight
resinous odor blending with that of the snow. (For there is a scent to everything,
even the snow, if you can only detect it no two places, hardly any two hours, anywhere,
exactly alike. How different the odor of noon from midnight, or winter from summer,
or a windy spell from a still one! )
How many of us are able to distinguish between the odors of noon and midnight, or
of winter and summer, or of a windy spell and a still one? If man is so generally
less happy in the cities than in the country, it is because all these variations and
nuances of sight and smell and sound are less clearly marked and lost in the general
monotony of gray walls and cement pavements.
The Chinese and the Americans are alike when it comes to the true limits and capacities
and qualities of the happy moments. Before I translate the thirty-three happy moments
given by a Chinese scholar, I want to quote by way of comparison another passage from
Whitman, which will show the identity of our senses:
A clear, crispy day dry and breezy air, full of oxygen. Out of the sane, silent,
beauteous miracles that envelop and fuse me trees, water, grass, sunlight, and early
frost the one I am looking at most today is the sky. It has that delicate, transparent
blue, peculiar to autumn, and the only clouds are little or larger white ones, giving
their still and spiritual motion to the great concave. All through the earlier day
(say from 7 to 11) it keeps a pure, yet vivid blue. But as noon approaches the color
gets lighter, quite gray for two or three hours then still paler for a spell, till
sun-down which last I watch dazzling through the interstices of a knoll of big
trees darts of fire and a gorgeous show of light-yellow, liver-color and red, with
a vast silver glaze askant on the water the transparent shadows, shafts, sparkle,
and vivid colors beyond all the paintings ever made.
I don't know what or how, but it seems to me mostly owing to these skies, (every now
and then I think, while I have of course seen them every day of my life, I never really
saw the skies before, ) I have had this autumn some wondrously contented hours may
I not say perfectly happy ones? As I've read, Byron just before his death told a friend
that he had known but three happy hours during his whole existence. Then there is
the old German legend of the king's bell, to the same point. While I was out there
by the wood, that beautiful sunset through the trees, I thought of Byron's and the
bell story, and the notion started in me that I was having a happy hour. (Though perhaps
my best moments I never jot down; when they come I cannot afford to break the charm
by inditing memoranda. I just abandon myself to the mood, and let it float on, carrying
me in its placid ecstasy) .
What is happiness, anyhow? Is this one of its hours, or the like of it?  so impalpable a
mere breath, an evanescent tinge? I am not sure so let me give myself the benefit
of the doubt. Hast Thou, pellucid, in Thy azure depths, medicine for case like mine?
(Ah, the physical shatter and troubled spirit of me the last three years. ) And dost
Thou subtly mystically now air invisibly upon me?

III. CHIN'S THIRTY-THREE HAPPY MOMENTS
We are now better prepared to examine and appreciate the happy moments of a Chinese,
as he describes them. Chin Shengt'an, that great impressionistic critic of the
seventeenth century, has given us, between his commentaries on the play Western
Chamber, an enumeration of the happy moments which he once counted together with his
friend, when they were shut up in a temple for ten days on account of rainy weather.
These then are what he considers the truly happy moments of human life, moments in
which the spirit is inextricably tied up with the senses:
i  : It is a hot day in June when the sun hangs still in the sky and there is not
a whiff of wind or air, nor a trace of clouds;the front and back yards are hot like
an oven and not a single bird dares to fly about. Perspiration flows down my whole
body in little rivulets. There is the noon-day meal before me, but I cannot take it
for the sheer heat. I ask for a mat to spread on the ground and lie down, but the
mat is wet with moisture and flies swarm about to rest on my nose and refuse to be
driven away. Just at this moment when I am completely helpless, suddenly there is
a rumbling of thunder and big sheets of black clouds overcast the sky and come
majestically on like a great army advancing to battle. Rain water begins to pour down
from the eaves like a cataract. The perspiration stops. The clamminess of the ground
is gone. All flies disappear to hide themselves and I can eat my rice. Ah, is this
not happiness?i: A friend, one I have not seen for ten years, suddenly arrives at
sunset. I open the door to receive him, and without asking whether he came by boat
or by land, and without bidding him
When a Chinese draws up a set of seventeen or eighteen regulations, it is his custom
(the idiom of our language) to set them down as "Articles I, I, I, I, I, I, "etc.
to sit down on the bed or the couch, I go to the inner chamber and humbly ask my wife:
"Have you got a gallon of wine like Su Tungp'o's wife?" My wife gladly takes out her
gold hairpin to sell it. I calculate it will last us three days. Ah, is this not
happiness?
i: I am sitting alone in an empty room and I am just getting annoyed at a mouse at
the head of my bed, and wondering what that little rustling sound signifies what
article of mine he is biting or what volume of my books he is eating up. While I am
in this state of mind, and don't know what to do, I suddenly see a ferocious-looking
cat, wagging its tail and staring with its wide open eyes, as if it were looking at
something. I hold my breath and wait a moment, keeping perfectly still, and suddenly
with a little sound the mouse disappears like a whiff of wind. Ah, is this not
happiness?
I: I have pulled out the haif'ang and chihchhig \! in front of my studio, and have
just planted ten or twenty green banana trees there. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I am drinking with some romantic friends on a spring night and am just half
intoxicated, finding it difficult to stop drinking and equally difficult to go on.
An understanding boy servant at the side suddenly brings in a package of big
fire-crackers, about a dozen in number, and I rise from the table and go and fire
them off. The smell of sulphur assails my nostrils and enters my brain and I feel
comfortable all over my body. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I am walking in the street and see two poor rascals engaged in a hot argument of
words with their faces flushed and their eyes staring with anger as if they were mortal
enemies, and yet they still pretend to be ceremonious to each other, raising their
arms and bending their waists in salute, and still using CD   Huit'un^ is of the pyrns
family, bearing fruits like crab-apples, and chthchin^ blossoms in spring, with small
violet flowers growing directly on the trunks and branches.the most polished language
of thou and thee and wherefore and is it not sof The flow of words is interminable.
Suddenly there appears a big husky fellow swinging his arms and coming up to them,
and with a shout tells them to disperse. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To hear our children recite the classics so fluently, like the sound of pouring
water from a vase. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: Having nothing to do after a meal I go to the shops and take a fancy to a little
thing. After bargaining for some time, we still haggle about a small difference, but
the shopboy still refuses to sell it. Then I take out a little thing from my sleeve,
which is worth about the same thing as the difference and throw it at the boy. The
boy suddenly smiles and bows courteously saying, "Oh, you are too generous! " Ah,
is this not happiness?
i: I have nothing to do after a meal and try to go through the things in some old
trunks. I see there are dozens or hundreds of I.O.U.'s from people who owe my family
money. Some of them are dead and some still living, but in any case there is no hope
of their returning the money. Behind people' s backs I put them together in a pile
and make a bonfire of them, and I look up to the sky and see the last trace of smoke
disappear. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: It is a summer day. I go bareheaded and barefooted, holding a parasol to watch
young people singing Soochow folk songs while treading the water wheel. The water
comes up over the wheel in a gushing torrent like molten silver or melting snow. Ah,
is this not happiness?
i: I wake up in the morning and seem to hear some one in the house sighing and saying
that last night some one died. I immediately ask to find out who it is, and learn
that it is the sharpest, most calculating fellow in town. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I get up early on a summer morning and see people sawing a large bamboo pole under
a mat-shed, to be used as a water pipe. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: It has been raining for a whole month and I lie in bed in the morning like one
drunk or ill, refusing to get up. Suddenly I hear a chorus of birds announcing a clear
day. Quickly I pull aside the curtain, push open the window and see the beautiful
sun shining and glistening and the forest looks like having a bath. Ah, is this not
happiness?
i: At night I seem to hear some one thinking of me in the distance. The next day I
go to call on him. I enter his door and look about his room and see that this person
is sitting at his desk, facing south, reading a document. He sees me, nods quietly
and pulls me by the sleeve to make me sit down, saying "Since you are here, come and
look at this." And we laugh and enjoy ourselves until the shadows on the walls have
disappeared. He is feeling hungry himself and slowly asks me "Are you hungry, too?"
Ah, is this not happiness?
i: Without any serious intention to build a house of my own, I happened, nevertheless,
to start building one because a little sum had unexpectedly come my way. From that
day on, every morning and every night I was told that I needed to buy timber and stone
and tiles and bricks and mortar and nails. And I explored and exhausted every avenue
of getting some money, all on account of this house, without, however, being able
to live in it all this time, until I got sort of resigned to this state of things.
One day, finally, the house is completed, the walls have been whitewashed and the
floors swept clean; the paper windows have been pasted and scrolls of paintings are
hung up on the walls. All the workmen have left, and my friends have arrived, sitting
on different couches in order. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I am drinking on a winter's night, and suddenly note that the night has turned
extremely cold. I push open the window and see that snowflakes come down the size
of a palm and there are already three or four inches of snow on the ground. Ah, is
this not happiness?
i: To cut with a sharp knife a bright green watermelon on a big scarlet plate of a
summer afternoon. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I have long wanted to become a monk, but was worried because I would not be permitted
to eat meat. If then I could be permitted to become a monk and yet eat meat publicly,
why then I would heat a basin of hot water, and with the help of a sharp razor shave
my head clean in a summer month! Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To keep three or four spots of eczema in a private part of my body and now and
then to scald or bathe it with hot water behind closed doors. Ah, is this not happiness?
I: To find accidently a handwritten letter of some old friend in a trunk. Ah, is this
not happiness?
i: A poor scholar comes to borrow money from me, but is shy about mentioning the topic,
and so he allows the conversation to drift along on other topics. I see his
uncomfortable situa-  tion, pull him aside to a place where we are alone and ask him
how much he needs. Then I go inside and give him the sum and after having done this,
I ask him: "Must you go immediately to settle this matter or can you stay a while
and have a drink with me?" Ah, is this not happiness?
i: I am sitting in a small boat. There is a beautiful wind in our favor, but our boat
has no sails. Suddenly there appears a big lorcha, coming along as fast as the wind.
I try to hook on to the lorcha in the hope of catching on to it, and unexpectedly
the hook does catch. Then I throw over a rope and we are towed along and I begin to
sing the lines of Tu Fu: "The green makes me feel tender toward the peaks, and the
red tells me there are oranges." And we break out in joyous laughter. Ah, is this
not happiness?
i: I have been long looking for a house to share with a friend bul have not been able
to find a suitable one. Suddenly some one brings the news that there is a house
somewhere, not loo big, but with only about a dozen rooms, and that it faces a big
river with beautiful green trees around. I ask this man lo Slav for supper, and after
the supper we go over together to have ;i look, having no idea what the house is like.
Entering tlie gate, I see that there is a large vacant lot about six or seven mow,
and I say to myself, "I shall not have to worry about the supply of vegetables and
melons henceforth. " Ah, is this not happiness?
i: A traveller returns home after a long journey, and he sees the old city gate and
hears the women and children on both banks of the river talking his own dialect. Ah,
is this not happiness?
i: When a good piece of old porcelain is broken, you know there is no hope of repairing
it. The more you turn it about and look at it, the more you are exasperated. I then
hand it to the cook, asking him to use it as any old vessel, and give orders that
he shall never let that broken porcelain bowl come within my sight again. Ah, is this
not happiness?
i: I am not a saint, and am therefore not without sin. In the night I did something
wrong and I get up in the morning and feel extremely ill at ease about it. Suddenly
I remember what is taught by Buddhism, that not to cover one's sins is the same as
repentance. So then I begin to tell my sin to the entire company around, whether they
are strangers or my old friends. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To watch some one writing big characters a fool high. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To open the window and let a wasp out of the room. Ah, is this not happiness?
I: A magistrate orders the beating of the drum and calls it a day. Ah, is this not
happiness?
i: To see some one's kite line broken. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To see a wild prairie fire. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To have just finished repaying all one's debts. Ah, is this not happiness?
i: To read the Story of Curly-Beard.  Ah, is this not happiness?
Poor Byron, who had only three happy hours in his life! He was either of a morbid
and enormously unbalanced spirit, or else he was affecting merely the fashionable
Weltschmerz of his decade. Were the feeling of Weltschmerz not so fashionable, I feel
bound to suspect that he must have confessed to at least thirty happy hours instead
of three. Is it not plain from the above that the world is truly a feast of life spread
out for us to enjoy merely through the senses, and a type of culture which recognizes
these sensual pleasures therefore makes it possible for us frankly to admit them?
My suspicion is, the reason why we shut our eyes willfully to this gorgeous world,
vibrating with its own sensuality, is that the spiritualists have made us plain scared
of them. A nobler type of philosophy should re-establish our confidence in this fine
receptive organ of ours, which we call the body, and drive away first the contempt
and then the fear of our senses. Unless these philosophers can actually sublimate
matter and ethereal-ize our body into a soul without nerves, without taste, without
smell, and without sense of color and motion and touch, and unless we are ready to
go the whole way with the Hindu mortifiers of the flesh, let us face ourselves bravely
as we are. For only a philosophy that recognizes reality can lead us into true
happiness, and only that kind of philosophy is sound and healthy.

IV. MISUNDERSTANDINGS OF MATERIALISM
Chin's description of the happy moments of his life must have al-
(D  The hero, known as " Curly-Beard, " aided the escape of a pair of eloping lovers,
and after giving them his home in a distant city, then disappeared.ready convinced
us that in real human life, the mental and the physical pleasures are inextricably
tied up together. Mental pleasures are real only when they are felt through the body.
I would include even the moral pleasures, too. He who preaches any kind of doctrine
must be prepared to be misunderstood, as the Epicureans and Stoics were. How often
people fail to see the essential kindness of spirit of a Stoic, like Marcus Aurelius,
and how often the Epicurean doctrine of wisdom and restraint has been popularly
construed as the doctrine of the man of pleasure! It will at once be brought up against
this somewhat materialistic view of things, that it is selfish, that it lacks totally
a sense of social responsibility, that it teaches one to enjoy one's self merely.
This type of argument proceeds from ignorance; those who use it know not what they
are talking about. They know not the kindness of the cynic, not the gentleness of
temper of such a lover of life. Love of one's fellowmen should not be a doctrine,
an article of faith, a matter of intellectual conviction, or a thesis supported by
arguments. The love of mankind which requires reasons is no true love. This love should
be perfectly natural, as natural for man as for the birds to flap their wings. It
should be a direct feeling, springing naturally from a healthy soul, living in touch
with Nature. No man who loves the trees truly can be cruel to animals or to his
fellowmen. In a perfectly healthy spirit, gaining a vision of life and of one's
fellowmen and a true and deep knowledge of Nature, kindness is the natural thing.
That soul does not require any philosophy or man-made religion to tell him to be kind.
It is because his spirit has been properly nourished through his senses, somewhat
detached from the artificial life and the still more artificial learning of human
society, that he is able to retain a true mental and moral health. We cannot, therefore,
be accused of teaching unselfishness when we are scratching off the earth and
enlarging the opening from which this spring of kindness will naturally flow.
Materialism has been misunderstood, grievously misunderstood. In this matter I must
let George Santayana speak (or us, who describes himself as "a materialist perhaps
ihe only one living", and who,nevertheless, as we all know, is probably one of the
sweetest spirits of the present generation. He tells us that our prejudice against
the materialistic philosophy is a prejudice of one looking at it from the outside.
One gets a feeling of shock from certain deficiencies which are only apparent by
comparison with one's old creed. But one can truly understand any foreign creed or
religion or country only when one enters to live in spirit in that new world. There
is a bounce and a joy, a wholesomeness of feeling in this so-called "materialism"
which we usually fail to see entirely. As Santayana tells us, the true materialist
is always like Democritus, the laughing philosopher. It is we, the "unwilling
materialists", who aspire to spiritualism but nevertheless live a selfish
materialistic life, " that have generally been awkwardly intellectual and incapable
of laughter. "
But a thorough materialist, one born to the faith and not half plunged into it by
an unexpected christening in cold water, will be like the superb Democritus, a
laughing philosopher. His delight in a mechanism that can fall into so many marvellous
and beautiful shapes, and can generate so many exciting passions, should be of the
same intellectual quality as that which the visitor feels in a museum of natural
history, where he views the myriad butterflies in their cases, the flamingoes and
shell-fish, the mammoths and gorillas. Doubtless there were pangs in that
incalculable life, but they were soon over; and how splendid meantime was the pageant,
how infinitely interesting the universal interplay, and how foolish and inevitable
those absolute little passions. Somewhat of that sort might be the sentiment that
materialism would arouse in a vigorous mind, active, joyful, impersonal, and in
respect to private illusions not without a touch of scorn .
To the genuine sufferings of living creatures the ethics that accompanies materialism
has never been insensible; on the contrary, like other merciful systems, it has
trembled too much at pain and tended to withdraw the will ascetically, lest the will
should be defeated. Contempt for mortal sorrows is reserved for those who drive with
hosunnas the Juggernaut cur of absolute optimism . But against evils horn of pure
vanity and self-de-ceptzon, against the verbiage by which man persuades himself that
he is the goal and acme of the universe, laughter is the proper defence . Laughter
also has this subtle advantage, that it need not remain without an overtone of sympathy
and brotherly understanding; as the laughter that greets Don Quixote's absurdities
and misadventures does not mock the hero's intent. His ardour was admirable, but the
world must be known before it can be reformed pertinently, and happiness, to be
attained, must be placed in reason.
What then is this mental life, or this spiritual life, of which we have been always
so proud, and which we always place above the life of the senses? Unfortunately modern
biology has a tendency to track the spirit down to its lair, finding it to be a set
of fibers, liquids and nerves. I almost believe that optimism is a fluid, or at least
it is a condition of the nerves made possible by certain circulating fluids. Whence
does the mental life arise, and from what does it take its being and derive its
nourishment? Philosophers have long pointed out that all human knowledge comes from
sensuous experience. We can no more attain knowledge of any kind without the senses
of vision and touch and smell than a camera can take pictures without a lens and a
sensitive plate. The difference between a clever man and a dull fellow is that the
former has a set of finer lenses and perceiving apparatus by which he gets a sharper
image of things and retains it longer. And to proceed from the knowledge of books
to the knowledge of life, mere thinking or cogitation is not enough; one has to feel
one's way about to sense things as they are and to get a correct impression of the
myriad things in human life and human nature not  from the essay on "Emotions of tbe
Materialist, " in l.ittle Essays 11) Suiiluyiiiui edited by Logan Pearsall Smith.
The italics arc mine.as unrelated parts, but as a whole. In this matter of feeling
about life and of gaining experience, all our senses cooperate, and it is through
the cooperation of the senses, and of the heart with the head, that we cap have
intellectual warmth. Intellectual warmth, after all, is the thing, for it is the sign
of life, like the color of green in a plant. We detect life in one's thought by its
presence or absence of warmth, as we detect life in a half dried-up tree struggling
after some unfortunate accident, by noting the greenness of its leaves and the
moisture and healthy texture of its fiber.

V. How ABOUT MENTAL PLEASURES?
Let us take the supposedly higher pleasures of the mind and the spirit, and see to
what extent they are vitally connected with our senses, rather than with our intellect.
What are those higher spiritual pleasures that we distinguish from those of the lower
senses? Are they not parts of the same thing, taking root and ending up in the senses,
and inseparable from them? As we go over these higher pleasures of the mind literature,
art, music, religion and philosophy  we see what a minor role the intellect plays
in comparison with the senses and feelings. What does a painting do except to give
us a landscape or a portrait and recall in us the sensuous pleasures of seeing a real
landscape or a beautiful face? And what does literature do except to recreate a picture
of life, to give us the atmosphere and color, the fragrant smell of the pastures or
the stench of city gutters? We all say that a novel approaches the standard of true
literature in proportion as it gives us real people and real emotions. The book which
takes us away from this human life, or merely coldly dissects it, is not literature
and the more humanly true a book is, the better literature we consider it. What novel
ever appeals to a reader if it contains only a cold analysis, if it fails to give
us the salt and tang and flavor of life?
As for the other things, poetry is but truth colored with emotion, music is sentiment
without words, and religion is but wisdom expressed in fancy. As painting is based
on the sense of color and vision, so poetry is based on the sense of sound and tone
and rhythm,in addition to its emotional truth. Music is pure sentiment itself,
dispensing entirely with the language of words with which alone the intellect can
operate. Music can portray for us (he sounds of cowbells and fishmarkets and the
battlefield; it can portray for us even the delicacy of the flowers, the undulating
motion of the waves, or the sweet serenity of the moonlight; but the moment it steps
outside the limit of the senses and tries to portray for us a philosophic idea, it
must be considered decadent and the product of a decadent world.
And did not the degeneration of religion begin with reason itself? As Santayana says,
the process of degeneration of religion was due to too much reasoning: "This religion
unhappily long ago ceased to be wisdom expressed in fancy in order to become
superstition overlaid with reasoning. " The decay of religion is due to the pedantic
spirit, in the invention of creeds, formulas, articles of faith, doctrines and
apologies. We become increasingly less pious as we increasingly justify and
rationalize our beliefs and become so sure that we arc right. That is why every
religion becomes a narrow sect, which believes itself to have discovered the only
truth. The consequence is that the more we justify our beliefs, the more narrow-
minded we become, as is evident in all religious sects. This has made it possible
for religion to be associated with the worst forms of bigotry, narrow-mindedness and
even pure selfishness in personal life. Such a religion nourishes a man's selfishness
not only by making it impossible for him to be broad-minded toward other sects, but
also by turning the practice of religion into a private bargain between God and himself,
in which the party of the first part is glorified by the party of the second part,
singing hymns and calling upon His name on every conceivable occasion, and in return
the party of the first part is to bless the party of the second part, bless particularly
himself more than any other person and his own family more than any other family.
That is why we find selfishness of nature goes so well with some of the most "religious'
and regularly church-going old women. In the end, the sense of self-justification,
of having discovered the only truth, displaces all tlie finer emotions from which
religion took its rise.
I can see no other reason for the existence of art and poetry and religion except
as they tend to restore in us a freshness of vision and a more emotional glamour and
more vital sense of life. For as we grow older in life, our senses become gradually
benumbed, our emotions become more callous to suffering and injustice and cruelty,
and our vision of life is warped by too much preoccupation with cold, trivial realities.
Fortunately, we have a few poets and artists who have not lost that sharpened
sensibility, that fine emotional response and that freshness of vision, and whose
duties are therefore to be our moral conscience, to hold up a mirror to our blunted
vision, to tone up our withered nerves. Art should be a satire and a warning against
our paralyzed emotions, our devitalized thinking and our denaturalized living. It
teaches us unsophistication in a sophisticated world. It should restore to us health
and sanity of living and enable us to recover from the fever and delirium caused by
too much mental activity. It should sharpen our senses, re-establish the connection
between our reason and our human nature, and assemble the ruined parts of a dislocated
life again into a whole, by restoring our original nature. Miserable indeed is a world
in which we have knowledge without understanding, criticism without appreciation,
beauty without love, truth without passion, righteousness without mercy, and courtesy
without a warm heart!
As for philosophy, which is the exercise of the spirit par excellence ; the danger
is even greater that we lose the feeling of life itself. I can understand that such
mental delights include the solution of a long mathematical equation, or the
perception of a grand order in the universe. This perception of order is probably
the purest of all our mental pleasures and yet I would exchange it for a well prepared
meal. In the first place, it is in itself almost a freak, a byproduct of our mental
occupations, enjoyable because it is gratuitous, but not in any case as imperative
for us as other vital processes. That intellectual delight is, after all, similar
to the delight of solving a crossword puzzle successfully. In the second place, the
philosopher at this moment more often than not is likely to cheat himself, to fall
in love with this abstract perfection, and to conceive a greater logical perfection
in the world than is really warranted by reality itself. It is as much a false picture
of things as when we paint a star with five points a reduction to formula, an
artificial stylizing, an over-simplification. So long as we do not overdo it, this
delight in perfection is good, but let us remind ourselves that millions of people
can be happy without discovering this simple unity of design. We really can afford
lo live without it. I prefer talking with a colored maid to talking with a
mathematician; her words are more concrete, her laughter is more energetic, and I
generally gain more in knowledge of human nature by talking with her. I am such a
materialist that at any time I would prefer pork to poetry, and would waive a piece
of philosophy for a piece of filet, brown and crisp and garnished with good sauce.
Only by placing living above thinking can we get away from this heal and the re-
breathed air of philosophy and recapture some of the freshness and naturalness of
true insight of the child. Any true philosopher ought to be ashamed of himself when
he sees a child, or even a lion cub in a cage. How perfectly nature has fashioned
him with his paws, his muscles, his beautiful coat of fur, his pricking ears, his
bright round eyes, his agility and his sense of fun ! The philosopher ought to be
ashamed that God-made perfection has sometimes become man-made imperfection, ashamed
that he wears spectacles, has no appetite, is often distressed in mind and heart,
and is entirely unconscious of the fun in life. F'rom this type of philosopher nothing
is to be gained, for nothing that he says can be of importance to us. That philosophy
alone can be of use to us which joins hands merrily with poetry and establishes for
us a truer vision, first of nature and then of human nature.
Any adequate philosophy of life must be based on the harmony of our given instincts.
The philosopher who is too idealistic is soon tripped up by nature herself. The highest
conception of human dignity, according to the Chinese Confucianists, is when man
reaches ultimately his greatest height, an equal of heaven and earth, by living in
accordance with nature. This is the doctrine given in The Golden grandson of
Confucius.
What is God-given is called nature; to follow nature is called Tao (the Way) ; to
cultivate the Way is called culture. Before joy, anger, sadness and happiness are
expressed, they are called the inner self; when they are expressed to the proper degree,
they are called harmony. The inner self is the correct foundation of the world, and
harmony is the illustrious Way. When a man has achieved the inner self and harmony,
the heaven and earth are orderly and the myriad things are nourished and grow thereby.
To arrive at understanding from being one's true self is called nature, and to arrive
at being one's true self from understanding is called culture; he who is his true
self has thereby understanding, and he who has understanding finds thereby his true
self. Only those who are their absolute selves in the world can fulfil their own nature;
only those who fulfil their own nature can fulfil the nature of others; only those
who fulfil the nature of others can fulfil the nature of things; those who fulfil
the nature of things are worthy to help Mother Nature in growing and sustaining life;
and those who are worthy to help Mother Nature in growing and sustaining life are
the equals of heaven and earth.
CD  There is a strong element of Taoism in Confucianism, perhaps due to the influence
of Taoistic thought, a fact which is not usually noticed. Anyway, here this passage
stands in one of the Confucian Four Books, and similar passages in the Analects can
be quoted.