Mar 10, 2024
Yang Chu (c. 350 B.C.) wept at the cross-roads because whichever road he chose would lead to a new cross-roads and multiply the chances of having lost his way.
(poets and exponential sadness)
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Yang Chu (c. 350 B.C.) wept at the cross-roads because whichever road he chose would lead to a new cross-roads and multiply the chances of having lost his way.
(poets and exponential sadness)
Having once come into life regard it and let it pass; mark its desires and wishes, and so wait death. When death comes, disregard it and let it come. Mark what it brings you, and be drifted away to annihilation.
Yang Chu, in the Lieh-tzu
The Ideal Life
YANG CHU said:
"Yuan Hsie lived in mean circumstances in Lu, while Tse Kung amassed wealth in Wei.
"Poverty galled the one, and riches caused uneasiness to the other.
"So poverty will not do nor wealth either."
"But what then will do?"
"I answer enjoy life and take one's ease, for those who know how to enjoy life are not poor, and he that lives at ease requires no riches."
We pass by the joys of life without knowing that we've missed anything.
Yang Chu
We move through the world in a narrow groove, preoccupied with the petty things we see and hear, brooding over our prejudices, passing by the joys of life without even knowing that we have missed anything. Never for a moment do we taste the heady wine of freedom. We are as truly imprisoned as if we lay at the bottom of a dungeon, heaped with chains.
Yang Chu
Lo que el oído desea oír es música, y la prohibición de oír música se llama obstrucción al oído. Lo que el ojo desea es ver belleza, y la prohibición de ver belleza es llamada obstrucción a la vista. Lo que la nariz desea es oler perfume, y la prohibición de oler perfume es la obstrucción del olfato. De lo que la boca quiere hablar es de lo justo e injusto, y la prohibición de hablar de lo justo y lo injusto es llamada obstrucción al entendimiento. Lo que el cuerpo desea disfrutar son ricos alimentos y bellas ropas, y la prohibición de gozar de éstos se llama obstrucción a las sensaciones del cuerpo. Lo que la mente quiere es ser libre, y la prohibición a esta libertad se llama obstrucción a la naturaleza.
Yang Chu, siglo III d.C.
Lost and Found
In Meena Alexander's collection of essays, Poetics of Dislocation, she mentions the story of Yang Chu, a Chinese sage (c. 350 BC) who knelt at every crossroad he encountered because he believed that "any road taken would lead to another that crossed a neighboring road, endlessly multiplying the chances of being lost" (134). What a great metaphor! What an excellent anecdote! This is poetic gold. This story, to poets, is as good as the Weiner scandal was to comics.
What's also intriguing about this portrayal of crossroads is that it doesn't represent opportunity in the positive sense. Instead, it focuses on the sadness of making choices and the reality of dislocation. It's not some Robert Frost "two roads diverged in a yellow wood" kind of deal. It's about the fear of getting hopelessly lost and the conflicting need to move forward.
I am familiar with getting lost. Some might say, "Well, who isn't?" But really. I get lost a lot. More than the average person, I would say. This propensity of mine to get lost is diametrically opposed to my need to be punctual, so I always allow at least an hour to get lost and found when I'm going somewhere I haven't gone before.
I've gotten lost so many times, I don't feel the same sense of panic about it that I once did. I don't despair like Yang Chu (although I used to). After all, if there are two choices, you have a 50/50 chance of getting it right! And if you get it wrong, you can ask an amiable local for directions. And if you really multiply your odds of getting lost– if you make a million wrong turns– hey, that could be a great story.
As a writer, sometimes "getting lost" seems to be my job description. God, it's hard to make decisions. Should this character exist? Should they go on a road trip? Should the protagonist fall in love? Every time I come to a decision-making point– which is often– I feel bewildered. The story must go forward. It must! LIKE A SHARK! But that means it might go to a place I didn't want it to go, and I might have to backtrack and start all over again. I usually end up writing 40 pages just to get an 8-page story because of this. I allow myself time to get lost and found. Lots and lots of time.
So, in sum: Yang Chu and I are like two peas in a pod. Maybe I'm slightly more optimistic than he.
We move through the world in a narrow groove, preoccupied with the petty things we see and hear, brooding over our prejudices, passing by the joys of life without even knowing that we have missed anything. Never for a moment do we taste the heady wine of freedom. We are as truly imprisoned as if we lay at the bottom of a dungeon, heaped with chains.
Yang Chu, fourth century B.C.E. philospher