3. On the Language and Feeling of Poetry (Part II): Before Entering, First Guess the Riddle: Standing Tall on the Mountain Peak, Walking Deep at the Ocean Floor — Name One Thing.
Since the previous thread was too long and hard to open, this is the final post there. The new continuation thread will be titled: "Explanation" — thread too long, opening a new one. Before entering, first guess the riddle: Standing tall on the mountain peak, walking deep at the ocean floor — name one thing.
Yesterday I mentioned the smell of gunpowder and the smell of stench. In truth, these smells are present at every moment. No need to discuss the smell of gunpowder — this stuff existed before gunpowder was invented (I haven't done the exact research). As for stench, including the foot-binding cloth variety, what we can normally encounter is basically all related to corpses of various kinds. I won't go into the biological, chemical, and physiological processes involved. What I want to chat about now is the stench of language. Obviously, stench is relative — otherwise no one would want stinky tofu. Moreover, even if "stench" still carries a primitive meaning, it differs greatly from our current understanding. For clarity, the "stench of language" referred to here means the corpse-smell of language. As for what corpse-smell is, I don't have strong opinions. If you want to experience it firsthand, there are plenty of places and methods available — I won't accompany you.
In essence, language is already dead before it's even spoken. Any language — including what you see here now, what the People sing, what the Great Man hymns — is all related to corpses. In the relationship between feeling and language, one can of course overlay it with soul and flesh, observation and creation, sensibility and rationality, and so on. One could even overlay it with: "feeling lies in feeling-without-feeling and thus feeling-everything" and "language lies in language-without-language and thus language-everything." But overlaying is always overlaying. What it feels like to be overlaid — ask any man, or anyone who trades stocks. Yesterday I spoke a line that might cause trouble — placing all of Western philosophy and Chinese literary theory atop language. And of course Chinese philosophy and everything else too — I'm too lazy to say it. The trouble is small; no trouble would be the real trouble.
Language is dead before it's even spoken. Language, carrying the smell of corpses, is written, ejected, recorded — and of course, taken seriously. All of this is just spinning in circles, changing nothing. Even if it's raped, poeticized, treasured — it's all useless. (In Chinese pinyin input, "poem" appears right above "corpse" — so those who see poetry as life had better use handwriting or other input methods, even though life at every moment is both poem-ing and corpse-ing.)
In every age, any freshest language is already full of the smell of some preservative, while the parroters still put corpses in their mouths to chew. Following the game of mathematics, any "great" piece of language can be mapped to find a so-called "vulgar" piece of language that is isomorphic to it. Though for many it's unacceptable to create such a mapping between "Autumn Meditations" and "The Northern Campaign" on one hand, and "The Jade Girl's Heart Sutra" on the other, I must still say, brimming with preservatives: what passes for "meaning" is nothing more than a single curve in some meaning-space. Public consensus proves nothing — it only shows that in this space, only this one curve has been seen. While those who make a living at it, those who guard the orthodoxy, and so on, strive to prove the uniqueness of this curve in infinite space. Proofs will always exist — within the chosen axiomatic system, play away. It's the same as self-gratification. As for things like pointing out the relationship between "Li Sao" and a certain homoerotic affair — I have zero interest. Whoever wants to eat that, eat it.
As for the great practitioner who must "stand tall on the mountain peak, walk deep at the ocean floor" — this touches on the riddle in the title. I believe any man can guess the answer; only those who lack it need one. Of course, cultivation also has its dual-cultivation forms — done well, it's naturally great cultivation; otherwise, it wouldn't be called both tall-tall and deep-deep. Whether solo or dual, low-low or shallow-shallow — it's all corpse-language. Everything else — whether mountain-is-mountain-or-not, or the beauty Xiaoyu — is all the same. It's not on the lips or in the mind — so say one sentence. Say it: thirty blows; don't say it: also thirty blows. Wow — the noise has woken the whole world. Let's rest.
This thread was supposed to have completed its mission, but it looks like we'll be at it a while longer. I suggest we move to the new nest — it's more comfortable there. But if there are special preferences, doing it here is fine too. Anywhere you do it is still doing it. I have no interest in any system. What Old Marx said isn't important, because it died before being said. What remains is just a sham — dog-meat-under-the-sheep's-head — let's not talk about it. As for the question of human nature: humans may have sex problems, but the problem of human nature, in my view, has never had any problem at all — it's just asking for trouble. Human nature is not a deduction within some given axiomatic system. It has no inherent necessity. Even "nature" itself isn't natural. Human nature? Forget it. Walking around with this rope, making humans, creating humans — let's not talk about it.
Regarding post-modernism, I've already said it very clearly in my poems. Post-modernism is merely one form of speaking. Having spoken, it's spoken; having spoken, it's dead. That's all. As for the Xutang question and the like — it's the same as post-modernism, a conversation starter, that's all. Also, why must things be correct? Before being spoken, it's already dead. What's the point of being correct? As for the inner meaning of things — what thing has inner meaning? No need to bring up concepts like "emptiness of inherent nature" — all questions about "everything" have already been addressed in research related to Russell's Paradox. If you're interested, find some books on the subject. I'll say no more. Post-modernism at least doesn't have the habit of discussing such questions. Anything about "everything," "totality," and the like would not be discussed. Of course, not discussing something doesn't represent anything either. Not discussing means not discussing. Let's call it a day.
Yesterday I left off at the old thread. It seems the transition is quite troublesome — please, from now on, let's do it here. Although it's not troublesome in itself, opening the old one is quite troublesome indeed. I'm not some bigwig or young lady with a job and someone to support me — able to afford broadband. Have pity on Xiaoren. Don't go back there to do it anymore. If we're going to do it, let's do it here — it's spacious here, and the pace can be entirely as one wishes. Also, yesterday I watched the bel canto finals — does anyone know what happened to the Inner Mongolian fellow who placed first in the prelims? China's male tenors are as common as garbage, including the famous ones — very few are any good, especially dramatic tenors — there isn't a single one. This Inner Mongolian fellow had a rare dramatic tenor voice. Xiaoren and he are both big gorillas, so I truly feel something about this. If anyone knows, please tell Xiaoren — infinitely grateful.
Yesterday's material from the old thread won't be transferred here — go look if you're interested. But yesterday I mentioned the question of the "correctness" of language, which can be expanded here. "Before being spoken, it's already dead — what's the point of being correct?" is my answer to this type of question. Obviously, most people won't think this way — otherwise there would be no literary wars or physical fights in this world.
"Those who make a living at it, those who guard the orthodoxy, and so on, strive to prove the uniqueness of this curve in infinite space" — this is from the previous thread, and it is also the orientation of all games related to "the correctness of language." Correctness has many types: from the simple and brutal "only one correct answer," to the seemingly complex and moderate "pluralistic correctness," to the noncommittal "fuzzy correctness" — playing out in all manner of variations across spaces of arbitrary dimension. But no matter how you transform it, it's still isomorphic with that single orientation.
For poetry in the narrow sense, the orientation of correctness is more obscure. But there are still plenty of people who charge in bare-chested to tell you poetry should be this way or that way. In truth, poetry has never been "this way" or "that way" — it's just that habitual patterns have templated these "this ways" and "that ways." Someone might ask: is what you're saying correct or incorrect? I can only say: when I do it, I don't use protection — whatever love, whatever nothingness. Then isn't that itself a template? If you say it's a template, then it's a template. The taste within — even a beauty is not allowed to know. Then do you yourself know? What's the point of knowing? Then isn't that being a fool? A fool knows too much. Then is it enough to know nothing? Not-knowing is already knowing. What about having only that one knowing? Ten thousand kalpas of no return. What about only that one knowing? Ten thousand kalpas of no return. How to escape? Why escape? To leave the three realms! Who's in the three realms? Then who isn't? A wooden horse chases the wind. Stop with the riddles — say it straight? Do you have ears? Yes. With ears, you can't hear it. Without them? It's past. Where? Wild ducks? Street ducks. How much per night? 780. 560? 685. Fine, let's go. Ohhh——
My interests are rather miscellaneous. The last two posts may not be closely related to the original topic, but all creation is essentially a kind of revelation, and all revelation is poetic — within the unrelated, there is always too much that is related.
Earlier I spoke about the correctness of language. In a certain sense, the entire history of humanity revolves around this question. Not thinking of good, not thinking of evil — there is no longer any "Venerable Ming." The old man Lu who carries firewood, after spitting out a few words, also went off to eat his meals at the edge of meat. Not thinking of good, not thinking of evil, and "the original face" — what X relationship do they have? Two demons oral-pleasure a few lines and stir up a fog that disturbs everyone's peace. Beat them down to the eighteenth level — Xiaoren will be right behind.
"Those who make a living at it, those who guard the orthodoxy, and so on, strive to prove the uniqueness in infinite space" — put plainly, is the "I." The "I" constitutes the pattern of language, and the pattern of language in turn creates an illusory "I." Here, "language" is spoken at the broadest level. What I'm about to say will again be troublesome words. I've booked my ticket to the eighteenth level — let the trouble come.
For so-called poets, it's merely that the modes and patterns of language are various kinds of text (to distinguish from other gangs that also use text, there are certain fixed slang terms. Based on how one wears the dark shades, there are also many sub-gangs within the gang — not excluding individual gangs, T-person gangs, W-person gangs). The basic belief is, of course, that something can be expressed, that expression can cause something, and so on. None of this is different from a real gang — except that what's robbed is text (and the post-robbery processing methods are called technique, word-polishing, composition, etc. — not assault). What's vented isn't called bestial desire — and of course not human desire either — it's sublimated, refined — it's essence, the quintessence of human thought.
The manufacture and consumption of spiritual, textual Viagra — naturally everyone thinks their own is best (or that what they think is best is best), and then there are brand names. Then under the brand names come the fanatics, and the brands shine brighter. But there are too many brands too, and periodic economic crises clear things out. In the end, there are the century-old, millennium-old, ten-millennium-old shops, and the medicine from these shops is enough to befuddle those who come after for a while. The products of these medicine-makers become increasingly high-tech, constantly innovating. Eventually even humans can be manufactured. Feelings, thoughts, etc. — what can't be manufactured? "But mine comes from the heart!" someone protests. But the "heart" is merely a euphemism for the result of a series of manufacturing processes. Which battered or great-and-grand thought isn't manufactured?
"So manufacturing is no crime — I just love to manufacture, love to manufacture, love to manufacture!" the protest continues. Manufacturing the innocence of the innocent.
A great pile of rubbish, spoken through a great pile of posts. Here and there are no different. Everyone is speaking what they consider to be non-rubbish rubbish, and rubbish constructs everyone's existence. This is how things are. Rubbish brings pleasure. Pleasure manufactures rubbish. That's all.
Earlier I spoke a great deal of rubbish about language. Today let me speak about pleasure. In the previously set up virtual structure of language and feeling, the "feeling" side seems rather difficult to analyze — it's hard to overlay any concept onto it. Yet feeling seems so real, present at every moment. Just as with the "correctness" of language, feeling also has its hierarchy. My favorite, of course, is pleasure — so earlier, I sneaked "pleasure" into the position of "feeling."
Liking is liking, but like language, the hierarchy of feeling is also a fabrication by the authorities — there's no special reason for it. But reasons don't need to be special — they just need to be useful, or be used as useful. The pattern of feeling corresponds to and connects with the pattern of language, constituting the pattern of existence. From this arise logic, reasonable proofs, the Dao, reason, and all those capitalized, intimidating things. These things continue to form new superficial patterns, changing colors, but the so-called core structure remains the same. The "I" — whether language or feeling (the division between these two is merely a conversation starter) — is actually nothing more than a trace produced by the transformation and combination of patterns and structures. Then the trace becomes the master, history becomes reality, time solidifies into space. That's all.
Feeling, like language, is divided into hierarchies. The patterning of feeling becomes the foundation of institutionalization. So-called creativity, put plainly, is nothing more than creating another pattern to trap people for a time, two times, many times. The changes in appearance don't alter the core. You could say it's never changed.
Indeed, why change? Every step is a trap — might as well stand still. Unfortunately, among ten billion, you'd be hard-pressed to find even one who can truly stand still, and even if you found one, then what? Besides, has anyone ever truly moved? Moving here and there, you're just spinning inside the shell of the "I." Whatever qualifier you add on top — small, large, super, or non — it's all the same. Don't listen to the nonsense. Ideals are the "I's" ideals. Truth is what the "I" considers truth. Objectivity is the "I's" objectivity. Suffering, licentiousness, and everything else — all the same. Even that so-called foolish God created man in His own image — probably the patriarch of all narcissists. And who isn't one?
Self-perception in the ordinary sense is nothing but a trace produced by a series of transformations and combinations of patterns and structures. Inside it there is nothing. If you insist there is something, what's there is merely the narcissistic gene from that foolish God. Here there are no boundaries worth attending to. Concepts, classifications, and so on are all equally pallid — including even the description of graffiti and traces. So-called "being moved to express" becomes the same rubbish as the rubbish here. And by "here" I include all the permutations and combinations of "unmoved non-expression," "non-expression non-feeling," and so on.
The preceding posts have already stated that the framework of "feeling and language" is merely a conversation starter — nonsense — the same as all other language, all nonsense. "Cite one line that isn't nonsense?" As I've already made clear, language is dead before it's spoken. Obviously, this too falls within nonsense, and the same can be applied to feeling. Everything that can be felt is self-gratification. Everything that can be spoken is nonsense. Including this very sentence. Since "everything that can be felt is self-gratification, and everything that can be spoken is nonsense, including this very sentence" — it seems there's no need to continue. But then, what is necessary? Life doesn't stop, the battle goes on. Let's continue.
Here I'll give a nonsensical definition: so-called language-feel is the present moment of feeling. Of course, this definition is merely another conversation starter to keep the game going — nothing to boast about. Furthermore, continuing requires a logical toy. Below, we can call this toy a first-order predicate system. There's no reason for choosing this game. It must be noted that logical toys are far more numerous than real toys — as many stars as there are in the sky, there are even more logical systems. In a sense, having high-level logical ability is no different from a woman saying she's "in" — any debate about logic is like women competing over who dresses better. It may not even relate to taste.
The present moment of feeling becomes language-feel. Patterned feeling forms patterned language-feel, which in turn produces patterned language. For the present moment, it is the release of Being. No one binds it — everything is self-inflicted. And what is the "self"? Nothing, really. If one must say it's something, it's merely traces upon traces. But the traces become ropes, and feeling becomes a pattern. And what is Being? Being is the misrecognition of traces. Heidegger saw the relationship between Being and Time, but was in turn trapped by it, and ultimately could not escape. Being lies only in the fact that it has never been. When not-being insists on solidifying into being, time arises, and then comes the eternal entanglement.
Feeling releases in the present moment. Feeling becoming language is actually completed in the present moment itself. The completion of the present moment is the completion of language-feel. Language-feel lies in its fresh blossoming. Here, all divisions by human artifice or natural organ function are superfluous. In the present moment, everything is complete. Using poetry in the narrow sense as an example: you can present it through smell, taste, hearing, touch, and so on — even all at once, or none at all.
Writing, to some extent, is merely the recording of corpses. If one insists on saying there is some kind of ladder, then to always blossom in the present moment — that is the preliminary entry, if one insists on saying there is an entry.
Yesterday I spoke about the present moment. Everyone knows: when you become aware of the present moment, it's already no longer the present moment. If you're completely unaware, you're no different from a rock. How can you enter the present moment? First of all, when you pose this question, you've already fallen into a pattern. Here one can play games of "not-falling" and "not-being-deluded," but it's useless — keep playing, and what awaits you is more than five hundred lifetimes as a fox. Think: which moment is not the present moment?
But even truly seeing through this layer is useless — there was originally nothing to see through, and one is still trapped by traces. Here, "traces" is interchangeable with what's called "karma." If karmic conditions are not resolved, there will never be any escape. Even saying "there is nothing to resolve, nowhere to escape from" is useless.
What this world never lacks are people who want to save this and save that. But think: all your current thoughts, every one of your cells — which one was not given to you by sentient beings, an aggregation of various traces? Save whom? If one must speak of saving, it is only being saved. It's not that you take pity on sentient beings — it's sentient beings who take pity on you, who accomplish you. What are you? What is the "I"? Nothing. Talk about Mahayana and Hinayana — it's all nonsense. If you don't even understand Hinayana, how can you claim Mahayana? Even if we borrow the old saying of self-awakening, awakening others, and perfecting both, if you haven't even awakened yourself, you're merely creating karma. Are there not enough heroes in this world, saving this and saving that? Who doesn't feel bigger than this and greater than that, as if without them the earth wouldn't turn? And the result?
Yesterday I mentioned blossoming in the present moment — the present moment simply blossoms. According to the old way of speaking, those of sudden capacity enter directly — nothing to say. If you can be dull but not sudden, you're just trapped by this awareness-of-self and self-awareness. Resolving-self and self-resolving — more words are useless.
What are you going on about, Xiaoren? Reporting to Your Excellency: apart from a certain activity, I do nothing at all. Whether you do anything or not, drag him out and chop him! With a "crack," Xiaoren's head falls and gets gnawed by a dog. The remaining ten fingers float about... then suddenly touch something resembling a keyboard. Pressing randomly — the parts beyond the fingers still haven't been found (no head to search with). Below is a lost-and-found notice. Please excuse any typos.