Any Rightist Who Simultaneously Preaches Liberalism and Market Economy Is a Hypocritical Shameless Rogue; By the Same Logic, So Is the Left.

So-called liberalism, whatever tricks it uses, even if it drags out an axiomatic system, still rests on one premise: the world has no identity-unity. Otherwise all promises about freedom are bullshit, unless the speaker can avoid death. Because if the world does have identity-unity, then a liberal's life and death should also be free; otherwise, if you cannot even be free over life and death while still assuming world identity-unity, what is that if not bullshit?

And those preaching market economy, no matter how many axioms and model-tricks they pile up, still rest on the opposite premise: the world has identity-unity. Otherwise how can that game of capital identity continue? How can the grand lies of the global village and globalization be squared? The market-economy lie is built entirely on the promise of the so-called invisible hand, and that promise presupposes world identity-unity.

From this it is clear: any rightist who preaches both liberalism and market economy is a shameless hypocrite, because the two stand on completely opposite premises, world non-identity-unity versus identity-unity. Conversely, by leftist logic, preaching collectivism and planned economy creates the same contradiction. So left and right are six of one and half a dozen of the other, the same idiots in different uniforms.

Of course, the world can absolutely have these pairings: liberalism with planned economy, collectivism with market economy. These correspond, respectively, to world non-identity-unity and identity-unity. At least then your premises are logically consistent. Naturally, this is beyond what left and right idiots can even imagine.

Yet logic itself is often just a joke. Being and non-being are empty talk; neither being nor non-being can stand; all of it is still ghost-thought spinning itself. So what is the truth? I will present two pieces written years ago. The answer is inside:

The floating world breeds clumsy intent; calculation always misses its chance. In bowing and rising, truth is also false; in surfacing and sinking, right is already wrong. Truth and falsehood alike are short on meaning; right and wrong alike violate too much.
Riding a crane toward Yangzhou, chasing deer while gazing at the imperial plain. The crane soars and breaks both wings; the deer dies, how many return? Spring comes back and willows green; winter arrives and rain-snow drifts.
Blue waters stride across mountains away; a white horse flies past a crack of time. Whose heart observes sun and moon? Whose ears listen to mockery? Ten thousand affairs are originally transformation and illusion; neither deer nor crane can be prayed for.
I climb those stones of southern mountains, how towering those southern peaks. Woods and mounds spread in wild reaches; field paths fatten with wheat shoots. Lofty crags hide strange beasts; rolling slopes march under brocade banners.
High cliffs cast pure shade; deep ravines fill with white fern. Heaven cracks and sudden rain pours down; startled clouds scramble the light of scenes. Gale winds snap coiled trees; rushing floods bite gaps in stony banks.
Horned dragons dance golden claws; welded peaks shed jade stars. Mountains are shaved of thousand-foot earth; seas spill through ten-thousand-fold encirclements. Where mountain and sea run out of traces, moon is bright and stars are still not sparse.
Flowing light conjures five colors; sword-energy brushes rainbow robes. In clouds, trees are softly dense; at ravine bottoms, grasses are lush and dark. Heaven and earth are caged within a sleeve; sun and moon are slight dust motes.
I drive horses hunting autumn plains, drop line and rod on summer rocks. At times I vanish like an ephemerid; at times I rise with dragon-and-tiger force. Vast and unbounded beyond clear and turbid, at ease I continue the zither's emblem-notes.

In no-birth, joy fills the whole day; why should doubt of life and death arise? Doubt comes from clinging to being; affliction spins its own cocoon-threads. Fame for ten thousand ages is floating cloud; millennium steles are dirt and dung.
This body has nowhere left to lodge; before abiding, it has already departed. Tender are riverside willows, softly calling are forest deer. Every day is a good day; every hour is a flower-time.
Tides rise then fall again; moon rounds then wanes again. The world originally has little trouble; where then is being or non-being action? Steal not a pearl from dust; crave not strange tricks within doctrine.
How could the bright pearl belong to being? To call it non-being is folly too. Neither being nor non-being can be established; still ghost-thought keeps scheming. Seated I watch heaven and earth turn; rising I watch heaven and earth droop.
Wild geese in formation, wind passing over water; flowers fall, moon touching branches. Every dharma remains unstained; every speck of dust leaves nothing behind. Vastly open, ordinary and sage are erased; at ease I enter joy and sorrow alike.
Life and death rest on a single laugh; purity and defilement both depend on this. Life-and-death are beings' grace; purity-and-defilement are beings' compassion. Empty flowers perform Buddha-work; phantom mirrors play with demon-masters.
To meet kalpas, a thousand bodies go; through hardship, one vow follows on. Avici hell empty or not empty, bodhi due or not yet due. Zither-song is naturally broad and bland; do not peer into the moon.