Lu Wei, Chen Jiaqi, Chen Xuanliang
Abstract: The interview, conducted by Lu Wei with scholars Chen Xuanliang and Chen Jiaqi, centers on existentialist thought (especially correcting the misinterpretation of Sartre’s “Hell Is Other People”), aging/retirement (freeing from “must-dos”), death (pursuing dignity amid decline), French vs. Chinese civilization (individualism vs. collectivism), and human existence (humans are beings characterized by regret). It also highlights the scholars’ “commitment” as intellectuals—via revising works, writing about the pandemic—and balances philosophical depth with everyday warmth, linking philosophy to life experiences.
Keywords: humans are beings characterized by regret; existentialist thought; “commitment”
1. Hell Is Other People
Lu Wei: Teacher Xuanliang, you must like your village. Driving here, perhaps because it was late, we didn’t encounter many people, but we could still sense that leisurely and peaceful atmosphere. It’s very much like the small towns we like to visit on vacation.
Chen Xuanliang: Yes, it’s quite nice. I’ve grown accustomed to it here.
Lu Wei: You’re still busy revising the series The Nature of Chinese Civilization, right?
Chen Xuanliang: When it’s republished, I plan to change the title to The Essence of Chinese Civilization. I want to take the opportunity of this revision to make it more complete.
Lu Wei: That’s wonderful. I look forward to the completion of this great work.
Chen Xuanliang: Thank you. Additionally, I hope to work on interpreting Chinese characters. The Chinese language was originally elegant and beautiful, but it is often misused and misunderstood, leading to many ambiguities. I want to start from the accurate classical meanings of the characters to properly showcase the charm of Chinese.
Lu Wei: Wow, I’m really looking forward to that! It feels like both you and Teacher Xuanliang have been living the kind of awakened life that Aristotle admired.
Chen Xuanliang: Both Jiaqi and I have reached the age where we can “retire.” Nowadays, I often hear people talk about “retirement.” When it comes to retirement, I don’t think we need to follow any “must-do” advice. In a lifetime, there are countless “must-dos,” big and small. Most so-called “must-dos” are about considering others and accommodating others. When you’re old, though, you can afford to be a bit more self-willed and follow your own path. The psychological burden lessens, and that’s what retirement is about. Any so-called disregard for “must-dos” really means no longer forcing yourself to do things: whether you do them or not is up to you; you are guided by your heart rather than by others. It’s not about lying flat or doing nothing, but rather about doing things as you please. Even if you follow your own habits and do difficult things, it’s fine as long as it feels right.
Chen Jiaqi: Well said. Xuanliang says “retirement” is about breaking free from “must-dos.” I would say that “retirement” is “not retiring,” thus breaking free from the very concept of “retirement.” In essence, it’s about freeing ourselves from the spiritual constraints of “retirement.” The way some people talk about retirement, “You can’t eat this, you can’t move that”—it’s quite annoying. Of course, exercise is a troublesome matter and varies from person to person. In any case, I consider myself a scholar. Having read so many books, there are some things I simply must say (speaking is truly one of the most basic rights and freedoms of human beings). After reading, you inevitably develop a desire to share what you’ve read and felt with others. Another point: what does “old” mean? The threshold of “old” is different for everyone. As for oneself, what does it mean to acknowledge that one is old? It might require a long process of exploration; you might still not have figured it out by the time you die. Life ends just like that—even though you’re already old, you’re still on the path of exploring what “old” means.
Chen Xuanliang: The secret to longevity is to forget your age. But in reality, your age is always there—it’s not something you can forget by simply wanting to. Trying hard to forget is just another way of trying hard to remember. Generally speaking, death is a very long process. Some things in the body and spirit will irreversibly disappear, and this is partial death. My teeth, for instance, are basically dead, and many other functions have also bid me farewell. When I think about it, I naturally feel sorrowful. If you focus too much on these things, you’re spiritually dead. Of course, ignoring these things is self-deception. Facing death head-on is easier said than done—what does it really mean to face it? In the end, it’s about demanding to die with dignity, to die upright and honorable.
Lu Wei: In recent years, I’ve felt quite pressured by taking care of my parents. Their transition from middle age to old age has impacted my own existence. Especially since they came to Canada for the sake of family ties, in the face of many difficulties and inconveniences. What should the form and content of caring for and accompanying one’s parents really be? Have I truly understood my parents’ generation? I’m not entirely sure. Lately, my mother keeps asking my father, “Do you remember that time?” She hopes that memories can endure in each other’s hearts, and she loves to talk nonstop when I’m around. I’m increasingly aware that their memories are also calling me to become part of them. Honestly, listening to your words today has moved me deeply.
Chen Jiaqi: It also takes a daughter like you, who is emotionally attuned and expressive. Otherwise, so many of life’s trivial matters would be as if they never happened.
Lu Wei: You once wrote an essay entitled “Memories Becoming Increasingly Effortless,” which contained a very interesting passage. It roughly said that when your generation feels they are growing old, if one or two “revolutionaries” in their seventies or eighties were to run over loudly singing about their youth, they might genuinely seem young. But if tens of thousands of seventy-or eighty-year-old “revolutionaries” were to collectively sing about their youth, others would perceive them as growing old together—that is, they would seem to share a collective consciousness of “aging.” When I first read that essay, I read those lines to my parents. They both found it interesting, as if a light had bulb had gone off in their heads, and they discussed the topic for a long time. My mother is about the same age as you. So, is there a philosophical difference between aging as part of a collective and aging as one’s unique self?
Chen Jiaqi: That’s not an easy question to answer, though it is certainly an interesting one. It should be said that wherever there is reflection, there is philosophy. For people of my and Xuanliang’s generation, it was almost as if we lacked any semblance of individuality; we were raised with the same sense of what to do at each age, what revolutionary songs to sing, and so on. When I write about those past events, it feels like reliving them all over again.
Lu Wei: Through reflection, you’ve come to understand those events anew.
Chen Jiaqi: Exactly. Some might ask, do you have to speak about it? Do you have to write about it? For me, yes. As for how to grow old, one might consider it this way: By re-examining the past and finding accurate expression for it, the situation is transformed. That is to say, the person who originally aged “as part of a collective” can now age “as their unique self.”
Lu Wei: The difference is significant.
Chen Jiaqi: At my and Xuanliang’s age, one can’t avoid thinking about death. And the act of thinking itself is a form of resistance—resisting oblivion, resisting nihilism. Life ends just like that—even though you’re already old, you’re still on the path of exploring what “old” means.
Chen Xuanliang: “Life ends just like that—even though you’re already old, you’re still on the path of exploring what ‘old’ means.” When I think of Jiaqi’s words, what comes to my mind are some completely unrelated things and sayings. When we were in middle school studying politics, they taught us philosophy, saying that contradictions must be confronted and thoroughly resolved; that avoiding, delaying, or compromising would never resolve them. The older I get, the more I realize that this view is problematic. Experience tells me that many contradictions are indeed resolved through compromise, avoidance, and delay. But the key issue with that teaching isn’t just the way it disconnects us from experience; it’s the black-and-white thinking pattern, the perfectionist attitude it embodies. This mindset affects us for life, making us want to clarify everything completely, always unconsciously craving to accomplish something. Black-and-white thinking is actually a very typical manifestation of perfectionism—or, conversely, perfectionism is a product of black-and-white thinking. This mindset is also the dominant mode of thinking in a controlled society, which is why surveillance always becomes increasingly strict. For instance, as soon as someone mentions that democracy also has flaws, it’s taken as a system that should be completely negated. In reality, the strength of democracy lies in resolving contradictions through constant compromise. That’s why Voltaire said the advantage of democracy is not that it chooses the best, but that it avoids the worst. This saying shares the same essence as Leibniz’s “the best of all possible worlds.” Tolerance is not just about letting others speak; it’s also about being satisfied with imperfection. Death, like everything else, is always “on the way.”
Lu Wei: You once said that the fear of death isn’t about the result, but rather about picturing that final moment—whether one’s image might be too wretched. Fortunately, you are still brisk and vigorous. However, I remember we also talked about how others think you are so insightful that you could be religious. Doesn’t this worry about how others perceive you suggest a lack of complete understanding?
Chen Xuanliang: Complete understanding is non-existent, it’s impossible.
Lu Wei: Because a person’s essence isn’t determined by themselves?
Chen Xuanliang: Not entirely.
Lu Wei: Oh, Sartre has a play where several people in hell simply cannot understand or acknowledge each other no matter what. So he concludes: “L’enfer, c’est les autres”—“Others are hell.”
Chen Xuanliang: That formulation isn’t quite correct; it needs to be amended. It’s not “Others are hell.” The correct phrasing is: “Hell is others.”
Lu Wei: That sounds completely different!
Chen Xuanliang: In Sartre’s No Exit, three people end up in hell, each justifying themselves, saying they are good in this or that way, but it’s useless. None can convince the others; they still hurt and belittle each other. So the final conclusion becomes: Hell is others. Therefore, it’s not “Others are hell.” The meaning is that the past, for the individual, no longer exists, but, for others, it still exists. For others, it becomes that person’s essence. Once something becomes essentialized, it no longer belongs to the person; essentialized things are universal. So what others say a person is, that is what they are. What they say about themselves doesn’t count. What one is can be striven for in the future. One of the three characters says, “You all call me a deserter, say I’m a coward, but I actually deserted because I was anti-war! I’m not a coward!” It’s no use; others don’t acknowledge it. Therefore, there are no devils or boiling oil cauldrons in hell—only others. Actually, European languages make this clear: the word for “essence” is the participle of the verb “to be.”
Lu Wei: Hmm. I looked it up on the internet, and everywhere uses the formulation “Others are hell.” How did this error spread? Was it an intentional misreading? That turns it into a complete negation of “others.”
Chen Xuanliang: I don’t know how it became such a saying. Sartre said the most basic relationship between people is “conflict.” In Chinese, this concept can easily be misunderstood as meaning that the basic relationship between people is “struggle.” Sartre did not advocate that. His point is that everyone is different, everyone is independent, but human existence cannot be separated from others. We hope for reconciliation with others, to unite with them, but cannot achieve it; hence, there is conflict. If it were merely struggle, it would be mutual negation. But the relationship between people isn’t simple negation; it’s affirmation within negation, negation within affirmation—it’s “entanglement”; i.e., conflict. Sartre believed human existence has three dimensions: being-for-itself (l’être-pour-soi), being-for-others (l’être-pour-autrui), and facticity (originally translated by me as “散朴性”; now I would use “行为性”). These expressions are abstract, but they essentially refer to consciousness, the body, and facticity/actedness. “Facticity” was translated in Being and Nothingness as “人为性” (human-made nature). Initially, I translated it as “散朴性”—these are all forced translations due to a lack of precise concepts. If retranslating now, I would change it to “行为性” (actedness/doing-ness). Being-for-itself refers to human consciousness. The body constitutes the “being-for-others” dimension—one discovers one’s body as a being-for-others when reflecting on feelings of shame or under the gaze of others. Facticity/actedness refers to humans always being in interaction with others. One needs both consciousness and a body to act, to have real relationships between people. Without others—if others are merely negated existence—one wouldn’t even know what one is. One discovers oneself through being negated by others. Without others, humans wouldn’t have self-consciousness. How can one say “Others are hell”? Wouldn’t that mean the relationship between people is merely antagonism, struggle, simple mutual negation? The conflict between the three characters in No Exit isn’t simple mutual negation. Each hopes the others will recognize them, but the stronger this desire, the less achievable the goal becomes. This feeling is the feeling of being in hell, and this feeling is created by living among others, living in conflict with others, being in entangled, unclear relationships with them. Therefore, hell is others. It actually means: Hell is the conflict with others, and this conflict stems from caring too much about others’ recognition. Saying “Others are hell” implies others exist merely to bully me. That’s completely missing the point.
Lu Wei: So, Sartre’s “hell” isn’t really a spatial concept, but rather that state of “conflict” within interpersonal relationships characterized by entanglement.
2. Philosophical Sincerity and the Sincerity of Philosophers
Lu Wei: This question occurred to me on the flight to Paris: How large is the gap between philosophical sincerity and the sincerity of philosophers? Shall we take Sartre as a first example? At the same time, I’d also like to use you as examples.
Chen Xuanliang: There are three figures in French history for whom the entire population of Paris turned out to mourn after their deaths. Sartre is one of them.
Lu Wei: Many people still visit his grave to lay flowers today. Of course, some also go for Beauvoir.
Chen Xuanliang: Yes. These three figures in French history are: first, Voltaire; second, Hugo; and third, Sartre. That is to say, these individuals received widespread respect from the people. But to be honest, these people were also the loneliest; very few truly understood them.
Lu Wei: I think the French people’s fondness for Sartre stems from his pursuit of freedom and equality, his desire to break free from various constraints, including history, religion, and so on.
Chen Xuanliang: Oh, right. These three individuals all happened to be atheists. All three championed freedom and equality. Look at Voltaire—he had a unique persistence regarding freedom. Although Voltaire is often seen as right-wing, in fact, if you examine his views, he was left-wing. Hugo was the same, filled with compassion for humanity. Voltaire was a typical deist, meaning God might exist, but God does not interfere in human affairs; after creating you, He leaves you to your own devices. As for Hugo’s works, such as Ninety-Three, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and Les Misérables: don’t think he only had compassion for the poor—he had compassion for all people. Why write about the poor? Because they most directly express the tragedy of the human condition.
Lu Wei: Hugo was remarkable.
Chen Xuanliang: Writers of that era all had a great sense of compassion. Look at Ninety-Three—does he sympathize with the aristocracy? Because at that time, the aristocracy had fallen into the most impoverished position. Speaking of “qiong”（穷), the Chinese language is incredibly subtle; this term is very well chosen. Nowadays, when people say “qiong,” they don’t actually mean “poor” in the sense of lacking wealth, but rather “pin” (贫). However, the original meaning of “qiong” is “extreme” or “end.” “Qiong ze si bian” (穷则思变) means, “when things reach an extreme, one thinks of change.” “Qiongkun liaodao” (穷困潦倒)—a “qiongren” (穷人) does not simply refer to someone who is “pin” and has no money; that’s not the meaning. A “qiongren” and a “pinren” (贫人) without money are not the same thing. Everyone reaches a point where they can’t go on, a time of distress—that is when a person is “qiong.”
Lu Wei: So, in a sense, everyone is ultimately “qiong,” everyone is vulnerable. There’s one thing I don’t quite understand about Sartre. Logically speaking, he was so intelligent and so eager to be a sincere person—both he and Beauvoir refused to cooperate with the establishment (the authorities) their entire lives, and they genuinely strove to practice this. Sartre even refused the Nobel Prize in Literature later on. Logically, he shouldn’t have harbored illusions about the violence of Stalinism. He spoke of humanism and individual freedom; why couldn’t he feel sympathy for those persecuted by tyrannical power? Or perhaps his judgment at that time didn’t live up to his prominent reputation? This is truly regrettable, because I feel his existentialist philosophy was sincere.
Chen Jiaqi: Sartre might not be considered sincere on this matter. However, when judging
whether a philosophy is sincere, one shouldn’t initially use the philosopher’s personal sincerity as the standard.
Chen Xuanliang: Let me put it this way: Sartre simply didn’t believe that the things he said had much impact at the time. He didn’t think his words influenced the world. Intellectuals need to take a stance regarding new developments, even if they are mistaken. But he believed he should do it, so he did. The crux lies there: he believed he needed to express this viewpoint, to make his statement about the changes in the world. He also knew that expressing it would inevitably have some influence, but he didn’t ponder too much about the extent of that influence. So he didn’t feel he needed to bear any particular consequences for these statements.
Lu Wei: He thought it was a promising new development?
Chen Xuanliang: Let me give you another example. Suppose I go to vote. If my daughters didn’t drag me there, I probably couldn’t be bothered. Overall, I believe it doesn’t really matter who gets elected. Even if you want someone specific to win, you still think to yourself: one more vote from me won’t make a difference, one less vote won’t matter either. That’s the mentality.
Lu Wei: But if nobody goes, the outcome changes.
Chen Xuanliang: That’s true. Of course, after I went, I felt it was quite good to go and vote. The reason it felt good was the sense of participation. The feeling that you are part of this world—it’s a very subtle feeling. Moreover, the voters were calm; no one felt that their single vote would change the world. And they clearly understood that whoever got elected wouldn’t pose a major problem. The key point is that the foundation of democracy is culture, not just the system. Everyone believes in this concept. I go to vote—it’s my right and duty. Whether I can change the world or not, I don’t care.
Lu Wei: Are you suggesting that Sartre was merely adopting the mentality of a citizen casting a vote? “My one vote doesn’t really matter, I just need to show up and fulfill my civic duty.” But the issue is that the stance he took and the weight of a citizen potentially choosing the wrong person at the polling station are completely different.
Chen Xuanliang: The situation for French intellectuals speaking out on public affairs is different from that of Chinese intellectuals. They speak out more frequently and aren’t particularly worried about judgment, so often they aren’t as rigorous and don’t consider the consequences.
Lu Wei: Hmm, that’s really true. Sartre later expressed regret about his former sympathy for violence. So, regarding these three masters, including Sartre, for whom the people of Paris turned out en masse and whom they deeply cherish, you mentioned their left-wing characteristics earlier. I think they probably couldn’t have imagined the current situation back then. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to clearly define what constitutes left-wing and right-wing. Sartre said, “Man is a useless passion.” I wonder how he would view the world today.
Chen Xuanliang: But Sartre already had a premonition. When I say people didn’t understand him, it’s because his insights into human nature were rarely deeply explored. Sartre’s plays are still performed in France today, but who seriously interprets the meanings within them? Very few. Even the explanations of them are often obscure and clouded; no one truly understands.
Lu Wei: I plan to carefully read his dramatic works. Teacher Jiaqi, you wrote novels and plays in your youth. I imagine you must have a deep understanding of those works of existentialist literature? You’ve been silent for quite a while.
Chen Jiaqi: You seldom have the chance to hear Xuanliang speak; this time, you should listen to him more.
Lu Wei: Teacher Xuanliang is more amiable than I imagined.
Chen Xuanliang: Fortunately, the internet is well-developed now, making it easier to discuss issues online.
Lu Wei: Yes. I hope I can seek your advice again in the future, Teacher Xuanliang. It was in the name of “Being and Existentialism”—to discuss issues within the awareness of the problems, to touch upon life within a philosophical atmosphere—that I thought of conducting this interview. Your conversation not only clarifies many theoretical issues but also carries the warmth of everyday life. It allows people to appreciate the charm of philosophy through life’s details and to engage in a more vibrant life by clarifying ideological perplexities. That’s the term Sartre used—“engagement,” right? Yes, you have always been engaged with your times.
Chen Jiaqi: When it comes to interviews, if they only focus on theory and the topic itself, it’s hard to find anything moving. This time, both Xuanliang and I spoke a great deal. This is inextricably linked to you being the interviewer. Agile language can make theoretical topics come alive.
Lu Wei: Thank you. We were just talking about how to face the issue of “growing old.” You both mentioned that your entire generation seems to have been cast from the same mold. But from my perspective, the two of you certainly weren’t cast from the same mold.
Chen Jiaqi: I’m staying at Xuanliang’s place this time, for three months. Of course, some of that time will be spent traveling. We chat every day, about everything, without any reservations.
Lu Wei: That’s truly enviable. Friendships between men that reach this level are rare, aren’t they? And not just between men? I’ve read quite a few of your chat records, including some reflections during the COVID-19 pandemic. At that time, because of the Wuhan writer’s diary incident, there were fierce online battles. That situation forced many people to remain silent; saying a little more could lead to being “ganged up on.”
Chen Jiaqi: It feels like just yesterday.
Lu Wei: You later felt uneasy and wrote a long essay about it that was widely circulated, in which you again raised the issues of “courage” and “cowardice.” Your efforts to resist forgetting have moved and influenced many people, including me. What surprises me is that after the pandemic, others try to act as if nothing happened, but you can’t. You inspire everyone to face their real situation anew. Era and existence—you always care about the present.
Chen Jiaqi: The era is existence. Existence is in the present. I wrote about some of my feelings during the pandemic in What Was and Was Not in Fifty Years. I didn’t write fully enough; when writing, I still had some concerns, for the sake of being able to publish. Of course, it was later published abroad.
Lu Wei: Although you have done a lot, you still feel you weren’t brave enough, is that right? In the eyes of the ancient Greeks, courage was paramount.
Chen Jiaqi: Yes, there were many things I should have said but didn’t. A lot of theoretical analysis could only be hinted at.
Lu Wei: In Romance and Humor, you discussed the status of value standards in the world of facts.
Chen Jiaqi: In the book, I said that in the world of facts, value standards are too fragile. Too insignificant, too easily crushed by some iron-clad fact at any time. But looking at it the other way, it’s precisely because of their fragility and the constant threat of being crushed that people are able to feel their value.
Lu Wei: I couldn’t agree more. So, you can only shed your tears for all your eras. Yet you still want to speak. You have always emphasized that speech is the most basic human right.
Chen Xuanliang: It was through inventing language that humans became human. I believe that discursive power is the most fundamental public power in human society. Discourse is considered a power because it has the force to control people. People can live together in society because they share a common discourse, meaning they share common values. A conversation between people without common values or common discourse is like “a chicken talking to a duck”—talking past each other. The fundamental issue of modern Western philosophy is the issue of humanist discourse, starting from phenomenology, and continuing on to the philosophy of language. I think existentialism holds a very special place within it; it’s the philosophy among modern schools that is closest to “human affairs,” while the others are more “academic.” Although humanism was established as a common value since the Enlightenment, a common discourse for its expression never truly formed. That’s why there were still two World Wars, and a Hitler could emerge. Existentialism can be seen as another humanist enlightenment, where individualist values found a much clearer mode of expression. Philosophically speaking, it established a pluralistic worldview—not only is human existence pluralistic, but religion is too, opinions are too; people must learn to live together with those different from themselves. Of course, the most fundamental humanism cannot be violated. Without this common value, dialogue is impossible, and common life is impossible. This refers only to the Western world. In China, holism and collectivist values still dominate. Enlightenment is still needed.
Lu Wei: It reminds me of an era, the Misty Poetry era—roughly the mid-to-late 80s. That was also a time when existentialism and Western philosophy were hugely popular in China. Teacher Xuanliang, would you be willing to talk about that “Sea Swimming” incident that occurred in 1989? Were you really such a good swimmer in your youth? You and Teacher Jiaqi used “Sea Swimming” to describe a truly significant historical event; if you’re not careful, the term just vanishes into thin air, without a trace. You were a young scholar then, in the era of “out of rage comes poetry.” Translating Being and Nothingness changed the course of your life, could one say that?
Chen Xuanliang: I really was a good swimmer. Using the term “Sea Swimming” was very fitting. Translating Sartre’s book certainly influenced my decision at that time, but, more importantly, it was due to my character and beliefs. After leaving China, I settled in France, but I still found it hard to let go of everything. I always wanted to focus quietly on my philosophical research, but I also kept wondering, how did everything happen? Why did it happen that way? So, I turned my focus to the direction of “the nature of Chinese civilization.” It took me many years to finally figure some things out.
Lu Wei: What Sartre called “commitment”—you and Teacher Jiaqi, as true intellectuals, have always been committed, no matter the form. You once said that writers and thinkers, regardless of the era they live in, should not forget to think well and create, so that when the times change, they are not left with empty regrets, having nothing to show for themselves. That left a deep impression on me. The book The Nature of Chinese Civilization, which took you many years to write, is truly a monumental work. I’ve read part of it; it’s brilliant and very powerful. Many issues I couldn’t figure out before became clear when I pondered them in light of the theory of the “total-responsibility organization.” No matter which path led you to today, you remain strongly yourself.
Chen Xuanliang: Even if one could return to the past, one couldn’t bring the experience of the future back. I sometimes ask myself, if I had to do it over again, would I make the same choice? I think I would make the same choice. The regrets just have to stay there.
Lu Wei: Why do you describe yourself as “Rousseau on horseback”?
Chen Xuanliang: The phrase “Rousseau on horseback”refers to Robespierre, the leader of the French Revolution. I use this metaphor because I position myself as an enlightener, i.e., Rousseau, not a “revolutionary,” not Robespierre. Enlightenment is a movement in the realm of discourse. Therefore, an enlightener is a “thinker” or “a person who speaks,” while a revolutionary is one who directly engages in revolutionary movements or political revolutions in the “material realm.” There is this saying, “Rousseau on horseback,” but Rousseau himself did not ride a horse.
Chen Jiaqi: It should be “Rousseau off the horse,” the Rousseau who doesn’t ride.
Lu Wei: Do you know what it makes me think of? Don Quixote. Borges said that Cervantes initially just wanted to write Don Quixote as a fictional novel, but as he wrote, he himself became the character. He had to become Don Quixote; together with Don Quixote, he went out to raise a ruckus in the world. If a person is good enough, one day they will become Don Quixote. Teacher Xuanliang, could you still get along well with your friends from your youth later on? Were there any you parted ways with due to conflicting views?
Chen Xuanliang: Youth is generally when one’s worldview forms. Those who haven’t gone through a process of philosophical reflection like ours won’t change again. My rapport with Jiaqi is largely because our paces of reflection are quite aligned in the pace of our reflections. As for the starting point, for our generation, it was almost identical. I parted ways with many people later because our reflections couldn’t keep in sync.
Lu Wei: I understand. I’m increasingly feeling that true optimism lies not only in hopes such as “believing in the future,” but more in changing the present, changing the myth that the power of discourse can only reside in one place. The way history is recorded should be pluralistic.
Chen Jiaqi: You are optimistic, and your generation should be optimistic too.
Lu Wei: Thank you both for opening your hearts.
3. Humans Are Beings Characterized by Regret
Lu Wei: Mr Chen Xuanliang, do you plan to continue translating philosophical works in the future?
Chen Xuanliang: For now, I must first finish writing my own series of books, The Nature of Chinese Civilization.
Lu Wei: In your eyes, is France constantly changing? Or has it remained unchanged? As ancient civilizations, what respective characteristics do France and China have regarding the nature of civilization?
Chen Xuanliang: The world is always changing, and France is certainly no exception. But as the old saying goes, “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Some things do not change, especially those related to “nature.” Nature refers to the foundational elements that “shape” a subject at its birth. French civilization has two origins: one is the element of commercial civilization and Christianity brought by the conquest of ancient Roman civilization, the other is the feudal system established by the Frankish conquest. If we speak of the nature of French civilization, it is the tripartite division of public power: feudal-style decentralized politics, a market economy based on free cities, and independent organizations of discourse. The history of French civilization is the interplay of these elements, with one waxing as the other wanes. After the Enlightenment, the old civilization fractured, capitalism emerged, and democratic systems were established. Chinese civilization is the opposite. Although it initially also established a feudal civilization—the civilization of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou Dynasties—public power was unified, forming a society of the total-responsibility organization. The subsequent development of Chinese civilization continuously followed this path, evolving from decentralization into centralization. Therefore, the French uphold individualistic values, while the Chinese uphold holistic, collectivist values. These things are generally very difficult to change. What changes are material things, and the fastest-changing of these, of course, is fashion. Paris is called the fashion capital, but it's not necessarily that Paris directly leads the world’s fashion trends. Taking ready-to-wear clothing as an example, the direct trendsetter is probably Italy. But Paris provides the “ideas.” French creativity is often underestimated. In fact, for example, almost all schools of modern literature originated in France. I think calling France the fashion capital should refer to the French knowing how to dress—not heavy makeup and such, but looking very casual, yet harmonious and pleasing to the eye. French girls are also very good-looking. Not a flamboyant beauty; they have good figures, relatively soft facial lines, very easy on the eyes.
Lu Wei: Yes, a very natural beauty. Also, are you following contemporary French philosophy at all? Has philosophy become less interesting now? What does philosophy mean to the French? Your children grew up in France, and one of your daughters is even a city councilor—are they interested in existentialist philosophy?
Chen Xuanliang: I think the flourishing of philosophy is not necessarily a good thing for people in the present, because the emergence of new philosophy often occurs when social changes happen and values need to shift. And people in the present generally desire stable lives. Especially Westerners, under conditions where the middle class predominates, with affluent lives, political stability, and a sense of security, they don’t wish for major changes. Of course, those who study philosophy professionally will always have some new ideas and produce some new philosophy. But the new philosophy we talk about refers to those philosophies that become known, the kind that secure a place in the “history of philosophy.” Right now, it seems no significant new philosophy has emerged in the world. As for existentialism, it really cannot be reduced to a “philosophical movement”; it’s more of an “intellectual trend.” The influence of existentialist literature is much greater than that of existentialist philosophy. Sartre said existentialism is a humanism. In terms of intellectual level, it didn’t surpass Enlightenment thought; it’s just that its expression was clearer, theoretically more refined, inheriting the achievements of phenomenology, and ultimately pushing philosophy into the stage of linguistic philosophy. But such philosophy has also become increasingly “bookish,” “academic,” harder to understand, and further removed from life. French children study philosophy in the last two years of their four-year high school, replacing French language classes. However, the philosophy they learn is completely different from what is taught in Chinese schools. Philosophy classes in China should actually be called Dialectical Materialism and Historical Materialism, which at best can be called one “kind” of philosophy. In my view, whether this theory can even be called philosophy is questionable. Philosophy classes in French high schools involve reading selected works of philosophers while learning to write in a “conceptual dialectic” style—that is, essentially teaching students to think in a philosophical way. Children rarely have an interest in philosophy. My daughters have no particular interest in philosophy. As for existentialism, especially existentialist philosophy, very few people mention it now. But I think this isn’t because existentialism is outdated; on the contrary, the values advocated by existentialism have become universal values, the self-evident premise when people think about problems, the spontaneous standard for measuring things. As for the philosophical reasoning behind these values, it’s no longer needed.
Lu Wei: Yes, they’ve become premises, integrated into social life.
Chen Jiaqi: I wrote a lot about Paris in my travelogue Thoughts During Days Abroad.
Lu Wei: I always thought Parisian women were more famous than Paris itself. When I arrived in Paris, what struck me deeply was the truly unique aura of Parisian women on the streets. Their beige trench coats and the way they smoke are both very distinctive. Many Parisian women have a beige trench coat; when the wind blows, the belt flutters. Parisians are very casual; the seats outside cafés are always packed, facing the street. While dining, I noticed the rather dashing gesture of Parisian women asking for a light. For example, a girl quickly passes a couple’s table, suddenly bends down, extends her hand, and the seated person immediately lights her cigarette, the smoke ignites again. The whole process happens without a single word, without any hesitation, seamless as flowing clouds and water. In North America, you’d at least say “excuse me.” That’s Paris.
Chen Jiaqi: Paris, this place, is unlike anywhere else in the world—a place that feels not unfamiliar.
Lu Wei: Yes, some people who profoundly moved the world once loved and lived here. Didn’t your travelogue mention Les Fleurs du Mal? It reminds me of Baudelaire’s Paris, like in “Paris Spleen,” where he deliberately bypasses the fashionable, young Paris, focusing instead on writing about Paris’s decadence, the extraordinary plight of elderly women, etc. Which Paris is the real one? Perhaps both are real. A Parisian woman, perhaps in her youth, liked adventuring everywhere, caring little for the future. Actually, I should remove the qualifier “Parisian.”
Chen Jiaqi: Choice. Humans are making choices every moment. People are responsible for their own choices, but in fact, they cannot truly bear this responsibility. Because the consequences of choices do not depend solely on my will. This perplexity is truly unbearable. Choice, or what we call freedom, is human destiny. I choose, but the future turns out in unexpected ways.
Chen Xuanliang: What people should most enjoy is the “present moment,” but, logically speaking, one cannot only enjoy the present. If one just lives in the present in a “do the minimum for today” way, it’s a laid-back, passionless life, merely that of a living corpse. Time begins from the future. The future does not yet exist; what exists is the present. Enjoying the present is about letting the present make contact with the future, letting the future come into existence. But this doesn’t mean becoming an idealist—idealists live in the future, not in the present. Letting the future come into existence is the so-called “adventure,” the French aventure, the so-called “encounter,” feeling the moment when the unknown becomes experience.
Lu Wei: Life is an adventure, and so is choice. There’s a thought-provoking sentence on the title page of Heidegger’s Holzwege: “Woods have paths. These paths mostly break off abruptly in untrodden terrain.”
Chen Xuanliang: Each choice brings oneself onto a path in the future. You don’t know what will happen in the future, but you know something will happen, and you are prepared for the surprise that the happening will bring you. When something really happens, you won’t be caught off guard, experiencing shock, or let it pass by unnoticed. You can, in that very moment of the event, feel the collision of the future and the present, and most deeply perceive the beauty of life.
Lu Wei: That’s beautifully said. So are you the type who faces the future? Because you said you don’t always look back. Philosophical people don’t seem to belong to those who merely live in the moment.
Chen Xuanliang: I am concrete. Where does my trouble lie? I see through all of this.
Lu Wei: Thoroughly clear?
Chen Xuanliang: All my problems stem from being too detached. There is nothing new under the sun. Even though the sun is different every day, I know it’s still the same sun.
Lu Wei: The light is different every day.
Chen Xuanliang: I am just too detached. Nothing matters except death. Also, don’t do anything unfaithful. One wrong step and there’s no turning back—don’t stray. I was among the first to get divorced; I was ahead of the curve in everything. Jiaqi knows best how tumultuous and painful my divorce was back then. Both sides were hurt by me, and in the end, I resolved to ensure that I would have no regrets about it.
Lu Wei: And you succeeded, right? You are happy now.
Chen Xuanliang: But that knot remains here. That’s why I can understand much of Sartre’s ideas. In The Flies, there’s a line from Oedipus’s sister: “I repent.” Sartre believed that repentance is a form of self-deception. When someone does something wrong, the consequences don’t change because of repentance. Repentance merely assumes the matter is over, but it isn’t. If someone kills, they carry the bloodstain, and the flies will follow forever. This conclusion is too heavy. Self-deception is truly a refuge for the vast majority. I often wonder if I, too, have fallen into self-deception somewhere. I’ve found that in many things, I am indeed deceiving myself. Yet, I still feel helpless. Although the responsible attitude is to continue engaging, making choices, and striving to rectify mistakes. “Force majeure” always exists, even if “force majeure” seems like the best excuse for self-deception. So, we still hide in self-deception. That’s why Sartre said, “Do you think just because you repent, the matter ceases to exist? It is part of your essence.”
Lu Wei: What has passed becomes part of one’s essence. Probably, everyone has moments of falling into self-deception.
Chen Jiaqi: We were all too aware of the pain Xuanliang went through back then. That kind of pain—ah, it’s truly indescribable. I saw him suffering every day but was at a complete loss. All I could do was stay by his side, with no solutions to offer, utterly helpless.
Lu Wei: Loving only one person in a lifetime might be due to happiness, not foolishness, but it’s truly not easy. So, learning to love well without losing oneself is a lifelong endeavor. The insights shared by Teacher Xuanliang are moving, but how many can truly grasp them?
Chen Jiaqi: Love may be difficult, but the greatest sorrow in life is not never having loved, but refusing to be loved.
Lu Wei: We must preserve the ability to love.
Chen Jiaqi: And the beauty of being human lies not in appearance but in the soul, especially repentance and remorse, which can make one’s soul beautiful and pure.
Lu Wei: Teacher Jiaqi is a person of true temperament, one who often says he lives in the past, but not for nostalgia’s sake. Teacher Xuanliang emphasizes that he doesn’t care about conventional opinions, yet he too carries knots and helplessness in his heart. However, as thinkers who have never ceased reflecting, you are both fortunate. I was deeply moved when I saw the photo of you two in Edinburgh. Your friendship reminds me of the bond between David Hume and Adam Smith—built on mutual trust, where ideas clash and hearts are shared; truly beautiful.
Chen Xuanliang: Do you know what living in the past is called? It’s what ordinary people call a sense of history. This kind of person always feels like they’re making history. But what exactly has been created? What people create is what they most wish to hold onto. All issues, as Sartre said, are about the past, which is essentially a void. Once it’s passed, it no longer exists. Yet, all problems still hope to be grasped and held onto.
Lu Wei: Hmm, being able to grasp everything. Are you both satisfied with life?
Chen Xuanliang: I can’t say I’m dissatisfied.
Lu Wei: Does “not dissatisfied” equal satisfaction?
Chen Xuanliang: Humans are beings characterized by regret. Complete satisfaction is impossible.
Lu Wei: “Life is a bowl of cherries—some sour, some sweet.”
Chen Jiaqi: To say humans are beings characterized by regret means human existence is flawed. Everyone has their own flaws, and they may be unaware or unable to change them. It is precisely these flaws that make us regretful and allow us to experience the imperfection and meaning of life. During travels or visits, I sometimes intentionally leave some regrets, only to feel remorse afterward. Even without “intention,” regrets are inevitable. Such is life.
Lu Wei: Every trip truly comes with regrets.
Chen Xuanliang: I’ve come to understand more and more what Leibniz meant when he said: “The actual world is the best of all possible worlds.” You have to believe this. Why? No particular reason. You just have to believe it. The existing world is the best among all possible worlds.
Lu Wei: Is this a kind of religion? Leibniz was very optimistic. He said that evil and disaster are also part of the overall goodness and perfection. How could an omniscient and omnipotent God create an imperfect world? The problems are left for humanity to solve. But then Russell said that your kind of statement would make the Queen of Prussia very happy, as it encourages serfs to continue enduring evil and inevitable misfortune, and so on.
Chen Jiaqi: What Xuanliang said can easily be misunderstood. The world presents itself to us in this way, and we can only accept it. We are not yet aware that the world could be different. For example, during my three-month stay in France, I realized that the world could be different. But as soon as I return to China, I will revert to accepting the way things are here. I’m not making any moral judgment here; I’m only speaking of possibilities.
Lu Wei: Jiaqi, how satisfied are you with your life?
Chen Jiaqi: My life is full of regrets. There are many things I should have done but didn’t, many things I did wrong, just as many things I said or viewpoints I held were incorrect, but I find it inconvenient to admit. And then there’s memory—I’ve always been resisting forgetfulness.
Lu Wei: For example, when the memories of two people end up being remembered by only one, that too is a kind of regret. Of course, one could also call it a beauty in imperfection.
Chen Xuanliang: Once you believe in Leibniz’s words, your world will change, becoming better than all other possibilities.
Lu Wei: A philosophized fatalism? When you think about it, it’s quite touching. I’ve heard you quote Leibniz’s proposition many times, which shows it’s truly a concept engraved deep in your soul. Perhaps it alleviates loneliness.
Chen Xuanliang: It is indeed a rather subtle way of accepting fate. In the end, philosophy returns to this. It’s like Hegel said: a six-year-old child says “a fall into a pit, a gain in your wit,” and an old man says the same thing, but the connotations of their words are different. The same sentence, when spoken by someone, can become chicken soup. But the reason chicken soup endures is that those words can all be traced back to philosophers. The problem, however, is that if you strip away the essence of what the philosopher said and leave only an abstract sentence, it becomes chicken soup.
Lu Wei: Yes, when a child and an old man say the same words, the impact is different. If you were to use one or two keywords to describe your current state of existence, what would they be? Teacher Xuanliang, would you choose “detachment” or “clarity”?
Chen Xuanliang: What does it mean to be detached? To put it bluntly, it might be called “standing by with folded arms” or “watching from a safe distance”—in other words, indifference or apathy. Or perhaps, it means not caring about anything, akin to cynicism. And what does it mean to be clear-minded? If not handled properly, it could turn into the Buddhist concept of the “four great emptinesses.” On the other hand, not being detached means carrying all matters and responsibilities on one’s own back, trudging forward under a heavy load every day. Not being clear-minded means having to figure out the ins and outs of everything, needing to explain every detail clearly. This is nothing but making life difficult for oneself. What I mean by detachment and clarity actually lies between the two extremes. I will get involved, but I don’t expect things to unfold exactly as I hope. I will strive to understand the cause and effect of matters, but I don’t assume that what I say is the absolute truth. The last sentence in Marx’s Critique of the Gotha Program is: “I have spoken, and I have saved my soul.” The final sentence in Zhuge Liang’s “Memorial on Sending Out the Troops” reads: “As for success or failure, advancement or retreat, that is beyond the foresight of my humble intelligence.” This is what is meant by “being able to pick it up and let it go.” So, when I get up, I do what needs to be done, and when I lie down, I fall asleep quickly.
Lu Wei: With what you’ve said, Jiaqi might start feeling uneasy inside. Jiaqi, which word would you choose?
Chen Jiaqi: Insomnia. Yes, that’s the word. Even after taking sleeping pills, I’m still awake. It’s like being immersed in the ocean, where sleeping pills are the only tangible stones I can grasp. But these stones cannot lift me ashore; they only signify my resistance. Yet perhaps it is this very resistance that causes me to sink deeper into the sea of language or thought.
Lu Wei: This survival experience is real and conscious. Your words are not limited to insomniacs. Is your insomnia related to “overthinking”? In the preface of Life Between Heaven and Earth, you wrote half a page of heartfelt thoughts about your insomnia and life anxieties. Those words were incredibly sincere and thought-provoking. You mentioned the confusion about your father’s background—knowing he was from Shaoxing, Zhejiang, but not why he fled to Beijing, and that “why” deeply troubled you. You also spoke of serving as an official in a prison during the Cultural Revolution, knowing many political prisoners were innocent but still mechanically performing duties without intervening—another “why” that left you perplexed. When discussing the film The Reader, you connected it to many questions: Can individuals separate themselves from state crimes in specific circumstances? Can an illiterate Nazi commit the “banality of evil”? You said you still don’t know, but these thoughts keep swirling in your mind, causing sleepless nights. The preface’s passage left a strong impression, especially your reference to The Reader—I love that film, particularly the lead actress’s performance, which was a rare, breathtaking interpretation of the original. It seems your insomnia has deep roots, tied to philosophy and the times, right?
Chen Jiaqi: Whenever something happens—not even about me—I can’t stop thinking about it and can’t sleep.
Chen Xuanliang: Every time Jiaqi sends a few lines during his insomnia, I just want to do something, but in reality, words feel inadequate. I hope my comforting words help him sleep, but it’s hard. All I can think is, “Amitabha.”
Chen Jiaqi: For me, the question of why people must sleep has become as serious as why people must live.
Lu Wei: How have you been sleeping in France? I can’t fathom the severity of this “existence.”
Chen Jiaqi: Not severely insomniac, just okay.
Lu Wei: The Bodhisattva blesses!
Leaving Teacher Xuanliang’s home, I took the metro back to Notre-Dame station and walked slowly along the Seine back to my hotel, the Da Vinci. The shimmering river, with its gentle lapping, felt like a dear friend accompanying me. I recalled Teacher Xuanliang’s words about Heraclitus’s idea that “no one steps into the same river twice,” which already implies acknowledging the present moment.Now, it is in the dead of the night.
The Authors
Lu Wei, pen name of Zhang Yan, writer and literary critic. She is the author of The Book of Strangers—A Collection of Prose by Lu Wei and has published nearly a hundred literary works, including novels, critical studies, and essays. Her work has appeared in numerous domestic and international publications, including The Great Wall,The Study, The Writer, Chinese Literature Academic Journal, and World Chinese Literature Forum. She currently resides in Canada. Email: poemlegend@gmail.com
Chen Jiaqi, a professor, renowned philosopher, former chair of the Department of Philosophy at Tongji University and former director of the Academic Committee of the College of Humanities. He is one of China’s most influential scholars of Western philosophy and has published fifteen academic works and essays, including As I See It, Being and Non-Being Over Thirty Years, The Truth of Discourse, Life Between Heaven and Earth, and Holding on to Memory.
Chen Xuanliang, a scholar based in France, renowned philosopher, and Chinese translator of Jean-Paul Sartre’s L'Être et le Néant (Being and Nothingness). He has long been engaged in the study of Western philosophy and the history of philosophy more broadly, with a focus on comparisons between Chinese and Western civilizations. His published works include The Nature of Chinese Civilization and The Evolution of Ontological Philosophy in France.