Survival of the Fittest

The five elements generate each other because of their overcoming relationships. Between two elements that overcome one another, there is an absolute advantage, so the one being overcome is weak and the overcoming one is strong—that is, the law of the jungle. Natural selection, survival of the fittest—this follows heaven's will, the order of nature. But the weak are not born without the right to exist; their right to live is shared with the strong, just as when two people step onto a single-log bridge at the same time, and the bridge can only bear one crossing. The weak are always more numerous than the strong, because the weak in aggregate are themselves a strong group—so the weak can only develop as individuals, not leap forward collectively. Like a peasant uprising: only a handful end up becoming kings; the rest remain commoners. We are born into nature and follow its command in all things; it is not that natural law is absolute in itself, only absolute relative to us—like a left hand that cannot grasp its own wrist. In truth, what nature really is, no one can fathom—just as a thousand readers yield a thousand Hamlets. We each tend our own mines, so some strike gold, some find silver; some get rich overnight, some die with eyes unclosed. But a vast Earth holds more than just gold and silver. So if someone is called an authority, they have merely occupied a few more hilltops. In truth we are all wrong; we just spin our own cocoons, claim to be local overlords, without knowing where we actually are. Writing prose is like taking a walk—pick a starting point, then wander freely. The title is only a prelude; it can only say where you thought of going, not where you arrived. The so-called "form scattered, spirit gathered" actually loses the essential nature of writing. Prose, like Zhuangzi's "Free and Easy Wandering," goes straight up and down, suddenly left, suddenly right—the steps follow the heart, the heart is born of the steps—that is the mark of a master. A thing always goes from nothing to something, from something to nothing, like the computer's "0" and "1". If events move forward, that does not necessarily mean progress. Like a cylindrical balloon: when you squeeze one side flat, the other side swells. There is always a taiji, within which your other side waxes and wanes with this one. There is always a taiji, within which you and your other side share abundance and loss together. The taiji of infinity and the infinitesimal—what is it? In truth, language itself is the real stumbling block of philosophical progress.