For Better, For Worse
Repost from September 2nd, 1997
The first book that impressed me was a series of cartoons adapted from the Chinese classic Pilgrim to the West. The artist took the chapters from the novel, arranged each into self-contained anecdotes and put them into separate little pamphlets, each the size of a slim walk-man.
I reread every issue until I forgot which one I read first. I never remember which anecdote followed which; I only know that after the stone monkey Sun Wu Kong learns the magic power, he protects the monk Tang Seng with Tang Seng’s two other apprentices to see Buddha in western heaven and bring the Buddhist bibles back to China. On their journey, they meet monsters and demons, all with unbelievable magic powers.
Those powers fascinated me. If that’s possible, I would be able to do a lot of things, I thought admirably. Even though I knew it was unlikely, I could not keep myself from thinking about the a-lot-of-things I would do. . . if I lived in the book.
My thought journey started from a mountain where I found a celestial master to learn magic. Soon I had troubles: I thought I would be homesick; I thought I would be starved in the endless forest; I thought I would be attacked by ants in the day and feeding mosquitoes at night; I thought I would encounter snakes and wolves—which I was eager to see, but only after I learned the magic.
I did not like to endure hardship, and I could not understand why I had to put in so much effort. Unwilling to face the harshness, I skipped the unpleasant part of the journey. Having not learned anything, I imagined myself coming back from the celestial cave with magic skills. I imagined myself flying home from anywhere within minutes, not homesick. I imagined myself transformed into an eagle and a tiger, scaring the hell out of snakes and wolves. I imagined myself stretching my hand, drawing a circle, food from heaven’s kitchen already in my grip, even in the depths of a vast desert, never mind the forest. I became tiny and drove away the plane in the toy store; I became a giant and lifted my friends like toys; I became transparent and made chaos in school, in the toy store, at home, in the swimming pool, in the game room, the market, restaurant, hospital. . . who knew where else.
Excitement came, then left: I had done all I wanted, so what? I went back to reread the book. I didn’t like the happy ending anymore: yes, the four monks met Buddha, flew back to China with bibles, became Buddha themselves, so what? The story changed, or I changed. I liked the beginning of the story; I had to find out how the monkey overcame the obstacles to meet his teacher; I wanted to know how the gang of four fought through numerous battles to reach heaven.
Suppose the monkey never met the master and learned the magic, suppose the four monks never reached the west, suppose I knew they would never succeed, would I still be interested in the story? No. But is a guaranteed heaven what I want? Yes (otherwise why bother taking all the pains of the journey); no (if I already know I will be there no matter what, why bother); yes (if I am not certain what I am doing is worthwhile, why bother); no, yes, no—I give up. I cannot decide, and I cannot skip the journey anyway. My imagination would unconsciously probe ahead, but when I arrived, everything had changed already, for better or for worse.
