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August 17, 2009

Dear Colleague:  

   Conversation—real conversation—is possible only between people who share a world-view at the deepest level. Given that shared world-view, all sorts of topics may then be broached, all sorts of disagreements risked, without putting an end to the conversation and to the relationship. The superficiality of conversation in our time has to do with the absence of such a common world-view. What we do have is something very fragmented—viewpoints rather than world-view. And for lack of a world-view, we hold on to our viewpoints with passion. How then is conversation possible?

   World-view sounds very abstract. It can be that, but it needn't be. A human being's fundamental attitude toward life may well be embodied in a story rather than in a creed or philosophy, and I would even argue that the story reveals more. Let me offer myself as an example. How do I see life and world? For answer, all I need to do is to give you the following passage from C. S. Lewis's story for children, The Silver Chair. In the story, a witch holds two children, Prince Rilian, and Puddleglum the marshwiggle in her sunless Underworld. She asserts that "there is no other world but mine." She accepts the existence of her little lamp, but she laughs to scorn the idea that there is such a thing as the sun. She believes that there are cats, but she mocks at their belief in lions. Puddlegum the marshwiggle is not quite defeated. He says heroically, "One word, Ma'am. One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always likes to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one thing more to be said even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world. I'm on Aslan's side, even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't a Narnia."

   That's right, dear reader, I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. This world-view, I know, makes me a mad-hatter romantic and an outcast of the academic world, with hardly anyone in it I can truly talk with. And what is the view of this academic world? Well, it used to be captured by the word God and its cognates, Truth, Beauty, and the Good. (Etymologically and philosophically these four words have a common ancestry in the Indo-European languages). "Used to," I say. What is it now? What does the university—my university—consider so fundamental to learning that all students must be exposed to it? Well, my university, in its boldness, has come up with two fundamentals, not just one. Now, hold on to your seats, what are the two? One is ethnic studies and the other is food. Yes, that's right. All students must take course on ethnicity and all incoming students must buy a book on food and attend a public lecture on food. How else can they be considered educated and human?

Best wishes,

Yi-Fu