Chinese and Vanity

I have been a neighbor of a Chinese family’s for almost a decade. For this reason, I had the opportunity to meet and talk to more than a dozen of them. And recently, for no apparent reason, I began to articulate: it seems to me — I may well be mistaken… — that the Chinese, as a rule, is less vain than the Westerner. Deepening my investigation, I found that in China there is not, for example, political debate. Oh, look at that! I always thought that a world without political debates would be less rough and that, summarily, every debate of ideas is, rather, a war between vanity. And ordinary Chinese feel no need to see debaters vying for intelligence, proving to the public the wisdom of their own ideas! And ordinary Chinese do not turn on the radio to hear the political commentator say, “I have the best analysis!”, or to hear the economic commentator predict, “Such a measure will fail!”. Ordinary Chinese, it seems to me, makes taking care of their own life; and China, it seems to me, is hardly going to burst into debates, controversies, seeing hatred shed anywhere one looks, with its citizens in a fight, aggressive with each other, almost killing themselves by stupid personal opinions on issues that, not enough the ignorance, they do not keep them the slightest possibility of effective action. For a moment, I find ordinary Chinese superior to the greatest of our scholars.

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Poisonous Ideas

I have some very poisonous ideas, for example, this: I will only reach fullness on the day I cannot say the name of my country’s president. I confess, I have worked hard: I no longer read any news, I have not turned on a television in years, I cannot tell who won the Champions League and other exploits. But I know that fullness, peace of mind and wisdom will only come on the day one ask me: Who have you voted for senator? What do you think of the new bill? What did you think of the new ministerial composition? And for all these I do not answer except with a sarcastic smile on my face.

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Nature…

I am not a nature enthusiast. (Stones!) I know that for many — all? — the word nature inspires a silent, pure landscape like a fresh fountain lying down in the quiet rustle of trees under the gentle movement of the waters. Not to me. When I think of nature, my mind associates — and does not ask me for permission! — first, to the image of a closed forest; then, to the sensation of my lungs being inflated with fresh air and, abruptly, I hear an unbearable buzz of mosquitoes, which turns into the aggressive hiss of a rattlesnake. Scared, I feel a shiver. Yes, yes: my house is pollution and ash.

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