Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 617 "Though knowledge is far away in China, it should still be sought" (Seeking monthly votes)
Upon hearing the name, "Nightingale" paused for a moment. He frowned slightly, trying to search his memory for related texts, but to no avail.

"Zhuangzi? A Chinese philosopher? I only know Confucius. My teacher mentioned that he was the Chinese 'Socrates.' Was Zhuangzi... his student?"

Lionel shook his head: "They lived in different eras and had completely different ideas. Confucius was more concerned with human order, ethics, and etiquette. Zhuangzi, on the other hand..."

He paused, as if searching for the right words: "He's more like a gust of wind, or a river. He's concerned with what to do when a person is trapped by themselves."

Curiosity ignited in the Nightingale's eyes; this "Zhuangzi" sounded interesting.

He pleaded cautiously, "Could you... tell me his story?"

Lionel leaned back tactically, resting on a soft cushion, and began his narration.

"There was once a king in ancient China who liked to watch the kitchen preparations before banquets. One day, he stood at the kitchen door and saw a cook butchering a cow."

The chef's movements were almost like dancing. His arms turned, his shoulders leaned slightly, his knees bent, and the blade made a crisp sound as it fell, as precise as a musical beat.

The king was mesmerized and couldn't help but exclaim, "Your skill is truly unparalleled!" The cook replied to the king, "Your Majesty, I initially just used force to cut the meat."

At that time, all I could see was the heavy, massive body of the cow, and obstacles were everywhere. Three years later, I no longer saw the 'cow', but began to see its internal structure.

—The gaps between fascia, the spaces between bones. Now, I hardly need my eyes. My hands know where to place the knife.

Lionel described the chef in a detached tone: "'I simply glide along those natural gaps. The blade is so sharp, and there are gaps between the joints.'"

There's always room to put something thin into a gap. My knife, though nineteen years old, is as sharp as if it were just sharpened. The cow's body crumbled away like dirt falling to the ground.

The story was over, and the young "Nightingale" lowered her head and remained silent, clearly digesting the tale.

After a long while, Nightingale finally looked up: "So... this isn't the kind of freedom Edmund Dantès had, the kind of freedom that comes from slowly chipping away at a stone wall with a hammer."

It's not about resistance or escape. It's a kind of... freedom of 'following the rules'? People no longer confront the shackles head-on, but rather seek the gaps between them.

The chef's knife still looks brand new after nineteen years because he never cuts into bones.

His understanding surprised Lionel. This young man was more perceptive than he had imagined.

But he didn't immediately express approval; he simply gave a noncommittal "hmm," and then said, "Let me tell you another story—"

"Nightingale" nodded, then moved a little closer to Lionel, making the sound even clearer.

"A man obtained an enormous gourd with a crane's head. After hollowing it out, it could hold several hundred kilograms of water. But when it was actually filled with water, it was so heavy that he couldn't lift it at all."

He considered splitting it in half to make a ladle, but it was too wide and impractical. So, in anger, he smashed it. His friend saw this and said to him—

"Why don't you hollow it out and use it as a small boat to float on the river?" The man was stunned; he had never imagined his gourd could be used in such a way.

The Nightingale was also stunned. In its hazy state, it seemed to grasp something, but it also seemed to grasp nothing at all.

Lionel did not stop his narration—

The man then asked, 'I have a big tree growing by the roadside. Its trunk is crooked and covered in knots; even carpenters avoid it, not knowing what to do with it.'

My friend laughed and said, "It's only because no one has cut it down that it's survived to this day. Some things aren't meant to be furniture, but they're meant to live."

The second story was shorter than the first, but its meaning seemed to be more profound. After listening, "Nightingale" looked visibly bewildered.

He leaned back on the cushion, his eyes vacant. After a long while, he murmured, "Following the gaps... not suitable for furniture, but suitable for living..."

He turned to Lionel: “And what about me, Mr. Sorel? This huge gourd, this crooked tree… what am I suited to do?”
Which crack should I slide through? Or am I born a useless thing, only fit to 'live'?

Lionel looked at the prince, who lived like a caged bird, and shook his head: "You are still measuring yourself by whether you are useful or not, or what you are suited to do."

If you do that, you've already placed yourself in a world where you can only be judged by others, which in itself is the greatest form of unfreedom.

"Nightingale" was stunned. Lionel didn't give him much time to think, and immediately went on to tell the third, and shortest, story—

"One day, Zhuangzi fell asleep in the garden. He dreamed that he had become a butterfly, flying in the sunlight, feeling relaxed and happy, and he didn't remember that he had ever been a human being."

At that moment, he was simply a butterfly—light, free, and needing no thought. Suddenly, he awoke. He transformed back into the philosopher named Zhuangzi.

He sat up, looked at his hands, and fell into deep thought…” At this point, Lionel’s voice became very soft, as if afraid to disturb the dream from a thousand years ago—

He asked himself, 'Is Zhuangzi dreaming he has become a butterfly, or is the butterfly dreaming it has become Zhuangzi?'

This story plunged Nightingale's already turbulent heart into complete shock and bewilderment.

His mouth was slightly open, as if he wanted to say something, but it was as if something was choking him, and he couldn't utter a single word.

His gaze drifted unfocused, sometimes to the flickering candlelight, sometimes to the room's ornate walls, and finally to the void.

Time seemed to stand still in the warm room. Only the occasional crackling of the charcoal fire could be heard, and even the black eunuch in the corner, responsible for recording, looked deep in thought.

Two or three minutes later, "Nightingale" seemed to barely break free from a dream, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“I…I don’t understand. What…what is this? Who am I? What is reality? If even this can be doubted…then what about everything, and even myself…”

He shook his head, as if trying to shake off all his confusion: "This is too... too strange. It's unlike anything I've ever learned."

He was referring to the European philosophy he had studied and the "theological" system inherited from the Arab world.

Lionel slowly said, "Plato sought the eternal and unchanging 'ideas,' Aristotle sought to categorize all things; Descartes said, 'I think, therefore I am'..."

They all sought to find the unchanging cornerstone amidst change, using it to climb the peak of reason.

Nightingale nodded involuntarily; these were the great ideas he had once firmly believed in.

"But Zhuangzi was different. When others asked him, 'What is truth?' he would often counter with, 'Why do you insist on distinguishing right from wrong in this way?'"

Others strive to prove that the 'self' is an undeniable existence, but he shows you that the existence of the self is not as stable as imagined.

"Starting with Aristotle's Organum, European philosophy was honed into a sharp tool to distinguish, define, and prove all things in the world."

Zhuangzi, however, reminds us that philosophy is merely a bridge to the other side, not the destination itself. Once you take the bridge as the destination, you become trapped on the bridge.

The same applies to philosophy, and to freedom. If you take freedom as the destination, you will never be truly free—Dantès escaped prison, but was he truly free?

Nightingale shook her head: "No. He threw himself into a prison called 'Revenge' and is now trapped in 'Memories' forever."

He then murmured to himself, "Are there really wise men like Zhuangzi in the world?" His tone was full of disbelief and longing.

Lionel smiled. "You should be very familiar with your prophet's hadiths, right? Do you remember this line? 'Even if learning is as far away as China, one should still seek it.'"

Nightingale shuddered. Of course he knew this hadith! In the intellectual tradition of the Islamic world, it was regarded as proof of openness and a spirit of inquiry.

His teacher had once used this phrase to encourage him to read widely. But now, in this context, he had a completely new feeling, one that even sent shivers down his spine.

Lionel seemed to have opened a door for him with this ancient proverb, a door that led to a completely new world.

A surge of emotion welled up within Nightingale; he didn't want it all to end like this, didn't want the person before him to leave, while he himself had to continue sitting idly in the "cage."

Just then, Lionel put down his cup and stood up: "Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness. It's getting late, and I think I should go back."

Nightingale suddenly stood up: "Wait!"

He stepped forward, his voice urgent: "Mr. Sorel... I... could I ask you... to be my tutor? It doesn't need to be long, just a year!"
I will implore His Majesty the Sultan to allow you to tutor me! He will offer you the most generous compensation, and you can write with peace of mind here, sending your works back to Europe for publication!
Here, you will be treated with the utmost courtesy! I will prepare a private room and study for you, so you can see your friends or anyone else you wish to see at any time.

Your wife can come with you; the Belébé Palace has several separate courtyards, and you don't even need to stay next door to me; you have your own door.”

His eyes burned with anticipation. This was perhaps the only way he could think of to brighten his bleak life under house arrest.

Lionel did not immediately refuse. After a moment of silence, he said in a gentle tone, "Zhuangzi has another story—"

Nightingale's heart leaped into her throat.

"The fish are trapped in the dried-up spring. They can only get close to each other and spit out moisture and saliva to each other to keep moist and barely survive. Isn't that touching?"
But Zhuangzi said, "Rather than painfully supporting each other in hardship, why not forget each other in rivers, lakes, and seas, and swim freely?"

After saying that, he bowed slightly again: "Good night, Your Highness. Sweet dreams."

(First update, thank you everyone, please vote with monthly tickets!)
(End of this chapter)