Eric Tian

I’ve always struggled to articulate the dynamic between joy and sorrow. Luckily, I can benefit from wiser writers who have undergone this journey before me. The following is taken from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, which beautifully illustrates the dichotomy between joy and sorrow.

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow. And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

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Related: On Children

I recently listened to a podcast episode between Malcolm Gladwell (my favourite non-fiction author) and Jay Shetty (my favourite interviewer). While the conversation was wide ranging, there was this one section on contradictions that blew me away. I’ve put the transcript below, lightly edited for clarity.

Shetty: “I love what you’ve said that as human beings, we exploit our contradictions. Can you elaborate on that?”

Gladwell: “I’ve always found that when you get to know someone, what you discover is that they’re full of contradictions. And that being contradictory is one of the defining points about being human…

In my case, my father was English, my mother is Jamaican and I am Irish. I have my foot in two very different heritages. When people ask me which way I identify, my answer is, “I don’t. I’m both.” And being both is a contradiction! … One of the reasons I’m drawn to [racial issues] is I see both sides of them. There’s a part of me that’s white and sees the world through the lens of a privileged white man. And part of me is black and sympathises with the other side of the equation very readily and appreciates it. These two things exist inside of me and my attempt to make sense of this apparent contradiction is what makes me a writer.”

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Contradictions are glorious. They reveal a truth about us that we sometimes forget: that people are a vat of unique experiences; experiences that make up a unique human being. When viewed as a byproduct of glorious complexity, contradictions can be quite beautiful.

To slap a singular label on someone is not only incorrect, it’s dehumanising. Not all Marxists are the same. Not all Christians are the same. Not all politicians are the same. When we observe behaviour from another that seems odd, perhaps it’s our expectations that require examination, not the other person.

As someone who tends to struggle with contradictions, this message was a great gift. Rather than responding to inconsistencies with annoyance, it’s more productive to embrace people for who they are – a hot mess of experiences that are inherently contradictory. A mess which can be strange, yet hauntingly beautiful at the same time, evidenced by the work of Malcolm Gladwell.

If you want to listen to the episode, you can find it here.

The following stream of consciousness is largely derived from an article on brainpickings called Kierkegaard on Nonconformity, the Individual vs. the Crowd, and the Power of the Minority. Would highly recommend.

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‘Conformity’ is a bit of an ugly word. I’ve always associated it with a sense of loss and giving up a piece of yourself to comply with a broader standard. Don’t get me wrong – solid, universal guidelines are important for any well-functioning society, but the loss of individuality – an inevitable consequence of conformity – is unfortunate nonetheless. As Eleanor Roosevelt put it more poetically,

“When you adopt the standards and the values of someone else, you surrender your own integrity [and] become, to the extent of your surrender, less of a human being.”

The question must be asked, then: what are ways in which we can independently conform, behaving in such a way that is in line with society’s reasonable standards but protects individual freedom of thought?

The Danish writer and thinker Søren Kierkegaard offers various insights in his journals, starting with a reflection on how one should protect their integrity, emphasizing the importance of quiet communion. He writes,

“One can very well eat lettuce before its heart has been formed; still, the delicate crispness of the heart and its lovely frizz are something altogether different from the leaves. It is the same in the world of the spirit. Being too busy has this result: that an individual very, very rarely is permitted to form a heart; on the other hand, the thinker, the poet, or the religious personality who actually has formed his heart, will never be popular, not because he is difficult, but because it demands quiet and prolonged working with oneself and intimate knowledge of oneself as well as a certain isolation.”

But while it’s helpful to know the role of reflection, another problem arises: how does one know if they’ve broken out of the bubble of conformity?” While this question seems to be unanswerable, Kiekegaard provides another clue in looking towards the majority:

“Truth always rests with the minority … because the minority is generally formed by those who really have an opinion, while the strength of a majority is illusory, formed by the gangs who have no opinion.”

This sentiment echoes that of Anthony de Mello in his short reflections on Awareness, where he vividly describes the moment of enlightenment and separation from the majority:

“Do you know one sign that you’ve woken up? It’s when you are asking yourself, “Am I crazy, or are all of them crazy?” It really is. Because we are crazy. The whole world is crazy. Certifiable lunatics! The only reason we’re not locked up in an institution is that there are so many of us. So we’re crazy. We’re living on crazy ideas about love, about relationships, about happiness, about joy, about everything. We’re crazy to the point, I’ve come to believe, that if everybody agrees on something, you can be sure it’s wrong! Every new idea, every great idea, when it first began was in a minority of one. That man called Jesus Christ—minority of one. Everybody was saying something different from what he was saying. The Buddha— minority of one. Everybody was saying something different from what he was saying. I think it was Bertrand Russell who said, “Every great idea starts out as a blasphemy.”

Indeed, Christ – who could be regarded as the most influential minority in history – echoes this warning through the apostle Paul’s letter to the Romans:

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is–his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2 NIV)

But of course, there remains the problem in that truth is rarely obvious. Two people can look at the same world and see two completely different places. One might despair at the injustice, the grief and the lack of meaning governed by death and yet another can be astounded by the beauty and opportunities enabled by life. What do we choose when the truth is uncertain?

The answer to this is up to each individual to decide. This, I believe, was the core question Yann Martel was trying to address in his vivid bestseller, Life of Pi. In the novel’s climax, the protagonist Pi Patel presents a challenge to his interrogators, challenging them to err on the side of faith rather than reason:

“The arrogance of big-city folk! You grant your metropolises all the animals of Eden, but you deny my hamlet the merest Bengal tiger!”

“Mr. Patel, please calm down.”

“If you stumble at mere believability, what are you living for? Isn’t love hard to believe?”

“Mr. Patel– ”

“Don’t bully me with your politeness! Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?”

“We’re just being reasonable.”

“So am I! I applied my reason at every moment. Reason is excellent for getting food, clothing and shelter. Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater.”

And so, the decision remains open to us all. Will we conform, embracing the majority at the expense of our integrity? Or will we embark on an uncertain, meditative journey in the quest for truth? And if the latter, what weapons will we use to guide us? Reason, hope, or a pinch of both?

Disclaimer: I’m experimenting with new writing styles, please forgive any arrogance. Welcome to another chaotic rant!

Recently, I’ve noticed a growing obsession in speed reading. In many ways, this is fantastic – it suggests that there’s a growing desire to read more books which is wonderful. The transformative power of a book cannot be understated and I hope that readers worldwide can find literature that resonates with the core of their existence.

Despite this seemingly healthy trend in speed reading, there are concerns on my end about the consequences of it. Ideas that might seem far-fetched but worry me. So please indulge me while I rant about two dangers speed reading presents.

1. Comprehension

The obvious danger of increasing your reading speed by 300% is comprehension.

Being able to read a page in five seconds is great, but how much of it are you really getting out of it? There’s a big difference between reading a page and reading a page. You can let words fly past your visual field but I would argue you haven’t really read a book unless you’ve wrestled with it and given it the chance to shape you.

It can be very easy to get obsessed with ticking off a book as ‘read’ and forgetting why one reads in the first place. Imagine someone who drives around all the American states within a week (yes, it’s possible). You can quite legitimately claim that you’ve travelled across the U.S., but have you really visited America if you only spent a few minutes in each state? That’s like saying you’ve visited Abu Dhabi if you only went for a stopover flight. Qué va! Surely it takes a certain level of exploration, interacting with locals and visiting unique monuments to unlock that ‘visited’ badge. Simply being within the borders isn’t enough.

There’s a certain quietness, a certain chewing upon literature which is where the magic begins. To reread a beautiful passage, to immerse yourself in a new universe and to make battle with the writer’s point of view. These things take time and can’t be rushed.

“But Eric!” one might cry. “There’s a process involved in speed reading. A series of adaptions. With the use of tactics such as a visual aid and non-verbalisation, the idea is one gradually reads faster whilst maintaining comprehension. What you’re proposing is a slippery slope fallacy!” And I would completely agree. If everyone can have transformative experiences with as many books as possible, I will spur them on. But there’s a fine line between reading fast and slow and to cross that line takes away a certain reverence of reading that’s unique to literature. To me, that is one of the most unfortunate lines one can cross.

2. Motivations

I’m partially guilty of this, but I’m wary of people who flex that they’ve read ‘100 books a year’ or something like that. Okay, good on you. But what did you get out of them? How did the books shape you? That’s what I’m curious about. Which books made you laugh? Cry? Love? Which books kept you up at night in delirious daze? Which books profoundly stripped you of a worldview and gently gave you another? To simply aim to read many books for the sake of telling people you’re a reader seems pointless.

It’s like the idea of body counts. Why do people boast about the number of sexual partners they’ve had? What did you get out of it? Love? Companionship? A future partner? Or do you sleep others just to tell people that you’ve “conquered” them, like a game? What a bizarre and catastrophic game! Maybe I’m naïve and old-fashioned, but I’ve never seen the point in flexing numbers like these. It seems much more valuable to invest in each relationship as much as possible, to unlock sacred experiences like love and companionship that come only with patience and time.

Similarly, it only makes sense to me to have ‘read’ a book if you took the time to get something out of it. You can say, “Oh yes, I read The Little Prince in five minutes. It’s got drawings.” Okay, but how did you feel when the prince tamed the fox? When he fell in love with his rose? When he realised his rose looked just like all the roses on Earth, or the more beautiful realisation that only his rose was his, after all? Assuming you are literate, if these questions leave you at a loss for words, I wonder why you even choose to finish a book at all.

I’m writing this mostly as a reminder to myself, rather than to criticise. It’s easy to forget why I write two articles a week or read a book a week. The pressure to maintain these standards is immense. But that’s not why I started. Here’s to slowing down and reconnecting with the roots of our passions. To the quiet pursuit of an adventure, not because anyone expects us to, but because we want to. And to take as long as it takes to get there.

Disclaimer: Bit of a chaotic rant. Some opinions may be controversial.

The reason I have told you so much about Asteroid B 612, and let you know its number, is because of grown-ups. Grown-ups love figures. When you describe a new friend to them, they never ask you about the important things. They never say: ‘What’s his voice like? What are his favourite games? Does he collect butterflies? Instead they demand: ‘How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much does his father earn?’ Only then do they feel they know him. If you say to the grown-ups: ‘I’ve seen a lovely house made of pink brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof’, they are unable to picture such a house. You must say: ‘I saw a house that cost a hundred thousand francs.’ Then they cry out: ‘Oh, how pretty!’

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

I don’t like labels. When we label someone by their religion, race or political stance we ever-so-slightly rob them of their humanity and package them into a tiny box. Imagine your friend has the most beautiful fish known to humanity as a pet. You ask him to describe the fish and he says, “Oh, it’s a mandarinfish” and leaves it at that. Well? Is that it? What an outrageous description! I want to know how this most beautiful fish moves, what colours it boasts, whether it has a lover, children or friends. What makes this fish more spectacular than the rest of its species? But unfortunately, many of us are content with that description. “Oh, a mandarinfish”, we think. “I’ve seen those before… yeah, they’re kind of pretty.” And we don’t wonder any more. And how sad it is for the person who doesn’t know what a mandarinfish looks like but nods along! They might imagine a fish shaped like a mandarin, never experiencing the full beauty and splendour of this fish.

As soon as we go from what is to what should be, we’ve entered dangerous territory. When we say of someone, “She’s a communist,” understanding has stopped. We’ve slapped a label on her and if the label carries undertones of approval or disapproval, the quest for understanding is doomed. We may never know this woman’s story, interests, hopes or dreams. We throw her in the box of all the communists we already know and shut the lid on her. As Anaïs Nin famously wrote, “We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.”

We strangest part is, we love putting labels on ourselves, even when it makes little sense. “I’m an athlete,” one might say. Well, are you really? Do you mean that if you weren’t able to run or jump or dance anymore, you’d be a different “I”? You can be athletic or good at exercise but to say “I’m an athlete” elevates athletics to the most sacred part of your identity. Honestly, it seems like you’re just asking to be disappointed. What if one day you wake up and you can’t move anymore? Think of how destructive that will be! To build yourself up on such a premise, only to have it crashing down…

And think of the opportunities you’ll miss from your labels! “Oh, I’m an athlete and athletes don’t read… yeah, we just don’t do that.” Really? Why not? Because a stereotype told you so? Because you’ll be scared someone might look at you and go, “Hey, Timmy over there’s reading a book! Ha! What a nerd!” Out of a fear of change, you submit and never explore life the way you want to. Labels are limiting. To label a book as ‘chemistry’ means it’s destined for chemistry scribblings. Similarly, to label ourselves as our religion, race or political stance puts shackles on how far we can explore.

But let’s be honest, labels have their place. Job recruiters need to quickly know a candidate’s qualifications. People on dating apps need a profile to swipe right on. But I really wonder what would happen if we stopped putting people into dangerous boxes but explored what makes them beautiful instead. And what would happen if we let our own identity be one of simply Being, rather than something like our political stance. I’m guessing there’d be a lot less suffering in the world. And in these chaotic times, we could really use all the beauty we can find.

Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things is the winner of the 1997 Man Booker prize and is looking to be one of the best books I’ve read this year. The novel cuts through notions of religion and caste to explore the very essence of human love, with compelling illustrations thrown in along the way. In the following excerpt, twins Estha and Rahel are listening to a lecture from their uncle, Chacko. I personally found it a powerful reminder on the incomprehensible vastness of the universe and the shortness of life.

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 “We belong nowhere”, Chacko said. Then, to give Estha and Rahel a sense of historical perspective, he told them about the Earth Woman. He made them imagine that the earth – four thousand six hundred million years old – was a forty-six-year-old woman – as old, say, as Aleyamma Teacher, who gave them Malayalam lessons. It had taken the whole of the Earth Woman’s life for the earth to become what it was. For the oceans to part. For the mountains to rise. The Earth Woman was eleven years old, Chacko said, when the first single-celled organisms appeared. The first animals, creatures like worms and jellyfish, appeared only when she was forty. She was over forty-five – just eight months ago – when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

“The whole of human civilization as we know it,” Chacko told the twins, “began only two hours ago in the Earth Woman’s life. As long as it takes to drive from Ayemenem to Cochin.”

It was an awe-inspiring and humbling thought, Chacko said, that the World Wars, the War of Dreams, the Man on the Moon, science, literature, philosophy, the pursuit of knowledge – was no more than a blink of the Earth Woman’s eye.

“And we, my dears, everything we are and ever will be – are just a twinkle in her eye…”

You know that splendid cocktail of euphoria, cringe and delight you get when you come across an old artefact you’ve forgotten about? Recently, I pulled open a journal from two years ago and was delighted with some of the treasures I came upon. Here’s unedited 19 year old Eric during some of the messiest and most neurotic times of his life – faithfully recorded by pen and paper.

Sun, 4^th March 2018

If it weren’t for GAMSAT and being 6 lectures behind, today would’ve ben a really good day. But since that is the case, today was quite dreadful deep down.

(Back when being 6 lectures behind was worth stressing over… oh, how things will change.)

Wed, 28^th Mar 2018

Not a great day of lectures. The 2^nd Epigenetics lecture by the super fast talking lecturer was quite confusing + the neuro one was done by the old guy again… who didn’t finish. Again.

Running club was pretty good. Did 5-min tempo then 2-min rest x4. Think I really need to be getting some long runs in… I’m thinking Fri night 12-13km then Sun 8-10km. Gonna aim to be doing 30+km per week for the half mara in May. Should get around 6-10km of that from running club which can also be my tempos. Maybe some Parkruns as well.

(Context: the half marathon I’m referring to here is the Great Ocean Road 23km Half Marathon. This was my first ever road race and I became hooked on running since. It’s interesting to see where it all started.)

Mon, 2^nd Apr 2018

Today was probably one of the most efficient study days ever. Got up at 7:20, procrastinated for around 10 mins + did morning stuff then went straight to work at 8am doing pathways. Worked really well.

Was able to get through enzyme kinetics + hormonal regulation as well. WOOOHOOOO.

(wooohoooo…)

Mon, 16^th Apr 2018

Pretty important day today. Woke up feeling pretty sick but still made my way to uni to do the CAL3 tutorial. Couldn’t focus due to my headache so I left after an hour or so.

As I was walking back home I called mum cos I felt like talking to her and sat down between Babel + Bailleu. I was feeling kinda stressed as I was feeling so sick + could feel myself failing my midsem on Fri… but listening to mum’s voice just made me start crying. I started realising how much she loved me by sending me here and how grateful I really am to be in my position… and also for her and Lana providing for my stay.

Took a nap after I took a long route home and started feeling better. The codral + lemon water started paying off. Got some study in at night. Today was a life-turning moment and I’m determined to destroy uni now.

(I believe this was the last time I properly cried – nothing like a week of assignments to bring a sick neurotic student to tears.)

Fri, 1^st June 2018

This is risky but I’m gonna try doing a bimodal sleep pattern – 6 hours at night + 20 min nap. I think it’ll be more efficient but I’m also worried I won’t get as much memory consolidation cos I miss some slow wave sleep (SWS) but should be alright.

(Let’s be honest, every anxious student has tried some questionable biohacking for the sake of grades.)

Tues, 5^th June 2018

Listened to a guy talk about cold showers on the Asian Efficiency podcast and decided that I’d commit to it. Think I can last a week or so at least.

Feeling extremely unprepared for MCB – literally know nothing from half of Topic 4 and most of Topic 5. Gonna need to pull some late nights I feel.

(I lasted a solid 2.5 days with cold showers.)

I recently stumbled upon this exercise of writing a letter to your younger self. I found it intriguing and so have decided to try it here.

Dear Young Eric,

I write to you from a very different world you’ll grow up in. Countries worldwide are groaning under the weight of inequalities and a viral pandemic is keeping whole nations indoors. Just yesterday, an explosion in Beirut, Lebanon added greater chaos to a city already fighting political unrest, famine and an economic crisis. The more we experience the world, the more we realise how little we understand it.

Regardless, I offer this letter to you with three ideas that may serve you well over time. Please keep whatever you find useful and brutally disregard the rest: never, ever take anything for granted.

1. Choose your hat carefully.
People will throw hats on you to define you. You’ll quickly be given the Asian hat, soon followed by the skinny hat, and then before you know it, you’ve got a collection of hats in your wardrobe labelled the nerd, the Christian, the marathoner, the influencer and the medical student. You’ll often feel pressured to wear all these headpieces simultaneously to please the people around you. But that’s silly, isn’t it? You only need to wear one hat at a time.

What I’m about to say is clichéd but clichés often exist because of some underlying truth. Don’t let others define you. If you’re wondering how to create yourself, here are some tips.

• Be open to new ideas.
• Prioritise uncertainty over comfort.
• Never think you’ve got it all figured out – that is a very dangerous place to be. Even now, I’m only pretending to know what I’m writing about. And that’s okay.

At the end of the day, the only hat that really matters is the one you give yourself. So choose wisely!

2. Reading will change your life. Writing will save it.
Never underestimate the power of a book to shatter your worldview or reveal an insight you didn’t know you needed. You’ll rarely meet the mentors behind the pages – many of them are dead or fictional – but the lessons they share travel across time and space.

Always put a problem on paper when you can. Ideas are always more intimidating and volatile in your head. Plus, it’s always fun to look back on your earlier reflections, either for some nostalgia or cringe-worthy throwbacks.

You’ll start a journal. Defend this practice at all costs. Each day is far too precious to pass by without some examination. Take your experiences and lessons and share them. Your story, just like everyone’s, contains something worth sharing. One day, you’ll write a letter to yourself and share it with the world. You’ll write it partially to encourage others to do so, but mostly to remember where you’ve come from.

3. Choose life.
The world will often seem absurd, unfair and pointless. Do your best to accept it and create an antidote, knowing that there may well not be one.

In your darkest moments, you’ll encounter a being called Suicide. She will knock on your door late at night in your darkest, most terrifying times and invite you to tango. These dances usually last a short while until Hope throws her out of the room and soothes you to sleep. But occasionally, Hope never arrives. Your tango with Suicide will then escalate into a dangerous and exciting whirlwind where she will seem irresistible. In these moments, Suicide will lean in for an alluring kiss.   

If there’s only one thing you remember from this letter: never accept the kiss.

Just remember, you can end your life at any time. That seems dark but it’s really quite liberating. Death is walking towards us all and you have the option to run to her. So you might as well and experience the great things life has to offer before you give up on it. There are quite a few, and I hope you’ll experience many in full.

Take care my friend,

Eric

I’ve recently been poring through a gorgeous book called A Velocity of Being: Letters to a Young Reader by Maria Popova and Claudia Bedrick. It contains a collection of letters from brilliant writers dedicated to readers worldwide. To make it even better, each entry is also paired with an illustration from a diverse range of artists. One of my favourite letters comes from the teacher and best-selling author Seth Godin:

“Hey,
Are the eggs of the purple unicorn edible?
It’s a fair question, and one worth discussing. If they are edible, would you be willing to have a unicorn-egg omelet? Would that be fair or right or even delicious?
The thing about reading is that anything is possible. No special effects, no stunt men. If the writer can write it, it’s real.
And the other thing about reading is that it will take you somewhere impossible, without a teacher or a parent going there first.
Discovering what’s possible is your job. And there’s no better way to do your job than reading something new.
Go make a ruckus,
Seth.”

It’s easy to feel disillusioned with the world, no doubt exacerbated by the current onslaught of restrictions. This letter is a great reminder that books provide a way to sprinkle some colour onto grey and dying canvases. Here’s to exploring new ideas, worlds and reinventing what’s possible through the world of literature.