"I'm tired of philosophy," said Han Fei-tzu. "Maybe the Greeks found comfort in it, but not me."
"The desire of the spirit," said Jiang-qing, insisting.
"Because the spirit is of the earth, it is that part which makes new things out of old ones. The husband longs for all the unfinished things that he and his wife were making when she died, and all the unstarted dreams of what they would have made if she had lived. Thus a man grows angry at his children for being too much like him and not enough like his dead wife. Thus a man hates the house they lived in together, because either he does not change it, so that it is as dead as his wife, or because he does change it, so that it is no longer half of her making."
"You don't have to be angry at our little Qing-jao," said Jiang-qing.
"Why?" asked Han Fei-tzu. "Will you stay, then, and help me teach her to be a woman? All I can teach her is to be what I am - cold and hard, sharp and strong, like obsidian. If she grows like that, while she looks so much like you, how can I help but be angry?"
"Because you can teach her everything that I am, too," said Jiang-qing.
"If I had any part of you in me," said Han Fei-tzu, "I would not have needed to marry you to become a complete person." Now he teased her by using philosophy to turn the conversation away from pain. "That is the desire of the soul. Because the soul is made of light and dwells in air, it is that part which conceives and keeps ideas, especially the idea of the self. The husband longs for his whole self, which was made of the husband and wife together. Thus he never believes any of his own thoughts, because there is always a question in his mind to which his wife's thoughts were the only possible answer. Thus the whole world seems dead to him because he cannot trust anything to keep its meaning before the onslaught of this unanswerable question."
"Very deep," said Jiang-qing.
"If I were Japanese I would commit seppuku, spilling my bowel into the jar of your ashes."
"Very wet and messy," she said.
He smiled. "Then I should be an ancient Hindu, and burn myself on your pyre."
But she was through with joking. "Qing-jao," she whispered. She was reminding him he could do nothing so flamboyant as to die with her. There was little Qing-jao to care for.
So Han Fei-tzu answered her seriously. "How can I teach her to be what you are?"
"All that is good in me," said Jiang-qing, "comes from the Path. If you teach her to obey the gods, honor the ancestors, love the people, and serve the rulers, I will be in her as much as you are."
"I would teach her the Path as part of myself," said Han Fei-tzu.
"Not so," said Jiang-qing. "The Path is not a natural part of you, my husband. Even with the gods speaking to you every day, you insist on believing in a world where everything can be explained by natural causes."
"I obey the gods." He thought, bitterly, that he had no choice; that even to delay obedience was torture.
"But you don't know them. You don't love their works."
"The Path is to love the people. The gods we only obey." How can I love gods who humiliate me and torment me at every opportunity?
"We love the people because they are creatures of the gods."
"Don't preach to me."
She sighed.
Her sadness stung him like a spider. "I wish you would preach to me forever," said Han Fei-tzu.
"You married me because you knew I loved the gods, and that love for them was completely missing from yourself. That was how I completed you."
How could he argue with her, when he knew that even now he hated the gods for everything they had ever done to him, everything they had ever made him do, everything they had stolen from him in his life.
"Promise me," said Jiang-qing.
He knew what these words meant. She felt death upon her; she was laying the burden of her life upon him. A burden he would gladly bear. It was losing her company on the Path that he had dreaded for so long.
"Promise that you will teach Qing-jao to love the gods and walk always on the Path. Promise that you will make her as much my daughter as yours."