Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks deals with a very old question: how to best spend our limited time, roughly four thousand weeks in a lifetime (hence the book’s title)? In case you are wondering, this is not “yet another” book about time management. Burkeman will tell you that he hates time management coaches, and in fact his thesis is exactly the opposite: that you should literally stop trying to make best of your time – which reminds me the infamous Chinese internet meme: lying flat (躺平).  While he thus approaches the question from a deeply philosophical perspective, Burkeman wrote the book in a highly accessible – one may even say a little casual – way.   The book contains many fascinating ideas and ingenious insights about our relationship with time; some of which I have pondered about myself; some of which I have vaguely felt but never set my mind on; some of which are completely new to me.

The first insight of the book concerns our endless quest for greater efficiency.  Productivity, according to Burkeman, is a trap, because eventually you will become the victim of your own efficiency.  The faster you respond to emails, the more emails are drawn into your mailbox; the sooner you submit your journal reviews, the earlier the editor is ready to send you the next invitation; the better you become at work, the busier you might feel.  As Burkeman quipped, “your boss isn’t stupid, why would she give the extra work to someone slower”?  Seen from this light, the attempt to get everything under control – or keep your desk clean, to use a familiar metaphor – by using our limited time more productively is doomed to fail.

Burkeman argues our self-defeating obsession with efficient time management comes from the anxiety about our own finitude.  It is almost certain that, before you die, you could only see a small part of the world, acquire a tiny portion of the knowledge our species had accumulated, and get much less done than you or your parents once dreamed you might.   Because our time is so limited, tough choices are inevitable. Yet, most people refuse to face this inevitability, and instead invent strategies that help them look the other way.  They convince themselves that the real culprit is suboptimal time management, that they can always accomplish more – even all that they had ever wanted – if only they push themselves harder and find the perfect work-life balance. This, of course, is an illusion, because no optimization can possibly enable you to make time for everything you legitimately like or want.   Thus, the modern lifestyle of super-busyness is often an excuse, or a delay tactic, that numbs oneself emotionally so that they don’t have to feel the powerlessness in controlling their time, or saying no to things they hate to give up.  As Nietzsche once said,

“haste is universal because everyone is in flight from himself!”

How do we confront our finitude then? Burkeman offered three suggestions.

First, be patient.  To be patient first means to accept our life will always be full of problems, many of which are unpredictable and might visit in what appear to be the “worst time”.  The truth is, the day on which your life finally becomes problem-free will never come, because life is nothing but a series of problem-solving episodes.   A life without problems is not worth living, the same way as a novel without plots not worth reading.  To be patient also means, in Burkeman’s words, “to embrace radical incrementalism”.  The idea is that you should divide your problems into pieces and conquer them piece by piece, with the understanding that each piece may only bring you a relatively small step closer to the point of completion.  More often than not, seeking to finish your enemy off in a “decisive battle” – a concept cherished by Imperial Japanese Navy – is not a winning strategy, but rather an indicator of impatience, anxiety and weakness.

Second, be humble.  To be humble means to have a realistic expectation of the likelihood you can – to quote Steve Jobs – “put a dent in the universe”.  The common wisdom usually suggests you have nothing to lose by setting overly ambitious goals, provided you are committed to following through.  The spirit is best summarized in the words of Theodore Roosevelt, “keep your eyes on the stars, and your feet on the ground.”  However, Burkeman thinks this mentality of aiming-high-to-miss-is-better-than-aiming-low-to-hit tends to make you overvalue your existence, giving rise to an undue sense of urgency to spend your finite time well.   If the goal is to change the world, your life should not only “transcend the common and the mundane” but also have a lasting impact on humanity.  However, how many of us could ever make an impact of that proportion?  Even Jobs, Burkman argued (and I agree), would fail to pass that mark in the grand scheme of things.  Indeed, if one is to take a cosmologic perspective, even humanity as a whole may fail to put a dent in the universe.  As Katie Mack explained in her book “The End of Everything”, any marks left by humanity will be irreversibly erased by the final Death of the universe, and “at some point, in a cosmic sense, it will not have mattered that we ever lived”.   Younger people may dismiss Burkeman’s thesis as pessimism and defeatism, perhaps an indication that the prime of the man’s life is behind him.  However, as a middle-aged man in my forties, I think Burkeman was merely suggesting a change of perspective, from your own vintage point – to which harmful self-importance seems natural and understandable, to the perspective of others, to whom what you are doing with your life matter little, if at all.

Third, be time, not use it.  That we don’t “have”, but “are”, a limited amount of time is a concept that I’ve never conceived, perhaps never will on my own.  This was the idea of Martin Heidegger, the German philosopher whose reputation was tarnished by his close association with the Third Reich.  “To be, for a human”, Burkeman writes of Heidegger’s insight of “being-toward-death”, “is above all to exist temporally, in the stretch between birth and death, certain that the end will come, yet unable to know when.”  This understanding of our relationship with time is radically different from the conventional wisdom, which insists the present is something that we must instrumentalize for a great future gain, whose promise is as boundless as it is ambiguous – in fact so ambiguous one often has difficulty to articulate it when asked.    The laser focus on the future means, Burkeman observes, you end up living in it mentally, “locating the ‘real’ value of your life at some time that you haven’t yet reached, and never will.”    However, life is a succession of present moments and, since you may never know which one is your last, the moment of truth is always now.   Therefore, we must not view the present as a dress rehearsal for something greater to come, because the present moment is part of you – not merely a resource to be exploited by you.

Curiously, it seems the trace of Heidegger’s idea of “being-toward-death” can be found in the Japanese culture. In Rising Sun, John Tolane writes (the emphasis is mine),

“This strong recognition of death gave the Japanese not only the strength to face disaster stoically but an intense appreciation of each moment, which could be the last. This was not pessimism but a calm determination to let nothing discourage or disappoint or elate, to accept the inevitable.”

The phrase “sayonara”, commonly translated as goodbye, literally means “so be it” in Japanese. To the Japanese, “life was sayonara”, and they say sayonara to appreciate the present moment, as well as to accentuate its mortality.  Where did the Japanese get this idea? I would guess Buddhism.  But the answer to this question is obviously beyond me, for now.

My interest in football was largely inspired by Marco van Basten’s legendary show in Euro88. Strangely, I never watched a single game of that tournament—I only learned about his glorious triumph from a cousin, almost a year later—but that did not stop me from eagerly falling into his fandom, the only one I ever joined.  With the benefit of hindsight, this feels like a perfect example of irrationality in human emotions, as epitomized in Stephen Chow’s famous inquiry, “Don’t I need a reason to fall in love with someone, do I, don’t I, do I,…”

Unfortunately, my only hero was also a tragic one.  Like Achilles, van Basten has a foot problem.  During the time that I fanatically follow him, van Basten lost the World Cup and the Euro Cup in a row; in the latter he missed a penalty kick that doomed his team.  In late 1992, he ordered a surgery on his right ankle, which ended his career right at its peak; he was only 28 and just named the FIFA player of the year.  I was deeply saddened by the departure of van Basten, so much so that my interest in football had never fully recovered from that sense of loss, unfairness, and tragedy.

I cannot say van Basten’s memoir is an interesting read for everyone. The book is written in a somewhat informal style, perhaps designed to create an impression of authenticity and intimacy, but it does at times hurt the coherence and clarity in storytelling.   If you were a fan, however, you may enjoy many of the personal stories: the immense suffering he endured from the ankle, the intriguing tax fraud case, the fond recollections of Berlusconi (his boss at AC Milan and the notorious prime minister of Italy), and the mediocre coaching career.  To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure about the idea of reading the memoir of someone whom I have idolized for so long, perhaps to evade the inevitable revelation that my tragic hero was a mirage, after all. In the end, that was exactly what I had discovered, but the experience was more fun than I thought: no regret or disappointment, just closing a chapter in life with a bit of nostalgia and relief.

I am intrigued by this book mainly because Peter Thiel said it “tremendously influenced” him.  I am no Thiel’s fan, but he is a student of both philosophy and entrepreneurship, a rare creature among intellectuals.   Anyway, my reaction is not as positive as his.  To be sure, the book’s main insight, that technology determines the returns to organized violence, which in turn shapes the structure of our political systems, is brilliant.  Its critiques of democracy are harsh, sometimes unfair, but not without merits.  Published in 1997, the book predicted, with amazing foresight, the rise of Bitcoin, the threat of cyber warfare, the destructive power of social media, and to the lesser extent, the election of Trump.

Having said that, I am also troubled by the excessive right-wing rhetoric, the covert racism, and above all the obsession with Social Darwinism.  The authors predict nation-states cannot survive the Information Revolution, just like medieval Church did not survive the Industrial Resolution 500 years ago.  The reason, according to the book, is Information Technology will undermine the ability of nation-states to collect taxes and to wage wars in cyberspace.  From the ruins of nation-states shall Sovereign Individuals rise.  These super humans, no longer pledging allegiance to any nation, will simply shop around in an open market of commercialized sovereignties.   Of course, the idea that everyone can and should buy protection service from mafia bosses and warlords who sell it at the lowest price is absurd and dangerous.   It also defies logic and history to suggest protection against violence would become more cost effective by simply unleashing competitions. What is most horrifying, however, is the book’s complete lack of concern for the “losers or leftbehinds” who are incapable of becoming Sovereign Individuals.  The authors thought these losers will fight tooth and nail to save their “license to steal” (from Sovereign Individuals) but shall not prevail.   Beyond that, their fate is unclear but ceases to be a concern.

In summary, reading this book is sort of like eating spicy crayfish (麻辣小龙虾).  If one is willing to peel off the nasty red shell, there are delicious treats awaiting，although some may find the reward unworthy of the effort.  Stay away if you are allergic to spicy food.

I don’t’ quite remember when I began to wonder how World War II would look like from the Japanese point of view.  In Chinese history books and contemporary TV shows, Imperial Japan is often portrayed as an evil empire run by crazy generals and barbarous soldiers who were utterly incompetent on the battlefield but overtly obsessed with atrocities.  Thanks to these concerted efforts, many Chinese believe that version of Japan had never died; it just lurks behind the scenes, ready to reemerge as soon as we let down our guard.  Little wonder then, in Chinese social media, anti-Japanese sentiment is like a tinderbox ready to be ignited by any trivialities taken by Chinese internet users as an insult to their national pride.  I remember the years when I feel the same way toward Japan as today’s “little pinks” (小粉红）.   It is a strange feeling, an unhealthy blend of fear, anger, hatred, humiliation, and self-pity. At some point, I realize, like every story of this proportion, there must be another narrative and interpretation.  The desire to read the story from the other side is what drew me to John Toland’s “The Rising Sun”.  I was not disappointed.

In Toland’s telling, the expansion of Imperial Japan in East and Southeast Asia and her conflict with the West, culminated in the Pacific War, was rooted in the aspiration to free Asia from exploitation by the white man.  The Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere was not only an imperial propaganda, but also an ideology many idealists in Japan genuinely subscribed to.  However, as with almost any ideology, Toland noted, it “was taken over and exploited by realists”.   Toland did not believe the Pacific war was inevitable.  He documented vividly the hesitancy, strife and desperation of the Japanese government leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor.  Indeed, even the most feverish militarists in Tokyo, including Hideki Tojo and Isoroku Yamamoto, were reluctant to go to war against the U.S., and certainly few thought they could win. Nevertheless, the war broke because “mutual misunderstanding, language difficulties”, as well as “Japanese opportunism and irrationality, and “American racial prejudice, distrust, ignorance, rigidity, and self-righteousness.”  Toland was critical of the West, especially the British Empire, for its hypocrisy and racism, to which he no doubt assigns some blame for the outbreak of the Pacific War.   “The West had two standards of freedom,” he writes, “one for itself and one for those east of Suez,… (being) convinced that Asians did not know what was best for themselves and world security”.   He quoted Churchill’s physician, Lord Moran, who wrote in diary,

“To the president (Roosevelt), China means four hundred million people who are going to count in the world of tomorrow, but Winston thinks only of the color of their skin.”

I am sure Churchill was not the only white man of his time who had a fetish for skin color and considered yellow peril a real threat.

Several things I learned from the book had made an indelible impression on me.  The most noteworthy is perhaps Japanese soldiers’ unflinching loyalty to the emperor and indifference to sufferings and death.  Brutality seems a way of life to a Japanese soldier.  He understands to be captured by enemy is to disgrace not only himself but his comrades, family, and village.  Therefore, his motto is “Always save the last round for yourself”, as demanded in his code of conduct.   “Fight to the last man” is not just a show of resolution, but an order to be taken literally. If there is a difference between foot soldiers and generals in this regard, it is that generals usually prefer more honorable hara-kiri （切腹自杀）in the true spirit of bushido (武士道).

The last Kamikaze (神风) mission was in fact flown by the inventor of Kamikaze warfare, Admiral Matome Ugaki, who was the Chief-of-Staff for Yamamoto and the Commander-in-Chief of the 5^th Air Fleet at the time of Japan’s surrender. General Kuribayashi – whose story was dramatized in a 2007 Hollywood movie entitled “the letters from Iwo Jima” – committed hara-kiri (according to one account) after leading a ferocious defense of Iwo Jima, which he knew was a suicide mission from the beginning. He was a man of letter and believed “America is the last country in the world Japan should fight”. On the tiny island of Carregidor in Philippines, Toland writes, “5,000 Japanese defenders fought for eleven days against an aggressive, overwhelming parachute and amphibious assault. All except 20 died.”   They had no chance to make even a slight difference strategically, and it would not have mattered whether they had fought for eleven days or eleven hours. Indeed, eleven hours was how long 76,000 Philippine-American soldiers had fought before surrendering to a Japanese army of similar size three years earlier, on the same island.   Even Japanese civilians frequently prioritize death over surrender.   In the Battle of Saipan, “almost 22,000 Japanese civilians – two out of three – perished needlessly”. Many committed suicides, killing not just themselves but whole families, including children.

Why do Japanese seem to have such a high tolerance for mental and physical distress?  How could they so readily give up their lives even when, to a bystander, their ultimate sacrifice appears to no purpose?  These questions fascinated me.   Toland did not address them head-on; but if you read between lines, he has offered two clues: faith and eschatology.

Like Jesus to Christians, the emperor is the Source of Faith to Japanese.  The Imperial Way (kodo) defines Japanese morality based on the unconditional obligation to the emperor.  Most Chinese would have a hard time to understand this relationship between Japanese people and the emperor.  Through Chinese history, an emperor’s claim to the Mandate of Heaven was supposedly contingent on his being a just and able ruler.  This well-meaning principle, of course, had produced endless bloody struggles for the throne, by ambitious men who thought, often prematurely, their turn to represent Heaven had arrived. In Japan, the emperor is worshiped as God, and his reign is eternal and irreplaceable. Without the emperor, all Japanese would be without country, without parents, homeless.

According to Toland, the Japanese eschatology is best expressed in the word sayonara – it is often translated as “good-bye” but its precise meaning is in fact “so be it” (就这样吧).  To Japanese, life is ever shifting on an erratic path.  Every moment could bring abrupt changes, even death.  Thus, they say sayonara to everything every moment, which could be their last.   Paradoxically, the acceptance of death at any moment gave the Japanese “the strength to face disaster stoically and a calm determination to let nothing discourage or disappoint”.   They are always ready to take whatever life throws at them with a sayonara, so be it!

I imagine many Chinese readers would find Toland suspiciously lenient on the hideous war crimes perpetrated by Imperial Japan against other Asian countries, especially China.   This is not surprising given the book’s perspective is decisively a Japanese one.  Perhaps Toland’s wife, who was born and raised in Japan, further tilted the balance in Japan’s favor.  In any case, I agree with Toland on one thing: there is no such thing as evil people, only evil ideology. Imperial Japanese is not the first people poisoned by a lethal combination of faith and extreme ideology. Nor would it be the last.

If you’ve ever wondered why you are on track to lose nearly a third of your life to sleep, or are not entirely happy about your relationship with sleep, then this book is a must read.  I first heard about it from Sam Harris’s interview of the author, Matthew Walker, a professor of neuroscience and psychology at UC Berkeley, and was immediately intrigued by their conversation. At least this time, my curiosity did pay off, as I have learned so much that I did not know before.

Our sleep consists of two kinds, the kind with dreaming, called rapid-eye movement (REM) sleep, and the kind without, called non-REM (NREM) sleep or deep sleep. They serve different functions. Basically, NREM sleep helps clean the brain, consolidate and retain memory, and therefore is critical to learning and retaining knowledge, as well as maintaining cognitive ability.  Persistent lack of NREM sleep is a known risk factor for Alzheimer’s (old timers) disease.  REM sleep, on the other hand, is closely related to emotion and social behaviors.  The newborns of heavy-drinking mothers are more likely to suffer from mental illness—including autism—when they grow up, partly because their REM sleep are disrupted by alcohol.

Sleep is controlled by two processes: circadian cycle （生物钟）and sleep pressure.  The circadian cycle is an internal clock regulated by melatonin (脑白金)， whose main function is to tell the brain and body “it is dark and please get ready for bed”.  Next time when you take melatonin to mitigate your suffering from a jet-lag, remember that message, and that message alone, is what you are getting. The sleep pressure is created by another chemical called adenosine, which begins to build up in your brain once you wake up and which can only be reduced by sleep.  Drinking coffee, however, can resist sleep pressure because caffeine helps block the receptor cells in the brain designed to “feel” the pressure.   Two facts about caffeine are especially noteworthy – sorry coffee drinkers, but please read.  First, “caffeine is one of the most common culprits that keep people from falling asleep easily and sleeping soundly thereafter”. Second, if you cannot get through the morning without caffeine, then most likely you have “self-medicated your state of chronic sleep deprivation”.

Walker is eager to tell everyone who would listen that getting sufficient sleep, at least seven hours a day, is of pivotal importance to human health, neurologically and physiologically. Human beings routinely give up sleep in exchange for activities deemed more productive, valuable, or enjoyable.  In some cultures, self-inflicted sleep deprivation is an emblem of work ethic, if not a badge of honor.   Walker repeatedly warns us of the grieve danger of this chivalrous attitude toward sleep. His book documents, sometimes with gruesome details, how sleep loss could inflict devastating, even lethal, effects on the brain and the body, causing or worsening countless disorders and diseases, ranging from anxiety, depression and bipolar disorder to cancer, diabetes, obesity, and infertility.   Remember, 99% of humans cannot function optimally without at least seven-hour-sleep a day; so obviously your odds of being among that 1% (who has a sub-variant of a gene called BHLHE41) is not as good as you might like.

Let me end with a laundry list of Dos and don’ts. First and foremost, neither sleeping pill nor alcohol can help you sleep better.   As sedatives, these substances give you not so much good sleep as induced unconsciousness.   In other words, you may think you have slept, but you would not get any benefits associated with sleeping.  Here are a few things that do help: (i) reduce caffeine and alcohol intake; (ii) avoid exposure to LED light before sleep (including from screens of your phones, tablets, and computers), (iii) have a cool bedroom (around 18 degree Celsius);  remember, to initiate sleep, your core temperature need to drop about 1 degree Celsius, and finally (iv) stick to a regular bedtime and wake-up time as much as possible.