On "Reserve" — Affection in the Clatter of Abacus Beads

Recently I have heard of a new discipline called "the economics of love." It contains a remarkable thesis: "reserve (jīnchí, 矜持) is a passive transaction." At first glance, this seems novel; upon reflection, it leaves one dumbfounded — so even the affairs of moonlit romance cannot, in the end, escape the clatter of "contract offers" and "risk arbitration" from the abacus.

I.

The method of this reserve, they say, is to never speak first oneself, but to wait for others to draft and deliver the contract. Every clause must suit me perfectly; if there is any ambiguity, when the dispute goes to court, the drafter bears the loss. One sits securely on the fishing platform, already earning double profit from "design costs" and "arbitration risk." This arithmetic is truly ingenious.

Yet I find myself rather confused. What exactly is being "transacted" in this transaction? If it is affection, affection is not a tin can on a store shelf, labeled with a price and settled with cash on delivery. If it is a lifelong commitment, then the grand affair of one's whole life has become a ledger of haggling between buyer and seller. In former times, the rule that men and women "should not touch hands in passing" (shòushǒu bù qīn, 授受不亲) was enforced by ritual law; today, "passive transaction" has become wisdom. Ritual law devoured people — does arithmetic not devour people as well?

II.

The proponents of this view further insist that to execute this strategy, one must "constantly strive for self-improvement" (zìqiáng bùxī, 自强不息), advertising one's value so that others can see at a glance that one is rare goods worth hoarding. This sounds familiar — upon closer thought, it resembles the shopkeeper who hangs a "golden signboard" above his door and has his clerk shout "ancestral secret recipe!" at the passersby. So-called "high value" turns out to be nothing but a bargaining chip held for the right price. Boiling a living person down to a pot of clearly priced "broth" (gāo tāng, 高汤) — and this "constant self-improvement" turns out to be for the sake of fetching a good price at the human marketplace. Alas, I do not know whether this constitutes human progress or human alienation.

What is even more remarkable is that they congratulate themselves on this method's ability to "screen out" those customers who cannot appreciate fine goods. This logic is identical to that of the monopolistic merchant who watches the poor walk away unable to afford his wares, claps his hands, and declares "these are not my clientele." The narrower the transaction range, the more it is celebrated as a "benefit." Thus, marriage and romance are no longer about shared aspirations and mutual delight between two hearts, but about finding that sole buyer willing to pay the highest price and bear the greatest risk — a "sincere purchaser." Is this sincerity of the heart, or sincerity of the ledger? The moment the abacus beads clatter, the answer is already clear in one's mind.

III.

I am not opposed to people striving for self-improvement, nor do I advocate recklessness. But to compress all human affection and choice into this cold mold of calculation is rather terrifying. If a person becomes a thoroughgoing "rational economic agent," then that flutter of panic when one's heart stirs, that knowing smile when two minds meet, that wholehearted sacrifice made without reckoning of gain or loss — on which line of the balance sheet are these to be entered? Are they all "irrational bubbles," destined to burst under the reckoning of reality?

In former days, there were parental commands and matchmakers' words, and young men and women were like puppets on strings. Today we have "passive transactions" and "risk management" — beneath the skin of free love, the brain matter remains that of shrewd business. Having escaped the old fetters, people gladly slip on the new chains of the abacus, believing they have found the secret key to freedom. This is very much like the era of "having stabilized slavery" (zuò wěn le núlì, 做稳了奴隶) — a change of costume, and one thinks oneself the master of the house.

IV.

True reserve (jīnchí), I believe, is not a transactional strategy but the dignity of the subject (zhǔtǐ de zūnyán, 主体的尊严). It is knowing for whom one's heart stirs and why one chooses, and therefore refusing to settle, refusing to slight. This "refusal to make light commitments" is directed toward others, and even more so toward oneself. At its root, it is a current of authentic vitality (zhēnqì, 真气), not a set of algorithms. If one loses this authentic vitality, then even if one calculates every gain and loss in the world, screens out the most "optimal" contract, what one signs is merely a charter for a joint venture — something already far removed from that mutual resonance of two hearts that people call a marriage of true minds (yīnyuán, 姻缘).

What is frightening is that when this doctrine becomes "widely accepted" wisdom, everyone will scramble to be the shrewd "reserved party." The marketplace will bristle with "high-value" signboards hung for the right price, yet no one will be willing to play the "foolish" drafter. Everyone holds currency awaiting purchase, and everyone is also rare goods — can this transaction still be completed? What remains will be countless exquisite abacuses, clattering in the silence, computing an eternal loneliness of the human species — a transaction that can never be closed.

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