Yesterday, the Chinese celebrated Singles’ Day, the singles’ festival that has become the world’s largest online shopping festival. The 2026 edition, which has just ended, reportedly generated nearly $267 billion in sales. Behind this frenzy of consumption lies a paradox. Why can a society so connected produce so much loneliness? Is this the malaise you are seeking to capture through your concept of the “disappearance of the near”?
Originally, this concept was primarily descriptive. Rapid urbanization gave rise to very vertical landscapes: skyscrapers rise as far as the eye can see, while neighborhood ties erode. The closing and consolidation of rural schools forced some children to enter institutional settings prematurely, depriving them of a neighborhood life anchored in family.
Digitization allows you to do everything from a mobile phone, to the point where going to the market becomes unnecessary. The conjunction of these three transformations undoubtedly yields a sense of convenience, but it also creates instability and insecurity.
The “near” designates what structures daily life — family, neighborhood, the workplace — and forms a life order. Its “disappearance” refers to the loss, in people, of the desire and the ability to immerse themselves in the world around them.
In 2023, an interview dedicated to your concept of the “disappearance of the near” was read more than 2.5 million times in two weeks. How do you explain such enthusiasm?
It’s a question I ask myself as well.
One of the main reasons is that it points to a knot in the problem I did not realize at the time: many young people, in particular, feel that their lives are slipping away from them.
On the one hand, society seems complex and full of uncertainties, so they do not feel safe; on the other, they feel they have little choice, as if only one path is offered to them. This is especially true for young people from small towns or modest families for whom the only option is to gain entry to university. Their material conditions are certainly quite acceptable today, but the psychological pressure is immense. They can only move forward with their heads down.
This wears them out, and they do not even know if, after so much effort, they will actually obtain what they want, because they feel that once they exit their “bubble” — made up of exams, school, family, tutoring, and video games — they will land in an outside world that is particularly elusive.
Is it in some sense a double loss of control over their life?
Yes. Under the pressure of parents, teachers, and the world of work, young Chinese cannot choose either their daily activities or their interests; and they do not know where this imposed lifestyle will lead them.
The world outside their “bubble” is completely incomprehensible to them. They conclude that “everything is a matter of luck,” while they keep repeating that “luck only smiles on those who work hard,” which drives them to redouble their efforts.
Faced with the feeling that life is slipping away, faced with anxiety, fatigue, fear, and a sense of absurdity, it is entirely natural to feel the need to find an anchor, to regain bearings.
Nevertheless, I have noticed a change: people are no longer resigned to passivity; they feel a strong desire to take their lives back. The “near” offers them precisely a concrete anchor point. This desire for change among the young is, in itself, a hopeful sign.
In China, some young people are now choosing to reduce their social interactions, even avoiding their own roommates. Is this withdrawal into themselves a protective strategy against societal pressures or a sign of growing difficulty in forming relationships with others?
It’s a well-documented phenomenon. In the youth residences I have studied, for example, some roommates share a kitchen and a bathroom while deliberately avoiding getting acquainted, under the pretext that “forming relationships is too exhausting” or that “it’s risky.”
The risk they fear is not physical, but emotional. This shows that, among a portion of the youth, even the most basic social skills are atrophying.
Some young people have grown up in an environment that was too “barren.” An only child, subjected to academic pressure and exposed to digital technology too early, they have not had the opportunity to learn to manage frictions with others through play, dispute, and reconciliation. They read a lot but lack lived experience, which makes them hypersensitive. It isn’t simply selfishness. Some young people show a high moral standard toward themselves, but their thinking runs in a closed circuit: they do not dare face uncertainty, and that gnaws at them from within.
Your work raises a question that is particularly acute in China, where social relations increasingly pass through screens: can virtual communities replace real-world ties?
No, the online world cannot substitute the “near.” The “near” designates a real, concrete, face-to-face social relationship, which stands apart from the “weak ties” of virtual communities. These allow too easily to sort and group people by interests and to see only one facet of others, to the point of losing any sense of the complexity of individuals. True ties are woven through frictions and daily adjustments, and they enable learning to accept a person in full — with their strengths and flaws.
You observe a blend of digital culture and traditional beliefs in your inquiries. Many young Chinese turn to MBTI, a test that distinguishes sixteen personality types, but also to astrology to define themselves and judge others. Is this trend of labeling individuals before meeting them a sign that the logics of the digital world are colonizing our human relationships?
These psychological tests and labels essentially reflect a way of thinking that “drives away the near.” One starts by classifying, then moves closer to those who resemble us and avoids those who are different.
In the past, when we met new classmates, we did not first ask whether they were “INTJ” (introverted, intuitive, rational, and organized) or “ENFP” (extroverted, intuitive, guided by feelings and spontaneous) before deciding how to behave with them. We got to know them by spending time with them. It is this experience that is increasingly absent today.
Your work reveals this tension between hyperconnectivity and hyper-solitude. But you identify another striking paradox as well. Never before have Chinese youths been so mobile, so free to move to a different city, job, or social milieu, and yet many feel a deep sense of powerlessness. How can that freedom of movement not translate into greater mastery of their lives?
That is precisely the paradox. Young people can today change their immediate environment very easily. It is often said that it is difficult to guide today’s youth, because they “quit at the first sign of adversity.” Yet even as they move, their fundamental situation does not change. They have the freedom to flee, not necessarily the freedom to shape their existence.
I began thinking about this a long time ago, in the 1990s, during a survey of migrant workers in Dongguan, a prefecture-level city in Guangdong province. At the slightest conflict with a colleague or a supervisor, some changed jobs. It was their way of solving difficulties. But these repeated departures cost them dearly. They could not save or build a stable situation. They kept changing jobs without ever escaping their condition.
That is what I called the “suspension.” People think they regain control of their life by multiplying choices, when in fact they often only move the problems elsewhere. One can flee a situation, but not necessarily detach oneself from the structures that produce it.
One must distinguish mobility from flight. The power to choose one’s immediate environment is flight: problems are addressed by avoiding them rather than confronting them. However, if the individual can “flee,” they cannot “withdraw”: they cannot exit their fundamental life condition, and this is a major cause of the sense of powerlessness.
Moreover, if you do not make any effort, you will not feel powerless; those who adopt a “Buddhist” stance, i.e., detached, do not experience this sense. If you feel powerless, it is because you want to take action but feel your efforts are useless. The most typical source of this feeling lies in hoping to change things through flight or through small decisions, without succeeding.
What is the relationship of this “suspension” to your notion of the “near”?
The “near” goes against this attitude.
Be warned, I am not saying that one should not move: whether it’s tied to personal interests, lifestyle, or objective reasons, mobility is completely normal. That a young person leaves his village or small town to discover a big city at some point is nothing extraordinary. The question is whether mobility equates to a flight, and whether constant moving amounts to perpetual running away.
Leaving is not a problem in itself; but once you arrive somewhere else, you must be able to weave ties with this new “near.” If you encounter difficulties again, you must first face them, then, to the extent possible, analyze, manage, and resolve them. That is not a flight attitude.
Youths do indeed have broad options regarding their immediate environment; but quitting as soon as one is dissatisfied is an attitude that should give rise to scrutiny. Today, the cost of mobility is very low, and that’s a problem: it allows one to avoid confronting and analyzing real difficulties. People leave when a problem arises, but the problem remains. In economic terms, exit costs are very low: the part continues, while the rules of the game do not change, because when you leave, others can take your place.
How would the “reconstruction of the near” help to lessen this sense of powerlessness that appears to be structural?
This feeling largely comes from the fact that some youths perceive problems in too abstract a way: the slightest setback takes on existential proportions. The world they imagine from books and the Internet is only a broad impression, lacking concrete references.
“Reconstructing the near” may not directly help you find a job, but it teaches you to view problems in concrete terms. One might ask: for which subcontracting company does the neighborhood’s cleaning worker work? What kind of contract did he sign? How is this kind of situation handled in my home village? When you understand concretely how human activities operate, you have a framework to face difficulties.
How do you advise cultivating this awareness of the “near”? Do you have practical tips?
I have observed many cases. In the Wenzhou district of Zhejiang where my parents live, half the residents are former farmers turned urbanites, the other half migrants. Neighborhood relations remain very close, and some residents organize activities at their own expense. Liu Yuelai’s community garden project at Tongji University brings residents together to till the soil, plant flowers, and collectively establish rules. The simple act of planting flowers spawns conversations. This seemingly simple model, which nevertheless requires substantial organization, has already been replicated in many localities.
The “near” at the workplace also deserves attention. Nowadays, some colleagues only know each other by their employee numbers. There should be more team-building activities where everyone is regarded as a genuine “human being” in their own right, not reduced to their professional role.
Another example: the Slow Life salon in Wenzhou, which invites six strangers to a free dinner each week. One activity involves walking in the street with eyes closed and in silence, guided by a stranger. It creates immediate physical trust. In ten years, ten couples have met and married thanks to this salon; but 90% of participants do not keep in touch after a single dinner, which the organizers consider entirely normal. Proximity-based relationships do not need to be intimate or lasting; what matters is recognizing the existence of real, different people.
There is therefore no universal model for rebuilding such relationships; one must adapt to each context.
According to a survey by the Chinese Academy of Sciences, more than half of Chinese students now regard marriage as of little importance in their lives. At the same time, you have shown that romantic relationships are increasingly viewed as investments to be weighed in terms of costs, benefits, and risks. How do you explain that love itself has become a question of profitability? Is this another consequence of the “disappearance of the near”?
Yes, very closely. In a performance-driven society, a person’s value is measured by efficiency and measurable outcomes. Human value is then reduced to comparable indicators, and if one fails, individuals are automatically labeled as “losers.” In the past, relationships often formed between classmates, colleagues, workshop partners, or neighbors, and developed naturally through exchanges.
Today, romantic relationships have become a project in themselves, which naturally brings up the issue of cost. Even a dinner at a restaurant can be a source of anxiety: what should I order? Will the other person like it? Is it a cost in line with its value?
More deeply, with the disappearance of the “near,” people have lost the ability to perceive a person in their entirety and have come to treat others as “paper characters,” i.e., one-dimensional profiles. Yet true love requires accepting a person in all their complexity, with their qualities and flaws. When two people discover that the other is not limited to this “paper character,” their relationship collapses; romantic failures multiply, and everyone ends up finding such relationships costly. If love seems so difficult, it appears to be a matter of calculation; in reality, it is the result of a lack of experience.
You raise a third paradox of contemporary China, through the distinction between “functionality” and “ecology.” In a society obsessed with efficiency and performance, daily life has never been so easy to organize, yet human relationships seem increasingly fragile. How do you explain this contradiction?
I am convinced that our current urban life suffers from an excess of functionality and a lack of ecology. Functionality refers to the efficiency with which one completes a task; for example, having a meal delivered in minutes. Modern technologies allow achieving a very high level of efficiency. Ecology, by contrast, does not pursue such a direct objective. Take the example of animals and plants in a forest: they are numerous and varied; whether you like it or not, they are there, they influence each other, and they form a stable system. That is ecology.
Today, the surplus of functional convenience and the lack of ecological balance in urban life produce paradoxes: on one hand, it is very easy to form relationships and accomplish tasks with great efficiency; on the other, young people feel deeply lonely and powerless.
Moreover, it is only online that young people can present themselves as they truly are, while in person they suffer from social anxiety and become very wary. Thus, while we can choose online, in a very efficient and comfortable way, all kinds of features to satisfy our needs, we gradually lose the ability to cope with the uncomfortable situations of real life.
We return to what you argued earlier: if the real ecosystem does not please us, we now have an additional and ubiquitous escape route through digital means.
That’s right. The relationship between ecology and functionality is primarily a question of attitude. When you view your life as an ecosystem, you stop treating people and things around you as replaceable.
Prenons l’exemple de la famille. In China, people often speak of family members as if they were replaceable. This is particularly typical between spouses: we compare our partner to others, and then we hypothesize, “If I had married someone else,” or “If you were like the neighbor Wang, I would do this or that,” which amounts to treating the other as replaceable.
Do we encounter this attitude even toward children?
Yes, although that does not mean that one does not love one’s child, but people make these sorts of comparisons: “See other children!” It isn’t that the child is considered replaceable, but one hypothesizes: you could be different, you could have another personality, another way of acting or approaching situations, and sometimes you should even become someone else.
Why does one think the other is replaceable?
Because, in this logic, no one matters in themselves; everyone is there only to fulfill a function, such as making more money, having a better job, arousing envy in more people, etc. This functional attitude creates tensions within family relationships and casts a heavy psychological shadow on individuals, sometimes for life — a subtle, almost invisible shadow. Such an attitude does not fit an ecological view of the family.
With regard to the neighborhood or the surrounding environment, this replaceability-centered gaze is even more pronounced. If something does not suit, one immediately looks to replace it; if a person does not seem to possess the valued qualities, one avoids talking to them or acts as if they do not exist.
This logic of “yield,” which seeks an optimal combination, maximal efficiency, and the best possible outcome, does not seem limited to China. It clearly appears in other heterogeneous social forms. How do you reconcile your fieldwork with the possibility of extracting broader dynamics?
The concept of the “near” does not aim to develop a macrosociological theory; it aims to cultivate an “anthropology of life,” which deals with how you manage your own life, so that academic thought emerges from life, returns to life, and serves life.
A thinking that serves life cannot provide you with advice or conclusions in the form of a three-point list; it is above all about offering viewpoints, perspectives, and attitudes, which you can then take up to live your life.
Ecology is precisely such an attitude: it allows you to better appreciate and understand social diversity, its legitimacy, to perceive its richness, fullness, and mysteries, rather than judging others solely by maximum efficiency. Yet, to cultivate this attitude, it must be supported by a lot of reflection and discourse; it must be conscious, meaning awareness must be awakened through words and images. I wonder whether the “near” could provoke such consciousness.
This concern to rebuild ties also seems to be spreading to Chinese universities, where courses on love are increasingly popular, a phenomenon less visible in Western universities. What does this enthusiasm reveal? Are young Chinese seeking to learn in the classrooms what they can no longer experience in their daily relationships?
That young people seek to be understood is a good thing. But relying on theoretical courses about love to compensate for a lack of experience can only have a limited effect. Love, after all, is a matter of experience, not theory.
We need to imagine new approaches, move from the classroom to real life, prioritize sharing experiences and collective action over purely rational analysis. We must transform heartbreak and workplace loneliness into topics for discussion and collective action, in order to rebuild the sense of proximity.
Should rebuilding this “sense of proximity” involve challenging the existing protective mechanisms?
No, I do not think so. This evolution must happen gradually. Turning the reconstruction of this “sense of proximity” into a revolution marked by renunciation of self and self-criticism is not viable.
If you feel your life remains balanced but you are missing something, if you do not dare nurture hope or feel excited for fear of disappointment, perhaps begin with small things, even if you encounter light disappointments. Observe the lives of your neighbors, see how the elderly overcome their problems, observe how neighborhood annoyances are resolved — or never resolved. Little by little, you will realize that disappointment is part of life; what matters is to learn from it and move forward.
It is precisely in these less “positive” matters that you can draw a deeper, more lasting strength. True resilience does not come from never falling, but from the ability, after each fall, to rise again concretely, authentically, and beside those you love. And that is precisely what the “near” can bring.