Monday 30 December 2013

笙歌再现


一部小说的诞生,其实也得依靠自身的生命力。

我写笙歌的时候,每朝起来都会满脑子情节。故事中人昨天的遭遇,由于我要吃晚饭而被暂时冻结。今天他们苏醒之后,究竟会如何反应呢?我变成了“欲知后事如何 必须续写下回” 的心急人。吃罢早餐,连忙打开电脑找答案。我对故事主人翁们的命运的好奇,变成了一种推动力。

整个创作过程中最需要铺排和营造的,是故事的背景。一个不育的人类世界,人口和社会结构究竟会如何演变呢?这方面需要下功夫研究,构想才会合理。至于框架内的详情细节,大多是写作当时的念头幻化而成的现象。但念头这东西一向不受控制,更莫说悉心策划了。从这个角度看,故事的发展并不全由作者刻意安排。情节之间也有因果关系,节节相连;更曲折的布局也得顺理,方能成章。

Writing of Man's Last Song


When working on Man’s Last Song, I discovered that a story has its own life force. 

Most mornings, I would wake with a headful of ideas, wondering how to match them with my fictional characters. I had left them for dinner the night before, temporary frozen in a situation. How would they continue today? After breakfast, I rushed to the computer, anxious to find out. The story, yet incomplete, was spurring me on with the intrigue of its emerging fate.
Designing the global setting — a diminishing human world due to infertility — required research and planning. Once the general framework had been constructed, filling it with details became a day-to-day happenstance that could neither be planned nor controlled any more than real life. My thoughts of the moment — spontaneous and unruly as usual — would shape the vagaries of life faced by the protagonists. 

Saturday 26 October 2013

Man's Last Song - Event Diary





(KINDLE  version available)
My perpetually nearly completed Author's Page URL at Amazon


ORDER FROM BOOK DEPOSITORY
Free Deliver Worldwide


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The HKU Library Book Talk turned out to be a great event. Every seat was taken, and the audience stayed after the talk to ask many excellent questions. All copies sold out, with orders to be delivered later. Are books back in fashion?















Watch the presentation on YouTube
https://youtu.be/pFJmr-82GKg

This is my write up of the talk: 
Tuning into Man's Last Song 
My conjecture on what’s wrong with the world today...


這是我在港大討論“Man's Last Song“ 的中文譯本。

根據我的非主流印象,今天的世界一塌糊塗,程度史無前例。全球人士不論背景,唯一的共識是世界不對版。至於如何走樣,則看法很多,無法一致,更莫論應對方法了。我在小說裡借用了未來的時空,嘗試做事後孔明。。。




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Read Synopsis of Man's Last Song: 
http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/p/mans-last-song-synopsis.html


Read Chapter ONE  & FREE PDF download:
Chinese Version - 中文姐妹作「笙歌」
http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/p/blog-page_29.html


Download PODCAST
by HK Writers Circle

Link to the Man's Last Song episode with all the blurb, timings, etc: http://hongkongpodcast.libsyn.com/episode-1-mans-last-song

Link to download the Man's Last Song episode directly: http://traffic.libsyn.com/hongkongpodcast/001-hkwcpodcast-episode001-manslastsong.mp3

Link to HKWC podcast of other Hong Kong Writers on I Tunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/hong-kong-writers-circle-podcast/id1088666803


RTHK Morning Brew Link:

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News Updates


8 February 2016
Happy Chinese New Year!

Though I remain committed to indolence, the beginning of 2016 looks ominously busy. Just in the coming few weeks, there will be three events related to Man’s Last Song, in chronological disorder:

1. Feb 20, Saturday, Proverse Readers' Club Event at Dymocks, Discovery Bay. I know to many HK people, DB seems foreign. But it’s actually only a few kilometres away. Yes you do need to take a ferry because there’s water in between, but passports are not necessary. A 20-minute ferry ride from Central on a Saturday afternoon is actually a very nice way to kill time. Details can be found in the flyer below.





2. On Feb 19 (i.e. the day before the 20th) I’ll discuss with Phil Whelan on Morning Brew (RTHK 3) whether human extinction is dystopian or utopian. Tune in, or wait patiently for my link.

Here's the link to the RTHK Archive. I ended up talking a lot about "garbage" than the story. But who's to say they are unrelated? 
RTHK Morning Brew Link: 
http://programme.rthk.hk/channel/radio/programme.php?name=radio3/morning_brew&d=2016-02-19&p=2505&e=346554&m=episode#

3. On March 31, I’ll give another talk at the HKU Library. This time it’ll be 45 minutes long, including Q&A. I’ll even prepare Powerpoint Slides to make it look very serious. I’ll bring only a dozen books or so for sale. If you need many many many copies for Easter presents to friends and relatives, please order in advance. Can you think of a more felicitous Easter gift than a novel about the end of mankind? I’ll post another reminder in March.

See you in one or more of the above events!





4 June 2015
Just discovered that Samsung phone users can download the Kindle App for free, and it comes with a free e-book of their choice. 
And on Samsung's Recommended Book list is Man's Last Song! 
Quite a pleasant surprise that a mobile phone company has such excellent literary taste :-) 
If you need a new phone, my recommendation is BUY Samsung!

25 March 2015
Event at the HK University Reading Club
(There'll be another on in the fall of 2015)



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TimeOut Review 
by Laura Besley

"It's Hong Kong -- but not as we know it. The year is 2090 and Song Sung, 42, is the youngest person alive. James Tam's debut novel, Man's Last Song, is a complex-yet-compelling exploration into the balance of mankind -- for individuals, as well as for humanity as a whole. This superbly written dystopian novel is appealing on many levels: for its dramatic use of Hong Kong, for the intriguing characters, for the questions raised and, more importantly, for those which are left unanswered. A highly recommended read."
Laura Besley 

Monday 14 October 2013

A spooky coincidence during Chong Yang Festival



Yesterday was Chong Yang, one of two annual grave sweeping festivals in Chinese tradition. A few years ago, Chong Yang and Halloween fell on the same day. East met West in the afterlife. After visiting ancestral graveyards, youngsters dressed up as Count Dracula or George W Bush for a macabre good time in Lan Kwai Fong.

It was a beautiful autumn day yesterday. After the beach and lunch, we made a spontaneous visit to the Military Cemetery at Stanley, and was spooked by an uncanny coincidence... 

重阳坟头 迷离插曲




昨天重阳,天气特佳,和家人到沙滩打发了一个上午。在赤柱午饭后,经过军人坟场时突然心血来潮,带老婆和小女儿进去参观了一下。谁料一个不寻常的巧合,在几个陌生人的坟旁将我们引进了逝去的时空。 。 。

Monday 30 September 2013

Writing About Asia -- Words and Prejudice


(I wrote this piece for the Hong Kong Writers Circle on-line newsletter to substitute for a panel discussion planned earlier.)

Writing about something as dynamic and diverse as Asia at this exciting juncture could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for writers living here; but chances are most of us would miss it.

Asia is changing at an unprecedented rate, causing a historic paradigm shift yet to be understood, hence the challenge. Most people, writers included, are more comfortable with familiar patterns and hindsight than gazing into the unknown, particularly when the road to future appears chaotically revolutionary as well as hesitantly evolutionary.

When we “write about Asia”, therefore, we could be talking about a dramatically different place depending on whether it’s in the past, present, or future.

文字与偏见 —— 有关亚洲的写作


香港的英語作家聯會前陣子計劃搞個研討會,邀請我分享以亞洲為背景的寫作心得。我自問並非專家,但也臉皮厚厚地答應了。最後研討會改為線上論壇,我便借題發揮了幾句心底話。以下的中文版本歸納了英語原文的一些看法,並非譯本。

亞洲很多方面都在急劇轉變。東西南北的交流,不但史無前例地頻繁,亦較過往互動。這文化匯流所產生的旋渦其實創造了不少故事題材,是寫作人士的黃金機會。但我覺得很多文人,不論本身國籍和文化背景,都會錯過這千載良機。原因是當局者迷。大多數人身處變化時都需要時間去消化和反應。依賴熟識的一套去聯想將來,是人類的思維惰性。作家當然不例外。

外國人寫亞洲,尤其容易忽略了急速變化對一個傳統社會帶來的衝擊。亞洲的過去,現在,將來,有如脫了節的時空單元,依靠著抽象無形的文化神髓連接。外人要掌握這混亂中的微妙,需要很大的敏感度。


Friday 6 September 2013

Calculus of Predetermination


中文版本:微積分談宿命論 


Reality being increasingly counter-intuitive is not only a problem in politics. Quantum mechanics is also taking us further and further away from the neat and simple perception of reality that Homo sapiens have enjoyed for millennia. The more we think we know, the less sure we become. Perhaps it’s meant to be. 

The latest dilemma is that “Reality, Relativity, Causality, and Freewill” cannot coexist (New Scientist No.219 Vol 2928, 3 Aug 2013). One of them has to go. But which one? To me, the answer is obvious: Freewill! 

I suspect General Freewill to be an anthropocentric delusion spawned by arrogance and wishful thinking, a notion I briefly entertained fictionally in Man’s Last Song. Believe it or not, I reached this conclusion through a mathematical approach. Well, kind of.

微積分談宿命論

English Version: Calculus of Predetermination 

量子物理學目前面對的問題與國際政治很相似。兩者都越來越 違反常理,與直覺 現實不符,甚至不可思議。我們自以為知道得越多,就越糊塗。1383號的新科學家New Scientist)的一篇文章歸納得很好:現實,相對論,因果關係,和人的自主,四樣東西不能並存。要解決矛盾,必須否定其中一樣。但四個概念均被視為基本,要開除一個並不容易。

我卻認為答案很明顯:廢除自主!因為所謂自主,無非人類的自大幻覺。這點我在小說 「笙歌」(Man’s Last Song)也略略討論過。

信不信由你。我這結論其實頗有科學基礎,是按照微積分概念推斷出來的。

Saturday 31 August 2013

The Age of Propaganda

Propaganda are like a virus. They enter through the eyes and ears, anchor in our head or heart, then grow and spread. Once in a while they turn epidemic, with devastating effects. 

It has been said that modern propaganda were invented in WW-I. Caricatures, novels, and poems assisted recruitment to excellent effect. Newsreels from the front was a sensational innovation. Total WW-I casualties reached 35 million. Most died without having asked why. It was unpatriotic and cowardly to question. 

Most atrocities since then had at least been partially fuelled by mass propaganda. Millions of ordinary folks had been induced to murder by surprisingly simplistic slogans. Posthumous propaganda such as cowboy movies and Islamophobic hate messages are arguably more heartless. Is it not enough to destroy a community unprovoked without demonising the dead and their children?

A scary fact about New Age Propaganda is their transient and “entertaining” nature. As long as a sensational lie is believed for the time being, when it’s needed, subsequent uncovering carries little if any consequence. The International Community’s atrophied attention and memory spans have apparently shrunk shorter than its moralising sermons. The Gulf of Tonkin conned the American people into an atrocious war. More than a million Vietnamese were killed. Tens of thousands of American young men died for nothing. The false-flag operation had since been declassified. So?

面对现代化政治宣传


宣傳有如病毒,可以在我們的腦細胞繁殖滋長,甚至發展為瘟疫,為害無窮。

以前的統治者們由於有上帝支持,奉天承運,或許身上流著世世代代內部通婚積聚下來的貴族淤血,一切理所當然,無容置疑。宣傳對他們來說作用不大。所以政治宣傳通常都是搞造反的人們的玩意而已。

有人說第一次世界大戰是轉捩點。英國政府利用宣傳發動人民參軍,與不久之前還是皇親國戚的德國拼命。當時的宣傳手法簡單:只不過一些把德軍描繪成凶殘暴虐的海報和小說,和激勵戰鬥心的詩詞等等而已。最先進的是首次利用電影播放聯軍在前線英勇作戰和犧牲的片段,哄動一時。

歐洲看宣傳看得滿腔熱血的後果,是四年間死傷三千五百萬人。他們把生命斷送之余,來不及問一句整場戰爭因何而打。當時來說,誰有疑問誰就是奸細懦夫,可以被 扣上手銬送上戰壕。而衝動的不單只頭腦簡單的粗人。不少貴族學院精英,也唱著校歌衝向德軍的機槍陣地,硬著頭皮吃子彈。「一戰」之中,窮的富的,貴族與賤 民,一律踴躍當兵,爭相捐軀。

在「一戰」之中,統治者發現了一個新的大殺傷力武器:政治宣傳。

自此以後,很多大規模暴行都依靠政治宣傳來爭取廣泛支持,加大破壞力度。但貴族們經過「一戰」教訓,學懂了君子動口不動手,開始遠離前線,站到炮火射程之外指手劃腳。

Saturday 10 August 2013

The Democracy Mission - A Conspiracy Theory



Amid the overwhelming Democracy narratives, even sensible skeptics tend to echo apologetically: “Of course we support Democracy! Who doesn’t? Just that our folks ain’t ready yet. Too stupid and uneducated you see. Sorry sorry. One day soon!” This unthinking concession, mostly a reaction to the intimidating pressure wave generated by an enormous propaganda turbine, is irrational and contrary to facts. The long-term effects of repeating the hypnotic mantra of Democracy include loss of judgement as well as the confidence to say black is black. 

What people should strive for is good governance, and a reasonably fair, rational, sustainable and civil society (which depends on the people as much as their government), NOT an ostensibly participatory Democracy controlled by greed, dominated by corrupt politicos and financial charlatans. The Chinese, having learnt numerous lessons in their long history, should feel qualified to explore a feasible balance for themselves. 

Whatever the merits of democracy, I’m more curious about its evangelical preachers. 

Democracy is a vague term, like “Christendom”, “Islamic World”, or “the West”.  Besides the democratic banner, the political landscapes of the USA, Afghanistan, Iraq, Japan, India. . . don’t share many common features. In the end, I suspect Democracy could be fantastic for some, at some point in time, and disastrous for others, under different circumstances. Any system, like its human inventors, would age, turn insufferable, then die one day. Some reincarnate, others don’t.

The brute force and passion with which democracies export their faith is bewildering, reminiscent of colonial missionaries. Is the missionary complex simply a hangover from the religious past? Could there be an element of altruism in their uncontrollable urge to share a great social discovery with the rest of humanity? But. . . come on, these are ruthless invaders, operators of 21st Century torture camps and lynching drones so. . .

民主傳教士:一個陰謀論

English: The Democracy Mission -- A Conspiracy Theory 

在西方話語籠罩之下,我們最容易犯的一個毛病,便是人云亦云地贊同民主當然頂呱呱。
“民主誰不想哦?就是同胞們不爭氣,未夠資格。求大哥通融通融,咱們早晚趕上,與你齊齊民主。” 這未假思索的取向毫無理據,與事實不符,卻十分普遍,是個危險的現象。長久被催眠的人,早晚會失去客觀分析和判斷能力,和指鹿為鹿的信心,淪為二等應聲蟲。
每個老百姓所應該要求的,是一個有管治能力,盡量為民謀福利的政府,和大致公平合理的社會,而不是有招牌無實際,被政棍財閥壟斷,到處一塌糊塗,甚至生靈塗炭的 “民主” 騷。天性務實,社會經驗豐富的中國人,尤其應該有信心向這幌子說不!

民主的利弊,已經有很多人辯證不休,無需我插嘴。我想探討的,倒是民主大國盡其所能,甚至不惜動武,也要把他們的制度推廣於世的心態和原因。 

民主的定義極為含糊,跟基督教世界回教世界之類的通稱同樣概括。試問美國,阿富汗,伊拉克,日本,印度等民主國家除了民主旗幟之外,政治上有多少共同點呢?我覺得民主制度,最終跟君主制,貴族制,神棍掌權制,有錢萬能制,共同無產制等等的智人花招一樣,好的時候蠻好,差的時候挺差,一切視乎情況,時機,運氣,數理像的配合。另外還得視乎是否已經好過了三代。

哪麼民主大國不顧一切,把一個有待時間考驗的政制加諸別人,究竟居心何在呢?況且很多的實例證明,一個國家只要掛上民主羊頭,便可以公然販賣狗肉;正常情況之下,大哥不但視若無睹,還會維護,這又是甚麼原因呢?

Wednesday 31 July 2013

Maternal Love 母爱?



This is not an uncommon sight in Hongkong. I’ve witnessed parents of all ages and descriptions performing assisted feeding on their beloved kids, so the game may go on. It inspired me to write the article New Age Narcotics (http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/2012/10/new-age-narcotics.html). Last week, I finally couldn’t resist capturing it with my phone. 

Love is a universally positive word in the modern world, though the boundaries between love, care, obsession, indulgence, etc. are not clear. I suppose they are, and should be, a personal definition. However, these boundaries seem to be shifting further and further away from my old-fashioned sense, becoming increasingly incomprehensible. At what point does “love” become toxic, I wonder.

The characters in Man’s Last Song (http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/2013/03/mans-last-song-event-diary.html) used up an entire section to dissect love, trying to discover its illusive nature: While so-called “love” from an enlightened person can be liberating and enriching, blind passion from a fool is annoying at best, murderous at worst. Fervid love chokes us when happening, and pains us with regrets when dead. . . Of course not everyone agrees.

只要够“八卦”,留意周围,这感人场面在香港不难看见。我见过不少衣着入时,看上去颇有教养的年轻父母,不忍亲生骨肉为了两餐把电子游戏中断,也在酒楼餐厅悉心喂饲“中童级”小朋友。这也是我较早的一篇博文“摩登鸦片” (http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/2012/10/blog-post.html) 的灵感来源。

在现代社会,“爱心”被视为文明素质,不容置疑。可惜爱与痴迷,狂热,娇宠,放纵等的界线,除了是个人选择之外,也很难划清。对我这个食古不化的人来说,“爱”在物质过盛,时间缺乏的社会中,变得越来越难理解。中国人都听过物极必反。究竟爱到什么程度才会“作反”呢?可能很值得思考。在 Man’s Last Song (http://guo-du.blogspot.hk/2013/03/mans-last-song-event-diary.html) 的故事中,几个“文明过后原始人” 把酒论爱,希望找出它的玄妙真谛。就是一直还没有空完成中文“笙歌”的最后版本!

Guo Du  31.07.2013

Friday 5 July 2013

My Hundred-Year-Old Neighbour Mr. Chan


[中文: 我的百岁邻居陈老先生

I’ve lived in the same building for more than half a century now. Standing twelve storeys high, it was the tallest structure on Robinson Road in 1958, if not all of Mid-Levels. We were surrounded by colonial style mansions and low-rise apartments. Until the mid-sixties, we could pick wax apples just across the street. The neighbourhood, like everything else in Hong Kong, had since changed beyond recognition. The panoramic view of Victoria Harbour has long disappeared, replaced by a barricade of oppressively tall buildings, spotted with industrial-standard windows that never open.

我的百歲鄰居陳老先生

我三歲到現在都住在同一棟大廈。我和兩個女兒都在這五十年代建成的公寓成長。它樓高12層,當年可能是半山區最高的建築物,俯瞰維多利亞海港。周圍都是富有殖民地色彩的古老大宅和四五層高的洋房。直到六十年代中期,我只要橫過羅便臣道路,便可以和朋友攀樹採摘洋蒲桃,現在很難想像。過去半個世紀,香港改變不少。 今天,我的家被高得有威脅性的新廈重重包圍。舉目環顧,無數永不打開的工業鋁窗密麻麻地遮擋著視野。在天台看海景煙花的日子,老早已成過去。

Wednesday 26 June 2013

Other Snowden Revelations

Allow me to hop on the bandwagon and make a few comments about Edward Snowden from a slightly different angle.

There have been legitimate questions concerning the apparent ease with which he copied highly confidential information, his background, and the escape. They seem sensible queries, without the fingerprints of Disinformation Agents. However, observations and gut feelings have convinced me that Snowden is genuine. 

Most of these operational puzzles can be answered if we let go of one assumption: That the US secret machinery, powerful as it is, must be competent like what we see in movies. People who have worked for major multinationals might agree that the functioning of huge organisations is appallingly less coherent and rational than what outsiders might perceive. A simple example: The computer servers of most companies, big or small, are maintained by an outside contractor or a relatively junior staff member. No highly paid senior person is willing — or capable of — maintaining the system. Now, unless top executives exchange confidential correspondence by hand-written notes, relatively junior technicians could access them if they want to, including an audit trail of the Chairman’s furtive visits to unwholesome websites during office hours.

斯洛登的启示

让我也来凑凑热闹,从其它角度就斯洛登事件插两句口吧。

有些人对斯洛登是否“无间道”有所怀疑,我认为十分合理。不过事态发展到如今,我相信斯洛登是“反间谍”的可能性甚低。至于他如何能够成功掌握高密资料,顺利逃离美国等的具体疑问,其实甚有启示作用,值得思考。

有些人觉得像美国这样庞大的军事集团,给斯洛登这小子把高密文件顺利抄走离境,难以置信。但假如你了解所有外表堂皇的大集团的内部运作的话,你可能不会觉得惊奇。举个简单例子:无论规模多大的公司和企业,电脑伺服器都要由比较年轻的中低级专业员工负责。任何“高密”文件和高层交流,除非不经电脑准备和传送,否则他们都不难看到。难道要主席大人自己动手运作和保养伺服器不成?算他老人家愿意,也不懂得如何入手。这是个很普遍的操作死结。唯一的解决办法可能是“疑人莫用,用人莫疑“。还有便是尽力把员工对公司的忠诚和归属感拿稳,不能光靠银弹指挥。

Wednesday 12 June 2013

Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh



I recently learned three things from Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh’s Hong Kong retreat.

The first thing was mindful eating: chew every mouthful thirty times before swallowing (if the food has not yet disappeared). I had known this for decades, but never put into practice. But during communal meals at the retreat, everyone chewed relentlessly. I did not want to be the first one to swallow, so I munched on doggedly. Then it clicked — a sudden enlightenment!

一行禅师



大概由于福德所限,我对大众化开示布道等活动一向抱有疑惑。今回一行禅师访港,有友人赠票,于是随缘参加。谁料得益不浅,启发良多。


第一个启发是多年来听过不少次,心里亦甚理解,却从未实行的“用心进食”。想不到在禅修营吃了几餐大锅饭,便突然“顿悟”。营友们每口饭都尽量嚼磨至少30下,我唯有本着人家不吞我也不吞的精神,死磨烂嚼,想不到有所得着。

Friday 10 May 2013

Midlife Triad



Dragon Arm Ah Wah spent most of his youth in custody

After staying away from prisons for decades, he’s back, all because of love

Jail is no longer what it used to be

Neither is the underworld which he once knew well




WHEN Dragon Arm Ah Wah entered Dorm L1 of the Tong Fuk Correctional Institution, hugging a pile of blankets and a plastic bag of belongings, I was stretching in bed, breathing into my ageing knees.


Each evening, I’d do some gentle yoga to prepare my body for the damp hard bed, and to create a little mental space while young inmates built up an evening cacophony. The room, nearly full, could incarcerate up to twenty-eight in fourteen bunk beds.


He walked through the door with a calculated gait which demonstrated that he had stepped into more troubling situations before. He then paused briefly. Tiny round eyes, deep-set and vigilant, like those of an animal hiding in a cave, scanned the room. Mickey Mouse, he seemed to have concluded. His expression softened, looking cautiously friendly.


The de facto head inmate Fat Shing, a quiet Wo Kee Gangster in his thirties, greeted him. Fat Shing wasn’t fat anymore. The Wheel of Fortune on his back had wrinkled up, like the sunny pattern on a deflated beach ball. He pointed out which beds were available. Ah Wah took the one across the centre aisle from mine. The kids’ quarter, though only a few feet away, was nominally noisier. He had apparently taken note of that right away. Before settling down, he gave me a quick assessment glance, too quick for me to smile back a hello.


He expertly laid out the military blankets, then took off his shirt. A blue dragon wrapped around his upper right arm, entwined with streaks of bulging veins. Dragons, tigers and eagles used to be standard body adornments in gangland. Now they had become classic. Judging from the young ones in the room, tattoo fashion had diversified — Wheel of Fortune, Tree of Life, Mickey Mouse, Buddha, Popeye — nothing was deemed ridiculous on a modern gangster. One guy had a plum blossom bonsai across his back. His sobriquet was — as would be expected — Plum Blossom. A professional tough guy, not gay, not even effeminate, actually called himself Plum Blossom. I was surprised at first.


Time had evidently changed everything, sparing nothing, not even the underworld.


Ah Wah’s dragon looked weary, a little crinkled, not as confident as its host.



He was assigned to the janitorial team. I worked at the sewing workshop. 


I would catch sight of him in the common room, the playground, or back in the dorm. He did not seem to share much with the youngsters, including the boys from his own gang. During the first week, he only exchanged scarce words with an inmate a few years his senior, in the late forties. They had both done time in Cape Collinson, a juvenile prison for boys under twenty-one, back in the 1980’s. It gave them a common topic in reminiscence. Everyone referred to Cape Collinson by the English acronym TC, but nobody knew what it stood for.


‘TC is Cape Collinson in English’ was Ah Wah’s best explanation when I eventually got to ask him. 



Most evenings, he would lie in bed reading The Legend of the Condor Heroes. We had all read Jin Yong’s popular wuxia (swordsman is the most common and unsatisfactory translation) classics in our teenage, and watched at least one of the many cinematic renditions since the 1960s. Though good fun tales for any age, and well written in Jin Yong’s uniquely literary but user-friendly style, it was unusual to see someone Ah Wah’s age reading them.


One night, the kids were arm wrestling, having a boisterous time. In a burst of good spirit, Ah Wah left his Condor Heroes in bed to join the the party. ‘Try count to ten staying up,’ he challenged. ‘Left arm only.’


It created an uproar. He was not particularly muscular; and these kids were not exactly nerds. A small crowd formed around the table. One after another, they were downed by the ‘old man’ Ah Wah before they could count to three. When he was eventually defeated by a mainland farmer in a single breath, he took the chance to retire honourably from the tournament, claiming fatigue from having wrestled half the room in turn. He looked my way, beaming triumphantly. I smiled and gave him the thumb up. 


He ambled over and we chatted for the first time. 


We had name labels on the uniform and the plastic mug that we carried around all day. There was no need for formal introduction.


‘You’re amazingly strong for your size,’ I complimented.


‘I was much bigger.’ Was he being defensive? 


I did not mean it that way. Though not Herculean, he was compactly muscular with a leathery texture, appearing more industrial than organic. 


‘But this,’ he squeezed his historically ‘much bigger’ left biceps with delicate pride, ‘is  more than enough for them.’ He grinned smugly, then threw a sidelong glance at the youngsters. They were screaming and laughing hysterically by now to hide their embarrassment, as the mainlander downed them one after another before they could even start counting.


My attention shifted to his right arm. Dragon looked dejected, as if wishing to be left alone. It wanted no part in this moment of impetuous glory.


‘You left-handed?’  I asked. 


‘No. My right was even stronger,’ he explained, still massaging his left arm. ‘Got broken real bad once.’ He turned to face dragon, and cursed impassively. ‘Fucking cunt.’


I wasn’t sure if it was directed at his arm, or the person or incident that emasculated it, but did not seek to clarify. In jail, I tried not to ask too many questions.


‘You like Jin Yong?’ I steered the conversation to safer territory.


‘Condor Heroes?’ He looked across the aisle at his copy, spread open in bed, facing down. ‘Have read it a hundred times.’ 


A hundred times? Okay, many times, but still. I waited. If he wished to explain, he would. He did. ‘Great book. More like real life than anything else I’ve read.’ He paused, then added with a self-mocking smirk: ‘Don’t read much of anything else though.’


I knew what he meant, so I told him: ‘I know what you mean.’


The mainlander had just finished defeating all Dorm L1 representatives from Hong Kong’s three major gangs, and hopped back to his chess game. His buddy, a fellow illegal worker from the northeastern city of Changchun, a full head taller than him, bigger no-nonsense biceps pulsating, smiled cheekily at him. He sniggered, then muttered at double-speed in a northern accent which nobody could decipher, undoubtedly telling jokes on cute little Hong Kong thugs with funny tattoos. Mainland inmates did not normally participate in the locals’ rowdy games. He might have found Ah Wah’s confident challenge too cocky to ignore — the farmer boy had to show these urban toughs what real muscles are like.


Ah Wah blinked reflectively a few times. ‘Jin Yong understands life’s a jiang hu. A man in jiang hu is no longer his own. Is that how the saying goes?’


‘I think so.’


I never argue with aphorisms; trying to change accepted wisdom is pointless. Plus I actually like this one, though jiang hu had given me considerable headache trying to translate into English. Some words are not meant to cross the language barrier.


Literally, jiang hu means ‘River and Lake’, it’s the social vortex in which we live and struggle, occasionally getting sucked under and drowned. It’s the confluence of office politics, job and peer pressure, social perception, trade practice, conduct of the competition, opinion of loathsome neighbours and disgruntled in-laws. It’s the background flux of human communities, defining and restricting one’s options in life. 


The underworld is governed by its own set of fringe traditions and code of ethics — often more straightforward and ruthless than the mainstream ones which it defies. In any jiang hu, one needs to act against one’s wish at times. But in the underworld, that could mean having to slit open someone’s guts or hack off his legs to demonstrate brotherhood loyalty and courage. 


‘Once in jiang hu, the big flow takes over,’ I echoed in different words. ‘And we all live in some kind of jiang hu — always.’



It suddenly occurred to me why Ah Wah read the Condor Heroes with such tireless dedication.


Wu xias are superhuman martial artists living in unsettling times. China is threatened by invasion from outside barbarians, or a dysfunctional and unjust government from  the inside, or both. Someone needs to maintain justice at street level. Unlike Japanese samurais, wu xias never serve the government or feudal lords. They neither rob nor steal except to punish the greedy and wicked. They are gorgeous, righteous, brave, generous, and cultured. They write love poems between duels which they invariably win. Most important of all, they never run out of legitimate money or credit. They are remarkable swimmers frolicking joyously in the deadly currents of a maelstrom  jiang hu.


Jin Yong offers an alternative reality in his novels, one in which the talents of the marginalised are appreciated and graciously rewarded. If I were treading water in Ah Wah’s raging jiang hu, struggling to keep my nose above water, I might also hallucinate parallels between the hostile forces in real life and wu xia stories. Seeking hope and escape from literature is not a middle-class prerogative.

_____


Ah Wah gradually became curious rather than suspicious of me — someone who read, wrote and stretched in bed. He appeared to enjoy chatting with me in his taciturn way, but was never unduly enthusiastic or overly inquisitive about personal details. In spite of his characteristic insouciance which seemed deliberate at times, he never lowered his guard completely, or forgot where we were. 


In fragmented bits, he told me about himself, as if handing over random pieces of a jigsaw puzzle one at a time, leaving me to speculate the complete picture — a picture which was probably a mystery to him as well. But whenever we exchanged stories, it would soon become obvious that my jiang hu was relatively uneventful, like Lake Geneva, while his was the tumultuous Lower Congo. I cannot pretend that it was a fair exchange.



Ah Wah soon proved himself much more than a strong left-armed wrestler. He could drop to the floor from standing, body straight like a plank, into single-arm push-ups at a rapid pace. He had learnt these impressive stunts during two three-year stretches in TC decades ago, and had kept them up. Though he could not write poems like wu xias do, he had a repertoire of amusing limericks. Most of them were quite intelligent, thoughtfully satirical with a melancholic touch of helplessness rather than being mindlessly vulgar. Within a couple of weeks at Tong Fuk, he had also gained starlike status by beating everyone in chess. There was evidently a brain somewhere inside his modest looking head. 


Similar to his wu xias, he had a heartbreaking romance — a heartache that throbbed silently deep down. But unlike his romantic heroes, he lived in a capitalistic society without cash or credit. To make a better living, he had explored the limits of the law on multiple occasions. Since twenty-one, however, he’d learnt to be smart about it. He had not been charged with any illicit income supplementation for a quarter of a century, until now.


‘What did you do?’ I asked, referring to his offence. The generic descriptions on his prison ID didn’t tell much. Fraud could have been a number of interesting things.


‘Five marriages. The agent was an asshole. Disappeared without paying the balance. Instead of catching him, the fucking cops got us. Cunts.’


Sham marriage with mainland women was responsible for a few inmates at Dorm L1. Most of them, like Ah Wah, were unaware that computers had made their polygamous sideline unviable.


‘Were you married? I mean, for real?’


‘No!’ he said, sounding nearly irritated by my stupid question. ‘How do you marry without a flat? I wanted to buy one in Shenzhen to marry my girl.’ 


He had married five times in a month for money, in order to get married for love.


‘Where’s she now?’ I poked gently; I knew him well enough by now.


‘Went home to Hebei. Almost a year now.’ He sighed imperceptibly at length, allowing a melancholy side to show for the first time. He mumbled softly, nearly to himself: ‘She sat next to me in every mahjong game for more than two years.’ He looked at me, as if to check whether I understood what it meant, how it must have felt, the lightness of her tender breath behind his shoulders, a loose strand of hair tickling his neck. His mousey eyes melted, lost in reminiscence.

_____


One evening, a diminutive young man Mooloo had a hormonal attack. With underwear fashionably dropped half way down the bum crack, and an erection leading the way, he strode up and down the centre aisle, pretending to be a giant exhibitionist. Mooloo was prone to grand gestures disproportional to his presence, probably the most aggressive and thug-like roommate we had.


He was determined to entertain everyone with his raucous singing that evening.


Inside a big hotel in Hollywood

Three fat dames with six big boobs  . . .


A few of his pals cheered him on. Us older guys were all indifferent, not showing the slightest hint of interest or irritation.


Ah Wah ambled over my side, smirking. ‘When I served TC, he wasn’t even a foetus.’ He said it in a low and even voice; neither an undignified whisper nor a declaration of trouble.


I was tempted to say ‘he still isn’t much of one’, but refrained from responding. If Mooloo had pretended not to hear Ah Wah, he would not grant me similar courteousy. Instead, I grasped the opportunity to find out a little bit more about Ah Wah. 


‘Actually,’ I asked casually — oh by the way — ‘what were you in TC for?’ 


‘Man slaughter,’ he said, drawing his right index finger across his throat, shrugging at the same time, slanting the fatal slash diagonally. He also tried to sound casual — oh well, only manslaughter.



It was 1983. He was only fifteen.


The man he slaughtered was a scrawny Wo Kee kid a couple of years his junior. Thin like a matchstick, his dull yellowish complexion reminded Ah Wah of the greasy preserved ducks his mum used to hang out the window to air out on a nice day, except not as lustrous. He was mentally and physically desiccated, a precocious junkie going through the motion of life in a dangerous circle. He was due to die anytime soon; all he needed was an excuse. ‘I became his fucking excuse. Shit karma,’ he said, apparently still sore about the injustice of fate.


Anyway, the nitwit, high on something dirt cheap and a few beer too many, was begging for it. He yapped about Wo Kee wiping 14K off the map of Tsim Tsa Tsui to one of Ah Wah’s chicks, in a disco in Tsim Tsa Tsui, back then hardcore 14K turf under the protection of Ah Wah’s Big Brother. He left Ah Wah with no choice. 


‘I caught him solid, right below the sternum with my bare fist.’ His right arm was still good, very strong in fact. Like his left, it rarely lost in arm wrestling. On his thirteenth birthday two years ago, Big Brother had bought it a dragon. Ah Wah spent days looking at it when alone, caressing and admiring the texture of the tinted skin incredulously. The tattoo eventually won him his sobriquet at the fearsome age of fourteen. He was now fully immersed in jiang hu, becoming known and feared, no longer his own boy.


The wimp stooped forward, a puff of bad breath escaped.


Ah Wah expertly gripped his greasy hair, and pulled it down hard with both hands to meet his right knee, a trick he had learnt from Thai boxing. ‘Die, motherfucker!’ he commanded with theatrical cool for his small audience, not meaning it. Perhaps he pulled too hard, and did not aim good enough. Perhaps his flimsy victim tilted his head back in the last moment — his last moment. Perhaps it was meant to be. Ah Wah’s knee missed the nose and crashed right into the Adam’s apple, that strange little knob of cartilage which happened to be the most prominent feature on his victim’s pathetic body.


Something yielded against his knee with a crack. 


Pissed off at what he instinctively sensed might have happened, he kneed it again, much harder, furiously, and again.


‘I could sense the moment he died. Something left him, and went through me like electricity. My hands went cold. Fucking spooky man. It freaked me right out, no shit, and pissed me off big time. So I gave him another one, and another one.’


‘I don’t know he could die so easily,’ he told the court later, pleading guilty as advised by legal aid. He honestly didn’t know. 



TC was a hell hole, but he survived. 


‘It’s okay if you can fight, hell if you can’t. Worse than hell actually, I’m sure.’ He smirked nostalgically. It was a complex nostalgia, a mix of pride, sadness, faded anger, regrets, resignation. Obviously, he was an excellent fighter, so it was okay.


He was discharged after three years. Barely a month later, he got sucked into a big gang warfare. Again, it was Woo Kee. Again, in Tsim Tsa Tsui, and again, back to TC for another three years. He had not killed anyone that time, but the jail term was the same. He found that ‘fucking ridiculous’. He turned twenty-one at TC but was not transferred to an adult prison because he only had a few weeks left to serve.


All that was more than twenty years ago. 


Since then, he had managed to avoid jail. He had learnt a thing or two at an early age, and added a tattoo to the inside of his left wrist at his own cost, a tiny character ren  tolerance, patience, endurance. He did not elaborate on what he had learned, or what he had been doing since for a living. ‘All sorts of things. Difficult. What’s there to do in Hong Kong?’ was all he said when I enquired gently. True. What was there for someone like him to do in Hong Kong? There were no factory jobs, and he wasn’t the investment banker type. He could have worked as a janitor I suppose, if he could find a job near home; janitorial jobs didn’t pay enough to take the subway and also buy a lunch-box. But I suspect Ah Wah was too ambitious, motivated, confident, and enterprising — all the praiseworthy attributes one pays to cultivate in leadership workshops — to be a happily employed and law abiding janitor.


Then love, or the Government database, got the better of him. 


Being a vintage jailbird and long-time triad without firsthand knowledge of the adult prisons of the twenty-first century was slightly awkward for him. Prisons had changed since he was a juvenile delinquent, he was sure, but how? What he had heard from pals who were regulars to the pokey all sounded like sensational bullshit. Because of the long break, he was now considered a white hand — first time convict. He felt released to be among Category B and C criminals rather than hardcore As, but was embarrassed by the amateurish status. 



‘Youngsters these days are not curious,’ he complained like a disappointed pedagogue. ‘I tried to tell them about TC. Not fucking interested. And no fucking respect. Time’s changed, they told me — me! — as if I didn’t know, as if I had fucking expired. When I was their age, we never dared speak to a Shu Fu that way.’


Shu Fu was what elders in a clan or gang were reverently addressed in the olden days — not that long ago — when respect was fundamental to Triad etiquette, not something laughable.


Ah Wah was more than ten years my junior, but seemed to be having bigger problems with the way time had changed the order of things. ‘Nowadays, when they have a good opportunity, they discuss it with buddies. The gang doesn’t matter. Some don’t even belong to any gang. They bond through money and bashes and internet games, not brotherhood. What’s the point of being a gangster if gangs don’t matter no more, huh?’ he asked with rhetorical indignation.


‘No point,’ I agreed. I then tried to console him: ‘It’s the same in any business these days. Loyalty means nothing. Everyone’s driven by short-term profits.’


Ah Wah looked at me as if assessing my truthfulness, then shook his head involuntarily. I think I had deepened his incredulity with the collapsing world order.



When he was young, 14K was by far the largest gang in town. Members were proud of being Triads. His elaborate initiation involved taking a blood oath in a ceremony headed by a senior, dressed like a Daoist monk. 


‘Serious stuff. About ten of us. We chopped the head off a live chicken, slashed our fingers, mixed the blood in alcohol, drank the damned thing, passed under an arch of swords, then lit three incense each to take our oath before Guan Gong.’ He winked cheekily, as if teasing a kid with a glimpse of the grown-ups’ world. 


Guan Gong was a general from the Three Kingdom Period. A popular novel subsequently elevated him to deity status, turning him into a protector of the marginalised. There’s a Guan Gong shrine in every police station, brothel, gambling den, prison — any establishment associated with either side of the vice in Hong Kong. Before the cops start a day’s work, they first offer an incense to Guan Gong. So do robbers, crack runners and prostitutes. It’s hard to figure out which side Guan Gong’s on. Perhaps he simply ensures fair fights among the underclass, regardless of their professions assigned by fate?


‘I’d read a little about it,’ I said. ‘It’s an old rite from the 18th century. Triads were a cabal trying to overthrow the Qing Dynasty then.’


‘There you go. 18th century. So long tradition!’ he exclaimed. ‘You know what they do now?’


‘What?’


‘They chop open a raw egg and draw a red line across the fingers with a felt-tip pen.’


‘No!’ I laughed in disbelief. ‘Virtual blood oath?’ 


He let out a nasal humph, evidently not as amused as I was. ‘A tradition since the Qing Dynasty, now the boys are fucking it up. Too fucking chicken to kill a chicken or slash fingers! They can’t stand the pain, and worry about the bird flu.’ He then aimed an eyebrow at Mooloo, adding, with a touch of disgust: ‘Don’t even know how to put on his underwear.’


‘Who are the Number Gang?’ This name popped up frequently among the inmates. It seemed interchangeable with 14K but I wasn’t sure. I had heard of the 14K in my secondary school days. Everyone had. A well known gang indeed. But Number Gang? I was curious. ‘Since we’re on the topic…’


Number is 14K. Same fucking thing. Fourteen became inauspicious, what, ten fifteen years ago? It rhymes with sure death. Nobody wants fourteen anymore so we started calling ourselves Number,’ he pursed his hard thin lips. ‘I still prefer fourteen.’


‘It has more history,’ I said. 


In addition, Number as a gang name sounds absolutely ludicrous; but I kept that opinion to myself.

_____


Conventional wisdom says hope is one of the most important things in life. I discovered that to be not true in jail. To entertain hope would raise expectations and unsettle my mind, shattering calm, overturning acceptance, regenerating bitterness. Hope makes the future anxiously remote, unbearable distant. Not hoping, yet not feeling hopeless, seemed to be the optimal equilibrium, at least for the purpose of adjustment.


As soon as I had succeeded in purging all hopes of ‘bail pending appeal’ from mind, I received news that the Appeal Court would hear my application in three weeks. My mental quiescence, attained through disciplined meditation, promptly shattered.


I told Ah Wah.


‘Three weeks’ very fast. You’d be out in no time.’


‘It’s only a hearing. Having experienced the District Court, I dare not harbour any expectation.’


‘High court’s better.’ He sounded confident, unexpectedly trustful of a system not designed to his favour.



The evening before court appearance, I meditated longer than usual. My mind kept wandering off. I did not feel like chatting. I didn’t know what to say, so I hid in my private routine. Ah Wah read the Condor Heroes in bed.


Earlier that day, I had given him my six AA batteries, ten packs of Tempo tissues, a bottle of shampoo and half a bottle of liquid soap. ‘Please keep them for me while I’m away. If I don’t come back, they’re yours.’


‘Then they’re mine.’


‘I wish I could be optimistic like you.’ 


‘Don’t need optimism, just money,’ he smiled, eyes twinkling with friendly energy. There was no bitterness in his voice, just a matter of mature opinion. ‘Good luck,’ he added, and gave me a chummy slap on the arm.


‘I’d leave you all the good luck,’ I said, meaning it. ‘I’m retired, have no use of good luck. Just wish to avoid bad ones. You need it more than I do.’


He smiled warmly, and took my authorised chattels to his cubbyhole.



The supreme court granted me bail pending appeal. I did not return to Tong Fuk.


Ah Wah had a relatively stiff sentence for his crime. According to courtroom gossips, the magistrate who convicted him was going through an ugly divorce. ‘He was struggling with a bad hangover,’ Ah Wah’s lawyer told him after the sentencing, either as an attempt to make him feel better, or to cheer him up with a little wisecrack about judicatory misfortunes. Like croupiers of a roulette table, lawyers are detached operators who don’t care where the ball lands — all according to chance, and luck, and money, in the case of justice. Assuming good behaviour, Ah Wah had about a year left. 


In any event, we did not exchange contact details. 


We had become friends, but were both realistic enough to know that once outside, we would no longer have the same freedom to mix the way we did. Such freedom only exists in prison. Beyond bars, we belong to different worlds — worlds separated by unsurmountable barriers and prejudice, worlds that are deeply suspicious of each other. 


I have thought of sending him a letter, but as a convict on bail, I’m not supposed to be in touch with inmates. I have also thought of sending him a full set of Jin Yong’s wu xia classics anonymously, but books had to be delivered by registered visitors only. 


Oh well, in the jiang hu of life, people come, people go. Each would take something away, and leave something behind. Then we move on, carried by the flow. Ah Wah understands that, so do I. He has left with me an incomplete jigsaw puzzle, many question marks, and memories of a world I have never been. 


I wonder what have I left him.

_____




James Tam @ Guo Du (10.5.2013) updated 9.2021





Midlife Triad and other excellent stories by Hong Kong based writers can be found in the HK Writers Circle Anthology: Of Gods and Mobsters.