screwdriver

六月一日有感

2008-06-01T23:24:00.002+08:00

看電視
之後上網
再之後呆坐思考
結論是

我也是個人。完畢。

謝謝。

A Game of Words

2008-04-03T23:34:00.009+08:00

Exactly how indigenous is Hong Kong Sevens after all? Let’s look at what the Hong Kong Rugby Union has to say on their website:

The world's premier Rugby Sevens Tournament was born over pre-luncheon drinks at the venerable old Hong Kong Club on a misty spring day in 1975. The Chairman of the Hong Kong Rugby Football Union, an amiable South African entrepreneur, A.D.C. "Tokkie" Smith, was talking with tobacco company executive Ian Gow. It was Gow's idea, as Promotions Manager for his firm, to sponsor a Rugby Tournament with top teams from throughout the world competing.
The Hong Kong Sevens Tournament itself has a wonderful history. It is now considered the iRB's "Jewel in the Crown" in the Series and still continues to grow in popularity with players and spectators. Rugby World Cup Sevens 2005 was the second time Hong Kong has hosted RWC Sevens and this year marks 32 years of sevens rugby in Hong Kong - a remarkable achievement.

A remarkable achievement it certainly is. A casual proposal made over cocktails and canapés by privileged colonizers at a privileged club that has sprung into an elaborate first-class tournament for the privileged. And exactly how enthused is Hong Kong about the Sevens? Getting a ticket is an initiation rite into Freemasonry. There is no advanced booking unless you know the right (and obscure) persons. Some of my friends had ordered tickets for all 3 days’ tournaments at HKD1000 a year before (through a friend’s friend who was somehow faintly related to the Hong Kong Rugby Union) and right before the tournament he touted the first 2 day’s tickets out at HKD3000. (The mythical box office was selling a 3-day ticket at a legendary price of HKD5000+.) The box office has become a long-standing urban legend. Try joining the queue at 3am every morning and every time when you reach the box tickets are sold out. The eventual Rugby-Freemasons have certainly had a good time there at the South Stand where people under 18 are not allowed. It has always been the place notorious for all sorts of jolly debaucheries. The place looked nothing less than some comical concentration camp for non-Chinese under a Chinese Nazi regime. A foul, fishy stench of sweat and urine mixed with oppressive spring heat and moisture brewing from scantily-clad and sufficiently inebriated bodies: innumerable Batmen and Robins with capes and masks but without leather tights; drag queens having major wardrobe malfunction; men dressed like women trying to be macho with cigarettes, booze, and belly; the more drunk taking off their shirts ready to make a dive into the pitch; the less drunk shouting indecipherable obscenities in vague European languages – it could have been the very picture of living hell, save for the occasional flittering nymphs in bikini tops that added poetic beauty to the scene.

At exactly the same time in another part of Hong Kong, the Mongkok Stadium, a local football match was taking place with incomparable enthusiasm: no shouting, no cheering, no jeering, no drinking, no smoking, no banner-waving, no cross-dressing. The audience, largely comprised of senior citizens living on the dole, with nothing better to do than stare at the sky in a dodgy government park, was apparently shocked and awed by local footballers’ incompetence. No one would be crazy enough to train hard to go pro in Hong Kong football: “pro” in Hong Kong means surviving on $4000 a month the football club hands you as a charitable act of mercy, which also means keeping another 9-to-9 job just to get by. The definitive existential heroes. Football heroes.

The juxtaposition of these two sports scenes in Hong Kong sheds new lights on the tear-jerking communistic-revolutionary slogan by wind-surfing gold medalist Lee Lai Shan: “Hong Kong athletes aren’t rubbish.” I daresay Hong Kong people have never harboured the faintest doubt about their athletic talents but they do question their economic power. In Hong Kong what doesn’t sell doesn’t exist. The point I am trying to make can be seen at the starting line-up of the Hong Kong rugby team: there are two Asiatic looking fellows who can’t handle a Cantonese interview. This is how local the team is. But “the best in Asia” Japanese team is comprised of almost a hundred percent Japanese and the same for the Koreans. So why can’t we localise our team a bit more?

Let’s look at how a kid can get trained to be a rugby pro in Hong Kong. A gold spoon seems to be a must. It ushers you into the right international schools under the ESF where the only decent greens and professional coaches can be found. Through colonial connections they might stand a chance of getting into the Union. Probably they acquire automatic membership simply because of being half and half. The colonizer’s blood seems to be an effective admission ticket. Well, to give them credit, this year they did beat the “Asia best” Japanese team. A marvelous feat for sure. But has anyone ever asked how much they earn being a rugby pro in Hong Kong? The question seems absurd. Aristocrats needn’t live on money. Recently the TVB news programme The Pearl Report did have an interview of one of the teenage rubgy hopefuls. No question about finances was asked. The most valuable information about this character was where the best spot was to watch live football from around the world at a pub in the Hong Kong Rugby Club in the early afternoons. And of course this character spends half a day working out at the club gym to pump up those beastly muscles. In the early afternoons probably most local-Chinese football pros are busy doing office errands or bulldozing the 1010th crate of Tetley’s to the Happy Valley Jockey Club warehouse. No wonder why no journalists ever seem to be able to get hold of them for interviews. What is rugby to Hong Kong locals? A remnant of colonial past. A symbol of the privileged. A past-time of the well-to-do. A thing altogether foreign, alien, and “gweilo-ish”. “Hong Kong Sevens”: which “Hong Kong” are we talking about here?

It is true that Hong Kong is a vibrant place. Yes, “the Pearl of the Orient”. But it often escapes an unthinking local’s mind that it should never have been a name to brag about. There has never been a phrase more colonial. I do prefer the name “A Shopping Paradise” that lamentably suggests blatant survival-of-the-fittest commercialism. At least there is some sense of shameless honesty in it. “The Pearl of the Orient” the name itself doesn’t make sense if not spoken from a “western” point of view. It isn’t even “The Pearl of the East” which could be more arguably neutral. “The Orient” is a name hot-branded on our skin by our western “masters”. Perhaps it was suitable for a British governor before 1997 to say so. But for a street hawker at Temple Street to be harbouring a secret pride, deep-seated in their colonized identity, of being local to “The Pearl of the Orient”? And the nostalgic ad nauseum lyrics of the Canto-Pop song “The Pearl of the Orient” in the 1980s? They evoke two images: Captain Jack Sparrow’s friend, the Asian pirate Chow Yun Fat with a fu-manchu saying “welcome to Singapore” in English with a faked oriental accent (Chow himself can certainly speak English without an accent); and a big billboard on New York Times Square saying “The Big Apple of the Occident” – grotesque beyond words.

Hong Kong has always been dichotomized: the privileged “gweilos” born and bred in Hong Kong but still managing not to speak a word of Chinese; and the Chinese local salary-man struggling with English. The old cliché is never very accurate: after a hundred years of colonialism Hong Kong is not the place where East meets West – this is an understatement, euphemism of foreign domination and subjugation. For over a hundred years it has always been a standoff between East and West: between Kowloon and Hong Kong Island; Mongkok and Causeway Bay; ShamShuiPo and Wanchai; Cheung Sha Wan Road and Queen’s Road; Prince Edward and Lan Kwai Fong; Chris Patten and Tung Chee Wah; football and rugby. It’s now been ten years since the Handover. In retrospect we can see the quintessence that perpetually ostracizes the two Hong Kongs from each other – language. It is always in play. Language has always been the scepter of power that Hong Kong locals are forced to revere. “Hong Kong Identity” is forever kept from crystallizing by this language game. No, don’t be silly: Hong Kong locals are never allowed to play this game. It is a language game played by mom and dad, the child is a pawn.

The ultimate triumph of the colonizers came in the form the recent CMI vs. EMI farce. Hong Kong people’s sensitivity seems to have been numbed after a century of British indoctrination so that they cannot feel what the power of language can do to a community. It is true that the victor always writes the history and the British wanted it to be written in English. So from 1897 till 1997, Hong Kong locals had been taught to revere the English language. It might sound melodramatic, but think in terms of practicality. Imagine you were in the Police Force in the 1960s. If you couldn’t speak like the British with the RP accent and hobnob with them, would you get a promotion? If you couldn’t do that, you might as well hang yourself like so many other officers did when the ICAC started purging the government forces clean. What was true then is also true now.

The “subjugation by language” principle has been reincarnated as a more overt form of the CMI-EMI dispute. I have every sympathy for students in Hong Kong. Only a few years ago they were told to speak perfect English. And now, Mandarin instead? They have been very much misled and disorientated. Field experience in classroom has been telling me ever so painfully that pupils in Hong Kong have been made the canon fodder of the language war: so much so that they are left utterly confused about language that they are virtually denied the faculty of logic. Without a proper language that one feels absolutely comfortable in one can never ever even dream of thinking logically and coherently for more than 30 seconds. Whenever asked about a controversial topic, the vocabulary the pupils come up with never go beyond that of shouting contests held regularly in pubs on Saturday nights. “Bad”, “immoral”, “unethical”, “impermissible”, “evil”, and etc. are among the terminal points of their arguments. They never manage to get beyond the point of gross generalizations that have been constantly heard shouted from the congregation of poorly educated pensioners in the “Sunday Forum” held at the Victoria Park every week. To be fair, the pupils shouldn’t be blamed. Before 1997 they were denied a proper Chinese education (because Chinese had been considered a language that couldn’t get you a proper job); and since 1997, they have been told that Mandarin is the logos to success. They are perpetually trapped in the language puppet game, with the British as puppet master before 1997, and the Mainland Chinese after: neither of them Cantonese. The CMI-EMI row is the ultimate irony of fate to all Hong Kong pupils: mom and dad playing a game of chess, and the children the pawns. Yes, they might as well splash a fortune on the fashionable “Private Tutor Kings and Queens” to improve on their “two languages and three dialects” in a magical one month crash course.

Language is crucial to identity. Identity is a complex issue – a wide spectrum ranging from sophisticated linguistic-pedagogic theories to how you can buy an orange at a cut-throat discount price at a ShamShuiPo wet market without being able to speak any incarnations of the Chinese dialects. And to be brutally practical, it is very important that we get an orange at a cut-throat discount price. One experience from my long repressed childhood past told me the importance of language and identity. It so happened that one time my family wanted to move house and my father had hired some Chinese movers to carry our precious junk from Point A to B. All the way my father, being the person in charge, had been speaking Cantonese to the movers. The movers treated our junk as literally junk, breaking everything breakable and unbreakable when they arrived at Point B. At a crucial moment my father gave a virtuoso performance of his linguistic talent. Precisely when the movers had broken the last glass we owned, my father demonstrated a marvelous feat of speaking, albeit out of the blue, Mandarin heavily loaded with a northern accent. And like a swing of a magic wand, the movers treated us like blood brothers who had fought together shoulder to shoulder against the Japanese invaders in the WWII. The movers then provided us with first class service at the Peninsula Hotel. And of course the movers didn’t know that my father was only faking the northern accent as he had never been to the north.

There has always been a running local joke about identity in Hong Kong: when asked where you are from (especially if you look nothing more than a stereotyped slit-eyed sub-nosed buck-teethed freckled oriental kid with bowl-cut hair, the question seems ridiculous), you look the inquisitor straight in the eyes and proudly declare that you are half and half. This would usually be followed by an awe-inspired exclamation; to which you explain that you are half Shanghainese and half Cantonese, or half Mei-foo and half Shatin. A rather rubbish joke I admit but it certainly is a pretty ingenious take on the phenomenon of the privileged half-and-half. Nationality is always politically relative and for 70% of the time politics are constituted by blunders of power-obsessed geeks. Why make a fuss out of Eurasians and ABCs and the like when Tibetan-Cantonese or Shanghainese-Cantonese or Mei-foo-Shatin-ian can be so equally exotic?

So after all, can I get my future kid into the Hong Kong Rugby Team, without the money and the blood? The chance will be slim if I don’t manage soon to be a billionaire or marry a Caucasian multi-billionaire’s daughter. It takes a lot more than the anachronistic national anthem of the PRC played everyday before the evening news to imbue us with a sense of Hong Kong Chinese identity or to dilute the East-West “apartheid”. But I do anxiously hope for the day when the PRC rugby team faces the Hong Kong team in the Sevens Cup Final. By then Hong Kong people will have to choose: to which colonizer do we pledge our allegiance? Probably by then we will have to make use of our proficient “two languages and three dialects” to sing our new synthesized anthem titled “March of the Yi-yong-jun and God Save the Queen too”

Linoleum Roses (Sandra Cisneros)

2008-01-18T17:54:00.000+08:00

Sally got married like we knew she would, young and not ready but married just the same. She met a marshmellow salesman at a school bazaar, and she married him in another state where it's legal to get married before eight grade. She has her husband and her house now, her pillowcases and her plates. She says she is in love, but I think she did it to escape.

Sally says she like being married because now she gets to buy her own things when her husband gives her money. She is happy, except sometimes her husband gets angry and once he broke the door where his foot went through, though most days he is okay. Except he won't let her talk on the telephone. And he doesn't let her look out the window. And he doesn't like her friends, so nobody gets to visit her unless she is working.

She sits at home because she is afraid to go outside without his permission. She looks at all the things they own: the towels and the toaster, the alarm clock and the drapes. She likes looking at the walls, at how neatly their corners meet, the linoleum roses on the floor, the ceiling smooth as wedding cake.

Vanitas (Joyce Carol Oates)

2008-01-18T17:53:00.000+08:00

Philippa woke one morning in early April to discover that her face had collapsed. Overnight! Her long-celebrated cameo face! Her classic cheekbones had disappeared beneath the sagging bruises of the bags beneath her eyes. What had been smooth taut skin was now "jowls" that were puffy and discolored, the hue of old piano keys. Her eyes were small and brightly anxious, threaded with fine filaments of blood, and her aquiline nose was now a pug nose in which broken capillaries glowed with a sullen heat. Philippa stared in disbelief. She shielded her eyes with her hands and backed out of the brightly lighted bathroom. My life is over, she thought.

It was so. She could not endure the humiliation. Only a few years ago she'd been mistaken frequently as the older sister of her eighteen-year-old daughter. This was true! Strange men followed her in the street, and anonymous valentines, love poems, and long-stemmed red roses in bouquets of a dozen found their way to her door. Philippa was only forty-nine, and had anticipated many years more of worldly conquest and triumph, giddy laughter,drama and melodrama with Philippa in the starring role.

She would reveal her ruined face to only a few individuals, whom she could hardly avoid—her husband, children, relatives, a small circle of supportive friends. Among themselves they would speak in bafflement of the change in Philippa: not in her face, which looked more or less the way it had looked for years, but in her new attitude which, they agreed, had become tragic.

Keeping Things Whole (Mark Strand)

2008-01-18T17:45:00.001+08:00

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

A Blessing (James Wright)

2008-01-18T17:44:00.000+08:00

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Insufferable Philistines

2007-08-06T14:23:00.000+08:00

Death comes in different shapes. To the unworthy and plain it comes in rigor mortis of the body. To the uncultivated it comes in rigor mortis of the mind. To the refined it comes in rigor mortis of imagination.

It is distasteful to ponder on the former two; almost as much as lamenting over a dog's refusal to write a sensible essay. It is the latter that one cries over. The Christians, the herd of sheep, the insufferable fools, the incorrigible sinners, are breeding an Army of Philistines. Gone was the age when the Aesthetic in Christianity stunned and awed until we are on our knees wailing and begging for deliverance from evil. The architecture, the incense, the robes, the alter, the music, the chanting, the glamorous rituals, the very essence of Christian salvation, are now crushed under the goose-step marches of the Philistine Christians. The Aesthetic elevates and delivers. The Ascetic numbs and kills.

Dionysius, Pray save me from the the burning stake of Sense;
Apollo, Pray save me from the crushing waves of Sensuality.

潮物共享計劃

2007-07-09T23:54:00.000+08:00

潮物年年有，今年特別多。某名牌子為了向大眾推廣環保概念，以割喉價全球限量銷售時尚購物袋，結果只差一點就引起暴動。本來嘛，環保就是要減省浪費。然而為了推廣環保而挑起群眾不必要的購物慾，這樣的手法似乎就僅僅能推廣環保的「概念」罷了。

假如花得起一百二十大元，卻付不出一日一夜跟後生女學生哥迫餐死的時間，然而又想擁有如此潮物－－怎辦？易辦。

１）請以Ａ２尺寸將上圖打印。
２）用美工刀小心翼翼將之界出。
３）用漿糊（記緊是漿糊！切勿貪方便以膠水膠紙代替，不然製成品就會有一點點膠了！）將白色部份糊好捻貼妥。
４）將劃有「ｘ」的地方穿孔，再以線穿過綁好。

看！一個很環保的 "I'm not a Plastic bag" 完成了。

最少
它是紙做的。

p.s. 假如閣下真的真的真的有興趣要這自作業，不妨電郵在下索取圖檔。

Bourgeois degeneracy

2007-06-23T13:37:00.000+08:00

"What am I doing? As with any man whose native merits arouse an aristocratic interest in his ancestry, his achievements and successes always inspired him to recall his forebears, to assure himself mentally of their approval, their satisfaction, their mandatory respect. He thought of them here and now, entangled as he was in such an illicit experience, involved in such exotic emotional debauchery; he remembered their rigorous self-control, their respectable manliness, and he smiled dourly. What would they say? But then again, what would they have said about his entire life, which deviated from theirs to the point of degeneracy; what would they have said about this life lived under the sway of art? Once, with the bourgeois attitude of his forefathers, the adolescent had openly derided such an existence, which basically was so similar to theirs! He, too, had served in the military, had been a soldier and warrior, like a number of them - for art was a war, a grueling struggle that nowadays ground you down very quickly.

"A life of defiance and strength of mind, a stern, staunch, and abstemious life that he had shaped into a symbol of the frail heroism that fitted in with the times - he had the right to call that life manly, to call it valiant; and it seemed to him as if the kind of eros that had overpowered him somehow fitted in with and favored such a life. Had not this eros been highly revered by the bravest nations; had it not, it was said, flourished in their cities because of bravery? Countless ancient war heroes had willingly borne its yoke, never viewing its commands as humiliations; and those heroes did things that would be condemned as cowardice if done for other reasons: they knelt, vowed, begged, and slavishly groveled - and such actions never shamed the lover; why, he even reaped praise for them." - Death in Venice, Thomas Mann.

Spontaneous Overflow of Powerful Feelings

2007-04-07T00:29:00.000+08:00

Or so Wordsworth said about poetry. Poetry is a recollection of powerful feelings. Yet spontaneously overflowing. Quite a paradox. Calm recollection of feelings and somehow a genius retains the power that was once there. Yet I say, feelings powerful are best ridden and written at the head of the crest, the very acme of the storm's uprising crawl rushing towaed the shore. It engulfs cities, swamps civilizations, and drowns the steeple of a church.

Life seen through a telescope. I have never ridden the crest of wrathful wave; I have never seen a child's hand hacked off by a machete; I have never seen the misery of a dying tree. Life has been distilled for me. drip by drip. the very fine specimens of life encript'd. Images of films, or words, or sickeningly numerous volumes of books that obssess me. Artificial life that is, my friends. The joy of a sea voyage from La France to England; perfectly imitated in a cabin built on land, the scent of salt-soaked ropes and achors, clock-work fish that swim betwix wooden planks and panelled walls, filled with salty water, the very essence of a sea voyage is there and why bother paying for a ticket to embark on an actual voyage? Very well said there Monsieur Huysmans. Powerful feelings rendered in words. Adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, nouns, proper nouns, relative clauses and ellipses. Why bother sweating over the nerve wrecking task of packing and unpacking when you can have it all in a well built cabin that imitates a sea voyage? Why bother paying for a hooker and risking diseases and affections towards a paid-for object of sex when you can have it all with a pirated DVD, some spit and body oil? Artificial life, my friend. Life is most beautiful when resurrected fomr sheer blunt force of imagination.

But Art is always imperfect because it is man-made. a paradox isn't it? A well-said phrase about jealousy cannot evoke the very essence of jealousy. the Wrath. The Basic Instinct of Life itself. The warmth of freshly spilt blood pouring from a gaping hole; the coarseness of plastic handle of a cheap imitation Japanese sword; the images of a man making love to your beloved; the prosaic scent of a standardized office toilet, of bleach and perfume made out of plastic flowers... Tell me Wordsworth: can you render these feelings? Can you put it into words how it feels to taste your enemy's blood? Can you transform with your alchemy into words the scent of a woman who is yearning for sex because her husband is frigid like a wooden plank? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you juxtapose in words the swooning sensations evoked by the scent of your beloved's hair and the infernal agony at the sight of your beloved in someone else's arms? Can you, Mr. Wordsworth? Can you perchance tell me how it feels to be chained at the bottom of a well for life?

Let me tell you Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Your words aren't worth a dime. Can your words tell me what it feels like to be breathing and inhaling poisonous fumes of life? Feelings are a curse. An eternal torture it is to be alive. Can you tell me how it feels the surge of adrenaline when your beloved looks you in the eyes and lies? Can you tell me how it feels when suspicions eat you up alive? Can you tell me how it feels when paranoia splits your mind in pieces? Can you tell me how it feels when Salome was dancing naked to King Hesod just to kiss my lips on a severed head, handed over neatly on a silver platter? Can you tell me how it feels to be bleeding through iron-forged mannacles at the bottom of a well?

Monsieur, you had taken your Grand Tour to see the world when you were 15. When I was 15 I was sweating over textbooks for exams written by thugs who couldn't get a proper job because of sheer incompetence. Does that make me a fool, Mr. Poet?

Let me tell you, Monsieur Wordsworth. Let me tell you this. Humans exist on many levels. Some are gods, some are mediocres, some are dogs. If you can transform the agony onto paper the dog who strives to be a saint, I give you my life. I hand my head over to you, Salome, on a silver platter.

文字的四捨五入

2007-03-04T18:45:00.000+08:00

不久前，台灣總統陳水扁巡幸台中鄉郊，紆尊降貴，下田插秧。工作得大汗淋漓之際，有女記者問他在想甚麼，陳總統回答說「我在想你」。那位女記者值不值得這句輕薄說話見仁見智，總統府公共事務室其後的辯解則有點別開生面了：陳總統當時的意思是「想到記者工作也很辛苦」。辦公室人員告訴我們，中文原來可以這樣大幅刪減而意思不變。我想想，陳總統原本那句「我在想你」改為「我你」也無妨。

這種文字刪減法對中共也未必是壞事。有一天，當陳水扁說「我認為台獨是對的」，意思可能是「我認為中共反對台獨是對的」。不過，陳夫人可能有點坐立不安了，因為陳總統說「我愛你」，可能是「我愛除你以外的所有女人」之變奏。

大富翁事件

2007-02-24T19:54:00.000+08:00

朋友住院記

2007-02-22T22:32:00.000+08:00

朋友在美國留學。早前他害病肚痛得厲害，走到診所求醫。醫生說不知道他害什麼病，只知道他的腸子好像給異物閉塞起來，於是急急忙忙送他到醫院。來到醫院可就慘了，朋友被塞了導管又吊鹽水，綠色的膽汁給抽了兩桶，坐在病床上五天也不能躺下，怪可憐。

不過朋友說住院的日子也不難熬，主要是給他診治的醫生是位美女，而且她身邊的幾位實習女醫生都很漂亮。更令人高興的是，專門照顧他的菲律賓裔女護士原來是位天香國色呢。正當我聽得嫉妒之際，朋友說還不止這樣－－原來他觀察久了，發現在醫院內想找一個樣貌比較普通的護士也很艱難！噓，那你說老美還不是世界最強？

在這樣愉快的環境下住院，朋友也幾乎是不藥而癒了。他出院後就接到帳單，五天的住院費用承惠三萬五千多美元。朋友在攻讀數學博士，前後仔細數了多次，仍然發現銀碼的確是五位數。於是朋友才明白為何那些漂亮護士會給他隔鄰的病人買消夜了。這時我只好安慰他一下，反正他的喉嚨都給導管卡住吃不了東西，這種服務根本用不著，所以也不用後悔沒有叫外賣了。

可有可無的小故事

2007-02-09T17:34:00.000+08:00

從朋友處聽來一則小故事。話說某君一日打算找人喝酒敘舊，於是致電給師弟要求代為安排。誰料師弟婉言拒絕。某君不虞碰釘，只拋下一句：「你以為我離開了ｘ大就再無影響力嗎？」

「你以為我離開了ｘ大就再無影響力嗎」的潛台詞是──不應酬我就有夠你受。既然以言相脅，相信那位師弟就只有就範一途。可是某君這次一時快口，卻顯出他心中認為朋友跟他只是虛與委蛇，與他應酬也只是怯於他的「影響力」而矣。嗚呼！朋友難求！某君內心的寂寞空虛，可想然知。

其實想來小師弟也不必就範，應該是先呷一口茶，懶洋洋的回道：「我說師兄你呀，難道就不知道人一走，茶──就涼了的嗎？」然後施施然的掛斷電話，繼續翻那本未讀完的小說。

超~~~都唔合邏輯！

2007-02-07T23:08:00.000+08:00

何俊仁早前遇襲，背後故事果然曲折離奇。男人說早前到何議員辦事處求助不得要領，於是心懷恨怨，花了兩萬大元買兇糾眾，決心揍何議員一個半死不活云云。

男人找何議員幫忙什麼？原來是申請綜援及公屋。男人打算申領綜援卻又花得起錢糾眾揍人，這不能不叫妙。更妙的是，男人指買兇的費用都是他「打散工」掙來的血汗錢。那自然是血汗錢──掰開來血／汗／肉／拳頭什麼都有。讓我們來算一算，假若男人開散工日薪三百五十大元計（這可是現下地盤什工的日薪了），不吃不喝不乘車不付房租，也要連開六十天才掙得兩萬一千塊。窮得清光還要白幹幾十天活來籌錢揍人？這傢伙要麼就是在說謊；要麼是白痴；要麼就是變態；要麼就是個說謊的白痴加變態。

本來嘛，也沒有人期望能在何案中揪出什麼內幕。可是警方勞師動眾張羅兩個多月，換來的只是犯人這樣「弱智」的自白，教我只能丟下父親收看無記爛劇時的評語──「超~~~都唔合邏輯！」

無法去解釋清楚

2007-02-04T00:41:00.000+08:00

一月二十日，廣管局向香港電台發出強烈勸喻，指摘節目「同志戀人」只是提出同性婚姻的好處，同性戀婚姻的立法問題又只是引述了三位同性戀人的意見，未免有失偏頗，不是記錄片該有的處理手法。有失偏頗有何問題？廣管局解釋，該節目在闔家時段播出，觀眾既有成年人又有稚童。稚童不理解同性戀，假如又得不到家長指引，必會受到部份內容影響。有三個問題廣管局還未處理得當。
一、廣管局既說稚童不理解同性戀，他們受到節目的不良影響實在不知從何說起。受他人影響其實需要某程度的理解能力。廣管局不知這個道理沒道理。
二、廣管局可能知道這個道理。它的意思可能是稚童應該有相當的理解力，只因心智尚未成熟，得不到家長指引就會讓節目的不良觀念乘虛而入。不過，它或許不明白，即使有家長指引，稚童也會受到節目的影響。廣管局其實是想家長的影響大一點。
三、廣管局以為有了家長指引就萬事大吉：同性戀問題是爭議性題材，不過，只要有家長指引，稚童觀看爭議性題材就不是問題。然則，家長指引要指出甚麼？告訴稚童世界上有不贊同同性戀的人？同性戀有道德問題？第一個問題稚童知道了也不會理解同性戀問題有多重要，更不用說他們的思想就此平衡起來；第二個問題我想連馮華健這類知識份子也未必有合理答案。既然一般平民家長不能指引甚麼，那麼把家長指引視為觀看爭議性題材的先決條件也就變成空談了。廣管局有三個選擇：一是另覓觀看爭議性題材的先決條件，一是任何時間也不能播放爭議性題材，一是任何時間也可以播放。我不知它會怎樣選擇。

港台其後發出聲明，不贊同廣管局說的一套。一天後，王永平在電視裏臉容緊繃，先是擲下廣管局與港台九五年簽訂的諒解備忘錄，說港台不該在闔家欣賞時間播放讓等不持平節目，再強調要求港台導守備忘錄，召見廣播處長都不是干預言論自由。王永平尚未解釋清楚的確要比廣管局少：他忘了向一般人說明要求他人景從如何不牽涉干預自由。

過不了幾天，明光社總幹事蔡志森在明報發表文章，說廣管局既沒有阻止大家繼續討論同性戀也沒有禁止電台再製作同性戀節目，傳媒中人實在不應上綱上線，訛說言論自由受到干預。他還了類比說明廣管局的判決不失其理：

如果一個有宗教信仰或不贊成同性戀的記者，在報道同性戀問題時，只訪問一些濫交的同性戀者，以及一些反對肛交人士的意見，大家一定會認為這個記者不夠中肯和專業。相反，如果一個支持同志運動的記者，只單方面描述一些同性戀者聲稱受到歧視，認為同性婚姻是他們的人權，而沒有剖析他們所謂的歧視是由於價值觀的差異，還是一些非理性的惡意行為，究竟這個記者是否專業？如果一個電台節目主持人認為同性戀沒有問題，又假定同志團體是弱勢，認為自己需要為民請命，替天行道，公然偏幫同志團體，究竟他算不算持平？

類比推理是用來比較兩個或以上的東西。好的類比推理需要兩個結構相若的東西，只因它們結構相若，大家對其中一個東西的判斷自然可以應用到另一東西上去。蔡志森比較了三個情況，它們的結構都不相同，判斷自然不同了：只訪問一些濫交的同性戀者或許是不持平；沒有剖析同性戀者所謂的歧視是由於價值觀的差異還是一些非理性的惡意行為該是淺薄；同志團體是弱勢，公然為他們請命合該是正義了。蔡志森以為大家對三個情況的判斷都是一樣，我想未必如此。

某樣東西是不是持平很多時候取決於你從多大的角度看。若你著眼於文章，那麼一篇說盡正反觀點的文章當然是持平；為了制衡社會上的偏見，為少數人的權利請命的報導，從整個社會看，也是持平。如今同志戀人的記者揭櫫同性戀者種種的不合理對待，那是對人權的重視，硬要他們一併報導非同性戀者的想法，社會只會不平衡下去。

廣管局和蔡志森都喜歡拋出持平這兩個字，彷彿不持平的記者就罪不容誅。他們眼中的持平無非是兩個觀點的相等播放時間。我們當然不能說他們沒有道理，畢竟方便自己也是道理。不過，正如解釋社會主義一樣，中共可以說發展自由市場是有中國特色的社會主義，蔡志森等人也可以說那是有知識份子特色的持平想法。

When things fall apart

2006-12-31T05:02:00.000+08:00

We put together
Things that are not supposed to be there
Nothing is surer
Than Death the Barber

The Dreamers; Innocents

2006-12-20T01:07:00.000+08:00

Vitality comes from youth, which is fueled by its immense power to dream. But like what Ernest Hemingway once said of F Scott Fitzgerald, 'His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless. (A Moveable Feast, 1964) 'When people talk to us about others they are usually dull. When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting.' (Oscar Wilde) Mr. Hemingway, who was merely a phenomenon of the age no more than Mr. Long Hair is so, shouting profanity to get attention, is never interesting except in A Moveable Feast when he talks about himself. He wrote very beautifully about Fitzgerald, no matter how far wrong about Fitzgerald he was. Youth is our butterfly wings that we do not cherish until they are marred or brushed. What is left is the memory of once having spred one's wings to taste the wind.

I feel sorry for those who wouldn't even spread their wings. Even for those who do, they spread them gingerly as if they were ashamed of their feathers. Those glazed eyes staring at me in the classroom, those impressionable minds that shut off the world in the name of their church's god, hurt me a good deal. Wings that will never spread. An astounding lack of imagination. Those who shout back at me during my lecture, those who smoke during the breaks, are stretching their feeble wings. But still, a bit too gingerly. too gingerly.

She handed me the film. I like her for being in love with films. deep into them. skipping classes and dozing off 3 mins into my speech, a sure sign of genius. spreading her wings. but still, all too gingerly: 'I love the cinematography but I don't really agree with what they do in the film.' Utterly disappointed. So after all she doesn't know about her wings... and won't take flight.

The lack of imagination is inherit in Hong Kong throughout generations since stone age. Whatever bits and pieces of imagination left in their minds are squashed into pulp and channelled to monetary concerns. Now life has got a little better than the 70s people embrace anything foreign for romance. Rechechez du temp perdu, anything British inspires nostalgia, 'The Beverly Hills' selling European, and by the way, non-existent, life-style to the very rich. A skinny Euraian with an evil twist at the corner of his lips marrying a busty Eurasian chick in Prussian military uniform. Grotesquely foreign. It's not like the Japanese who admirably subjugates things foreign for their own use. They dare hire a white trash to dress up as a priest to host their wedding in a fake church in a shopping mall. Right in their faces. A spit at Caucasian imperialism; a spit at Christianity. How glorious. How transcendent. I would love to live to see the day when Hong Kong people can summon up that courage to respect the aesthetic framework in things, chew the juice out and spit the sludge, like what the Japanese are doing.

'I don't agree with what they are doing in the film.' What kind of moral judgement is this on a work of art? They are not even qualified to judge arts. Hello Kitty bastards. Betollucci's The Dreamers showed exactly what Hong Kong people don't have. Brains. Fucking genetic degenerates.

Imperialism never ends. part of the DNA blueprint. We are forever subjugated. Girls that dig French guys. Wish they were just going for the bigger dicks. Hell no. They are going for the romance. L'air. Le culture. Le French shrug. Le fucking 'Je ne sais quoi' slacker attitude. "Becasue they are more 'gentlemen-like'", like Chinese guys were barbarians.

Nationalistic? a fucking freckled bowl-cut slit-eyed snub-nosed buck-teethed patriotic ching? Hell no. After taking up the cursed RP accent, I was wondering... what other cultures should I adopt next? Hollow. Utterly hollow. Whatever that is hollow needs to be filled. We are cunts that yearn for foreign dicks.

Anthem of Hate

2006-11-24T22:26:00.000+08:00

A 5-year old playing with a dildo-shaped toy
Whispering into his frigid mother's ear
Rubbing hard on the dildo-shaped toy
Ignoring the father's silent impotence
which shows in his timid eyes and greying hair
And in-bent knees which speak of sleepless nights without bedroom joy.

A cheery Chinese girl jumping and yelping
Around a fat old Caucasian fuckface
which says, 'I am gonna fuck you hard in your Chinese tight cunt tonight.'
O yes, how glorious, how sublime, how chic
to be fucked by Causasian big cocks
A Chinese couple walks past unaware
Indulging in private whispers
of Hello Kitty dolls
and of the sin of felatio and 69

At a round table I sit and eat shit
with a group of girls
who gasp at the evil word 'ass'
I sit and enjoy my shit
Innocently spilling blasphemous shit
and words like 'fuck' or 'cunt' or 'suck my dick'
O how sinful, how sick
to be at the same table with a heathen prick

Being half Chinese half nothing
I declare it a shame to be named Chinese
A race of Chinese
that consumes Christianity like Hello Kitty
Building God's kingdom on earth
A holy kingdom full of pricks
Which is too weak to see evil speak evil hear evil
A kingdom full of cunts
Which proclaims impotence a cardinal virtue

Exorcism, Schizophrenia, and Profound Stupidity

2006-11-02T23:06:00.000+08:00

Edgar Allan Poe's short story 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue', hailed as the prototype of the detective story genre, tells of murders of a mother and daughter in one ghastly evening. The tenants and neighbours testify that they heard howlings and wailings of a beastly male voice as they were rushing to the fateful flat to offer help. The German says he is sure of what he has heard: it was French; the Spanish says it was English; the Turk says it was Italian; the French says it was Chinese. Naturally the conclusion is none of the above: it wasn't human language at all. Through an extraordinary feat of ingenuity our hero in the story finds out at the end that the howlings and wailings were those of a chimp. There weren't any murders but a chimp went loose and slashed the two poor ladies's throat. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit.

Our thread doesn't snap here in the maze but leads us to 1975, Germany. Our poor German heroine, Anneliese Michel, who claimed to be possessed by Judas, Lucifer, Adolf Hitler, and numerous other luminaries from the infernal party. Our very noble and learned priests of impeccable curriculum vitae and clinically acclaimed intelligence and analytical faculty deemed this poor girl genuinely possessed. She was said to be growling and moaning and yelping in German, Latin, and Chinese. In the dark of the maze underground where I usually relish in a very slim form of Satanic incarnation, which the heathen calls a cigarette, I hide from the world above ground of eternal bliss and holy righteousness. While I am savouring every puff of eternal damnation I invariably meet a friend from the feline clan, crouching at a safe distance, staring at me with its gleaming amber eyes with unfarthomable dark slits for iris, waving at me with its charming tail, obviously coveting the Satanic incarnation between my fingers. She speaks to me in Dutch from time to time and when I feel like it I answer in Latin on a gloomy day and Arabic at a chilly night. Communication has proved to be even more effective than in class when I give sermons on TS Eliot, in kindergarten English, to a joyous crowd of dumbfounded kids who aren't worth the dirt on my sole. But well, the world is still an enchanted forest in which fairies like Kylie Minoque dwell. Overnight these adorable kids are transformed from highschool brats to university students, with a swing of their parents' wands, which are usually kept in their majestically deep pockets. As far as generous parents are concerned, our heroine, Anneliese Michel, died after a year of exorcism. The parents and priests were convicted of negligent homicide. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit.

Religious beliefs are signs of schizophrenia... but wait, my beloved audience of the class of number RCS 0096 (compulsory course), keep your baseball bats and cleavers and pipes and crucifixes and other assault weapons down for a while... let me explain before you burn me on a stake. I assure you I won't hesitate to dive straight into hell after my blasphemous confession:

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Psychiatrists concluded in a lenthy psyhological report that Father Alt and Father Renz, the exorcists of Anneliese Michel, were extraordinarily intelligent, had fully functional analytical faculity, were extremely well read and well informed and well educated, but schizophrenic, when a certain circumstrance arose. Their brains, according to laboratory tests, were found to be different from normal: their analytical faculty and steadfast religious faith were so distinctly divided that they had absolutely nothing to do with each other. the riff between the two isn't obvious in a common vulgar mind, but in theirs, being so well educated and so intense in their religious faith, the riff is unbridgable, which amounts to schizophrenia.

TS Eliot was right. Marlon Brando was right (only when he was Mr Kurtz). We are the hollow men. Between the desire/ and the spasm/ falls the shadow/ between the existence/ and the essence/ falls the shadow. Mr. Eliot, your suffering is genuine, and profound. Mr. Kierkegaard, How the fuck am I supposed to take the fucking 'leap' of the fucking 'faith' without being fucking schizophrenic?

Thread snapped. Lost in the maze. My feline friend stops speaking Latin now but resumes her charming purr. A twist of horror; a twist of irony; a twist of Poe's wit. Time to go back above ground, a world of eternal bliss and holy righteousness. But yes, put out the cigarette first.

歷史誰來寫？

2006-10-24T23:53:00.000+08:00

我從學姐K的網誌址借來了這個題目。歷史誰來寫？我看答案還真是簡單－－不就是作家來寫嗎？尤其今天我讀過《太陽報》後，想法更是堅定。新聞組上的朋友都提到《太陽報》今天刊了一篇奇文，害我不得不到網上翻了一遍。細讀之下，但覺此文一鳴驚人。區區本著「奇文共享」之網絡精神，將之轉載如下：

共患難不可共富貴

24/10/2006
文：黃擎天

黃袍加身的宋太祖朱元璋看透人性的弱點，明白「共患難不可共富貴」的道理，來個「杯酒釋兵權」。那夜，他召喚開國功臣石守信、高懷德等喝酒。酒興正濃時，他嘆道當皇帝還不如從前跟大夥兒當節度使快樂。如今擔心王位被搶，夜夜難安枕。眾人表明沒有異心，宋太祖卻道：「你們雖然無異心，然而你們部下想要富貴，一旦把黃袍加在你的身上，你即使不想當皇帝，到時也身不由己了。」大家聽明白弦外之音，第二天齊齊上表聲稱自己有病，要求解除兵權。宋太祖欣然同意，將兵權集中到自己手上。

宋太祖為保王位，先下手為強，因歷史上屢見這樣的故事：江山打下來，主帥成為皇帝後論功行賞，讓一眾將領冊地封王。天下太平，諸侯沒有用武之地，開始計較誰的封土較大。野心大的心埋怨不公平，江山明明是自己冒死換取得來，為甚麼當皇帝的不是我？諸侯們各懷鬼胎，先是對皇帝的命令陽奉陰違，然後得寸進尺，擺明車馬忤逆，最後是密謀造反。

明明大夥兒揭竿起義，好不容易才奪得江山。為甚麼環境變好了，反而變質？共患難與共富貴，竟是前者易後者難。打仗時，敵愾同仇，萬眾一心，目標一致，大家稱兄道弟無分彼此，亦沒有喘氣機會計較其他。打勝仗後，失去共同目標，大家有餘暇便開始諸多歪念，正如飽暖思淫慾。

歷史循環不斷，主僕、朋友、夫妻之間，共患難不可共富貴的個案比比皆是。人要變質難以預防，只能做足兩手準備，一旦出事，勿要大驚小怪啊！

http://the-sun.orisun.com/channels/fea/20061024/20061023222803_0000.html

也不打算追究「宋太祖朱元璋」之大謬了。作者只藉「杯酒釋兵權」的故事，就評宋太祖其人兔死狗烹，可「共患難不可共富貴」，真是太委屈了趙匡胤了。《宋史．石守信傳》中太祖言「人生駒過隙爾，不如多積金，市田宅，以遺子孫。歌兒舞女，以終天年，君臣之間，無所猜嫌，不亦善乎？」石守信等聽後拜謝說「陛下念及此，所謂生死而肉骨也」。這分明是說宋太祖許石守信等一生富貴，換他們自動交出職權，作者怎麼在故事中就略去不提呢？太祖此舉，不過是以「肥雞餐」叫公務員提早退休，怎麼能說是「共患難不可共富貴」呢？

況且「杯酒釋兵權」的故事也不見得是真確。有關「杯酒釋兵權」的紀錄最早才見於仁宗年間的《丁晉公談錄》和《王文正公筆錄》。這樣的開國大事，為什麼不見於更早更重要的《太祖實錄》和《三朝國史》？再說《丁晉公談錄》和《王文正公筆錄》兩書中對「杯酒釋兵權」的說法也不盡相同，可見「杯酒釋兵權」未必是確有其事。

據說此文乃本港新進作家執筆，其作品更是入選「中學生好書龍虎榜」六十本候選書目云云。

又：同日《太陽報》論壇有文章題為「不可竄改歷史教科書」，真是夠煞風景。

Perfume (1985)

2006-10-22T21:44:00.000+08:00

Published 20 years ago finally Patrick Suskind's novel Das Parfum is adapted into a film. Reasons are obvious for the delay. Translated to the screen the whole story will be degraded to a serial killer thriller. Yes, the subtitle is 'the story of a murderer' but the story is far from being Hitchcock material. This is a good example where the power of printed words triumph over images. Jean-Baptiste Grenouille the murderer is driven by an olfactory lust to possess the 'essence', the 'soul' of being, which in his term is the scent. The world exists for him only in olfactory terms. Only in printed words can an animal like him be created to perfection. Hyperbolically satirical and grotesque, the book is a lot more than the pace of plot or visual stimulation or the fishy stench of blood, which are now sadly the only elements that appeal to the public. The stench of 18th century Paris, which most historians might have left out as insignificant, is stuffed right under our noses. Undoubtedly the sublime perfumery world of the half-animal half-saint chimera in the story won't appear on screen. Ironically the producers of the film are acting as an inverted Jean-Baptiste Grenouille: the very 'essence' of the book will be distilled away and the scum will be wiped all over the the screen. The film will stink; it will reek of naked girls, which I don't mind seeing anyway. Man is made of the spiritual and carnal; both of which should be amply nurtured. Can't wait to be carnally fed when the film hits Hong Kong. For the time being, I read the book and indulge in the power of words.

Dangerous Books

2006-10-18T22:53:00.000+08:00

Woe to the age when the most dangerous book becomes the worthiest. This deceptively polemic statement shouldn't be mistaken for the outrageous commonplace juvenile outbursts which condemn anything contemporary but worship anything that is 50 years before: like now when we look back on the 60s everything seems more romantic and picturesque; rusty old electric fans from the 60s can be sold at an obscene price at G.O.D. (which has really, by the way, lived up to its name in transforming the dirt on my soles to unaffordable luxury.)

'Public opinion exists when there are no ideas.' Whatever books that are ingenius enough to have earned public distaste are the worthiest ones. JK Huysmans rasied hell in Victorian England. A sure sign of genius. A story without a plot. Provocative images where artificial beauty takes over natural beauty.

Very much to my surprise Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story Young Goodman Brown has unwittingly touched a nerve or two in some pious young Hong Kong dames. The young gentleman in the portrait above with premature receding hairline is that very unpardonable sinner. The Scarlet Letter is his opus magnum; but his spark of ingenuity shines the brightest in his short stories. Young Goodman Brown at one dusk leaves his wife, aptly named 'Faith', for the forest on an unnamed errand. Torn between the dark forest and his 'Faith' he ventures into the forest and on his way he meets the devil himself. 'Take my staff if you feel too weary,' the devil says. Deep in the forest Young Goodman Brown is shocked to see all the pious villagers and priests are involved in a mid-night Black Sabbath - a devil worship ritual. His wife 'Faith', without the pink hair ribbons she ususally wears, stands in front of him perplexed and frightened. The devil baptises them with blood from a blood basin.

All the sexual symbols are here: the long staff (in the shape of a Serpent), the blood basin, the pink ribbons, the all too obvious Adam and Eve scene where the man and the woman are perplexed and frightened at their sexuality, the errand that 'can only be done at night', the wife that is afraid of 'loneliness' at night when the husband is away...

In class, one pious dame, whose freckles tell of sleepless nights without her Hello Kitty stuffed doll which has gone to the dry-cleaner's, whose dangling ends of trousers, exposing innocent white socks, tell of pubertal hormonal rush that surpasses her feeble mind, whose glazed eyes speak an eternal heaven with dancing virgins like in Disneyland, blushes and askes in her grotesquely horrid voice that inspires nothing but infernal wrath in me, 'Where is the sex?'

In my mind's eyes, I envision the hellish scene of her chatting joyfully about the Holy Scruptures with good people in a Saturday fellowship gathering of a third-floor church, strategically placed beside heavenly brothels, in a commercial building in Mong Kok.

《江山美人》的幽默

2006-10-18T01:46:00.000+08:00

無線電視最近推出一輯叫《江山美人》的節目，以林保怡與王喜兩名小生掛帥主持。節目推出前循例自然先發宣傳片斷。片斷中林王二人步入酒吧，對四周逢迎獻媚的美女卻是不屑一顧。兩人瀟灑的走到長檯邊喝起酒來。只聽旁白以讚嘆的口吻說出一句－－「無動於衷，只因境界不同（大意）」－－林王二人於是相顧而笑，美女們就只顰眉欲嗔了。這條宣傳片大概是點出林王二人見過神州的天香國色，因而看不上那些爭相獻媚的庸脂俗粉吧。

老套的宣傳片有時也收到意想不到的效果－－最少我看過後笑上了半天。想來無線的高層也真夠壞呢！據說林王二人是眾口相傳的龍陽癖了，偏偏給叫來主持這樣的一個節目；宣傳片的導演也幽默頂透，一句「無動於衷，只因境界不同」就讓人玩味不已了。不知道林王二人最後相顧無言，擠出來的不會是苦笑來吧？

J K Huysmans

2006-10-18T00:13:00.000+08:00

J K Huysmans (1848 - 1907), a French novelist suffering from a civil servant position produced a number of outlandish novels during his off-work hours. Among them are the infamous ones like A Rebours (Against Nature) (1884) and La Bas (Down There) (1891) which show extraoridnary hard work of research on the subjects dealt with.
A Rebours has earned its name 'the dangerous book' or 'the yellow book' in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray in which the anti-hero, Dorian Gray, indulges in aesthetic perversities suggested by this yellow book.
Des Esseintes in A Rebours throws afternoon dinner parties in which the dining room is darkened as night by heavy dark curtains and illuminated with candle light. Table cloths and drapes are all in black; all courses on the menu comprise food in black like black pudding, contrasted by a guilded live tortoise crawling around the living room. Masked waitresses with elaborous headgear adorned with black feathers serve food stark naked. Des Esseintes's tastes in literature are most exquisite: his favourite classics he especially ordered from publishers: all printed with purple ink on silk paper, with silk hardcover in different colours, which atone our hero's mood: in sulky mood he picks up a purple one to drown himself in his purple mood. Once he wants to get some fresh air and plans to embark on a long ship journey to London. Hours of packing tires him out and he decides he have the effect of an exquisite journey without the trouble: decorators are called upon and a house with panelled walls are to be built. On the walls small round cabin windows with steel rims are built. Between the panelled walls the space is filled with salt water in which clockwork, wind-up, mechanical fish swim - it is virtually a room surrounded by walls of aquarium. Giant worn out ropes soaked with salty water and rusted anchors and fishnets are ordered to adorn the room. Oakwood deck chairs and tables are custom-made decorated with compasses and maps and monoculars. In this room our hero gazes through the cabin windows, admiring the mechinical fish swimming joyfully, breathing in the salty air, caressing moist oakwood tables... nothing of a genuine sea journey is lacking.

我的名字要紅

2006-10-14T23:25:00.000+08:00

奧罕‧柏慕克（Orhan Pamuk）最近火紅起來了。土耳其人今年以大熱門姿態榮膺諾貝爾文學獎，著作少不免洛陽紙貴，難得是連本地歌手楊千嬅也因此叨了光。原來此妹早對柏慕克那本《我的名字叫紅》青眼有加，還在年前的港台主辦的「十大好書」活動中公開推薦。現在柏氏龍門一登，楊千嬅大概可以博得不少名聲了。看看年前她怎樣說：

「選擇推介這本書，首先是被書名吸引，作為演藝人，希望我也人如其『名』吧﹗雖然奧罕‧帕慕克這位土耳其作家寫的故事，發生在十六世紀的伊斯坦堡，但這份異國風情配合一個驚慄的謀殺之迷，教我看得『愛不釋手』。書厚五百多頁。無論是頁數還是讀後的感覺，都可以用這四個字形容：『份量十足』。」

我就是喜歡「名字要紅」－－說話直率得要命呢。也不知道柏氏聽過後會不會笑出來了。雖然說《我的名字叫紅》一書的確奠定了柏氏的文壇地位，可大家都知道現下諾貝爾文學獎多少都染有政治的色彩。年前柏慕克公開犯禁，指責土耳其前身奧圖曼帝國在1915年種族清洗上百萬的亞美尼亞人，結果給人告上法庭指其有辱國格，不就是贏得了「捍衛言論自由」的稱許嗎？難得是他事後都說，犯禁是為著挑動人們關注土國言論自由的情況，給亞美尼亞人打抱不平是次要罷了。

Black Friday

2006-10-13T22:58:00.000+08:00

1307 年10月13日星期五，窮得發慌的法王菲力普四世（Philip IV）幾乎同時拘捕了全國的聖堂武士。首領莫雷（Jacques de Molay）自然落網，家當也被國王抄得清光。國王宣佈聖堂武士都是異端，只有快快悔改獻寶才是正道。當然，審訊異端自是擴持日久，好讓裁判們有時間施以不同的折磨。七年後莫雷始終被送上火刑台。他赴刑前循例臭罵了法王，又詛咒了他的家族；圍觀的群眾也沒有向莫雷丟雞蛋，只是聽著他的呻吟慢慢給火焰吞沒消失掉。