By Liu Yu
Though sparrows and woodpeckers cannot sing melodious tunes, their fragmented chirps, amid the crisp stillness of autumn, still carry a hint of the season's essence. Alas, having endured the unpleasing caw of old crows long enough, let us welcome these autumn songsters and listen to their soft chatter.
Autumn arrives very late in Hong Kong. By November, cool breezes weave through with sparse cold rains, tapping lightly on the quiet scenes still lingering with summer's last warmth.
A few days ago, I wandered idly in the courtyard, perhaps lost in thought—though now I can barely recall what. My neighbor, a schoolboy, was also pacing about the yard, squinting as if in a reverie. Curious, I asked softly: "What are you doing?" He paused, then replied: "Look, our teacher told us to find autumn's traces at home. But all the scenes seem the same to me, so I decided to close my eyes and listen to what autumn sounds like."
Awed, I closed my eyes too. I truly admired the boy, yet at first, the sparrows' chatter struck me as monotonous. What kind of sound could enrapture him so? Perhaps it was the birds' chirps mingled with the rustle of falling leaves and the whisper of the wind.
A child's mind is pure and unadorned. His thoughts of autumn revolve around simple truths: the brush of cool winds, the frost-kissed fallen leaves, and the intermittent drizzles of the season.
Ah, I was touched by his sincerity and chided my former self. Once, hearing crows cawing mournfully in autumn, I would frown and complain, resenting them for spoiling the tranquility. But now, I care no longer. Life has taught me tolerance—discordant notes are just as indispensable to autumn's melody. Such "imperfection" is what makes the season whole in a child's eyes. His innocent heart never rejects the crows' cries; instead, he firmly believes that autumn would never leave the sorrowful crows behind.
"I do not dislike birds and insects, but they are always bound to plants and trees, not only for food, but also for spiritual sustenance. For instance, when birds sing of autumn, their songs only resonate if heard among bare branches or cold plains. Confined in gilded cages or carved railings, no matter how fervently they sing, the sound always feels hollow and uninspiring."
Recently, I had a realization—nowadays, literati often chase the false fame of being "unprecedented," eager to depict themselves as "the greatest." I have never understood who started this trend; it is indeed perplexing.
Once, I made a bet with a friend: whoever finished writing a novel first would earn "supreme glory." What is "supreme" anyway? Merely polite flattery between us. Though it was a trivial wager, we both set to work eagerly. I wrote frantically for days, but soon exhausted my ideas. Unwilling to fabricate, and later occupied with daily duties, I forgot all about it. Only a few days ago did it resurface in my memory. Tentatively, I asked my friend how he was progressing—and sighed with relief at his answer: "Still planning." I knew then that the matter would fizzle out.
We young writers need constant nourishment for our creativity. Wandering mountains and rivers may bring temporary inspiration, but it cannot sustain the boastful words we once spoke. Alas, the arrogance of claiming "I am the greatest under heaven" is ultimately crushed by reality and ridicule. Literati often restrain themselves with "integrity of character," which, to each, signifies a unique writing style. But if I cling to the delusion of "being the greatest" as my so-called integrity, can my writing truly bloom with extraordinary charm? Clearly not.
In the end, I am merely trapped in my own imagined "integrity," pretending to be something I am not. No matter how loudly I proclaim my greatness, others will only see it as folly. Once bored, they will simply walk away.
Thus, the claim of "I am the greatest under heaven" is nothing but a subjective fallacy—seen differently by each eye, understood variably by each mind.
Liu Yu is the lead editor of the cultural commentary "A Thousand Hamlets." Liu holds a BA in English Literature from HKBU and an MA in History from HKU.
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