Archive for the ‘Snippets’ Category


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孔子: 以約失之者,鮮矣。



Pop Quiz (English version)

Who represents the greatest existential threat to the Chinese in Malaysia?

  • A) Mahathir Mohamad
  • B) Najib Razak
  • C) Hadi Awang
  • D) Yeo Bee Yin

For the answer, consider this from Confucius:

To put the world in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must first put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must first cultivate our personal life; we must first set our hearts right.

If the citation seems difficult to take in, the Dan Fogelberg clip (below) might help: the people we will come to love most, adore and trust are those that grant us our greatest freedom, the freedom to be what we become, eventually, warts and all, and not to be chiseled out of some design and made to follow some model stone image and biblical figure; that is oppression.

As ominous as the oppression is the deception employed. Terms like ‘save’, ‘shame’, ‘seduction’, ‘temptation’, ‘sin’, ‘blame’, ‘serpent’ are deception’s chiselling tools. (See, for example, The Genesis of Blame.) These terms introduced Abrahamic — hence western — religious morality into local politics, poisoning it under a toxic us-them, good-evil, believer-unbeliever cloud. (See ‘White People Fighting‘.)

Consequently, the PH is incapable of suggesting overarching philosophical ideas and policy guides for the future. All that its electoral manifesto shows are itemized ways on how to fix the other side. (See Tontine Manifesto.)

The band is the family.


安妮 ,亲爱的朋友:


多年过去了 很小回来






Red Dust 红尘









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From a DAP pulpit, words of Christian righteousness:



Then in the workplace, online and in the home, another reality takes over.

Zairil Khir Johari: “One door closes, another opens.”


Lim Guan Eng: Many people want my photos, so what?



Yeo Bee Yin: God told me, go to Johor. Someone give me a hanky please (sob, sob).


Going to Singapore, I told God that I am not going far. But He told me, ‘isn’t it the same for you if you go to Singapore? Why don’t you just stay overseas?’ So, I started my social marketing media company … Everything would fall into place in the right timing. We just need to pray, work hard and wait patiently for his Sovereign Will to be done in this nation….


Yeo Bee Yin again: “My blasted mind….”


(A) small incidence in the (Petronas) education unit made me utterly disappointed with how things work in Malaysia. While waiting at the lounge, I met two returning scholars from Nottingham University, UK. I started to talk to them. To my very surprise, they couldn’t even speak proper English! After a while, an education unit guy came and met them, I accidentally saw their results – one of them get second class lower and the another one a third class. That blasted my mind. Here I was, with a CGPA of 3.95/4.00 begging only for 1 year of deferment, not even a scholarship, but was denied. Here they were, spent 4 years in the UK fully sponsored and yet graduated with at most, mediocre results.


Now, can you see why we blew up the Jesus Motherfucking Church…

So what, Yeo Bee Yin? Try stopping us. Here’s a bucket for your tears. Jesus cunt. 


China, My People

China, My Fight

We are ready for war.

We fear not broken bones nor bitterness.


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Relax. I, Ultra. Good.


Below is a truncated version of a conversation between Jian and I. A part of it had to do with Annie (above image). This took place some time ago and began, as with such things, a boy-girl exchange:

Jian [twitting her eyebrows]: Do you have a Malay girl friend? Tell me honestly.

Me: It was a long time ago.

Jian [her voice, pleading, was raised a few decibels]: Is that a yes? Tell me.

Me: One year in a Chinese high school. It was a mixed girl-boy class.

Jian: Do you still talk with her?

Me: Of course, not. I don’t even remember her name.

Jian: Is she pretty?

Me: Not half as you.

Jian: What are Malay girls like?

Me: What do you mean?

Jian: Do they dress well? Are they tall? Pretty? Can they make money?

Me: They are darker skin. Never as tall as you. Some are pretty, some not-so. Come in all types. All wear the same clothes, same fashion. Make money? They don’t need to. Malaysia government takes care of that.

Jian: What do you mean same clothes?

On my notebook, on Baidu, I typed ‘马来人’ — malairen — then click on photos. Soon all sorts of images appeared. I skipped the tourist and wedding stuff, and picked those with lots of tudung, something like the one below.

She might be pleased by my responses so far, though there’s no telling. If she were, it would be because she beats all the competition. Which is true. At work or on the street, Jian is stunning in her beauty and demeanor. Think of 張曼玉 Zhang Manyu or Maggie Cheung walking down the alley or going up the stairs in 花样年华 The Prime of Life (also titled, badly, In the Mood for Love) and you are pretty close to picturing her persona.

On the monitor, she points to a tudung pair on the beach: You say it’s 33 degrees, but why do they wear that? Don’t they feel hot?

Seeing the way they dress, even I feel hot. Cannot ‘tahan‘.

What? What did you just say?

Nothing, it’s just a Malay word: I said I can’t stand the heat even just looking.

Have you slept with her?

I didn’t hesitate and could have said right off: ‘It’s dangerous, sleeping with a Malay. She can go to jail’, but that would mean going into Islam, and there it gets troublesome, in spite of Syed Akbar Ali singing the wonders of the Quran that is equally convoluted. One look at it, Malaysia isn’t just bizarre; it is madness, day in, day out, with all that delusional piety yada, yada. I simply answered, No.


Really, no. The most was, hold hands. Once, one kiss, on the cheek. That’s all, I swear.

Why do you go out with Malay girls? Why don’t you go out with Chinese girls?

Chinese girls didn’t ask me. She did. I was just stupid then.

Do you know any Chinese girl?

Of course. I have many relatives, and daughters of relatives.

I know your relatives. Not relatives. Non-related.

From the school.

What about, now? Do you still talk with them?

Now? Of course not. I hadn’t been back for years, except for chunjie. You know that.

I mean, online. Do you talk with them? On WeChat.

No. Except relatives.

I know. Non-relatives. Not one?

Here is hesitation. My reply was slow and calculated — on technical grounds. WeChat is available in Malaysia, yes, and in use. But, more likely, she meant WhatsApp which isn’t available in China. Then it struck me: Do blog platforms count, WordPress and Blogspot, though they aren’t actual communication exchange devices. These aren’t available in China. There are three ways around the firewall, one of which is legit. You simply ask the Public Security Bureau for clearance. You’d ask if you knew the chance of succeeding is a hundred percent. Jian also put in a word, and that must have helped. She knows about this site, therefore, but don’t read it because she can’t, unless a post is in Chinese and when we are separated by physical distance. It occurred to me, as well, should I tell her about the blog readers and the other Malaysia sites I visit.

But, is Annie Chinese?

I showed Jian Annie’s home page. Does this count? The site has no selfie photo other than a portrait line sketch on the top right corner. Pointing to it, I said, her name is an-ni 安妮. I have never met her. And she is not Chinese.

The page might as well be Greek. Jian doesn’t care and is the least bit curious. She twitched her lips, What?, then lifting her head turned to the clock. Never mind, she answered again. Never mind.

Outside is dark. Night comes early in winter. We hadn’t had a full meal the entire day. Shall I cook, she asked. Or, shall we go out.

I stepped up to the window, in my mind a bottle of warm wine, preferably maotai. On the side of the pavement below, beneath the lamps, week-old snow had turned gray and into mush. The weather looks clear. Let’s eat out, I said. She said, mmm. I switched off the heater, and we put on our overcoats and our gloves. We stepped out. In her knee-high boots, we are almost shoulder-to-shoulder height. She locked the door and we went down the long corridor to the lift, her heels emitting a faint echo. Stepping into the night, she grips me on the hand. I wrap my arm around her waist.

Then came a sense of guilt, thoughts returning to one of the previous postings made days and weeks ago: I really shouldn’t have been so harsh on Annie. Even so, had I not spoken the truth? Was I not right, even today? That Malaysia is just, as Donald Trump might describe it, a shithole. A pig’s shithole. Annie’s moronic, bigoted fans — plus those Anglophiles — are welcome to populate and wade in that shit.

We live in a crowd, not alone to ourselves, bloggers especially. Annie depends on the crowd. Upon them you draw sustenance and meaning and purpose. The century of the individual, indivisible self is today replaced by the century of the crowd, 99 percent of who burrowing in, commenting in your posts, do so unthinking because they have no brains. They are just a lot fart that they readily throw up as a matter of habit. Yet it is the crowd you live for. But not I, since an ultra, on the fringe, is never adored. Leave Malaysia, Annie. Forget the crowd, this 99 percent. Can’t you smell their stink? Take the blog with you, even take your crowd if that’s what you want. But leave. There is a world bigger and more interesting than Malaysia. Or, do you worry about patriotism?


Jian, a semblance portrait.


My Love is in the mountains,

Breeze, please take my words to her


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In the Annals of Chinese History

Pu Yi and his breakfast, below.


Above image is the Empress Dowager’s actual breakfast menu prepared especially for Pu Yi, China’s last (but not final?) emperor. It has 26 items; it flies, it flows, it crawls.
There is even a commoner’s dish:  luchi tofu (circled in red), looking something like the one immediately below.

Yummy, yummy. Pu Yi eats what we eat!

Pu Yi’s mother the Empress Dowager

Actual picture of the boy emperor.


Modern emperors of China





冬至 = Winter’s Extremities.

In the yijing (I Ching) hexagram, above, winter solstice or 冬至 is annotated as 復, the shortest day, longest night of the year. After today, everything turns around, the day grows longer, the nights shorter. 復 fu implies, turning point.


From a WeChat world, I am told:


And, no kidding, this is more profound than Sartre. In translation…

If you want to truly and fully understand yourself, pay attention to what others say when they are irritated: Angry words are truths out of control.

Okay, I can accept that — the thing about listening and truths.

Now, give me a fucking light!

火啊 火啊 这里冷的要死了



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The Price of Freedom, of Belief, of Religion, of Tuhan

Believe in God, you say, Assraf? Well, Allahuakbar!

One of these days, we’ll stretch out that mamak’s neck on the same chopping block (below) — in the name of his Allah. After that queue up his entire family in front of it, wives #1, #2, #3 and #4, uncles, aunties, boys, girls, everybody. Why? For exercising the Malaysian constitution and the Rukun Negara, for the belief in God. They chose the wrong God.

You see, when the Rukun Negara says, ‘KEPERCAYAAN KEPADA TUHAN’, it meant the ISIS one. Assraf had acted unconstitutional and seditious. Guilty as charged!

Assraf, go fuck your Allah.

Image result for isis

Related image

Image result for isis

To save time and effort, perhaps it’s better just to shoot Assraf’s entire family (so many wives, so many kids), one bullet to each head. Faster and more efficient that way. Allahuakbar! For venue: A Negri Sembilan oil palm estate (below) at the back of Dusuki’s house.

Merdeka! Freedom!

Think this is all a joke? There’ll will be rivers of blood and you, Assraf, won’t find that funny. And all for what? To obey the law? The Constitution? How about for the sake of your motherfucking Allah?

Import your Allah, pay its import price: Get it? Bodoh pukimamak.

Image result for isis

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Everything that could be found inside a vagina had been found.

overheard, apparently, in the US Patent Office



On Joyce Maynard:

The Personal-Essay Boom Is Over,” declared the headline of a much-circulated article on The New Yorker’s website earlier this year. It was the “God Is Dead” of the Jezebel generation, reporting that the craze for essays with titles like “My Gynecologist Found a Ball of Cat Hair in My Vagina”—a story by a writer named Michelle Barrow that became a fleeting sensation in 2015—had come to an end. To borrow a late-19th-century saying about the United States patent office, everything that could be found inside a vagina had been found.

Let young essayists find hope in the life and letters of Joyce Maynard, who has withstood market corrections to the personal-essay economy for 50 years, ever since her first one appeared in Seventeen magazine when she herself was 14. She is the Joyce Carol Oates of women’s confessional essays, firing them off in such rapid succession that she will probably begin and finish one in the time it takes you to read this paragraph. Her subject is herself, and although she has but one life to live, she is never short of material, because she reads and rereads her own story according to market demands. Teach a woman to describe a ball of cat hair, and she will sell an essay. Teach her to regard that ball of cat hair as an illustrative example of a handful of recurring themes, and she will sell essays for a lifetime.

The Boomers are getting old now; we know this because there’s a Fidelity ad that plays “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and Joyce Maynard has started to appear in the AARP magazine. Her new book, The Best of Us, is about a topic of interest to this aging demographic: widowhood. In her late 50s, she met a man online and they married. Tragically, he was soon diagnosed with cancer; he died three years after the wedding. It was a cruel thing to happen, a wretched turn of luck.

Just as she dropped the depth charge of her mother’s quasi-incest into an early chapter of At Home in the World yet expected readers to stay focused on the fact that J. D. Salinger was a bad boyfriend, The Best of Us tucks a whopper into an opening chapter. At age 55, her children grown, Maynard had “missed being a parent as much as a person crossing the desert misses water.” So she sent away for a CD-rom from an international adoption agency, liked what she saw at an Ethiopian orphanage, and traveled to Africa to adopt two sisters: “They were ravenous for meat. ‘I love you I love you I love you,’ they told me.” But she soon tired of the responsibility. After 14 months, she drove them across the country and handed them off to a different family, and they were adopted a second time.

So there, on page 56, she loses the crowd. When she describes meeting her future husband just six months later and having the time of her life with him—traveling, eating, sleeping in the nude, throwing a wedding rapturously covered by The New York Times—the reader is back with those little girls she impulsively adopted and then abandoned. Always, Maynard wants our sympathies. “Of all the losses I’d known, this had been the worst,” she tells us about relinquishing the girls, a few pages before going on to describe her new beau’s silver Porsche Boxster.

And so yet again, we leave the girl writer where we found her, in the pages of her endless testimony, burbling it all up, the stream of experience unmediated by any meaning beyond itself. If Saint Augustine was the father of the autobiography as a form of confession, Maynard is one of the mothers of the “My Gynecologist Found a Ball of Cat Hair in My Vagina” genre. “When I got two cats, I knew their fur was going to get everywhere,” that essay begins, its writer surely aware that never since the beginning of time has there been anybody just like her.



On Karl Ove Knausgaard:

Here is the opening sentence of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s meditation on beds.:

With its four legs and its flat, soft surface, the bed gently accommodates one of our most basic needs: it is good to lie down in bed, and it is good to sleep in them through the night.

Well, you learn something every day.

Actually you do, if you are very young, or at least you are meant to. For this is one of Knausgaard’s letters to his unborn daughter, and he’s written one book for each season, 20 letters per month, for her to be able to see the world, or for Knausgaard to see it again, anew. It is a mission freighted with honourable intent.

He writes on subjects that are dear to an infant’s heart: beds (as we have seen), but also daguerreotypes, Flaubert, thermos flasks, August Sander (you may well ask. German photographer, very good, not well known over here). Also: wasps, labia, lice, teeth, and the sun. Among others. You get the idea. Anything he fancies, really.

For some people it is difficult to find the right tone when speaking to children. On the one hand, they resent being talked down to. On the other, you have to make allowances for their smaller frame of reference. Knausgaard, it has to be said, manages, for the adult reader at least, to get things exactly wrong, quite a lot of the time. (The adult reader is the one he needs to worry about because children, even the ones who have made it out of the womb, do not have £16.99, or the Norwegian equivalent, to spend on books like this and, besides, have other claims on their attention.)

So when we read, in his essay on chewing gum, that it usually comes in two forms, either as small pillow-shaped pellets or as flat oblong sticks, we may feel a certain impatience. The child, on the other hand, may be mystified by an airy reference to Montaigne, Shakespeare and Cervantes (who are mentioned because it was during their time that the last war was fought in Sweden, which is where Knausgaard lives).

That said, there are many times when the book is rather charming, and he does succeed in making us look at things a little differently. Wasps, for instance, like miniature Fabergé eggs, or knights dressed for battle. I may have scoffed at his description of the bed, but when he imagines transparent walls, and being able to see everyone else flat out on them, then yes, maybe that is a little spooky.

Then again, for every observation like that you get another one like this:

The mouth is where the sense of taste is located. This is where it is determined whether something tastes good or bad, sour or sweet, salt or bitter. The mouth is also the place where food is mashed together.

I really don’t have the heart to quote any more, even the bit in this passage where he gets to Aristotle. Let me instead add an aperçu of my own, in Knausgaardian style. The brain is where the sense of intelligence is located. This is where it is determined whether a book is worth reading or not, boring or interesting, irritating or illuminating. I have used mine and made my decision.



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“We live here and now. Everything before and in other places is past and mostly forgotten”.

“What could – what should be done, with all the time that lies ahead of us? Open and unshaped, feather light in its freedom and lead-heavy in its uncertainty? Is it a wish, dreamlike and nostalgic, to stand once again at that point in life, and be able to take a completely different direction to the one which has made us who we are?”

“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there. We travel to ourselves when we go to a place though we have covered a stretch of our life, no matter how brief it may have been. But by traveling to ourselves we must confront our own loneliness. And isn’t it so everything we do is done out of fear of loneliness? Isn’t that why we renounce all the things we will regret at the end of our lives?”

“When dictatorship is a fact, revolution is a duty”.

“Is it ultimately a question of self-image that determining idea one has made for oneself of what has to be accomplished and experienced so that one can approve the life one has lived? If this is the case, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not been able to become whom one planned to be. If the certainty befalls us that it will never be achieved… this homeness, you suddenly don’t know how to live the time, that can no longer be part of a whole life”.

“The real director of life is accident, a director full of cruelty compassion and bewitching charm.”

“The decisive moments of life, when its direction changes forever, are not always marked by large and shown dramatics. In truth, the dramatic moments of a life determining experience, are often unbelievable low key. When it unfolds its revolutionary effects and insures that a  life is revealed in a brand new light, it does that silently. And in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.”

“In youth, we live as if we were immortal, knowledge of mortality dances around us like a brittle paper ribbon that barely touches our skin. When, in life does that change? When does the ribbon tighten, until finally it strangles us?” — Amadeu de Prado


秋天了吗  我回来了 五天到

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