他們口中的所謂幸福, 就是起居飲食有人照顧, 每天有湯水滋潤, 有人嚧寒問暖. 然而, 又不是伯夷叔齊, 獨居也不見得會餓死. 而且, 煮食煲湯的技巧, 是可以鍛鍊的. 我想, 就是現在給踼出家門, 我也能做得一手好菜. 而每天每刻有人來問你為何皺眉、為何沉默, 其實不是人人受得來的. 不發一言, 可以是沒有原因, 也可以是在思慮破困局的方法, 更可以是在讓悲傷沉甸. 請別打擾.

一堆的嘮叨, 緣起 I’ve lost my specs. Searched high and low 都不見影踪. 想問母親, 有沒有見過眼鏡? 但經驗告訴我, 說話還是往肚裡吞好. 一句話, 會招來十句. 是的, 我不是最整齊的人, 眼鏡不放在一個固定位置, 而是三四個位置. 尋過那三四個地方, 都不見, 就想向人求救, 找人幫忙. 但我真的怕再被貼上 ‘無首尾’ 的罪名. 其實, 只要你告訴我, 有沒有見過眼鏡就夠, 我不貪心, 想要多三四句說話. 本來可以更徹底在家裡搜尋, 但家人每見我這樣, 就起疑心, 一問之下, 還是會招來我最怕的罪名和三四句附加說話. 所以, 我選擇 sans specs 寫網誌. 就這半天吧.

與某些人同住, 根本是種壓力. 我沒有自虐狂, 所以並不認為這是絕對幸福. 是的, 不必自己下廚, 是很方便省時, 偶爾有親友圈子的是是非非聽, 是種調劑, 但付出的代價, 很沉重.

甚麼時候方可安全躡手躡腳出房問, 找眼鏡呢?

同一穹蒼下, 比同一屋簷下好.

或許是太累. 舊情人的懷抱最是溫暖, 也不必疑惑在他懷內雙手該放何處、依偎到多緊密, 一切如此自然. 英文是新歡, 天天牽手, 為的是那份甜, 而每段關係中的甜蜜, 難免要靠點矯揉造作來維繫.

或許是聽了梁先生的　”一絲不掛”．　詞中的　’絲’　可堪玩味；　此’絲’　取自　’青絲’，　烏髮也．被拋棄的人，　日思夜想舊人的一頭青絲，　直到自己滿頭華髮．竟然想到白髮魔女．沒有看原著，但電影的魔女眼神怨毒，呃，有點怕．

如何可以做到連舊情人的一根頭髮也不掛念呢？是是是，我知道詞中的青絲不如我所言輕　’如’　鴻毛，但我想說的，是怎麼可以將當初的一切都割斷呢，決斷到連髮絲氣味都遺忘？而那個過程，又可不可以是毫不費力呢？

經歷過失戀的人，　有沒有誰沒有試過為了對方、為了自己，　太過盡力地生活呢？那麼努力地讓自己愉快，　為對方高興，　說穿了或許根本不是想爭口氣，要活得比對方好，也不是因為比耶穌佛祖博愛仁慈，　只是　－　想忙到自己忘記心傷，　想對方的新戀情令自己有勇氣心死．

日日夜夜推動自己活得更好，是以手護著淌血的傷口．

無時無刻為舊情人升職結婚生兒育女高興，是催眠自己淌血的傷口並不痛．

充滿電影畫面的詞：

分手時內疚的你一轉臉
為日後不想有甚麼牽連
當我工作睡覺禱告娛樂那麼刻意過好每天
誰料你見鬆綁了又願見面

誰當初想擺脫被圍繞左右
過後誰人被遙控於世界盡頭
勒到呼吸困難才知變扯線木偶
這根線其實說到底 誰拿捏在手

不聚不散 只等你給另一對手擒獲
那時青絲 不會用上餘生來量度
但我拖著軀殼 發現沿途尋找的快樂
仍繫於你肩膊 或是其實在等我捨割
然後斷線風箏會直飛天國

這些年望你緊抱他出現
還憑何擔心再互相糾纏
給我找個伴侶找到留下你的足印也可發展
全為你背影逼我步步向前

如一根絲牽引著拾荒之路
結在喉嚨內痕癢得似有還無
為你安心我在微笑中想吐未吐
只想你和伴侶要好才頑強病好

不聚不散 只等你給另一對手擒獲
以為青絲 不會用上餘生來量度
但我拖著軀殼 發現沿途尋找的快樂
仍繫於你肩膊 或是其實在等我捨割
然後斷線風箏會直飛天國

一直不覺 綑綁我的未可扣緊承諾
滿頭青絲 想到白了仍懶得脫落
被你牽動思覺 最後誰願纏繞到天國
然後撕裂軀殼 欲斷難斷在 不甘心去捨割
難道愛本身可愛在於束縛

無奈你我牽過手 沒繩索

Hardly surprising. Everyone was desperate to find a spot in any air-conditioned place in this heat. And as today’s a holiday, students flocked to the nearest cafe to study, chat or simply for a nice cup of Frappuccino.

Cafes, they have become a kind of unconventional study parlors these days. Does anyone still go to public study rooms now, I wonder, where you can’t eat, can’t drink and will find yourself duly woken up by the ‘patrolling librarian’ the moment you doze off? Calls to mind the unpleasant memories of my public study room days. We had to take turns to steal a quick nap cos there was a librarian who sneaked up on anyone happened to have their eyes closed – ‘sleeping not allowed!’ she used to bark. Hey, nobody’s sleeping, Ms Nosy. Just resting my eyes. There, Starbuckses and Pacific Coffees do have their appeal.

Rain finally came in the evening. Shame she paid too short a visit. Will you pull the temperature down, and the sun too? Wishful thinking.

It never ceases to puzzle me that some people are in love with sunny days and warm weather; I honestly don’t see the fun of going about sweating, and risk being roasted alive. That’s why visiting Greece never crossed my mind I suppose. But one man has changed my mind – Theo Angelopolous. The Traveling Players, an epic of Greek history (1939-52), filmed entirely in Angelopolous’s home country, depicts a grey, cold and scarred Greece, not exactly the place flooded with sunshine that most people have in mind. Angelopolous admitted that he deliberately painted this picture of his country, both for thematic and aesthetic sakes. The nearly 4-hour movie was not as difficult to comprehend as I had thought, and Angelopolous does have a way to deliver powerful political statements effectively, the one that makes the strongest impression is the hero’s, a Communist, funeral under a bleak sky. A painfully small group of friends and family alone are present when the coffin is lowered to be buried. But Angelopolous does not have in mind a sad scene. The hero’s sister starts clapping, then a whole round of applause follows and echoes in the forest. It’s profound, powerful, and leaves you in no doubt where the director’s sympathy rests. Plus, I never expected applause here. They are burying a dissident, such indiscretion was the last thing that crossed my mind, a less creative director may have everyone raising fists and chanting slogans rather than the restrained scene we now have.

Why did I let myself be talked out of going to Ulysses’ Gaze and Weeping Meadow?

Written on 21/5/10

Time spent alone used to be quality time. This is no more. Walked down a mall, came up to a mirrored column, I saw me greeting myself. Who am I now? A wall flower pinned down. I looked resoundingly lonely and felt so.

You, you have crushed my appetite for privacy and independence; the churning deep down for whatever contact I can get becomes so intense that I need to wash it down with cup after cup of tea and coffee; but there’s still the burning urge to reach out for my mobile, press your number and ask you out – to a dinner, to a movie, or to have a chat only. But then, what good will all these bring? Experience says: None. So I sit poised next to the gadget.

Plus, there are other issues at work. There are undercurrents lurking beneath the seemingly calm sea.

Plus, I trust my eyes, my intuition never fails me. One look at the two of you is enough to remove any doubts about the hissing, simmering affections you have for each other; and who am I to intrude, how possibly can I intrude? I was a pleasant enough diversion, now that she is free and available, it doesn’t feel right to hold you back, though whether her present situation is made known to you I’m not sure. The gathering this week offers an opportunity for me to pry. Make the most of it.

(written on 18 April)

And I finally made the call, having agonized over it for more than a month.

I called just to make sure you were not upset by something I said. You were not apparently, though it’s not as apparent if you -

I kicked myself for not telling you about the film I watched behind your back, for not asking you to another. But your voice alone was enough to knock my senses out.

This is Hyde Park on a Shakespeare’s summer’s day. How I long to get out there and cast off the last thought of you – or do I?

Goethe Institute is now holding a mini film festival, showing pieces whose themes centre on Nazi and post-war Germany; the doomed resistance of the White Rose against Hitler (as in The Final Days of Sophie Scholl), a Stasi officer’s refusal to collaborate with the totalitarian regime of GDR in its twilight (as in The Lives of Others), and even the anguish of the post-reunification generation which is unscathed by wars when confronted with the inglorious past of Germany in modern history (there’s a film about a young man visiting Auschwitz, but its title just slips off my mind). Of those that I have watched, Sophie Scholl and Lives of Others are powerful and moving, and most notably beautifully and highly structured like a BMW. That’s why when the latter was shown last week, it lured me into breaking my general principle of avoiding films that have brought tears to my eyes. Who cares – you only have one 20th birthday – so, happy birthday, Germany.

For those who hasn’t heard of/hasn’t been tempted to see The Lives of Others, here’s what it’s about. Early 80s in East Germany, Stasi investigator Wiesler promises to help childhood friend Grubitz in his rise in the Party. He is to put a playwright, Dreyman, under full surveillance to collect evidence of his liaison with the West, an act which attracts severe punishment in the GDR. An idealist, Wiesler has always seen himself as a rigorous defender of Socialism and proud of it until he catches a glimpse of the regime’s vicious face through Dreyman’s life, and comes to sympathize with his prey. Meanwhile, as Wiesler’s compassion for the hunted playwright grows, his own liberty and career are increasingly at stake cos Grubitz now senses his friend gets too close to the traitor for his career advancement.

The first time I viewed it, I thought the title played on the idea of spying alone, and how everybody will come to accept and respect others if only we are given the chance to understand each other better, and not indoctrinated with blind hatred, prejudices and rumour. When Wiesler first met Dreyman, he sneaked a kiss from his girlfriend in a dark corner, an act that shouts ‘immoral bourgeois’; he was convinced this playwright should put on the watch list. Yet as the investigation continues, Wiesler finds that contrary to what he was led to believe, Dreyman’s life in fact very much resembles the ideal that he has long been aspired to – loyalty to friends, quest for liberty, a passion for arts and love. Increasingly intrigued, Wiesler tries out this new life he is introduced to like a new tie and finds it fits – he likes Brecht and finds women attractive.  It’s through eavesdropping on the other’s life that points out an alternative to the bleak, dull life he is living, and sounds the alarm in Wiesler’s mind that this regime is a lying mammoth. This time around, however, I read another limb. As Dreyman composes an article exposing the scandalous cover-up of the skyrocket suicide rate in the GDR for the Spiegel, he is under constant and tremendous fear that his acts might be discovered. What drives him on? I think it’s the yearning that roars and rolls in him for the life that others lead – a life that knows hope and puts faith in it that one doesn’t think it’s necessary to seek a premature departure from present reality as a form of relief. The Lives of Others – the others are those enjoying life in the West.

Nothing is possible, not love, not even simple human nature like kindness.

(written on 26/12/09)

The infamous news programme last week covered the hot issue ‘middle women’ (中女). The term reins in women in their late20s or above, with a tinge more unwelcome focus on singletons, so basically any female university graduate who holds a steady job but not a stable relationship. A handful of ‘middle women’ were interviewed, asked to talk about their fears – yes, I haven’t exaggerated; some of the women did look and sound forlorn and desperate, as if ‘worries’ grow into something monstrous as you age. The said fears included the first sign of fine lines, fading luster (curiously not health) the gloomy prospect of securing a boyfriend and eventually a husband, and reminisces of failed relationships. Towards the end, it pumped in tons and tons of uplifting air and the women were asked now that they are ‘in middle-age’ what are the ‘lessons learned’, and their goals: be generous to everybody – potential boyfriends will appreciate that; to find a man as a refuge cos she is vulnerable deep down despite the office armor she wears. I cringed. Feminists watching it were likely to be cringing.

I find the show utterly distasteful. It sought not to explain and analyze the chosen topic as any decent news programme does. On the other hand, it projected an average, narrow, and biased picture of a certain social group. Hong Kongers, both male and female, have already come to a tacit consensus that ‘middle women’ are pitiful creatures and doomed for life; and while the latter find it an unsavory label, they exemplify the traditional virtue of submissiveness of Chinese women and never protest or seek to displace this unfounded and ridiculous stereotypes heaped on them. Here on the show, women were portrayed as polygamy fundamentalists, bimbos, vulnerable victims, constantly suffering from romance fetish and on boyfriend/husband hunt. The fundamental fault is that all these roles we are unfairly cast in are singularly bounded to men – once again, with the emergence of the label ‘middle women’ (and others not to be discussed in this article), we are kicked back brutally into the world of The Second Sex (definitive text of Feminism by Simone de Beauvior), firmly patriarchal and women exist as inferiors to and/or dependents on men. But this is not so, this should not be so. Women can have a life independent of men. The interviewees on the programme, undoubtedly selected by the reporters and editors, gave just the opposite, false picture. According to this bunch, there are only two paths for ‘middle women’ – marriage or maidenhood.

If the reporters had only read the news. If only the reporters had sharper awareness and a critical mind. As far as my memories go, there is a third way, a fourth way… director/actress 張艾嘉 is the first famous single mother I’ve heard of, she wanted to be a mother, the biological clock was ticking, but there was no one available, so she opted to be a single mom; 白雪仙、林燕妮 are two elegant singletons, poised in face of tragedy and perils; and Meryl Streep, her lifelong role as a versatile actress effectively shoves aside that as wife and mother; Jodie Foster juggles the roles of actress, director, mother and lesbian beautifully. I’m sure there are women singletons who live perfectly well independent of men and are no men-haters other than public figures, these are worth reporting as they point to something other than average street opinion which I get loads of everyday as soon as I go out.

So, I submit, the show seeks to overturn the progress feminists have made so far. The show perpetuates the binary system. The show is a backlash on equality and all other ideals Feminism embraces and strives for. Funny is the show is widely accepted, even applauded by locals. An embarrassing picture which betrays how narrowly international the majority is. Tony Blair put forward the Third Way when he was elected. Other than the archaic, polemic Left and Right, there’s Centrism. Whether it’s a path to blossom or doom remains debatable at this stage, but what I’m trying to say is, consider that the political world is a rigid one, and not highly receptive of changes and newness, there too was room for something daring and different, well, why not in a (wo)man’s life then? There are more than 3 ways, the number is an infinity and is only bound by one’s guts and imagination.

Experience tells me – ahem, warns to be honest, that since I’m a sloppy, lazy stock-taker and my memory has the capacity of a walnut and the strength of an 80-year-old lady, I might as well jot down the brilliant quotes from The Land of the Green Plums when halfway through.

Muse on silence, life and death:

When we don’t speak, we become unbearable, and when we do, we make fools of ourselves.

The words in our mouths do as much damage as our feet on the grass. But so do our silences.

I have the feeling that whenever someone dies he leaves behind a sack of words. And barbers, and nail-clippers – I always think of them, too, since the dead no longer need them.

[In] this country, we had to walk, eat, sleep, and love in fear, until it was once again time for the barber and the nail-clippers.

Anyone who makes graveyards just because he walks, eats, sleeps and loves, said Edgar, is a bigger mistake than we are. A mistake of the first order. A master mistake.

These are taken from the opening pages. The narrator is sitting with a man named Edgar. The two are reflecting on the questions of life and death, silence. The reader is fed only bits and pieces of their conversation, it is difficult to tell if it is in fact intermittent or a work of willful selection of the narrator as her own thoughts, monologues intrude here and there. On first reading, one may find it confusing. Likewise, you may, like me, describe it as poetic, mesmerizing – you’ll never get it if you read it like a novel and try to hammer out plot and logic at every line. Feel it, it’s a poem, casually composed.

But by now, having reached one-third of it when I returned to the beginning, I believe I have some sort of bearing. Roll it out then. The narrator is a university student, she lives in a dorm and one of her flatmates hangs herself. Instead of investigating into her death, the school and the government (yes, it has an arm like a serpent, far-reaching and venomous) denounce her and immediately concluded her case. Plagued by curiousity, our heroine/narrator’s begins her own reconstruction of the act. Her quest leads her to other young dissidents, one of whom is Edgar, a poet, equally frustrated by the lies and silences that blanket the country. The second last quote, ‘in this country, we had to walk, eat, sleep and love in fear, until it was once again time for the barber and the nail-clippers’ implies that people led a zombie life under Ceausescu; the essentials and beauties in life were all forbidden and if one failed to suppress the yearn for such which was sure to be the case, one was condemned to eternal fear. ‘Until it was once again time for the barber and nail-clippers’  means one then had to wait for the chance to live, truly live and not merely exist. But the wait was indefinite.

If by now you’re astonished at Ms Muller’s flair to convey the immaculate hopelessness in Communist Romania in just several sentences, wait till you read the sharp accusation she directs to the collaborators – active and silent ones alike. Here we come to the last quote above. Edgar, the poet-idealist, alludes that those who complies with the totalitarian regime simply cos they want to live even it’s only half a life, and so turn innocent people to the State or keep their mouths and eyes shut, are actually digging graveyards for their neighbours. Compared to those who were too shaken to rise up and meekly put up with the dictator; those who’d rather savour the forbidden fruit of life in silence and fear, the graveyard diggers are more repugnant.

I said the novella so far at least is Woolfian cos it reminds me of The Waves which too is heavily crowded with monologues of a bunch of young men and women, involves a suicide in the group. Of course the poetic style, the stubborn refusal to push the plot, too evoke Woolf in my mind. This is a compliment, in case anyone misreads. And I abhor the dramatic use of exclamation mark to rub off any suspicious edge of offence which seems to be the trend of internet writing these days.

真是, 都是我等享受寂寞的人的心聲.有些話, 為免衝口而出換來一席沉默, 也只好悶在肚裡心上, 有流行曲為我等吁出一口悶氣, 多痛快, 如’孤獨換自由’的快感. 至於與朋友的距離, 都因為怕別人不明白,怕礙著別人 – 人人背上負重擔, you’re not the only one, 你何故要去擾人呢, 而且, 說到底, 最最最了解你的人不是父母朋友情人, 是閣下. 想想, 有多少老實話你擱在肚裡, 為息事寧人, 顧及眾人高與, 你只敢對自己說? 懂你的, 不是自己又是誰?

當然, 我暗自惶惑的, 也在此間 – 怕習慣孤獨. 根本現在已經喜歡獨來獨往多於有伴在旁, 又必與任何人配合步伐, 吃飯看戲不用等位、不為座位編排煩著, 亦可隨時改變計劃. 一人行的好處, 我已捨不得撤下. 就算是旅行, 有些地方, 也只能獨自蹓躂 – 譬如納粹集中營, 遠眺巴黎鐵塔. 然而, 我還是盼望有個好伴兒. 好一字最是關鍵. 怕只怕, 萬一遇上, 我已心如止水. 最是掃興.

可還是喜歡這歌, 句句正中心意. 歌名: 獨行俠

不用交代來或去　隨時隨航機 撤退
到處獨自睡　也沒有想誰
不用羞慚無伴侶　離和留無需 躊躕
大可不必刻意營造樂趣　沿路縱然淋著雨水
不再因某人顧慮　不牽掛怎會恐懼

真開心只有一個原因　我終於可不再倚靠人
無約要悔　無需講責任　孤獨換自由亦有快感
如不開心　昐找人談心　怕等等等　怕好友都費心
我愛靜靜自我開解　不見人

不用交待淚流過　無聊人何必　愛我
勉強做玩伴　註定會不和
不用想像誰伴我　異地做義工　如何
大可不必希冀誰明白我　隨情緒喜歡怎麼過
光陰怎麼蹉跎　不需得到許可

真開心只有一個原因　我終於可不再倚靠人
無約要悔　無需講責任　孤獨換自由亦有快感
如不開心昐找人談心　怕等等等　怕好友都費心
哪個亦未及我懂得我心

自在 望著天光　並未為誰寄望
心可以更放　不必在冷戰中　拿無聊東西去講
沒事沒人沒心肝　啊都算是最安全的釋放
再也無需說謊　埋沒自己討好對方

真開心只有一個原因　我終於可不再倚靠人
無約要悔　無需講責任　孤獨換自由亦有快感
如不開心　昐找人談心　怕等等等　怕好友都費心
也怕漸漸習慣只得一個人

This is taken from the opening page of Herta Muller’s novella of life behind the Iron Curtain in Romania. It’s not difficult to find at every turn of the page Muller’s insights and laconic summary of the bystander culture which is an inevitable by-product dangling at the tail of every dictatorship because people are terrorized to submit and snub every human instinct in the process. It was a a life rendered to mere existence, as soon as one reaches for anything beautiful and essential like love and dreams, one trades these either his sanity or life. I’m talking about this not cos this is a book report but because after a series of incidents I have a feeling that the deplorable culture above, so prevalent in a dictatorship, is plaguing HK. People are all too happy to be active bystanders.

This evening on my way home, as usual, I passed the hunchback old lady. Sometimes, especially when I was working at the newspaper where free papers were available, I would give her what I have, knowing that selling the materials to recycle companies is the major source of her meager income. Her heavily crooked back leaned against her own wooden cart is a familiar sight in the neighbour and I didn’t pay much attention at first glance until my eyes caught sight of a man, dwarfed under layers of clothes stood near the lady, eying her. She was carving a rotten fruit. With a knife too long and sharp for her shivering hands. His stare remained as steady as his foot rooted to the ground. What could be so engaging about someone living far below the poverty line? Who could be so disheartened as to actively engage his own eyes to this miserable sight without any intervention? This silence, this inaction are themselves repugnant.

This is the eve of Winter Solstice, most people are in a rush to go home for a family gathering as is the tradition. It’s simply too cruel to leave the old lady alone, poking at cold rotten fruit, shivering away in the numbing wind. I got her some hot buns and a cup of hot soya milk. It moved me when she invited me to share the buns, but there were only two. I declined. She can always keep what she can’t manage to eat till tomorrow – the cold weather allows that, I told her. The kind smile that flew across her face when she held the buns in her hands and exclaimed, ah, they’re steaming hot – I’ll never forget that. It was so little that I did, but that was enough to set a broad smile on her weary face, and in the end, it was she, someone  ill and struggling day by day, who blessed me. 她說, 婆婆祝福你. She must have a big heart, a heart as big as Texas. 婆婆, 我何德何能呢. 在這個城市裡, 我不只是過客. 謝謝你祝福.

遇上惱人事. 願我僅記亦舒金句: 人貴自立. 彷彿張愛玲也說過: 你笑, 全世界跟著你笑; 你哭, 全世界只有你一個哭. 小時候從不向任何人抱怨, 訴說; 林燕妮今天的散文說得正中下懷: 自己的苦, 自己的困難, 是一顆壞粟子, 世上沒有任何人有義務為你啃下, 與你分擔. 那是你的事, 所以, 分明看見那粟子上臭虫一堆, 你也要吞下. 置諸死地而後生, 你會發現, 原來死不了的.

林小姐是這樣說的:

“無心可傷

等你的心傷夠了，就無心可傷了。承擔力強的人，每每能夠走到那地步。不用說樂觀悲觀，而是無觀。情緒當然有的，再遇上挫折，再遇上困境，都要活出個人樣來。
可以哭，可以笑，但不需要傾訴太多心事，有多少人有耐性聽你訴苦？你的苦對別人來說，只是一粒壞了的栗子，他們不需要咀嚼，更不需要?下去，要咀嚼和?下去的是你，明知栗子裏面長了蟲你也得?下去。?下去原來死不了人的，你會奇怪自己的粗壯。
右 腦控制情緒，左腦控制分析能力和邏輯，最好兩邊都發達。其實我們一日之內，已經歷過許多情緒起伏了，有個小伙子告訴我，光是坐在女朋友身旁，便酸甜苦辣都 在體內遊走過了。追求就是那麼的一回事，心儀的人就在咫尺之內，追不追得到卻很難說，到底還沒摸清楚女朋友的一切，連性情如何也是猜測，怎能揣摩得八九不 離十？戀愛是空氣，誰都需要呼吸的吧？沒有無痛戀愛的，別時，心裏發亂，大家都傷心。
人大了，便要面對事業和生活，又要對明刀暗箭耍心機，耍得多了我們便不再天真無邪了，跟赤子之心說再見了，這一別，太傷心，這一別，是無了期的了。

與其跟人歃血為盟，不如去紅十字會捐血，歃血只是一時衝動、一時需要，那個盟，是不會永久的，你守不了，對方也守不了，這件事，過不去的。你們遲早會做不同的事，分道揚鑣，且記當年手足情吧。”

有些事, 不想面對, 怕麻煩不面對, 但始終, 那是自己的粟子. 某年, 遇上某人 – 我想他喜歡剝粟子, 他說, 要知道我的快樂與哀傷, 他說, 讓我與你分擔. 一粒粟子, 再堅硬, 也不過只一個殼, 日復日的敲敲碰碰, 殼要裂要開的. 自那時起, 我習慣將粟子分開一半, 糖炒粟子, 壞粟子, 大的小的, 統統與這個人分享. 都是空話. 他將我的好習慣一點一滴洗擦去, 然後, 走了. 我現在, 得一塊一塊再搭起銅皮鐵骨.

亦舒的女孩子, 美麗堅強能幹. 我是, 希望沒有美貌, 也練出金鋼功.