Hong Kong Type trial reading
Preface
Hong Kong Type: A Love Letter Late by One Hundred and Fifty Years was originally published in Chinese in 2021. The initial draft of this English translation was completed in September 2023 using the open-source application Bilingual Bookmaker, connected to the GPT-4 API. Later chapters were retranslated using the same method in December 2023 and March 2024. Given the significant improvements in GPT’s capabilities over the course of a year, the translations vary in quality depending on when they were completed. However, due to the extensive corrections and editing required, it is impractical to redo the earlier drafts, and thus, the text remains in its imperfect state.
From the perspective of literary translation standards, this GPT-assisted version does not fully meet the mark. While it is literally faithful to the original, it lacks naturalness, style, and consistency. Nevertheless, I believe it is worth publishing as an experiment in AI translation and as a means of literary and cultural exchange. For those interested in non-English literary works, it is sufficiently readable and accessible. Moreover, a limited translation is far better than no translation, which is the fate of 99.99% of valuable works in their native languages, left without the opportunity or means to reach an English-speaking audience. This is why I decided to make it available in NFT e-book form despite its shortcomings.
I have personally corrected and edited the text to ensure the translation is both accurate and readable. It has been serialized in 34 installments from October 2023 to June 2024 in my electronic newsletter, DKC in Translation. Special thanks to Jennifer Feeley for reviewing the manuscript and checking for any English language errors and misusages.
My view on AI translation is straightforward: the best human translators surpass machines in quality but are far less available. If we value the free exchange of knowledge, machine translation can serve us better than we may have imagined, with its benefits outweighing its flaws. I look forward to a future where pre-translated versions are unnecessary, allowing readers to simply launch their own translation apps to access any text in any language with ease and reliability.
Dung Kai-cheung
October 2024
Testament 1
1.
The events of those days feel like memories from a past life, many of which I can no longer recall. Yet, the moment when I was about to jump out of the bedroom window is still vividly imprinted on the most vulnerable part of my heart, unable to be erased, and it keeps recurring in my dreams.
The dream mobilized all of my senses, magnifying them to the extreme, resulting in a sense of intolerable oppression. The first thing that appeared was the white marble windowsill of the room, and the sundry items usually placed on it, like books, a jewelry box, small ornaments and the like, had been moved aside, clearing up enough space to stand. In that space, a screwdriver and a few screws had been laid. Looking up, the aluminum window grilles had been removed at some unknown time.
Even though it was summer, the bare soles of my feet stepping on the marble surface sent an icy chill through my body. With trembling hands, I couldn’t smoothly push the window open to a sufficient width. Perhaps the window hinges were old, causing it to jam. Leaning out, I could almost feel the suffocating heat of the air rising continuously.
It should’ve been around nine o’clock at night. The surroundings were eerily quiet. Vehicles silently passed on the street below. In my ears, all I could hear were the throbbing beats of my own heart and my panting breaths. There was an immense pressure in my chest, as if it was about to burst.
The public housing building across the street was lit with many lights, white and yellow, cold and warm. In each window, there was probably a different story. But at this moment, no one noticed me, no one knew my story.
My story? What story did I have? If there was one, it would reach its conclusion tonight. The ending seemed so insignificant. Even if it caused a momentary sensation, it would soon return to stillness.
Ah, to die for something! That sounds too romantic. I can’t even figure out why I wanted to take my own life. I’ve completely forgotten those causes and consequences. In this repetitive dream, I was confused, not knowing why I was standing here, leaning against the window, with one foot stepping out of the frame. I was on the brink of becoming forever frozen at this boundary.
I lowered my gaze slightly and saw that word. I always saw that word. On the outer wall of the public housing building, near the lower levels, among the three vertically arranged large characters indicating the name of the building, one of them was the same as my name. In squarish, commonly used Ming-type font, the embossed characters embedded on the outer wall stood out clearly in the oblique light of the street lamp.
At this moment, the hinge suddenly loosened, the window I was leaning on flipped outward, and my upper body lurched forward. The roof of a passing bus on the street below flashed before my eyes. The other hand, clutching the window frame, reflexively pulled back, bringing my body’s center of gravity back to the edge of the frame. My chest tightened, my breath suddenly stopped, the leg supporting my weight gave way, and I fell backwards into the room.
A severe pain shot through the back of my head. I didn’t know what furniture I had hit, only that I found myself lying on the bedroom floor. In my daze, I heard Fox barking violently outside the room, and the sound of heavy blows against the wooden door. Then there was Dad’s voice calling me, the urgent knocking, the door lock being forcefully twisted. I lay on the floor, unable to move, unable to respond. I didn’t know how much time passed before the door was forced open, and a fluffy thing pounced on me. It was Fox! Then my dad’s blurred face appeared, followed by indistinct sounds, and then complete darkness.
It seemed like I’d entered a dream. Yes, it was like that then, and it was like that in the dreams afterwards, becoming a dream within a dream. A dream of continuously falling. The falling process was long and seemed to never end. As I fell, I saw the surroundings. There was a suicide note written on the wall in red pen. The beginning of the note was written in smaller, neater characters, which became larger and more scrawled as it continued. But I didn’t write that. It was written by a girl of about the same age as me. She had jumped before me. I didn’t know her and didn’t see her jump. The place where she jumped was in the stairwell of the public housing building across from my apartment. That afternoon at the convenience store at the railway station, I overheard the cashier talking to her colleague. “Someone just jumped off a building, right there in the estate! A girl in her twenties! Why would she do something so stupid? Oh my! Poor parents! They raised her all these years!” As I listened, I felt like they were talking about me.
I couldn’t remember why that girl jumped or if my actions had anything to do with hers. In that dream, I saw the suicide note written in red ink on the wall of the stairwell, but I didn’t have time to read its content because I quickly continued to fall. As for me, I probably left a suicide note too. It should’ve been on my desk, written neatly on a single sheet of paper from the Chinese Department Student Association. But I can’t remember what I wrote. I don’t know what happened to the suicide note; it was probably destroyed.
During the fall, I saw Mom. She was at one point, like on a certain floor of the building, sort of a balcony. Mom was sitting in a chair with armrests on the balcony, holding something, probably knitting a sweater. In my memory, my mom was always knitting sweaters. She would get upset halfway through, rip the yarn apart, and throw the knitting needles to the floor. The needles would bounce off the ground, flying to who knew where. I would cover my head, afraid of getting stabbed by the needles. The mother in my dream didn’t lose her temper. She looked up and smiled at me, but I was falling too fast to shout out to her.
I looked up from below, longing to see Mom again, but when I saw her foot with an embroidered slipper on it stepping over the edge of the balcony, I suddenly felt an intense fear. I screamed, “Mom! Don’t go there!” I cried out, flailing my limbs in the air, trying to grab something to stop myself from falling, trying to climb back to the floor where Mom was, trying to stop her dangerous move, but all to no avail. Finally, exhausted, I prayed, “Just let me hit the ground quickly! Let me shatter into pieces!”
At this point, I heard a sound both strange and familiar. It was the sound of a machine, rhythmic, not noisy, but soft and comforting, like some sort of music. The sound came from a printing press. My deceased grandfather was operating it. A young version of my mother stood next to my grandfather, watching the press open and close. Grandfather pulled out a printed page from the press and handed it to me. The page was filled with densely printed Chinese characters. I didn’t understand what those characters meant, so I asked my mother. She squatted down, gently pointed to the bottom of the page and said, “Look, this is your name!”
When I woke up, I found myself lying in a hospital bed. My dad was sitting by the bed, his eyes red, his face tense, as if using all his strength to keep himself from falling apart. Dad was usually a gentle man. The last time I saw him like this was when Mom died. I thought I was dead, but the pain all over my body told me I was still alive. Oddly, apart from physical pain, I didn’t have any emotions, as if my heart had been taken out and placed somewhere else. If there was any sensation, it was a sense of being suspended, an emotionless void.
Seeing me wake up, Dad didn’t speak, but just forced a smile, held my hand, and silently shed tears. I had no idea why he was crying or what had happened. It felt like there was a great distance between my dad and me. Perhaps, in some sense, I was already dead? I just felt very tired, and fell back into unconsciousness as soon as I closed my eyes.
I drifted in and out of sleep, not knowing how long I lay in the hospital. Doctors and nurses came and went, performing checks and diagnoses that I didn’t understand. I was moved to a double room with no one in the other bed. Later, I found out that Dad was worried that the television in the general ward would affect me negatively, so he asked to move me to a quieter room. I didn’t understand why the TV would have done me harm. Dad didn’t bring my phone, and I didn’t ask him for it. Life was very quiet, as if nothing had happened.
Dad kept telling me, “Don’t worry, just rest, don’t think about anything.” I didn’t think about anything because I didn’t know what to think about. It seemed like I had forgotten a lot of things. What I did remember were vague impressions, scattered details, or rough outlines. I knew I had tried to kill myself, but I didn’t know why, nor had I had the chance to find any hints from my suicide note. Lying in the hospital bed, the outside world seemed very distant and had nothing to do with me.
My older brother also visited and said a lot of things to me, which sounded like he was scolding me. He’d always been stricter than Dad. But I couldn’t follow what he was saying, so I didn’t feel resentful. Sometimes, I also thought of Ah Wang. His status was that of my boyfriend. I remembered that this relationship was confirmed not long ago, but I couldn’t say what it meant. Ah Wang didn’t come, and I didn’t mind. I later learned that he did come, but Dad chased him away. My dad wouldn’t let him see me again. Since I didn’t have my phone, I also didn’t know what was going on with Ah Wang.
Eventually, I was discharged from the hospital. I was given a bunch of medications and an appointment for a psychiatric follow-up. I couldn’t figure out what it meant. In any case, I was back home. I wasn’t sure if it was something to be happy about.
The only thing that made me happy was seeing Fox again. Fox is our Shiba Inu pet. His eyes are blind, but as soon as I walked in the door, he jumped on me, wagging his tail, licking my face, not at all like a blind dog. I shivered all over, my eyes welled up, and something seemed to be coming to life in my heart.
I returned to that room. Everything was neatly arranged, just like before. I noticed that the window grille had been put back in place and reinforced. I had been lying in the hospital for too long and had become very weak, so I hugged Fox and climbed into bed. After a while, Dad came in, sat by the bed, and showed me something.
“Do you remember? It’s what your grandfather left for you.”
He opened his palm and there were three small silver-grey metal rods. I picked them up one by one and examined them closely. Each rod had characters engraved at the end.
“You must remember the name your grandfather gave you! It’s his blessing for you!”
Those three characters came together in my fingers, flipped left and right, engraved with: Lai Sun Fei.
I was suddenly overcome with emotion and couldn’t help but burst into tears. “Grandpa! Mom! Dad! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! Why is this happening? I really don’t know! I’m sorry! Please forgive me!”
Séance 1
初 (Beginning)
(Computer notebook screen. A blank page. The cursor is blinking. Text appears one character at a time.)
The History of the Hong Kong Type
(Stops. Text is deleted.)
Hong Kong Type
(Text appears.)
Legend of the Hong Kong Type
(Text is deleted.)
Hong Kong Type
(Text appears.)
Myth of the Hong Kong Type
(Stops. Cursor is blinking.)
Who is it?
Who’s speaking?
It’s us.
Us? Who are you?
We are characters.
Characters? How do characters speak?
If characters don’t speak, then who does?
That’s true. So what do you want to say?
We want to say what you want to say.
What I want to say?
The story of the Hong Kong Type.
How can you speak?
Because we are characters. Characters can of course speak about characters.
Tell your own story?
Isn’t it only natural?
So, should I stop?
No, we want to speak through you. You are our tool.
I am a tool?
Someone has to write characters, type characters, print characters.
Humans are tools for characters? That’s completely inverted! I’ve never heard of such a thing.
We are character spirits.
This is getting more and more absurd.
When humans communicate with character spirits, they will find their own stories. If they don’t, they are just tools.
How can one communicate?
As the saying goes: “The characters are spirited, and the people are talented.”
Don’t misuse idioms.
The combination of characters can be innovative.
What’s this about talented people? What are you trying to say?
“Talented people” means those with special gifts. In modern language, it’s superpowers.
I have superpowers?
The ability to communicate with character spirits.
Are you talking about channeling spirits?
I’ve said she is special.
Who’s speaking?
Another character.
Another character? How many of you are there?
When it comes to characters, of course there are many. Could there be only one? It’s common sense.
But what about character spirits? Does each character have a spirit?
That would be too troublesome! There’s only one character spirit.
We are many in one, and one in many.
Very mystical!
We are spirits, so of course, it must be a bit mystical.
Well then, do tell.
In the commencement, there was the Word, and thereafter language did emerge. Within language, there was significance; in significance, there was essence; and this essence was hallowed.
Why are you using classical language?
I like the scriptural style.
Weren’t we talking about the Hong Kong Type?
Don’t be impatient; we have to start from the beginning.
From the very beginning? Isn’t that too far?
Without a beginning, how can there be now? Let’s first talk about the character “初” (beginning).
(Sighs) Go on, then!
Beginning, birth, initial time, first draft, first edition, original intention, first night…
Enough, enough. Let another speak.
In the beginning were the oracles, the sacred utterances and the scriptures; all came forth from characters.
Ancient characters, you really persist in this!
Scriptural style suits creation myths.
Create what?
The world of characters.
Alright, alright. What next?
The first characters were hewn, then they were inscribed. Those who did hew and inscribe were either priests or bureaucrats.
It’s too bookish. Can you change the style? \
Then printing showed up.
Wow! Suddenly switching to colloquial speech!
Colloquial language also has characters; if there are characters, they can be spoken.
You can do it in Cantonese too?
Of course! We are the Hong Kong Type after all!
Then let’s quickly start talking about typecasting and movable-type printing.
Hold on! Don’t be so impatient; we can’t talk about everything all at once.
Why?
It would be too exhausting.
Are you afraid of getting tired?
We’re afraid you might not adapt. Channeling spirits ain’t no joke, man; it really zaps your energy.
Canst thou be more refined?
I’m not tired.
Miss Talented, we know you’re not in good shape.
What’s wrong with me?
Don’t pretend to be strong. We know about you.
About me?
About what happened to you last year.
How do you know? Who exactly are you? What are you? Is this my illusion?
Her emotions seem a bit unstable.
She needs time to heal.
Hey guys, could you please not use the third person?
Sorry, we were discussing.
Discussing someone in her presence is a bit rude, isn’t it?
Forgive us! Forgive us! With so many characters, it’s inevitable that we’ll speak over each other.
You’ll get used to it gradually; please don’t be impatient.
I’m not impatient; I just don’t understand.
Not understanding is not surprising; this is our first meeting.
The first time?
Yes, our conversation will continue. But not today.
What do you all really want?
Take it slow, take it slow. We’ll talk again next time.
Hey! Hey!
Don’t worry! We will come again. Miss Talented!