A Scenario of the Future (continued from the last writing)
‘Pretty boring stuff.’ I sighed. She shook her head, delicately putting down the spoon in the Noritake bowl, and smiled mysteriously, ‘since then I began to pay more attention to political news, particularly those of Asia Minor. The carnage in New York engendered from misunderstanding and conflicts between values. Perhaps to a more extent it was attributable to a conflict of interest. Do you believe in prophecies?’ She continued with an answer on my behalf, ‘I don’t think you do.’ She smiled again, and continued, ‘but you act like a prophet. You analyse the facts in the present and predict the future.’
I said, ‘the most distinguishable fact between a prophet and myself is that I do not predict futures. The results of my works are not predictions or projections. Rather they are coherent and credible alternative futures. I use them to challenge one’s assumptions and status quo, and test our plans. Such alternative future and the events occurring there can be understood very clearly before an event it says of happens and is falsifiable if it’s not turned out to be what it means. And I don’t say I predict the future so basically I am not a prophet. I just put forward a number of possibilities and options to deal with a particular possibility when it turns out. This works as well on a business basis as on an individual basis.’
‘Things fall apart: The Centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.’ Miss Aya smiled, ‘this is what Yeats said. Of course, he was not prophesising the WTC. But you know how events could be vaguely implied and how easy quasi-prophets can be verified and made believable. A lot of serious people predict futures of the place, but simply from a different starting point, for example, a full-scale nuclear attack.’
I guessed Miss Aya had brought along with her a pocket watch, which was manufactured more than 100 years ago.
‘Is this from Yamagata?’ I asked her, eying on the small slivers of beef in front of me.
Miss Aya looked at my plate, and smiled, ‘I ordered Omi for you. It’s tenderer, and of more distinguishable taste.’
‘No wonder.’ A spark just came onto me. ‘The meat is so tender.’
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
How would you define a hotel as a great one?
Think of a hotel, situated on the 50th floor of a city town in a metropolitan. It is decorated delicately to mimic a small hotel in Europe. Every picture on the wall represents the heart of the designer. Despite the incurably high price of the land, the hotel has striven to ensure each room of the hotel has sufficient space for the guests. There are volumes of literary works in addition to religious canons and a fax machine in the room. All of these apparently are superficialities, which, though good enough to pay the monies, are still far from sufficing the justification to do so as a person of peculiarity, as I have myself labelled.
And think of a great hotel, leisurely lying at the hillside of an old imperial city. It is surrounded by the greenery in summer and covered by snow in winter. Not far away from her recline the oldest temples and shrines, witnessing the rise of the city as the imperial capital and vicissitudes. Linked into the hill behind her was a trail extending over 3 km where you can see birds. Behind a classic concrete building in colour light apricot were some small Japanese houses where you can also accommodate and enjoy the way the special mood radiates. A great hotel must not only enable you to feel at home, but also bear the temperament that affects you as much as colours affect a painting – and knowledge a person.
I try to recollect some stories of mine and by them am sure that the payment of a high price for a good hotel is worth awhile and is truly necessary for a trip, be it a solitary one or of the company of a good lady (or gentleman). The mahjong fatties only think of mahjong and unconsciously need disembowelment. They should not spoil the precious resource of good feeling in a good hotel.
Beneath the dim yet concentrated light, I reclined on the bed, reading Macbeth in this kingly power where you could see canonisation for the Oriental equivalent of the story by a director who has been throned. Respectfully reading the Christian bible, you would forgive the one who initiated the hatred that would inevitably be developed in disputes and progress and those who retaliated with it. To the west, I can see a familiar panoramic view of a mountain with snow top during daytime. Even though the B-1’s have started a longest and most detestable journey from the US to Middle East, carrying the bombs, which many hope would have been disinvented, I cannot but accept that an inevitability of tragedy hardens the resolve of humanity. When hunger reminds me that it is the right time to saunter to a grill where for a dinner with Miss Aya O. (O may stand for an orange), an actress, I booked a table months ago. I put down my Shakespeare, and started to dress up seriously. How important and great it had become of stationing in this hotel, if you had not brought with you the books of which you need the company in a trip on your own.
If you do not consider the bill shown to you when you check out a means of terror, then you should have the freedom to enjoy wholeheartedly the station in the hotel to an extent equivalent to nirvana, a state of infinite, complete emancipation from the worldly passions, as defined in a Buddhist manner.
Miss Aya is an actress. I am not very acquainted with the system of the nation, and therefore am not certain of which television company or production company Miss Aya belongs to. She never talks about it and I never ask her of it. We keep regular contacts. Miss Aya called me one month ago in a letter sent to my house. It was a letter written on washi paper with fountain pen with emerald ink. Miss Aya said her latest movie was about to complete, and the premiere would be in a month. For such occasion, she booked a hotel in this city and invited me to join her in the premiere show.
The Grill at this hotel was definitely obsessive in the uniformity of the decoration and layout. The pearl white cloth, which showed under dim light, was viewed to bear a starry beauty. The square tables were put with exact space between.
I was led to a table viewing the west side of the city. This was a city mingling the metropolitan high classic and irreparable city slump, which, though, was in exceptionally good quality.
Miss Aya finally arrived. On her was definitely the most traditional attire. Long sleeve kinomo of orange in colour. Very complementary to what I think of her, orange. I thought. On the sleeve, waving the rippling leaves of which I do not have the knowledge of the name.
We started the conversation with grace, a topic which would only be imagined as an ice-breaker for Catholics. ‘The well being of humans has apparently been improved. But I have no idea why they are still that optimistic even though the plight is just messy enough for them to worry about even expecting anything good of to-morrow.’ Miss Aya sighed. She then smiled mysteriously, continuing a somewhat indecipherable thought, ‘I am quite dissatisfied with the way in which humans live now. From a distant view, you can only see prosperity – look over the city here. The neon lights reflect our life is getting on well. But what is the point of getting yourself packed in a compartment of a train for 3 hours, commuting from the suburb to the city centre and you’re told that you’ll get paid 125,000 yen a month, an amount barely enough for the travel expense. You may on the next day feel despair after cramming for 3 hours to catch the train and arrive in the office only to find that you’re unemployed, as the company has gone bust. Or there, not long from this city, a construction company as small as consisting of only 10 people is being put on a life-supporting machine installed by the government. Once the machine is gone, the staff in this company will also be gone, for they are over-aged people with very tiny incentive left for regaining competitiveness. There are over 100,000 construction companies in this country. This is strange. Most of them are euphemistically very specialised companies. For example, one may only be engaged in paving a road in some suburb areas. This industry is highly uneven. The rural areas are morbidly subsidised by the profitable city areas. People here have built up the most beautiful artefact in the contemporary world. But most of them are white elephants, of which hardly can the construction can gain any sufficient grounds to spend that large sum of money.’
She then looked at the menu. I replied to her comments or, if you will, disgruntled comments, ‘perhaps the way white elephants can work is called inefficient beauty. If you look at the landscapes of this country and the constructional masterpieces, you won’t find it hard to appreciate the beauty of them, which I think is not derived from market forces, but from heart of humanity. The inefficiency is not bearable, so are the market forces that level all humanity. In fact, I am always inclined to think that the market force, once created by people, is now reshaping humanity and debasing it into some kind of servility whereby such force, itself conscious because of the collective decisions by a group of people, has dominated over our minds and secularised everything but all we can think of in such a world. As such, people will only accept what is bestowed by the market but unconsciously believe that it’s they who control the world, while in fact it’s the market that controls over us in such a weighty power that we have now no alternative but to abide by the force.’
Miss Aya’s eyes turned brighter. I continued my rather didactic speech without considering risking a beautiful evening to a nonsensical debate on issues far from getting any solutions, ‘the beauty of your country is that she still can assimilate market force into what otherwise would have been devoured by it – culture, natural beauty and humanity. Well, I have to admit that in many cases market force dictates all of us into believing that what the market sets is what is the optimal. As I said, this is not acceptable as a human as such force smudges our uniqueness, and such uniqueness, and only in a higher sense, would mean that humanity prevails. “In a higher sense” could mean that such uniqueness is developed through means of letters, civilisation – but not culture. Culture is not worthy of much speculation. I am glad that we could live under such inefficient beauty perhaps before we are immersed in the market force and become non-descript.’
‘You have been to Africa, haven’t you?’ Miss Aya said with her usual detached tone. In a painstaking pace, she carefully used her left hand to slightly push aside the long sleeve of her kimono, while her right hand holds up the Christofle silver spoon near her rosy pedal lips.
‘Yes, I have.’ I replied, ‘ but it has been a long time ago. That’s why you are not surprised why I said that?’
Miss Aya took a sip of the lobster bisque, the colour of which was golden. She smiled to show her concurrence. Then came a brief pause, as I was thinking how a lady could keep the lipstick intact when having soup. This was professional, for the golden liquid passed her lips without single drop touching them. I thought only a geisha could have been trained in that way.
I continued, ‘but I have already forgotten my trip there.’
‘I heard that you’re a Peace Corp in Somalia. Your group was attacked by the militias there.’ Aya said with a calm that was beyond description. ‘You were badly injured and rushed back to Providence. Your degree was granted through a vive voce examination by the professors, while you were being hospitalised. I thought you’re about to enter into the medical school.’ She paused for another while, and continued, ‘why did you give up a career as a doctor? And…’ she dithered slightly, ‘choose a job like this. I mean that’s so different being a manager at an oil company from a medical doctor. I attended one of your seminars in London.’
Think of a hotel, situated on the 50th floor of a city town in a metropolitan. It is decorated delicately to mimic a small hotel in Europe. Every picture on the wall represents the heart of the designer. Despite the incurably high price of the land, the hotel has striven to ensure each room of the hotel has sufficient space for the guests. There are volumes of literary works in addition to religious canons and a fax machine in the room. All of these apparently are superficialities, which, though good enough to pay the monies, are still far from sufficing the justification to do so as a person of peculiarity, as I have myself labelled.
And think of a great hotel, leisurely lying at the hillside of an old imperial city. It is surrounded by the greenery in summer and covered by snow in winter. Not far away from her recline the oldest temples and shrines, witnessing the rise of the city as the imperial capital and vicissitudes. Linked into the hill behind her was a trail extending over 3 km where you can see birds. Behind a classic concrete building in colour light apricot were some small Japanese houses where you can also accommodate and enjoy the way the special mood radiates. A great hotel must not only enable you to feel at home, but also bear the temperament that affects you as much as colours affect a painting – and knowledge a person.
I try to recollect some stories of mine and by them am sure that the payment of a high price for a good hotel is worth awhile and is truly necessary for a trip, be it a solitary one or of the company of a good lady (or gentleman). The mahjong fatties only think of mahjong and unconsciously need disembowelment. They should not spoil the precious resource of good feeling in a good hotel.
Beneath the dim yet concentrated light, I reclined on the bed, reading Macbeth in this kingly power where you could see canonisation for the Oriental equivalent of the story by a director who has been throned. Respectfully reading the Christian bible, you would forgive the one who initiated the hatred that would inevitably be developed in disputes and progress and those who retaliated with it. To the west, I can see a familiar panoramic view of a mountain with snow top during daytime. Even though the B-1’s have started a longest and most detestable journey from the US to Middle East, carrying the bombs, which many hope would have been disinvented, I cannot but accept that an inevitability of tragedy hardens the resolve of humanity. When hunger reminds me that it is the right time to saunter to a grill where for a dinner with Miss Aya O. (O may stand for an orange), an actress, I booked a table months ago. I put down my Shakespeare, and started to dress up seriously. How important and great it had become of stationing in this hotel, if you had not brought with you the books of which you need the company in a trip on your own.
If you do not consider the bill shown to you when you check out a means of terror, then you should have the freedom to enjoy wholeheartedly the station in the hotel to an extent equivalent to nirvana, a state of infinite, complete emancipation from the worldly passions, as defined in a Buddhist manner.
Miss Aya is an actress. I am not very acquainted with the system of the nation, and therefore am not certain of which television company or production company Miss Aya belongs to. She never talks about it and I never ask her of it. We keep regular contacts. Miss Aya called me one month ago in a letter sent to my house. It was a letter written on washi paper with fountain pen with emerald ink. Miss Aya said her latest movie was about to complete, and the premiere would be in a month. For such occasion, she booked a hotel in this city and invited me to join her in the premiere show.
The Grill at this hotel was definitely obsessive in the uniformity of the decoration and layout. The pearl white cloth, which showed under dim light, was viewed to bear a starry beauty. The square tables were put with exact space between.
I was led to a table viewing the west side of the city. This was a city mingling the metropolitan high classic and irreparable city slump, which, though, was in exceptionally good quality.
Miss Aya finally arrived. On her was definitely the most traditional attire. Long sleeve kinomo of orange in colour. Very complementary to what I think of her, orange. I thought. On the sleeve, waving the rippling leaves of which I do not have the knowledge of the name.
We started the conversation with grace, a topic which would only be imagined as an ice-breaker for Catholics. ‘The well being of humans has apparently been improved. But I have no idea why they are still that optimistic even though the plight is just messy enough for them to worry about even expecting anything good of to-morrow.’ Miss Aya sighed. She then smiled mysteriously, continuing a somewhat indecipherable thought, ‘I am quite dissatisfied with the way in which humans live now. From a distant view, you can only see prosperity – look over the city here. The neon lights reflect our life is getting on well. But what is the point of getting yourself packed in a compartment of a train for 3 hours, commuting from the suburb to the city centre and you’re told that you’ll get paid 125,000 yen a month, an amount barely enough for the travel expense. You may on the next day feel despair after cramming for 3 hours to catch the train and arrive in the office only to find that you’re unemployed, as the company has gone bust. Or there, not long from this city, a construction company as small as consisting of only 10 people is being put on a life-supporting machine installed by the government. Once the machine is gone, the staff in this company will also be gone, for they are over-aged people with very tiny incentive left for regaining competitiveness. There are over 100,000 construction companies in this country. This is strange. Most of them are euphemistically very specialised companies. For example, one may only be engaged in paving a road in some suburb areas. This industry is highly uneven. The rural areas are morbidly subsidised by the profitable city areas. People here have built up the most beautiful artefact in the contemporary world. But most of them are white elephants, of which hardly can the construction can gain any sufficient grounds to spend that large sum of money.’
She then looked at the menu. I replied to her comments or, if you will, disgruntled comments, ‘perhaps the way white elephants can work is called inefficient beauty. If you look at the landscapes of this country and the constructional masterpieces, you won’t find it hard to appreciate the beauty of them, which I think is not derived from market forces, but from heart of humanity. The inefficiency is not bearable, so are the market forces that level all humanity. In fact, I am always inclined to think that the market force, once created by people, is now reshaping humanity and debasing it into some kind of servility whereby such force, itself conscious because of the collective decisions by a group of people, has dominated over our minds and secularised everything but all we can think of in such a world. As such, people will only accept what is bestowed by the market but unconsciously believe that it’s they who control the world, while in fact it’s the market that controls over us in such a weighty power that we have now no alternative but to abide by the force.’
Miss Aya’s eyes turned brighter. I continued my rather didactic speech without considering risking a beautiful evening to a nonsensical debate on issues far from getting any solutions, ‘the beauty of your country is that she still can assimilate market force into what otherwise would have been devoured by it – culture, natural beauty and humanity. Well, I have to admit that in many cases market force dictates all of us into believing that what the market sets is what is the optimal. As I said, this is not acceptable as a human as such force smudges our uniqueness, and such uniqueness, and only in a higher sense, would mean that humanity prevails. “In a higher sense” could mean that such uniqueness is developed through means of letters, civilisation – but not culture. Culture is not worthy of much speculation. I am glad that we could live under such inefficient beauty perhaps before we are immersed in the market force and become non-descript.’
‘You have been to Africa, haven’t you?’ Miss Aya said with her usual detached tone. In a painstaking pace, she carefully used her left hand to slightly push aside the long sleeve of her kimono, while her right hand holds up the Christofle silver spoon near her rosy pedal lips.
‘Yes, I have.’ I replied, ‘ but it has been a long time ago. That’s why you are not surprised why I said that?’
Miss Aya took a sip of the lobster bisque, the colour of which was golden. She smiled to show her concurrence. Then came a brief pause, as I was thinking how a lady could keep the lipstick intact when having soup. This was professional, for the golden liquid passed her lips without single drop touching them. I thought only a geisha could have been trained in that way.
I continued, ‘but I have already forgotten my trip there.’
‘I heard that you’re a Peace Corp in Somalia. Your group was attacked by the militias there.’ Aya said with a calm that was beyond description. ‘You were badly injured and rushed back to Providence. Your degree was granted through a vive voce examination by the professors, while you were being hospitalised. I thought you’re about to enter into the medical school.’ She paused for another while, and continued, ‘why did you give up a career as a doctor? And…’ she dithered slightly, ‘choose a job like this. I mean that’s so different being a manager at an oil company from a medical doctor. I attended one of your seminars in London.’
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The Old Miyako in Kyoto
How is a hotel important to me in a pleasure trip?
It sounds daft to ask a question such as this, and even more daft to answer it in such great details. It sounds exceedingly daft if I address it to those, who have not subsisted psychologically but been overly nourished materially. For those, who are known to be in such a category, a hotel is no more than a mahjong room, where the means of turning an organism to obesity is fully practiced. But I feel obliged, as a person of peculiarity and intellectual vociferousness, to justify the importance of a great hotel in a pleasure trip, especially that in which the only protagonist is yourself and, hopefully, your mind. Sometimes, though bookish solitude remains highly sacred, you wish the company of some intellectual pyrotechnics by which sparks may be initiated in some everyday discussions. Of course, if you go just with a bunch of mediocre mahjong minds, then probably a shit hotel will do equally good or even better as does a great one, for all you are given in the course of the journey is sight seeing points for the dudes or an invitation to play mahjong in the room at the end of a hazy, hectic day trip. Through continual training of reaching out for a mahjong cube, those people, of whom many are half-balding fat-so’s or overly nourished females destined to tarnish the elegant brands of Gucci and Louis Vuitton, have developed a morbidly stinky sense of arguing against good taste stations, lest their entire lack of substance in life is seen with contempt and spit upon when they stay in the room at Hotel de Crillion playing mahjong over the collection of Alexander Dumas. They will curse Alexander Dumas for having written so many great books, of which the soon-defunct Cantonese pronunciation equals “loss”. This wastage is destined to remain low lives, and the existence, even though inevitably eternal at a point of the course of history, cannot be retrieved inasmuch as they will never interest conscious minds in the entire course of passage of time. Perhaps it is more a shame than a sense of melancholy. For the Sun King, who, if not as a king for excessively flamboyancy, has been forgotten, the extravagant life appeared essentially deficient. Even the Sun King could not find substance out of his life; likewise, it is far from a merely hedonistic desire for me to opt for a luxurious hotel; the luxuriance of excess, if treated in caution, being in essence more important. The terminally mentally ill morons ignorantly rush to take picture before the Temple of the Golden Pavilion and claim conceitedly that they have been there. Why did they not set fire on the Temple and exist eternally with the beauty of it? You may say it is only in literatures that such hallucinatory scenarios occur. But you are not entirely correct. As the morons are both terminally ill and mentally unsound, they are not in the capacity to think highly of the situation that beauty can be seen and restored by the utmost destruction of the “instruments” that provisionally hold it. In a metaphysical tone, this means that there is factually “something” more than or in higher order than the instruments through which we look at the beauty of a physical expression. If this were possible, then we must leap through the barrier of the physical expression and appreciate what is behind it. The unfortunate plight facing us is that when one talks of metaphysics, he immediately recalls what is nonsensical. Something, which is not understandable in everyday or highly technically analytic languages, is viewed as metaphysical or beyond the physical world. The examples of the Sun King and the Temple of the Gold Pavilion are suggestive of a high probability that what is appreciable appears more than its physical side that shows up to our eyes; there are something metaphysical built within, from which true beauty is known and maintained in the everlasting long future. This structure of argument gets the argument of the better things in life started and does not necessarily refute at all empirical possibilities. He may choose a lowlife motel instead of a high class hotel, not because of the services or the functions, but because of his necessitation of a trip to go somewhere in order to confirm that he has been there and evident of his being there. His necessitating of a trip is derived from an explicit reason and possibly also an implicit “hidden agenda.” He may brandish his capability of making money, show off his knowledge of the European culture or assimilate to look more like his peers, who have been to Europe before.
A lowlife eternity is worst and a sprinkle of high life prosperity is better. The statement is a hybrid of “being an unhappy Bernard Shaw is better than a happy pig.” The hybridisation arises from the fact that it makes an absolute judgement rather than simply comparing the degree of two classes. But is it truly necessary to go for the highest amongst available accommodations, just for the sake of beauty? The answer is, not particularly. One must foster the yeast of goodness and highness in order to enjoy stay in a legendary hotel such as the Miyako. You may see a neatly attired monk carrying a Louis Vuitton Taiga bag stay in the Miyako. Or you will see George Bush Senior heavily guarded by the secret servicemen walking conceitedly and behaving vaingloriously through the stupendous lobby. If it is not particularly necessary, why do you choose the better but not the worse? What we seem to overlook here is mediocrity. Is mediocrity an unambiguous concept? Mediocrity can be spotted between the better and the worse. Mediocrity has the cunning disposition to disguise either the better or the worse. Therefore, mediocrity is not easily spotted as it is, even it is ubiquitous among us. When I say “better”, it refers to the fact that the attributes are higher in functionality and beauty than those of the “worse”. And I overlook it also refers to the fact that they are higher in functionality and beauty than those of mediocrity. This tiny glitch sneaked in without notice and we begin to be confused with the question of “better” and “worse.” The fact that we have to be the better is also conditioned by the fact that we do not want to be mediocre.
How is a hotel important to me in a pleasure trip?
It sounds daft to ask a question such as this, and even more daft to answer it in such great details. It sounds exceedingly daft if I address it to those, who have not subsisted psychologically but been overly nourished materially. For those, who are known to be in such a category, a hotel is no more than a mahjong room, where the means of turning an organism to obesity is fully practiced. But I feel obliged, as a person of peculiarity and intellectual vociferousness, to justify the importance of a great hotel in a pleasure trip, especially that in which the only protagonist is yourself and, hopefully, your mind. Sometimes, though bookish solitude remains highly sacred, you wish the company of some intellectual pyrotechnics by which sparks may be initiated in some everyday discussions. Of course, if you go just with a bunch of mediocre mahjong minds, then probably a shit hotel will do equally good or even better as does a great one, for all you are given in the course of the journey is sight seeing points for the dudes or an invitation to play mahjong in the room at the end of a hazy, hectic day trip. Through continual training of reaching out for a mahjong cube, those people, of whom many are half-balding fat-so’s or overly nourished females destined to tarnish the elegant brands of Gucci and Louis Vuitton, have developed a morbidly stinky sense of arguing against good taste stations, lest their entire lack of substance in life is seen with contempt and spit upon when they stay in the room at Hotel de Crillion playing mahjong over the collection of Alexander Dumas. They will curse Alexander Dumas for having written so many great books, of which the soon-defunct Cantonese pronunciation equals “loss”. This wastage is destined to remain low lives, and the existence, even though inevitably eternal at a point of the course of history, cannot be retrieved inasmuch as they will never interest conscious minds in the entire course of passage of time. Perhaps it is more a shame than a sense of melancholy. For the Sun King, who, if not as a king for excessively flamboyancy, has been forgotten, the extravagant life appeared essentially deficient. Even the Sun King could not find substance out of his life; likewise, it is far from a merely hedonistic desire for me to opt for a luxurious hotel; the luxuriance of excess, if treated in caution, being in essence more important. The terminally mentally ill morons ignorantly rush to take picture before the Temple of the Golden Pavilion and claim conceitedly that they have been there. Why did they not set fire on the Temple and exist eternally with the beauty of it? You may say it is only in literatures that such hallucinatory scenarios occur. But you are not entirely correct. As the morons are both terminally ill and mentally unsound, they are not in the capacity to think highly of the situation that beauty can be seen and restored by the utmost destruction of the “instruments” that provisionally hold it. In a metaphysical tone, this means that there is factually “something” more than or in higher order than the instruments through which we look at the beauty of a physical expression. If this were possible, then we must leap through the barrier of the physical expression and appreciate what is behind it. The unfortunate plight facing us is that when one talks of metaphysics, he immediately recalls what is nonsensical. Something, which is not understandable in everyday or highly technically analytic languages, is viewed as metaphysical or beyond the physical world. The examples of the Sun King and the Temple of the Gold Pavilion are suggestive of a high probability that what is appreciable appears more than its physical side that shows up to our eyes; there are something metaphysical built within, from which true beauty is known and maintained in the everlasting long future. This structure of argument gets the argument of the better things in life started and does not necessarily refute at all empirical possibilities. He may choose a lowlife motel instead of a high class hotel, not because of the services or the functions, but because of his necessitation of a trip to go somewhere in order to confirm that he has been there and evident of his being there. His necessitating of a trip is derived from an explicit reason and possibly also an implicit “hidden agenda.” He may brandish his capability of making money, show off his knowledge of the European culture or assimilate to look more like his peers, who have been to Europe before.
A lowlife eternity is worst and a sprinkle of high life prosperity is better. The statement is a hybrid of “being an unhappy Bernard Shaw is better than a happy pig.” The hybridisation arises from the fact that it makes an absolute judgement rather than simply comparing the degree of two classes. But is it truly necessary to go for the highest amongst available accommodations, just for the sake of beauty? The answer is, not particularly. One must foster the yeast of goodness and highness in order to enjoy stay in a legendary hotel such as the Miyako. You may see a neatly attired monk carrying a Louis Vuitton Taiga bag stay in the Miyako. Or you will see George Bush Senior heavily guarded by the secret servicemen walking conceitedly and behaving vaingloriously through the stupendous lobby. If it is not particularly necessary, why do you choose the better but not the worse? What we seem to overlook here is mediocrity. Is mediocrity an unambiguous concept? Mediocrity can be spotted between the better and the worse. Mediocrity has the cunning disposition to disguise either the better or the worse. Therefore, mediocrity is not easily spotted as it is, even it is ubiquitous among us. When I say “better”, it refers to the fact that the attributes are higher in functionality and beauty than those of the “worse”. And I overlook it also refers to the fact that they are higher in functionality and beauty than those of mediocrity. This tiny glitch sneaked in without notice and we begin to be confused with the question of “better” and “worse.” The fact that we have to be the better is also conditioned by the fact that we do not want to be mediocre.
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