Lonely people, forgotten things, desolate places
The loneliness of modern people does not necessarily stem from solitude; it can easily surface even in intimate relationships, like a small box carried around for most of one's life. The Industrial Revolution brought immense economic performance to cities, accompanied by persistent loneliness. In the city, one sees countless strangers daily, keeping a distance while walking alongside them, working with mere acquaintances, unable to relax and interact with people. One pays a high price to express oneself, yet true understanding between parties is elusive. Commuting blurs the distinction between places, and one's fragile self can instantly plunge into silence. Even among close companions in the same room, only meaningless small talk occurs. The soul and body are disconnected, drifting aimlessly, wanting to wander to vast spaces yet reluctant to leave that vulgar world.
We finally discover that the deeper the understanding, the deeper the loneliness.
Loved things have no place to go, and daily life brings too much exhaustion. If you've read Chen Pei-hsiu's graphic novel, "Loved Rubbish," you probably know what I mean. Despite its warm brushstrokes, there's always a subtle hint of nihilism and wavering doubt behind it. So many people have been cherished, remembering that unnamed person, familiar scenes, those lost miles, and the restaurant where they broke up. The city makes people age prematurely, cultivating habits of self-pity, self-harmingly leaving behind evidence; this is a bowl of "growth" chicken soup for the soul, filled with objects meaningful only to oneself, an irretrievable past that allows for unrestrained sentimentality.
To be honest, these are ordinary stories, and the intimate relationships within them don't have too many inexplicable mysteries, much like "Exercises in Style." They only reflect fleeting moments within the narrative. Everything has surfaced, without suspense, but that doesn't mean there's no need for elucidation. The characters seem to be frozen in a state of nomadic life, making jokes about themselves in helplessness. Life is always unadaptable, extremely unreal. When there's no one to accuse, they seek refuge in flesh and material things. The lines in the art style are dry, mostly resembling silent, black-and-white fragments.
Existentialism describes the unease and despair of life, calling loneliness a basic requirement of existence that one must accept as a matter of course, thus escaping negative individuality. However, most of the time we experience unknown loneliness and solitude. While complete acceptance can conquer it, not being understood and recognized is too unbearable. Even the protagonist in "No Longer Human" strikes me as overly optimistic. How can saying "I have forfeited my right to be human" repeatedly offer self-consolation?
Watching those hopeless stories is simpler than being someone who embraces loneliness while striving to live. Playwright Chien Li-ying and cartoonist Fei Fei-zi's collaborative work, "Until Nightfall is Tender," captivated me with a single line on its obi: "Can you treat me like an ordinary person?" This is a gentle yet powerful accusation from someone misunderstood, love and physical relationships unrecognized by the mainstream, a loneliness and alienation that makes it hard to integrate into the world.
This is a letter to those who consider themselves mainstream. Solitude is a privilege, the right to maintain distance and not participate, while being ostracized is true desolation. Albert Leung (Lam Chik) once said, "The thought that I have to be human no matter how tired I am tightens my nerves," and indeed, it is exhausting! They say individuals must compete to pass on their genes. Those with different ideas are abandoned from the start. Family, friends, colleagues – those you could rely on are all "competing" with you, leaving you to survive alone in the city. Ten chapters cover over ten different gender identities and social classes. They can only have conversations more naked than honest when they engage with others. The innate instinct of sexual desire solidifies in different nights. Love, though incomplete, only hopes to blossom fleetingly within the frame of these panels.
Loneliness comes from past hurt, whether one notices or shows symptoms. Law Fok, in "The Untimely Crowd: A Loner in Writing Theory," mentions the need to swallow the power of darkness to heal wounds, to struggle to look around in the dark of solitude, feeling every subtle detail. In the chapter "Gazing into the Abyss of Solitude," he uses literature to confront the problem of loneliness. All living things are difficult, the unbidden visits of sorrow used to temper a mind free from fear... Of course, it's easier said than done. We all long to be loved yet fear being hurt. At this point, I would also say that thinking and creating are the only ways to resist loneliness. Law Fok adds that writing as therapy is indeed the most common idea and practice, regardless of whether one is a writer. Haruki Murakami also openly states that writing novels is his form of self-therapy. Memories are full of gaps and incompleteness. We use common sense to fill in the fragments we cannot know. To find these lost pieces and connections, I convince myself that loneliness is a necessary process.
The journey from being unable to overcome to "appearing fine" is largely a magical experience, filled with terror, pain, and helplessness—utter bewilderment and fear, afraid of being pointed at by those on higher ground. Where did those wounds come from? Even if all memories hidden within oneself are brought forth, nothing might be discovered. Loneliness often fragments into meaningless values and roles. Anyway, you wouldn't understand. How lucky you are, unable to see the true nature of the city. Before the mystery is revealed, no one can appreciate true beauty. I will romanticize my scars and then indulge myself, for I am simply difficult to please. Alas, I was uncomfortable all over then. I wish I had complained. Perhaps by sharing this post, an argument would have begun. I scoffed, if they were so great, there would be no need for further interaction. A bunch of bumpkins, no matter how loud they shouted, would only be seen as mad.
From top to bottom: Chen Pei-hsiu's "Loved Rubbish," Chien Li-ying and Fei Fei-zi's "Until Nightfall is Tender," Law Fok's "The Untimely Crowd: A Loner in Writing Theory."