Fake forever

fake olds
fake eyelids
fake teeth
fake breasts
fake cheeks
fake fingernails
fake money
fake words
fake dicks
fake ideas
fake cunts
fake new normals
fake nows
fake days
fake histories
fake eyes
fake lashes
fake feelings
fake photos
fake revolutions
fake philosophies
fake caprices
fake depressions
fake concepts
fake bread
fake chopsticks
fake soup
fake fish
fake lobsters
fake oceans
fake pearls
fake gods
fake presidents
fake birds
fake hands
fake feet
fake mouths
fake truths
fake paintings
fake poetry
fake music
fake love
fake fucks
fake images
fake beauty
fake writing
fake innovation
fake creation
fake airplanes
fake moon
fake sun
fake dildoes
fake fakes
fake 3022

fake heaven that pretends to hang over us


Following is what you found from the DMW papers, undated:

Tired of writing like this on and on, I gave myself a new title, or sub-title, ‘Musings over the Weekend’, and wrote a lot, as follows,

One of the frightening aspects of literature is that you write something that you know deep in your bones is extraordinary but that doesn’t fit in with any accepted, thus acceptable categories until you realise that the price is your own death.

Do and die, then get it published afterwards, like Ulysses and The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, two that you are currently reading. (8.35am)

Lockdowns in city, now replaced with lockdowns in person. Locked down, inside and out. People who click likes will never buy a single copy. Toilet rolls remain hot properties. Until electrical ones take over. Look on the positive side, veering towards positive energies. Positive. Every one positive. It’s 4 4 4 4 4. You don’t understand? That’s your problem. Start learning a language you have never learnt. Or learn it better. (9.25am)

Reading Shakespeare. Merry Wives of Windsor. ‘Master Shallow’, noted. ‘The sword and the word’, noted. (10.02am)

Reading Alexander Pope, e.g. with his ‘The rape of the lock’, and finding him infinitely irrelevant. What a waste of time! (11.17.52am)

The more I read Such is Life, the more I am inclined to think it’s nonfiction written as fiction, and in the style of diary. The guy, Joseph Furphy, was even afraid of spelling out characters’ names, such as a ‘Mr Q—’. That’s just ridiculous. Even if he gave out the real name, we wouldn’t have a clue who that person is and least of all care. Furphy should have learnt some fictional way of naming. (3.31.42pm)

Saw a poem in Chinese I wrote in mid-2016, about a conversation I had with a poet artist who told me that he wouldn’t sell his paintings in America as he could only get 5k usd per painting whereas he could easily sell one for 50k usd in China. (4.10pm)

One had to be prompted with a hint. For years, I have ignored or neglected hints. This hint, that came to me a few weeks ago, came to me a few times before I heard its insistence and decided to take its advice. That’s a few days ago. It’s not till this arvo that I stopped myself in the middle of something that could keep me working at it for centuries and went to the file to find the thing. Now I am happy, with my first self translation of a story that I wrote more than 35 years ago. (5.19pm)

诗歌(poetry song)。歌词(song words)。The former, poetry. The latter, lyrics. For me, lyrics can never match poetry, the pure words, although their song part is better and more lucrative. Only very occasionally, there are a couple of good lines, such as this, ‘And when you can see your unborn children in her eyes / You know you really love a woman’ (‘Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman’ by Bryan Adams). Otherwise, most are just silly, and a waste of time. (6.04pm)

When Solzhenitsyn wonders why the Soviet government put people ‘on trial, and a quarter of a century late at that’, (The Gulag Archipelago, p. 265) did he realise that is exactly what has been done in the West, putting people on trial thirty, forty or fifty years after the crime was committed? (6.09pm)

What sort of truth do you want? All performance of history is history of performance, the living playing the dead, making the dead appear alive if well-performed. But that’s not about truth; that’s fake performance because the truth of death is dead, not alive. (9.00pm)

John once said to me, ‘I don’t write about Australia. There’s nothing to write about. All the things happened in China, everything bad. I only write about things bad’. (7.55am)

When you deal with a plumber, you get a quote from him, get things done and pay him for the job. That’s it. There’s no philosophy. That’s Australia, too. You get a quote, you agree to it after comparing a few counter-quotes, you get things done and pay for it. The country doesn’t need philosophy. It only needs plumbing and the male variety, too. (7.59am)

Dreams are another life lived in secret, not even wanting to be made known, which is why it fails memory, making it impossible to record the details, at least in my case. (8.00am)

Julian won two big awards for musical composition. Years after, he said, he felt as if nothing had happened because possibly people had all forgotten about it. This morning, while I was opening my bowels, a thought came to me that the only thing that can ensure that something has happened, is happening and will be happening is have a statue erected in one’s honour, like that of Captain Cook’s if one can make sure that happens in one’s death. (8.46am)

Style is not the man. People adopt the lazy way of pinning down writers in their own distinct styles as if that says it all. Not for me. Style varies from time to time, even in one writer. He is different from himself when he was twenty or thirty or forty or fifty or sixty. Nothing is cut and dry. If he happens to be bilingual, style changes again. If he is the innovative type, his style changes again because he forces it to change as a matter of necessity. If you can hang the author on the hook of a single style, you might as well hang him for good. I, for one, may have twenty or thirty styles, without anyone bothering to find out or me wanting to point them out for them. Lazy bastards. (8.54am)

Someone posted something about a book she bought. A few words into the text, she mentioned the book has won [the name of an award]. I deleted the posting from my email without wanting to know anymore. If you meet someone in real life and that person introduces himself or herself as an award-winner, how would you feel? Are we living in a democracy or an autocracy of awards? Aren’t books, like people, supposed to be equal? (9.19am)

By extension from above, only bad things are worth writing about. And, as I said somewhere in Chinese, there are too many well-written things. It’s only when things get badly written, they’ll draw attention, like it’s only when meat goes bad, you’ll smell the smell. (9.25am)

Declan Kiberd talks about ’the marginality of the males’ in his introduction to Ulysses by James Joyce (Penguin Books, 1992, p. liv). I wonder if I can change it to ‘the marginality of the male writers, particularly the Asian male writers, in Australia’. (9.51am)

Can I say how much I loved ‘A Day’ by Rabindranath Tagore, translated by Aurobindo Bose? I haven’t read anything even remotely close to it in decades since the early 1980s. (9.53am)

‘The village pond. That’s where you brush your teeth, wash your face in, drink from, piss and shit in, for all purposes. Before every Spring Festival or Chinese New Year, they dry it up to catch the fish. That’s part of my experience, in 1973 and 1974’. (10.41am)

The Cultural Revolution repeats itself, not throughout the world, but at least in the USA and Australia, in the former with the removals of statures of the racists such as Thomas Jefferson and Woodrow Wilson (https://ordinaryphilosophy.com/tag/whole-man-theory/ ) and in the latter with country acknowledgement and Captain Cook’s statue vandalised. One needs to be reminded that during the Chinese version of it (1966-1976) Mao asked the Red Guards to ‘Smash the Four Olds’, which is old thought, old culture, old customs and old habits. One result is the vandalization of the Buddhist temples across the country. Now, we have the Red White Guards to do the similar smashing acts and to be ultra-correct. (10.49am)

When a male writer features his protagonist as a woman in his novel, I wonder if that is motivated by the market dominated by women readers. Women want to know how men write about men. But they want to know more about how men write about women, about people like themselves. This is boring, I mean the commercial part of it. Art needs to be more mature than that. (11.48am)

Is this country going to be so correct that people will be forbidden to piss and shit and stand-up comedians will be banned from cracking jokes with the fuck words? Will death be banned for good if it is so evil? (12.18pm)

Know where philosophy proliferates? In a place like China where little logic works. The place where I taught in Shanghai for nearly eight years has a street that never changes where large crowds of students never wait for traffic lights to change before they start crossing it and streams of cars in either direction never stop for them, often getting as close to them as the moving thighs. No accidents ever happen because people are constantly on the alert. It’s a country of chaos that contains order where each one will find a way out for himself or herself. (4.56pm)


If there’s no one to talk to, there’s always yourself to talk to, to communicate with, until one realises one doesn’t need anyone to talk to or communicate with. That’s self-sufficiency in a nutshell. (4.59pm)

Who says u r not ur own woman? U R. When she comes alive in your hand, right hand, when she stares back from the computer screen, when she whispers aloud to you at the height of charged emotions, masturbation sounds like a truly wrong word, along with all its variations, such as wanking. It’s just an act of self lovemaking at its intensest, combining the man and the woman in you as one and the same. (5.04pm)

You remember him telling you that sometimes he writes on scrap pieces of paper laid on his lap while he is driving. That Chinese sentence was done that way. It means, ‘Let’s get married after we die. That way, it’s going to be forever’. (4.57pm)


I’m that piece of wood
Standing inside the door
Looking outside
At the passing wind
Or someone who never turns up
With the good news I’ve been waiting for all my life
Wondering how best
I can waste the rest of my life
I’m that piece of wood
Standing inside the door, a闲人, for good

The chance

Do we know what happened in the life of a poet, say, on 18 January 2021? What happened that day in Melbourne?
Among other things, this is what we’ve found,

Victoria has recorded four new cases of coronavirus since yesterday, all ofwhich are related to the Australian Open tennis tournament. That takes the total cases associated with the tournament to six.

The new cases are three males aged in their 30s and one male aged in their 50s.

For the the [sic] twelfth consecutive day, Victoria has recorded no new locally acquired cases of coronavirus.1

And what did the poet do that day? A list of things to do would open your eyes although an accusing voice is always there, saying, ‘Who cares? Has this writer won the Nobel Prize in Literature? Has he won any top accolades? If not, why bother including him or anything to do with him?’ We expel that condemning voice by simply saying, ‘In a democracy such as ours, everyone is as important as everyone else if not more and deserves the chance of being recorded depending on the interest of the recorders. In doing this, we don’t exclude the possibility of other people doing whatever appeals to them in relation to whoever they think is more important.’ So, here you go,

1 See it here: https://www.dhhs.vic.gov.au/coronavirus-update-Victoria-18-January-2021


If you don’t want to read the story of a man, if you don’t want to read the story of a man by a man, if being a man himself is tantamount to the committing of a crime against womankind, if you don’t think a man is worth anything anymore, particularly in a post-man world we are fast approaching, if you are ashamed of being a man to read the story of a man by a man, if you are not in a position to instantly change your gender to any one of the LGBTIQA+ denominations, if you are still not sure who’s in power, who has got the clout, who has got the cloud, who has not got the guts, if you think a man should be cancelled once and for all, particularly a man originally from that country, that culture, that language, because you don’t want anything to do with them except their money, their blood-stained and sweat-stained money, then you are—[the rest of the sentence shed as a result of SC.]

I’m not a White Person

You can’t expect me to write like you. You can’t expect me to think like you or feel like you or look at things from your points of view. This may contain millions of tiny mistakes like the missing of an ‘a’ or ‘the’ but it’s not a student homework for you to mark like an academic; it’s a work of creation, a novel, a product of imagination.
What do you want it to be, an exemplary piece of Victorian writing with impeccable grammar that will win all the accolades from the conservative crap?

There’s no understanding with him, this white person. His approach is to be as strict as possible, his level of tolerance zero, for he can’t stand anything slightly un-English. It’s totally wrong.

Has he forgotten that the writer is totally un-English, non-English, and even anti-English?

Ouyang Yu came to Australia in mid-April 1991 and has since published 148 books of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, literary translation and criticism in English and Chinese languages, including his award-winning novels, The Eastern Slope Chronicle (2002) and The English Class (2010), his collections of poetry, Songs of the Last Chinese Poet (1997), and Terminally Poetic (2020), which won the Judith Wright Calanthe Award for a Poetry Book in the 2021 Queensland Literary Awards, his book website: www.huangzhouren.com and his bilingual blog: youyang2.blogspot.com

He was shortlisted for the Writer’s Prize in the 2021 Melbourne Prize for Literature and won the Fellowship from the Australia Council in late 2021 for writing a documentary novel. And his sixth novel, All the Rivers Run South, is coming out in late 2023 with Puncher & Wattmann, which is also publishing his seventh novel, The Sun at Eight or Nine in mid-2024, and his first collection of short stories, The White Cockatoo Flowers, is forthcoming in 2024 with Transit Lounge Publishing.