TAU TIN WUN JAT

It was not until my dad had passed away before I finally gradually understand what kind of fun there is to fish. He used to take me out to fishing when I was still very small, both in Canton City and during vacations in Swatow. I still remember the salty smell of Namoa when my dad and one of his friends took me there in a very early morning; we drove and I had a very terrible carsick. As I stepped out of the car he and his friend was talking something in Teoswa language; I understood not a single word of it. That's gotta be about 15 years ago, and naturally all of that is now nothing but memories; long before I left the country my relationship with my dad was basically non-existent, even the news of him passing away I got, I got from my mother who've divorced with him a long time ago; and by the time it reached my ears, he's been gone for more than a month already.

Fishing is like amateur radio; I never had any real interest in it until I came to this strange foreign city. Near Temple Bar in central Dublin, there's a shop that sells fishing gear exclusively. The local Chinese community probably has no interest in fishing whatsoever; every time I go there it's mostly middle-aged and/or elderly white men along with who I assume must be their sons or grandsons; my Asian face thus stands out awkwardly. The shopkeepers and customers were always curious about my background. I thus gave them brief explanations about how I fish to honor my dad's legacy; they often nod in acknowledgment and ask nothing more. Central Dublin isn't directly by the sea, and even after living here for this long I've never seen anyone setting up fishing rods directly along the banks of River Liffey, so I concluded that they must've gone out at least as far as Howth or Dún Laoghaire. I asked around, and everyone said Howth was more suitable for beginners. So, one weekend, I packed my gear and got on a train bound for Howth.

It was while fishing in Howth that I met Mike.

Like everyone else in this city he couldn't quite pronounce my name and turned "Zetian" into "Zee-tian" with the last part sounding like the English word Christian. I actually found that kind of amusing and never bothered to correct him. There was also a South Asian man named Vijay who came to fish. I first met him one day in Howth when he came to borrow some pre-rigged lures from me and Mike, saying he had forgotten to bring his and didn't want to spend over an hour going back to get them. After a few encounters we gradually got to know each other. As for whether he was Indian or Pakistani, I didn't know the local customs enough and didn't want to assume things lest I offend him, so I never asked. I never saw him wearing a turban, so he's probably not a Sikh; and I never saw him perform any religious prayers either, so in the end I never found out.

Vijay never initiated conversation with me when we went fishing together except for fishing-related topics like line slack or types of bait. Mike, however, was different. I still clearly remember the day he first brought up writing with me, including the exact look of the lure I was tying to my hook; it was a very simple earthworm-shaped lure made from a slightly translucent piece of pink plastic ribbon. I was starting to become accustomed to the disappointment of reeling in an empty hook and had started attaching lures half-heartedly; it was in a lull while I was adjusting the lure that he asked:

"Do you read much?"

I said I didn't read much these days, but I used to.

"Actually, I've got a request..."

He started talking about the novel he was currently writing. The story had finally reached some sort of conclusion, but for some reasons his family wouldn't tell him whether it was any good; he felt too embarrassed to ask strangers, and so he had no readers and was growing anxious about it. Eventually, he remembered me, decided I had no reason to lie to him or brush him off, and asked if I'd give him some feedback. His judgment was spot-on - I really had no reasons, so I agreed on the spot.

The second weekend after that, again in Howth, again after a whole day of effort with nothing to show for it. Not long after, I said:

"I stayed up last night and finished your book."

"...You stayed up and finished it?"

"Started reading after I showered. And before I knew it it was already morning. It was surprisingly compelling."

"...Oh! Thanks!"

"It truly is a shame that I've only read Chinese novels or those translated into Chinese. I really don't know what people around here like, so I can't say whether it would be popular..."

"That's okay. The fact that you found it interesting - I'm already grateful. I've always been scared, you know? Scared that no one in the world would enjoy my stories. Scared I was just deluding myself the whole time."

I told him I sometimes also write, so I understood how he felt. He said he'd send me a bunch of older stuff he'd written but never shown anyone. "Now all I'm missing is a title."

"You haven't titled your work yet?"

"I've tried! I just can't come up with a good one!"

I remembered the filename of the document he sent - it really was just labeled "last_draft." I tried to recall some of the scenes I had read. Suddenly, a Chinese idiom popped into my mind.

"...'Stealing the sky and replacing the sun.'"

"What?"

"There's a fixed phrase in Chinese - written as 偷天換日 (TAU TIN WUN YAT). Word for word, it means: 'stealing the sky and replacing the sun.'"

His eyes widened. "That's it! That's the title! Uh, I don't know Chinese. Can you write that down for me?"

So I pulled up the corresponding Wiktionary page on his phone. "Wonderful, wonderful," he said. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome..."

As far as I know, after that, he sent his novel manuscript to several publishers; months later, without exception, all were rejected. One weekend, while preparing bait, he complained to me about it. So I asked:

"Have you talked to The Library Project?"

"No. I've never even heard of it."

I was a bit surprised. The fishing gear store in central Dublin is only two or three blocks away from that bookstore; surely he must've passed by at least once. Still, I explained: it's an independent bookstore that often features books self-published by artists - usually photo books - who contact the store to get a spot for their work. "It's near the fishing store, you know the fishing store, right?"

"Yeah, I know the fishing store."

"It's near the fishing store, it's got an email, and you probably have to ask them by the email. It worked out for other people, maybe it'll work out for you."

"OK. I will check it out. Thanks in advance..."

But in the end, it didn't work out. I originally thought they would accept Mike's novel, but according to him, they didn't. As for The Library Project itself, he said he never actually visited it. "Maybe I should at least go once. Just to see what kind of stuff they're selling, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm gonna come with you too, I think."

So one day, we went to the bookstore. I had just finished a Quaker meeting, which ended at noon - when the bookstore opened. Eustace Street, where the Quaker meetinghouse was, isn't far from the store, but as soon as I stepped out, it started to drizzle. I hadn't brought an umbrella, so by the time I got there, both my glasses and hair were misted over with rain. Mike was standing outside, peering into the display window.

"So this is the bookstore..."

"Yep, it sure is," I replied.

He turned to greet me. "Somehow I've never thought of stopping by. Strange," he said. "Let's go inside."

The Library Project isn't large; all four walls and the center are lined with products, and the walkways in between are just wide enough for two people to squeeze past sideways. A young man in a red down jacket passed by us, holding a zine with a deeply focused look on his face, as if analyzing its layout design. Mike looked around like he had entered an entirely foreign world. His gaze drifted across the colorful array of books and magazines, finally landing on a small zine. He opened it and squinted to read; shortly after, he seemed a bit impatient and folded it back up.

"Hey, Zee, come take a look at this!"

He handed the zine to me. I opened it and saw that it was a small collection of short poems printed in tiny type with a risograph.

"How come this crap got accepted but my novel didn't?"

I shook my head and handed the zine back. "I don't know, man."

"Really makes you wonder..."

He set down the poetry zine and picked up a small booklet displayed next to it. I stood beside him and looked - inside were the author's sketches, each page accompanied by two or three lines of handwritten text. He flipped to the back, where the author's name and the word "self-published" were handwritten. Below that it said "10/15," and in the bottom right corner was a small round yellow sticker marked with the number "20."

"What's this yellow sticker about?" he turned and asked.

"That's the price, I think."

His eyes widened slightly.

"Price? You mean that this thing costs 20 bucks?"

"I think so, yeah."

He stared at the booklet in his hands, then placed it back where he found it.

At the far end of the small room, a few other people were reading; one or two of them probably overheard us and glanced over, then turned back to what they were doing. Mike squeezed through the narrow corridor between the tables and walked up to the counter. "Hi. How can I help you?" the cashier said.

"Uh... I'm the one who previously spoke to your store about publishing - "

"Oh, sorry, I'm not the one in charge of that."

"Is your manager here? Can I talk with your manager, please?"

"Submissions are handled by someone else. They work remote, so I - "

"Please, could you put in a word for me? I waited for three months - three months - and I got no reply!"

"I'll try to ask them but... if they're still not responding, then there's nothing I can do."

"But can you somehow take them? Look, I printed them myself, you can take all the profit if you want, I just need you to..." As he spoke, he pulled a stack of white booklets out of his backpack and placed them on the counter. I saw the title 偷天換日 (Stealing the Sky and Replacing the Sun) awkwardly handwritten on the cover and was momentarily speechless.

"I can't make that decision... I'm very sorry."

Mike stood there, face flushed, as if he wanted to say something more. For a moment, I was a little afraid he might do something else. But in the end, he just gave a defeated sigh and picked the booklets back up from the counter. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

I patted him on the shoulder. "I think that's enough. We should probably go."

He nodded and tucked his books back into his backpack.

We stepped outside. The rain still hadn't stopped, and water droplets gradually began to cover the lenses of my glasses again, as well as Mike's hair, which had started to go gray. After a short silence, he suddenly asked:

"Zee-tian, you work in software, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Could you write a review bot?"

"...What?"

He then explained what he had in mind. His plan was to self-publish the manuscript that had been rejected by every publisher he'd approached - and then scatter fake reviews all over the internet. He was convinced that those self-important critics actually didn't understand anything at all. They either took money to write positive reviews or just hyped each other up; and the rest simply parroted what the first group said. As long as he could generate enough artificial buzz, he believed he could alchemize that hollow reputation into a key that would finally let him break into the stagnant, corrupt literary circle.

To be honest, not only was this legally risky, but also a pain to execute - this kind of code is hard to test and usually stops working quickly. So I told him I wasn't skilled enough to take on that kind of software project. I added that, since there are Chinese sellers who operate abroad, some people were already running this kind of gray-market service, and I could maybe put him in touch with one of them. He thought about it for a bit and then said to forget it - he'd do it himself. "It's part of the art! - so I guess I should do it myself. But thanks anyway."

After that, Mike gradually stopped coming out to fish - at least, we no longer saw him in Howth. The Howth fishing trio slowly became just me and Vijay.

"You know what Mike's been up to lately?" Vijay asked me one day.

"Writing novels."

"Novels?"

"Novels."

It probably took him by surprise. "Have you read them?"

"I have."

"Is it good?"

"It's okay."

"Do you think he has a chance? You know, to publish the book?"

"I don't know, man." I let out a sigh. "...It's so hard to tell."

"So it's not good?"

"It's not because it's not good, it's because it's about luck, you know?" I reeled in the fishing line; as expected, there was nothing on the other end but the hook. "And that's why it sucks so much..."

One weekend, as usual, I was carrying my fishing gear and about to head out to the station. Just as I opened the door, I saw a young man - probably around twenty - standing there with his right hand raised, as if about to knock.

"Hi."

"Hi. Uh... is there someone named Zee-tian Lin living here?"

"That's me. Can I help you?"

"Do you happen to know a man named Michael O'Connor who used to go fishing a lot?"

I replied that I didn't know any O'Connor, but I did have an acquaintance named Mike who I used to fish with.

"That's probably my uncle, then," he said. "I'm his nephew. Please come with me."

I followed him to a nearby café. "What would you like? It's on me," he said as he pulled out a credit card and handed it to the cashier. I truly was not good at rejecting; I eventually ended up giving in and sheepishly ordered a flat white. After the coffee arrived, he slowly explained that something had happened to Mike, and that he was no longer in good enough of a condition to live alone.

"We're making arrangements to place him in a nursing home nearby."

I didn't know how to respond. "...Oh gee. I didn't think he was that old?..."

"He isn't, he's only fifty-something, but you see, ..."

After I turned down Mike's request, he eventually went ahead and self-published his work again - I remembered that look on his face last time at The Library Project, when he was pleading with the cashier behind the counter - but this time was different: after he arranged for some planted buzz through a few contacts, surprisingly, one or two niche critics actually took the bait. And just when Mike thought the campaign had failed and was sinking into despair, the buzz around his work began to slowly build off those few critics. Eventually, it reached some university professor - who knows from where - and suddenly, Mike became a sensation. Apparently, when his nephew told him that his book had made it into the local news, he was still hungover from drinking too much Guinness the night before. He had finally done what he always wanted to do! Of course, now if he went public with the evidence that he had manufactured the early buzz himself, maybe he'd never again be accepted as a legitimate writer, but at least he'd get his revenge on all those people who had ignored him before and were now trying to ride his coattails...

"But this time, when he went to confront them ready to expose just how blind and clueless they all were, they actually welcomed him warmly. It turned out they already knew his book had received great reviews.

"Naturally he couldn't just let it go, so he insisted: no, no, you've all got it wrong, those good reviews were paid for out of my own savings. But then one of them asked him: 'But the professor from the art school spoke out about your work too, didn't he? And you know how tight-lipped that guy is. Surely you didn't buy him off as well?' My uncle's whole point had been to prove that these contemporary art professors were full of it. If he had bribed them, then their praise would mean nothing - who's to say that they genuinely liked his work or it's only because of the money? Of course he hadn't done that, so he had no choice but to own it. He couldn't say a word."

I sat silently, listening to the explanation without speaking.

"So what happened next was that - someone asked him a question: when exactly did you start arranging all of this behind the scenes? And he - because he was so stunned by how things were turning out - had completely forgotten the critical essay he had written to denounce them all, so he just answered honestly. 'Then,' the person said, 'from that moment on, you were already a full-fledged artist.'

"When he heard that, he froze right there. And after a moment he slowly started to speak. '...Is that so... I didn't know it worked like that... I've been redefined! Hahaha! I've been redefined!' He shouted 'I've been redefined' while running out and all the way down the street. And some random passerby who thought he was mentally unstable called the Garda. As for what happened after that... well, let's just say what have happened have happened."

"...So he really just... went crazy like that?..."

He didn't respond. He simply finished off the coffee in his cup.

That night, I began flipping through the stack of papers Mike's nephew had asked me to keep before parting. Just as Mike had promised before, they were indeed drafts of his other works. They could call him an artist with just a few words - effortless, costless. And yet he clung to that recognition so desperately. Maybe he was doomed to lose from the very beginning, I thought.

Like his earlier work, Stealing the Sky and Replacing the Sun, this new novel was also quietly, mildly, and very ordinarily engaging. If Stealing the Sky and Replacing the Sun had never truly stood a chance with publishers or critics, then this manuscript would likely share the same fate.

Sleepiness crept in. I closed my eyes, and in the darkness, that image surfaced again - him pleading with the bookstore cashier, pulling at their arm - and I completely lost any desire to undress and go to bed. I cursed quietly to myself, flipped the switch on the electric kettle, and prepared to brew another pot of coffee. As the kettle let out its low whistle, I turned the manuscript over and began reading again from the beginning.

"Zee-tian, do you know what happened to Mike?"

I shrugged. "No, I don't."

"I haven't heard back from him in over a month."

I kept my eyes on the sea, where the fishing line disappeared into the waves.

"You really don't care?" Vijay asked.

Maybe I came across as too indifferent. Perhaps, subconsciously, I felt this wasn't the kind of thing one should talk about while fishing. That afternoon, the wind was cool, and we didn't catch a single fish. In the end, I made up a casual excuse, saying I had some personal matters and needed to head back to the city early. Vijay just nodded. "I should go too - guess that's it for today," he said while packing up his gear.

After that day, neither of us ever saw Mike again. Not long after, even Vijay left - he said he had found a new job in the UK. Honestly, we hadn't been particularly close, so in the end, we didn't even say a proper goodbye. And truthfully, fishing alone wasn't all that enjoyable; I didn't feel like making the long trip from the city center out to Howth or Dún Laoghaire anymore, so I gradually stopped going. The rod and gear were left to gather dust in a corner.

One day, while browsing for new books at The Library Project, I saw again that stack of Stealing the Sky and Replacing the Sun - the same stack Mike had once begged the cashier to accept. I knew the store had a habit of occasionally putting unsold stock back out again. After that day, he had told me they had finally agreed to sell his book in the store, so he decided to personally sign every one of the fifteen copies he had paid to print, and include a brief note of thanks in each.

I picked one up and flipped to the back. A small round sticker in the lower right corner marked the price: fifteen euros. I didn't have much money on me, but I wasn't so broke that I couldn't spare fifteen euros.

"Hi, I'd like to buy this book."

"Of course, sir. Card or cash?"

"Card."

"Would you like a receipt, sir?"

"No, thanks."

"All right. Thank you for your purchase. We hope to see you again."

Before leaving, I took one last glance at the stack of Stealing the Sky and Replacing the Sun resting in the corner. I counted them. Including the one I took, no more, no less - fifteen copies in total.

2024.12.19, 2025.5.22, 2025.7.17, 2025.7.18, 2025.7.19