Eric Tian

In a small riverside town, a bystander noticed a disturbing sight: a person drowning in a fast-moving current. Without hesitation, a group of townspeople plunged into the waters and rescued the drowning swimmer.

As days passed, more people were spotted struggling in the water. The town, unnerved by the findings, organised a team of strong swimmers to act as lifeguards. They constantly patrolled the river and rescued those in danger. They became skilled at saving lives, and the town took pride in their heroic efforts.

However, the flood of people needing rescue kept increasing. The lifeguards were working around the clock, and the town was spending significant resources on rescue equipment and training.

One day, a visitor to the town observed the situation and asked, “Why are so many people falling into the river in the first place?” Curious about the answer, she decided to travel upstream.

There, she discovered a cliff with a beautiful view overlooking the river. Many people would come to admire the scenery, but the path was treacherous, and some would slip and fall into the rapid waters below.

The visitor returned to the town and suggested building a fence along the cliff’s edge. Despite initial skepticism, the town agreed to this experiment.

The result was transformative. With the fence in place, the number of people falling into the river plummeted. The town soon realised that preventing people from falling was far more effective and less resource-intensive than constantly rescuing them from the water. They began to look for other ‘upstream’ solutions to problems they faced.

In the prologue to his short story collection, Mo Yan writes how his childhood governed by famine shaped the stories he wrote (emphasis mine):

“As kids, we had little meat on our bones; we were sticklike figures with big rounded bellies, the skin stretched so taut it was nearly transparent – you could just about see our intestines twist and coil on the other side. Our necks were so long and thin it was a miracle they could support our heavy heads. And what ran through those heads was simplicity itself: all we ever thought about was food and how to get it. We were like a pack of starving dogs, haunting the streets and lanes sniffing the air for something to put inside our bellies…

“Up to this point, three of my novels have been published in America: Red Sorghum, The Garlic Ballads, and The Republic of Wine. In The Garlic Ballads I reveal a critical view of politics and my sympathy for China’s peasants. The Republic of Wine expresses my sorrow over the decline of humanity and my loathing of a corrupt bureaucracy. On the surface, each of these novels appears to be radically different from the others, but but at their core they are very much alike; they all express a yearning for the good life by a lonely child afraid of going hungry.”

As for me, I have published three short stories to date. The Golden Apple is about a midnight duel that is taken over by one person’s obsession. The Magic Cow is about a merchant who sells a cow that promises magic, only for the town to be wholly ruined by it. Finally, Nurture is about a young girl who mistakenly arrives at a wrong boarding house and story of the couple that take her in.

These three stories, amongst my other drafts, all have one thread in common: they are stories of when our emotions get the better of us and result in uncharacteristic decisions.

Upon reflection, this interest arose due to a series of events that occurred in my early teen years. Our neighbour at the time was a strange, unpredictable person who would frequently play loud music and make racist remarks towards my family. At night, when we attended to our garden, he would stand at the fence separating us and stare. If we looked at him, he would make these strange facial expressions to scare us. I later found out he had schizophrenia – my first experience with mental illness.

Next was a series of bad decisions I made after my father passed away. The grief I faced nearly resulted in me being suspended from school. My teacher remarked in front of the class, “This is so uncharacteristic of him.” This was utterly humiliating – my first personal experience of emotions taking over someone.

Finally, related to the passing, was my subsequent experience with video game addiction. It became my coping strategy and was an effective one, but led me down a deep hole that has proven difficult to climb out of. Its hold still echoes in me sometimes. This was my first personal experience of addiction.

These three events are reflected in my first three stories with its themes of addiction, mental illness, and grief. I hadn’t realised it at the time, but the stories that I felt compelled to write were direct reflections of experiences that had shaped me growing up. And I think these experiences also shaped my transition into medicine, as I felt compelled to study diseases and help people suffering, and my more recent interest in Psychiatry.

The threads from our childhood tug at us, conscious or not.

As part of my recent goal to memorise more lyrics and poems, I was listening to Bob Dylan this morning when a stanza from Tangled Up In Blue struck me:

She was married when they first met
Soon to be divorced
He helped her out of a jam,
I guess
But he used a little too much force

They drove that car as far as they could
Abandoned it out West
Split up on a dark sad night
Both agreeing it was best

She turned around to look at him
As he was walkin’ away
She said this can’t be the end
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue”

Tangled Up In Blue

Look at the action and vivid imagery in these verbs. Each one carries its own unique spin which drives the narrative of the song along. Had they been replaced with something more bland or simple, the essence of the piece would have been lost.

One lesson in writing I have been taught is to use simple language wherever possible. This improves comprehension, is respectful to the reader, and allows the idea to shine through more. But when I read Bob Dylan’s lyrics, I realise that simple language pays a price in elegance and beauty. By choosing “abandoned” instead of “left” or “divorced” instead of “alone”, the reader is able to access a more nuanced view on the piece.

The trick seems to be to find the most precise, vivid, and beautiful word to describe something without confusing the reader.

It is December 1937, and the second Sino-Japanese war is approaching its climax.

Japan, having successfully invaded Shanghai, now looks towards the ancient capital city Nanking (now Nanjing) in hopes that this final conquest will end the war. China are forced to retreat their main forces from the capital, still wounded from their earlier conflict. They leave de facto control of the city to German citizen John Rabe, a businessman for Siemens AG and staunch Nazi, serving as a Deputy Group Leader in the Nazi Party. In December 13 1937, Japanese troops enter Nanjing.

If Nanjing sounds familiar, it is probably from the following horrific events now known as the Nanjing Massacre, or the Rape of Nanjing. In her book The Rape of Nanking, one of the most detailed recounts of this event, author Iris Chang estimates 40,000 to 300,000 citizens were murdered over the next few weeks, with at least 20,000 cases of rape, ranging from children to elderly women, alongside countless examples of forced incest.

As most of the westerners flee from the incoming massacre, 22 foreigners choose to remain: one of them being John Rabe. Throughout all this, John Rabe is granted a small area in Nanjing that is exempt from this brutality – as a German Nazi, the Japanese has agreed to not attack areas without Chinese civilians. Rabe subsequently sets up the Nanking Safety Zone to provide Chinese refugees with food and shelter from the massacre. In a letter to Hitler, Rabe explains that “There is a question of mortality here… I cannot bring myself for now to betray the trust these people have put in me, and it is touching to see how they believe in me.”

Through his efforts in the Safety Zone, historians have estimated Rabe saved approximately 250,000 Chinese civilians from the Nanjing massacre. One notable way Rabe succeeded in these efforts is through using the Nazi flag to construct shelters for the refugees camped outside his house. When the Japanese see the Nazi Swastika, they recognise it as a symbol of foreign security and leave the residence alone.

Florian Gallenberger, director of the documentary John Rabe, notes this paradox and what it can teach us about our potential for good:

“That is such a crazy thing that icon – rightfully the icon – of the murdering of millions of people in a different place, in a different moment, became a symbol of security… That it’s not just black and white but many shades in between, and that these stories with those many shades really help you to understand history…

“The outstanding thing about [Rabe] is that he was actually a quite normal person. He was not this kind of superhero type. In the situation that he got into, suddenly, he became more and more brave, then more and more daring, and more and more ready to risk his life for his values. And I think that’s what really interested me, to tell the journey of a normal, average person who discovers his own greatness. Because that’s a potential that’s probably within all of us.”

One of my favourite things about Melbourne is its unpredictable, wildly fluctuating weather. You might begin crossing a street with clear, sunny skies only to find yourself running for cover from run and hail halfway through. It can be annoying at times, but more often than not it results in a good story.

Such an incident occurred last week. We were crossing as a group of four strangers and rain began to fall, gently at first, then heavily, followed by hail. Within seconds we were soaked and running for cover.

The closest shelter we could find was the entrance to a strip club, one I had walked past many times in the past but never inside. As we huddled together, sharing in each other’s warmth, the bouncer said something in a thick Italian accent which nobody heard: we were all too wet. Eventually, he noticed that a member of our party was shivering, a middle-aged woman in a singlet, so he offered her his thick black jacket. She took it gratefully, though it was immediately apparent that the jacket was too large for her. It nearly went down to her ankles and looked more like a blanket.

At this sight, one person began to chuckle. Then another, then myself, and soon the sound of laughter rang out into the depths of the building. All of this had transpired in less than 30 seconds, and only now were we beginning to see the absurdity of the situation. Outside, the hail was assaulting the roofs of cars like little bullets.

And so the five of us huddled, watching the weather unfold in front of us. All that sustained us were the body warmth and clothes of strangers in an unusual building, laughter ringing through its walls.

In gaming, “Power Creep” refers to the phenomenon where updates to a game that make existing skills and combat stronger render older content obsolete. Where one boss on release might require ten minutes to kill, power creep over years might make this only five. This is a problem as making bosses too easy makes the point of the encounter – to fight a difficult and worthwhile boss – meaningless.

Similarly, “Comfort Creep” is the idea that suggests that as modern society becomes richer and more comfortable, there are hidden consequences on, perhaps ironically, our wellbeing. Proponents argue that struggle is intimately tied to meaning and by optimising our lives for convenience and comfort, we lose this deeper sense of potential insight.

I personally feel that the most rewarding days are not the ones that are spent in complete luxury, where I can sleep in, have zero responsibilities, and eat whatever I want, whenever I want. Instead, the greatest and most memorable days are ones that involve struggling with some challenge – fitness, writing, work, or whatever domain – and overcoming it. While the comfort days feel nice, have too many and it’s easy to wonder – what’s the point of it all?

Inspired by the blog of Matthew Dicks, here is my list of things I want to be better at. The idea is to revisit this list every year to track progress. Today is Sunday 15 September 2024, and in no particular order, here we go: 

1. Dancing
2. Calling my family
3. Completing tasks in a timely fashion
4. Waking up early
5. Singing
6. Remembering names, faces, and facts about people 
7. Languages, especially Mandarin
8. Exercise, especially plyometrics and distance running
9. Regularly cleaning my desk and room
10. Being more assertive when something wrong is transpiring
11. Leadership
12. Small talk
13. Organising catchups or checking in with old friends
14. Overcoming social media and gaming addiction
15. Saying “I love you” to people I love
16. Memorising quotes, poems, and speeches
17. Consistency in writing 
18. Consistency in reading 
19. General knowledge on topics I should know but never learnt, especially history and politics
20. Admitting I do not know something when I feel like I should know it or have recently forgotten
21. Spending less time on email
22. Discipline with all of the above

I was riding my bike the other day while carrying two banners for a work event, when one of the banners got caught in my front wheel and I fell over in the middle of the road.

My left shoulder felt the asphalt first and I felt no pain, simply a wave of numbness. A searing pain then shot through my left leg. When I looked down, there was blood oozing from three areas of peeled skin. My pants were already stained red. Next to me, my bike laid in the middle of the road, banner still caught in its wheel, ready to be run over by incoming traffic.

Thankfully, it was a Sunday morning and few cars were out. In fact, it was oddly quiet. All the shops around me were closed and the street parking was empty. There was a green traffic light ahead but no vehicles drove by. As I laid there, waiting for my shoulder to regain sensation, an immense sadness suddenly came over me.

The feeling reminded me of my niece, who would cry whenever she fell while learning to walk. She would never be in danger – she usually fell on carpet and there were always adults around – but no matter how harmless the fall, she would always burst into tears. It initially struck me as silly, but as I laid there on the street, I began to understand her anguish.

Of all misfortunes that exist, there is something uniquely awful about self-induced pain. If a misfortune occurs from a clear external force – bad boss, bad weather, bad traffic – there is clearly something else to blame. But if you fall while walking, or fall off a bike from your own stupid decisions, there is nobody left to blame but yourself, and with blame follows shame and pathetic self-pity. When you suffer and know yourself to be the cause, I think you come close to hell.

As this mix of emotions began to stir and mix and threaten to explode, a woman’s voice came up behind me.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

I said nothing as she pulled my bike off the road and removed the banner from its wheel.
“Jesus, that is heavy.”

She dropped my banner on the sidewalk and looked me up and down.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“No,” I finally replied. “But thank you.”

As I looked up at her, emotions ready to overflow, something in her eyes made me pause. What I saw in her eyes was genuine concern. She had been carrying a grocery bag, but I now saw it lying behind her on the floor next to my bike. She must have dropped it when she saw me.

“Here, let me help you up,” she said. And as our hands met, my negative thoughts were dissipated by a more powerful emotion: hope.

When my niece cries from a fall, there is a moment when her attitude shifts from raging despair to simple discomfort. It is when she sees her mum. Her mum represents hope, a light out of the hell she has found herself in. When her mum picks her up off the floor, cooing her name and showering her with hugs, some physical pain may persist, but the greatest spiritual torment has been cured.

As I stood face to face with my saviour, she said some words I didn’t hear. The hope that suddenly flooded my body drowned all other sensations. Before long, she was gone. The whole time, I had been too moved to ask for her name, or even say thank you.

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James Baldwin once wrote, “I have always felt that a human being could only be saved by another human being. I am aware that we do not save each other very often. But I am also aware that we save each other some of the time.”

For the longest time, I did not understand what he meant. But I think I now do.

Earlier in the year, I observed three points about myself:

1. Most of my melancholic moments are caused from poor social interactions.
2. I become irritable if I do not exercise every day.
3. I feel extraordinary playing team sports.

It only recently clicked that the third observation is the obvious conclusion of the first two.

For most of my life, I grew up playing single sports: table tennis, badminton, or running. Single as you generally compete by yourself, usually against another individual. These sports, while tremendous opportunities for growth, can become lonely.

Team sports offer the benefits of exercise but additionally the wonders of teamwork and social ties. These cannot be understated. The exhilaration of working together to achieve a shared, communal goal is incredible. Combine that with the endorphins of exercise and… you get ecstasy.

It is curious that the popular running anime ‘Run With The Wind’, is meaningful in a large part due to the athletes training as a group and overcoming struggles together. Perhaps there is something in shared struggle that is inherently beautiful.

While watching the Olympics, a commentator said something I found insightful. It was the fifth set of the Women’s Singles Bronze Medal Table Tennis match and a time out was called. The Japanese athlete had won four points in a row, clawing their way back from a previously enormous deficit. The opposing Korean coach called the time out to halt the Japanese player’s momentum. As the athletes retreated to their corners, the Korean athlete looked visibly shaken, while the Japanese athlete looked fired up.

The Japanese coach spoke rapidly to his athlete, giving serving instructions and where to aim the ball. The athlete listened intently, nodding her head and providing him her own thoughts and strategies.

The Korean coach, on the other hand, said very little. He simply handed his athlete a towel and a water bottle and signalled for her to breathe. They stood there silently facing each other for most of the time out. But by the end, the Korean athlete looked back to her usual self.

The commentator noticed this juxtaposition between the two corners and said:

“The role of a good coach changes from one moment to the next. Sometimes, your job is to fire instructions on tactics, ball placement, or service. Other times, your job is to provide an encouraging word to lift your athlete out of a slump. And occasionally, as we see here, your job is to simply be with your athlete and give them the quiet space they need. It is a highly personal and subtle role that few can do at a high level.”