Testament 3 - 11
Hong Kong Type #17
11.
In fact, the situation is not complicated at all. It’s all about patience and determination.
Morrison came to China alone to spread Christianity, but due to the prohibition of the Qing Court, he couldn’t carry out activities publicly. Therefore, he remained in Guangzhou’s Thirteen Factories as a translator for the East India Company. At that time, almost no foreigners understood Chinese. Morrison secretly hired local teachers and dedicated himself to learning. Within a mere two or three years, his Chinese proficiency was sufficient for reading, writing, and verbal communication, even translation. At least, he became the foreigner with the best Chinese proficiency.
Unable to preach directly, the substitute is books. Translating the Bible and writing missionary books and magazines became the primary tasks. The question is, how can these publications be mass printed? At that time, the mainstream printing mode in China was woodblock engraving, which had the advantages of simplicity and mature technology, but the downside was its lack of flexibility. Morrison’s early publications were made with engravings, but his operations were sabotaged, the engravings were all destroyed, and the workers were imprisoned. This made him realize the necessity of setting up printing places outside of China.
Morrison selected two locations for different types of printing work. With the support of the East India Company, he opened a printing workshop in Macau, where he imported machinery from the UK and hired skilled workers to supervise local workers in engraving Chinese characters in steel. Due to the constraints posed by the Company and interference from Catholic forces in Macau, the Macau print shop could only engage in non-religious publishing, that is, the compilation of Chinese dictionaries. This experiment showed that it was not a pipe dream to mass produce Western-style Chinese movable type.
At the same time, Morrison instructed the newcomer, Milne, to set up a preaching station and a printing house in Malacca, in order to solve the dilemma of not being able to publish in Chinese on Chinese land. Since then, for about 30 years, most of the Chinese publications of the church were printed at the Anglo-Chinese College in Malacca using woodblock printing. A key figure in this was Liang Fa. He was the first lettering worker to follow Milne to Malacca, and there is no doubt that Milne’s earliest works such as Discussions Between Zhang Yuan and His Friend and the periodical Monthly Record of the Observation of Worldly Customs were engraved by Liang Fa. At least for the most part of them. Later, the Chinese Bible translated by Morrison and Milne was also printed in Malacca. It can be speculated that Liang Fa also played an important role in the production process.
The progression of events took place anew with Dyer, a new generation of missionary who came to China in the 1830s. Deeply influenced by Morrison, Dyer knew even before his departure for the east that the future publication of Chinese missionary books must rely on movable type printing. He personally learned the procedure of Western movable type production, including engraving steel type punches, pressing copper matrices, and casting lead type. He also carried out a detailed statistical count of characters, systematically listing the commonly used Chinese characters needed and the quantity required for each one.
After arriving in Malacca, Dyer began to create movable type by himself. He first made large characters, and then proceeded to make small ones. The font templates he used were based on the Chinese Bible that was published earlier in Malacca. Therefore, I speculate that Dyer’s movable type retained many of the fonts carved by Liang Fa. I have compared Dyer’s type with Discussions Between Zhang Yuan and His Friend, Monthly Record of the Observation of Worldly Customs, Our Savior Jesus’ New Testament, and Liang Fa’s work Good Words to Admonish the World, which is believed to be personally engraved by the author. I found that most of the fonts are very similar. However, this is just personal speculation.
To locate the origins of the Hong Kong Type, the most direct and evident source is its actual creator, Samuel Dyer. However, if the typeface was based on Liang Fa’s handwriting, it would be justified to trace back its origins to the engraver. Including those who first advocated and experimented with movable type for Chinese characters, Morrison seemed to play the role of the initiator. Looking further, Dyer passed away before completion of the typecasting, and the work moved to Hong Kong, supervised by James Legge and finished by the printer Richard Cole, then they too contributed to the creation of the Hong Kong Type. As to who was the real originator of the typeface, and who the finisher, it can’t be definitively determined in a few words.
I can’t quite explain why I’m so fascinated with this topic, even to the point of obsession. Perhaps it’s because both my grandfather and my maternal grandfather were involved in movable type printing, so I feel some kind of connection to it. But perhaps it is not solely due to the family connection, there always seem to be some personal, emotional factors involved.
Nami said I yearn to find the source, to find the Father. She said that I need to establish a relationship with this source, this Father, through a story. So, in the story of Hong Kong Type, who is the Father? Is it Morrison? Is it Liang Fa? Is it Dyer? Or is some abstract paternal figure that combines all these individuals?
I have felt since childhood that I am a person with no story to tell. Whenever I have to introduce myself in any situation, I am at a loss for words, not knowing what aspects about myself are worth mentioning. In school, in any group, I am invisible. No one notices me, and I do not wish to be noticed. I am like the blank space in a moving block puzzle game; it is because of the absence of this space that allows for other blocks to move, to push each other, to exchange positions, and form a complete picture. I can only console myself in this way; the existence of a blank space is not meaningless. However, I do not have my own pattern, my own picture.
Now, I’m attempting to piece together the picture of the Hong Kong Type, realizing that a non-existent person like me has actually played a role. However, as the picture gradually takes shape, the blank that has always brought me a sense of stability begins to slowly disappear—no, it should be said it’s being filled. I’m afraid of this. Yes, I am afraid. I’m afraid of becoming part of the story, and even more afraid of becoming the protagonist. Because as the story takes shape, some memories that I have always refused to acknowledge start coming back bit by bit, and they might rush out at any moment. I fear that the inner dam of my heart cannot withstand the impact of these memories.
Then, I had a dream about the leech. That evening, my older brother and sister-in-law came home for dinner. (Even though they weren’t married yet, they had been living together for two years. I’d been considering my brother’s girlfriend as my sister-in-law for a long time.) Usually, on such occasions, my father would do the cooking. While waiting for the meal, my brother called me into the living room to chat. As usual, he asked how I’ve been recently, how’s my mental state, and if I’ve been taking my medications on time. I told him about the progress I’ve made in gathering information on Hong Kong Type. He wasn’t interested in the historical subject, but he was pleased that I had regained some of my work capacity.
Meanwhile, a documentary on animals was playing on the television, discussing why flamingos are pink. It turns out that flamingos themselves are not naturally pink, but it’s due to certain components found in their food sources that change their color. Furthermore, flamingos living in different ecological environments will also have varying shades of red.
My sister-in-law politely asked me if she could change the channel. I didn’t really mind, but before I could answer, my brother picked up the remote control and switched it to the news channel without a second thought. The television screen switched from flamingoes beside a lake to a scene outside the courthouse. My father came out of the kitchen, holding a plate full of sweet and sour fried prawns. Seeing the news on TV, he protested to my brother. However, my brother responded:
“Dad, you can’t keep Sister from watching the news forever! She gets into trouble because she can’t handle reality. You have to let her gradually get used to the real world; otherwise, she’ll never be able to step out of her comfort zone.”
I’ve never found anything wrong with watching animal shows at home or not watching the news. It’s only after my brother pointed it out that I realized this might be abnormal. As always, Dad would not directly argue with my brother; instead, he subtly directed us to sit down in the dining room. While my brother wasn’t paying attention, he lowered the volume of the TV, so hardly anything from the news could be heard.
During mealtime, my brother started asking about our old home in Sheung Wan, wanting to confirm if our father had decided to sell the property. Father still insisted on discussing it with our uncles and aunts, while my brother still firmly believed that the property belonged to us and we should be the ones making the decision. My sister-in-law joined in the persuasion, saying they had been looking at new properties lately, and the prices and locations were quite good. In the current economic downturn, the rise in property prices had slowed, making it a good time to invest. She also said that as soon as they have a new home and the epidemic is over, they plan to get married.
The look on Dad’s face was both jubilant and troubled. I casually asked, "Are you two rushing to get married because you want to have children?"
My brother was caught off-guard by the question, looking uncertain, but my future sister-in-law responded calmly:
“Little sister, your brother and I are still young, there’s no rush to have children. But since we’ve decided to get married, we do have plans for children in the future, so it makes sense to find a suitable house sooner. It aligns with our long-term plans.”
I hadn’t meant to question their motives, I was just genuinely concerned for them, so I said, “Do you think this world is still suitable for raising children?”
The couple looked at each other, as if surprised by such an irrelevant question. However, Dad tried to lightly brush it off, saying, “Let's not talk about such nonsense!”
My brother pulled out the solemn expression that he has always used since his youth, and counter-questioned:
“In what aspects do you mean by ‘not suitable’? Are you referring to the pandemic? Or something else?”
His imposing demeanor startled me, and I lost my courage on the spot, whispering, “I don’t know.”
“This is your fragile nerves messing with you, you understand? Speaking of bad, the world wasn’t just bad now. Speaking of good, perhaps now is even the best era in human history. How can you be so alarmed over such small setbacks?”
I knew my brother was trying to encourage me, but I was just quietly trembling, unable to respond.
After dinner, my father and brother went to the room to look at the old items moved back from the old house in Sheung Wan. My sister-in-law and I played with Fox in the living room. She was extremely surprised that the blind Fox could effortlessly find the ball she threw. The TV had already been turned off, I didn’t know when. Father and son spent a while in the room, I guessed they were discussing selling the house. Later, the sound of something being slapped came from the room, and we stopped our games. The door opened, and my brother came out, holding a crumpled tissue in his hand. My sister-in-law asked him what happened. He opened the tissue, inside was a flat cockroach, its body skewed, but its antennae were still moving. I screamed out in fright. Fox immediately barked fiercely at the air.
After my brother and sister-in-law left, I returned to my room to review materials, but I was disturbed and couldn’t focus. Around ten o’clock, I heard a girl’s shouting from outside the window. The shouts were not coming from downstairs, but rather from the building across the way. This kind of late-night shouting had a familiar feel to it, but I didn’t know when I had heard it before. It repeated every so often, despite sounding strained, it never received any echo.
I walked to the window, peering toward the public housing building opposite, trying to locate the source of the sound. Eventually, I saw the girl in a window on a floor at the same height as my apartment. The distance between my building and the one opposite was not close. From here, even though you could see the windows of every household, you normally wouldn’t notice what was going on inside. Even if you intentionally observed, apart from the color of the lights and the general situation, you wouldn’t be able to see many details.
But somehow, the figure of the girl in the window frame opposite was exceptionally clear at this moment. She was petite, wore a black camisole, her hair tied into a ponytail. With both hands grabbing the window frame, she put all her strength into shouting outside. I suddenly felt that she was calling out to me and was waiting for my response. In a panic, I hastily retreated into my room, hiding where she couldn’t see me.
After what felt like a long time, everything around me returned to silence. I sneaked a peek, and noticed that the lights were out in the window across from me. It was pitch black, as if no one had ever been there. When I went to the kitchen for a drink of water, I saw my dad watching a Korean drama in the living room. I asked him if he had heard any screams, but he shook his head to indicate he hadn’t.
That night, I had a dream. I dreamt that the inside of my left thigh was aching and itching. When I lifted my skirt to look, I found something resembling a leech where my birthmark used to be. Perhaps because it had been gorging on my blood, the leech appeared swollen and round like a black preserved egg. I yanked the leech off with all my strength, resulting in a lot of blood between my legs. I then discovered that the blood was actually coming from my lower body. My consciousness told me that I had given birth to the leech.
Later on, the scene changed back to that familiar workshop. My grandfather and my young mother were sitting together at the work table, arranging lead type as if they were playing with building blocks. After they arranged everything, my grandfather used a key to lock the layout, and then put the plate into the printing press. At that moment, I saw a leech, attached to the ink roller. My grandfather seemingly did not notice the leech and started the machine. The rotating roller squashed the leech. The squashed leech turned into a puddle of red and black liquid, replacing the ink, spreading on the printing plate and printing out red and black characters. My grandfather pulled out one of the printed papers and looked at it with satisfaction. Then, he handed the paper to me. I saw the text, but I couldn’t understand a single word. The ink of the characters slowly dissolved, merging into a shapeless mass, looking like a giant leech.
Two days later, while receiving my soul therapy, I told Nami about the dream of the leech.
Coincidentally, Nami was wearing a soft deep red long skirt that day, even the tone of her makeup and the mask she wore were red. Sometimes I wondered if Nami possessed a strange ability, like a chameleon, she could change her color according to the state of the patient she was treating. Even the lighting and the color of the walls in the therapy room seemed to make corresponding changes. It feels as if you have entered into a lucid dream. Is it really lucidity? I do not know. It could also be the effect of hypnosis.
Nami let me lie on the armchair, listening to the content of my dream, and quipped in a half-joking tone:
“It seems that the Leech is about to wake up!”
I was puzzled, so she switched back to a serious and gentle tone, saying:
“Did you know? Until the 19th century in Europe, there was still a practice of using leeches for bloodletting. I am not a supporter of this type of treatment as the risks involved in its application seem quite high. However, the leech as a form of treatment is an old tradition. Therefore, the dream of leeches can have both negative and positive aspects. As a metaphor, leech therapy involves removing stagnant blood and toxins from the soul, making the circulation smooth. Of course, such a therapy requires enduring pain and feelings of disgust, and there’s even a risk of bacterial infection.”
She laughed as she finished speaking, covering her mouth with her hand, which already wore a mask.
“Sorry if I scared you! What I meant is, the process of awakening inevitably involves some pain, much like leech therapy. And the so-called awakening is actually a memory. Remembering what you looked like when you were a leech.”
“But what does it mean if I dream of giving birth to a leech? Was it a mistake?”
“Here, a leech represents a deformed child. That implies your anxiety about childbirth and reproduction, but it could also be said that it’s your anxiety about being born as a deformed child. The deformity of the leech lies in its lack of limbs, its lack of an animal’s appearance, like an unformed thing. However, it can also represent an undeveloped state. Being undeveloped does not mean it will not grow. Given time, the leech will evolve. It may become a complete organism, or it may become a monster. This is the key to its awakening.”
“Am I not that monster? I killed my mother as soon as I was born.”
Seeing me get agitated, Nami held my hand and comforted me saying:
“Do not forget, the leech was originally a god! He was born from the Father God and the Mother God, and even if he is abandoned and exiled, he will return one day to fulfill his myth! So, never let your fate as a leech knock you down.”
I found it strange that Nami’s words were so similar to what Teacher Bei had once said. I felt like I should be honest with her, so I confessed:
“Actually, I have a leech attached to my left thigh.”
For the first time in my life, I voluntarily revealed this embarrassing secret. I sat up, bent over, prepared to pull up my knee-length skirt to show Nami my innate flaw, but she held my hand and stopped me.
“No need, I already knew.”
“How did you know?”
Even though a mask covered half of her face, you could still see Nami’s charming smile as she said:
“Hasn’t your dream already revealed it?”
She helped me to lie down and adjusted my skirt, saying:
“Remember, you don’t need to be afraid of it, nor do you need to get rid of it. It is your unique mark. It is the mark of your body and the mark of your soul. With this mark, you will eventually find the way out of the dream.”