4 Murmurs this week: The Paradox of Connection
hoarding Labubu, hiding from ChatGPT, Ocean Vuong and a few other hopeful chroniclers
Last week, catching up with a fellow millennial friend over the phone, we marveled at how card culture is trending, now it’s dressed in a new language: 谷子 (Chinese phonetic translation of Goods in Japanese), cards featuring animated characters. Malls now have entire stores devoted to them, packed with kids. I once accompanied a friend to one. We were about to leave when she suddenly grabbed five more blind card bags. Dedicated tables and scissors were set out for opening, swapping, and playing. She was deep into Detective Conan, trading pins with the the sales for her favorite characters. At home, she showed me her drawers full of collectibles: Lego sets, card booklets, toys, all had been in blind-box form. The thrill, for her, was worth every yuan spent.
But was it, really? Before I could spiral into an existential crisis, I had my own brush with that thrill, via Labubu. Yes, you may be rolling your eyes at seeing that name here. I didn’t get the hype until one quiet afternoon, when I plucked a Labubu from a friend’s bag. That little demon, sitting with arms open, inviting a hug, it begged for human touch. Eventually, under mild social pressure, he gave it to me. The playful envy from social circle, half-joking, half-serious, was unexpectedly gratifying. Then came the “Big Into Energy” Labubu box set. Unwrapping each one was the biggest rush I’d had since landing my dream job. And just like that job’s honeymoon period, the thrill quietly evaporated. But for those few minutes, it was potent, and hard to resist. Even my mom now lights up in Popmart stores, cooing over the cuteness after I told her how popular they are. I’ve concluded these toys can hook anyone, across ages and walks of life.
It’s the latest social currency, blending emotional worth with financial gain. Friends advise hoarding whole boxes instead of gifting them, citing collectible value and even the subtle differences in unopened plastic wrap. There are “hacks” to weigh bags for rarer figures, even specialized X-Ray machines to peek inside without opening. It’s a world of tricks and tiny victories. Now, here is a dark/twisted tale to those innocent toys. Recently, I read a piece about parents worrying over kids collecting 谷子. An editor from Sanlian pointed to the root cause: children are confined to such small spaces, no breaks between classes, that these collections become their community, their micro-network of social support.
And maybe that’s it. Whether you’re a child trading cards in the schoolyard, or a millennial unwrapping a Labubu at your desk, it’s the same impulse, a small, contained joy, passed hand to hand, quietly making the world feel a little bigger, a little less restricted. I hope.
Literature
Contributing to the “Mother Language”
Ocean Vuong, the breakout literary star, has become a phenomenon across cultures. While promoting his third book, YouTube comments under his late-night talk show appearances called him a “national treasure” and imagined “a country run by Ocean.” On Xiaohongshu, searches turn up videos of readers crying while reading his work, and posts dissecting his critiques of the American establishment. Part of the draw, I think, is that he is a “super minority” kid (Vietnamese war refugee & first generation immigrants & gay man) whose empathic, intelligent rhetoric transforms every marginalized identity into a kind of superpower.
On Late Night with Seth Meyers, Vuong discussed how English expressions for success are often rooted in violence, especially from a male perspective: “You’re killing it,” “Smash them,” “Blow them up.” Because of the way we use the language, he argued, we inevitably arrive at a place of masculine toxicity. When this clip circulated on the Chinese internet, viewers noted a curious contrast: in Chinese, power can also be expressed through destruction of the male reproductive organ (吊炸了). lol.
A friend once remarked that ESL writers contribute to English literature by enriching its expressive range, which really stayed with me. English, in the river of history, is becoming a kind of “mother language,” continually reshaped by those who adopt it. I guess in a sense there is some kind of empowerment to it. The same is true for Chinese: my friend pointed to the Malaysian writer Li Zishu and her novel Wordly Land 《流俗地》as an example of how the language evolves through diverse voices. Curious to hear what kind of examples you have seen or read?
Tech
Hide from ChatGPT
A writer friend recently told me about a little-known setting in ChatGPT: turning off “Improve the model for everyone” under Data Controls, which keeps your work out of the shared training pool. Their main worry was that their original writing could be plagiarized by others using ChatGPT. That idea stuck with me. It made me question whether this undermines the very premise of ChatGPT, which for many has become our generation’s Google: an open, collective repository of knowledge.
The discussion spilled onto Xiaohongshu, sparking a wider debate about privacy. Some posts linked to a Fast Company article suggesting that AI-generated therapy conversations might be exposed to the public. The consensus seemed to be that only clear, enforceable regulations, especially from law enforcement, could prevent such risks from turning into disasters.
Murmur
China’s chroniclers
Attended Alec Ash’s book launch in Beijing last weekend, what a blast. His reflections on post-Olympics China and his bittersweet one-year escape to Dali (China’s answer to California’s freedom-seeking ethos) resonated deeply. It also reminded me of another chronicler of China’s transformations: Italian photographer Andrea Cavazzuti. Too shy to approach him, I clutched two of his books instead. Cavazzuti arrived in 1981 and has stayed for over 40 years, even writing his memoir in Chinese, a piercing introspection on the country’s breakneck growth. His preface likened him to "an Italian Lu Xun," a comparison as provocative as his work.
One passage under the header “Attention” lingers:
"Last week I did two things back-to-back: first, spent a day at a psychiatric care center in the Great Northern Wilderness; then attended the opening of a high-profile Beijing art exhibition. Today, a sudden epiphany: the hyper-visible and the invisible share something. Both have eyes emptied of curiosity, armored with wariness or fear, a shared loneliness."
I recall first hearing Cavazzuti speak in a mumbled Beijing accent so native it blurred borders. He shared anecdotes about Zhou Wenzhong, the visionary composer who bridged Eastern and Western musical traditions. To me, Cavazzuti embodies the ultimate cultural concierge, his curiosity let him witness dual renaissances: China’s reform-era awakening and Italy’s postwar boom. "China’s industrialization lagged Italy’s by 20-30 years," he once observed, "so I relived my childhood through its ascent. Now, China mirrors the Italy I left, the seams between them keep dissolving." This deserves a deeper piece, I think. (And yes, I owe that prison essay, still simmering, but I promise it’ll boil over soon;)
Until next time!