Dwelling in the Alleys, a Plain Happiness

It seems that, in the traditional sense, a life of recluse has long been considered as the supreme state of happiness. However, this kind of proud withdrawal from the world is meanwhile lonely. In fact, there are few unadulterated recluses. And the satisfaction of the few cannot be used to interpret the universal condition of happiness.

As the saying goes, “the inferior recluse hides away in the wild; the superior, crowd”. Real happiness, which does not live in seclusion, can be found in the downtown rather than in the forest.

Rays of the morning glow, penetrating the quaintly carved window lattice, little by little, put on a stroke of light make-up in golden yellow for the delicate potted landscapes in the courtyard. With the sizzling sound of frying eggs curling upwards, the air begins to be filled with various sounds: the tender voices of children, the starting-up rhythm of cars’ engines, the sweetly-said good-byes between couples, the simple greetings among neighbors… All these things in the alleys are busy yet not chaotic, lively yet not clamorous, plain yet not boring.

While the green plots at the end of the alleys are not as verdant and juicy as those in the wild, the vitality that overflows in the air can never be found in the latter. In the pale yellow light of street lamps, every settee is inscribed with a different mood- sweetness, happiness, sorrow, or delight- which mingles with each other and slowly ferments in placidity. Who knows what surprise will crop up at the next street corner?

An eatery with an exotic style and ceaseless flow of customers? A bar with jazz on? Or a small café with high-legged wooden stools and a leisure atmosphere? To be seated on a wooden chair under a parasol in the open air, talking with newly-acquainted friends about one’s own trivial life over a cup of tea, is probably a pleasure, too.

Everything, polished and deposited by time, eventually becomes a habit, a mutuality, a culture.

At home, together with visiting neighboring friends, people joke about trifling matters around in the same clever manner, everyone’s narrowed eyes glimmering with the same craftiness in tacit agreement; at the family gathering around the dining table, stuffed mouths mumble, somewhat noisily, yet no one is bothered.

Cramped as the alleys are, happiness there pervades regardless…

As the dense, cold high-rises sprout up in the cities, the traffic congests, the air fouls, and bit by bit, people’s happiness is tattering and dying away. People’s living space is becoming more and more commodious, yet less and less communal. One’s self, enclosed in an exclusive space, carefully avoids touching other people’s hearts while forbidding their rash access. Nevertheless, the time when one quietens down and thinks back, one would miss the cozy racket that used to be so annoying.

Compared with Manhattan with all its towering buildings, people prefer Florence, under whose red domes ancient alleys are submerged in the sunlight; compared with the radiant Lujiazui at night, people would prefer Wanhangdu Road, which is brimming with playing children’s boisterous laughter. Even when we are advanced in years, what constitute our dreamscape should be the unruffled old dark-grey houses, the peddling bawls in soft Wu dialect, and the tiny alleys where tender, warm recollections linger.

When seen from an exquisite eye, actually every corner occupied by green moss and Boston ivy is a poem written in blackish green, which, being neither elegant nor powerful, just reveals that plain happiness, plain and simple.

It might not be difficult to answer what happiness is like. Happiness is an unfolded collection of poems about those ordinary alleys under the city sky.

The curtains of night have descended. Amid the scattered twinkling lights of myriad families, how much plain happiness is dwelling in the alleys…

（汉译英二等奖，徐慎泽 译）