The best happiness

Author: He Jiong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-01-01
Features: On April 28, 2004, He Jiong turned thirty! Though he had reached the age of thirty, the author never felt awkward about it. He stubbornly believed he was still relevant, hadn’t given up, and wasn’t old-fashioned. He thought his age was either a mistake by his parents or a joke played by the universe on him, and he still couldn’t get used to, accept, or acknowledge the fact. It wasn’t until one day when he suddenly realized someone called him "Brother Jiong" that he realized all the actors in the crew called him "Brother Jiong," and none of them were being polite—it was all genuine. And indeed, he was the one among them who was the "oldest." The new book contains one hundred thousand words and records He Jiong’s reflections on life, love, acting, travel, and other aspects. When a reporter asked about the content related to emotions, He Jiong frankly admitted that it included his thoughts on the emotional stories of his friends, including Li Xiang, and described his feelings about love as "very profound." Of course, this part also shares some details about his relationship with his girlfriend, which was a groundbreaking move for him. "Previously, I was very reluctant to talk about love, but after turning thirty, I felt it was okay to discuss it." Additionally, the book includes many photos of He Jiong, along with a VCD that he personally made. The VCD features behind-the-scenes footage of him recording albums, hosting Happy Camp, and clips from interviews on Behind the Story. In He Jiong’s words, this VCD is "very exciting."
Preface: On April 28, 2004, I turned thirty! I dared to announce this somewhat awkward news so openly because I was still stubbornly convinced that I hadn’t lost my relevance, hadn’t given up, and wasn’t old-fashioned. I believed my age was either a mistake by my parents or a joke played by the universe on me, and I still couldn’t get used to, accept, or acknowledge the fact. When did it start that people called me "Brother Jiong"? One day, backstage at a play, my older brother heard someone call me "Brother Jiong" and was overjoyed at such a respectful title, finding it very unfamiliar. That’s when I realized that all the actors in the crew called me "Brother Jiong," and none of them were being polite—it was all genuine. Because I really was the one among them who was the "oldest." Later, I noticed many signs reminding me of this: for example, the Happy Camp I had been hosting for years was about to celebrate its seventh anniversary; I was invited to serve as a judge at an awards ceremony alongside other seasoned professionals (the word "seasoned" was definitely linked to age); when filling out forms, I no longer found a suitable option in the age range section; in the music charts, seventy percent of the songs I no longer genuinely liked, and twenty percent of them, I barely understood anymore; a colleague told me his birth year, while I was almost graduating from high school; almost no young children called me "brother," and suddenly everyone referred to me as "Uncle He"; I couldn’t remember what I ate last night; I was becoming more fond of reminiscing and looking back; without even thinking, I chose such a theme for this book.
One day, there was a small conflict in our play crew, and I tried to mediate. Just as things were getting lively, I remembered that my medicine for my voice was about to go bad, so I went inside to take it. Afterwards, I felt extremely embarrassed, realizing I had been very unhelpful. I wasn’t like this when I was young. I remember once in college, a group of drunks were harassing a girl, and I bravely rushed in, only to be cornered in the hallway of the girls’ dorm by a few drunks and beaten up. My friend came to my aid, and we were surrounded by a crowd of girls, getting beaten up without being able to fight back—it was a brutal scene. For a long time afterward, my face was covered in bruises. But that scene was so youthful and exhilarating, so full of boldness and spirit. Now, how could I think about that bowl of medicine when things got urgent? Back then, I once thought, if I reached my twenty-fourth birthday in the year of the rat, I would be so mature! Later, the year turned to 1998, and I was twenty-four, but there were no obvious changes. I was still living my days the same way. Later, I thought, if I reached my thirtieth birthday in 2004, I would be so mature! Now, it seems that in the blink of an eye, that deadline has arrived. It still seems like there are no significant changes, yet everything feels different. I once thought that by the time I turned thirty, I would be very clear about what I wanted. But later, I realized that the reason my goals no longer seemed vague was because I was increasingly aware that there was less and less I could hold onto.
Zhang Ai-jia said, "At twenty, you can wear whatever you want, and it looks good; at thirty, there are many restrictions—this can’t be long, this can’t be short; by forty, there’s hardly anything that fits, and once you find something that does, you refuse to take it off." What she said applies not just to clothing. One day, I came across a post by a good friend online, describing a picture for an article called The World’s Last Day: it was a hand-drawn scene of a family gathering at home in the evening—the mother drinking coffee, the father pouring it, the two daughters building blocks on the living room rug. Many young people didn’t understand and questioned why the world’s last day could be so ordinary. The meaning of the post was that true happiness lies in going to work and home on time, spending the evening with your loved one reading, watching TV, chatting, and then hugging before sleep. These seemingly routine chores are actually the best kind of happiness. Maturity is about understanding life’s ultimate pursuit—perhaps it’s having family around, drinking a good cup of tea when the leaves turn red, and having a fresh bed to sleep in at the end of each day. I suddenly found myself accepting this perspective, though I also knew that many young friends might not agree and would still long for a vibrant, romantic, and thrilling life. Because of this post, unwillingly but undeniably, I realized that I had already grown up. I’m stuck in this dilemma—reluctant to be an adult but unwilling to be treated like a child. As 2004 flew by, I noticed that while I was still lamenting turning thirty, I was also eagerly approaching thirty-one. I then realized that thirty had also easily become an age to be cherished.
2004 was kind to me—I had my st solo album Can Love He Jiong, and releasing albums allowed me to receive some professional awards. I won an award as a program host at the Golden Eagle Awards, took on the role of the male lead in Zhengde Yanyi for the first time, and now, after three years, I’m publishing my fourth book. If you like me, you don’t need to buy this book—this collection includes the writings I’ve shared in my column or elsewhere over the past three years, and friends who follow me have likely read some of it; if you don’t like me, you don’t need to buy this book either, because it records my most authentic inner feelings, and if you don’t like me, you might not be interested. But if you long for happiness, you should read these words, and if you believe in happiness, you should look at the carefully curated photographic collection that comes with the book. A man at the age of thirty, though not claiming to be experienced, has become increasingly aware of what happiness truly is. If you resonate with this, then that is my best happiness.