Last Sunday, the first Sunday of the 1990s, elderly members of Taiwan's poetry circle held a small dinner party to celebrate the birthday of Chou Meng-tieh who has been called the "king of the solitary kingdom of poetry." This month marks his seventieth birthday, and The Solitary Kingdom is the title of one of his volumes of poetry.

Over twenty people attended last Sunday's party, and they consisted of people from three of Taiwan's earliest poetry clubs, namely Modern Poetry, Blue Star, and Genesis. Also present were a renowned member of the May Art Society, Chen Ting-shih, and two or three of Chou Meng-tieh's close friends. There were two tables altogether, the atmosphere was warm and the food was exquisite. The venue was a high-class, family-operated restaurant on Jen Ai Road. Chou is single and without family. His friends are his family. Although the guests were few in number, they were mostly old friends from the early days of modern poetry. It was little wonder that poet Yu Kwuang-chung remarked, "Today's gathering of old friends makes me feel as if we've returned to the old days." Truly, I seemed to have returned to the fifties and sixties. Particularly the fifties, the cold, solitary and yet youthful, precious and creative fifties.

Every one of these poets from the fifties, whether they started the careers young or old, had their own respectable history of creative works, and every poetry club had its own historical development. Today's birthday honoree, Chou Meng-tieh, is the most legendary figure in our midst. His name, his existence and his livelihood all have an inseparable relationship with one of Taipei's oldest coffee shops.

The coffee shop was opened by a White Russian, and is located on Section One of Wuchang Street, near its intersection with Chungking South Road. It is on the second and third floor of a three-story building. The first floor is a bakery. Having described it this far, I am sure everyone already knows which coffee shop I mean. Well-known among Taipei's early it is none other than the Astoria coffeehouse. The Astoria, with its over forty-year history, has advanced in stride with party guests, most of whom began their careers in the fifties; it too is a legacy of the fifties.

In the society of the fifties, everything was hard, closed, crude, and most people lived simple lives. Frequenting coffee shops was considered an extravagant luxury. Furthermore, it was considered a transplant from a foreign culture. Its Chinese counterpart was the teahouse. Most city dwellers liked the hustle and bustle. But the streets then were not animated enough, so they made pots of tea after work and frequented the theaters and music halls. Their eyes, mouths, ears and throats were never idle in these places; as though that was the only way they could satisfy themselves. After the show, they left behind a layer of sunflower seed shells on the floor for others to clean up. The preference for teahouses explained why the coffee shops were relatively unpopular.

Although the Astoria may not have been the oldest coffee shop at the time, it was definitely one of the oldest. In the fifties, while our society was still very simple and had a strong Japanese influence, the Astoria exuded a bit of the flavor of European art salons. The young intellectuals of the period, in particular, who had been exposed to old Russian literary works, dreamed of the salons they had read about, and the Astoria provided them with such a setting. Unlike the noisy teahouses, the coffee shop offered soothing background music. After softly ascending up a flight of steps, and ordering a cup of coffee, you could quietly read a book or chat with friends; all quite relaxing. And if you happened to see some writers you admired, one could go over and chat with them. But if they were busy editing or writing, you had better not bother them for the moment, because their manuscripts needed to be rushed to the printing press. They owed their readers and subscribers a responsibility.

Editors of the Literary Quarterly and Pi Hui used to work in this coffee shop, and members of our Blue Star club often met there to chat or discuss club matters. Every time there was occasion to celebrate, we would all put up some money to hold a party to which we invited club officers and poets. Other than its hot coffee, the Astoria was also renowned for its pastries prepared by excellent chefs.

Although the Astoria offered the romantic ambience that everyone dreamed of, it was actually a very simple and classic coffee shop. It was unlike the coffee shops or teahouses of the eighties with their fabricated "simple and rustic" decor; a fishing net here, a mud-stained cartwheel there, and a large water barrel next to the counter. Pretty, but a little fake. The Astoria never gave one that feeling; nor was it ever specially decorated. Its white walls were not adorned with wall-paper, but instead with a few small, exquisite, framed pictures that were casually put there. The whole shop is not very large, but the high staircase and the soft music fit the pace of the fifties, which resembles a natural, unforced pulse beat.

In the late sixties and the early seventies, the number of better-quality coffee shops increased. Against this background, a coffee shop with even greater literary and artistic appeal called the Writers' Coffeehouse was set up by a group of writers. They rented a four-story building on Omei Street, the first floor of which was used by the landlord himself, while the other floors were furnished with coffee tables. They organized various literary and art activities, such as large-scale poetry recitations, literary and art seminars, and entertained overseas scholars and writers. The literati and artists who used to frequent the Astoria, all switched to the Writers' Coffeehouse, and it became tremendously popular. But this did not last long; the artists lacked business acumen, the rent was too expensive, and the budget ran a deficit. The losses accumulated daily until the writers lost all their capital and finally closed shop. However, the Astoria remained the same.

People often associate the Astoria with Chou Meng-tieh. From the last year of the sixties till the end of the eighties, Chou maintained a book stall across the street from the Astoria. Several years ago, because of serious illness, Chou closed his bookstall and moved to seclusion in the suburbs, and he was no more to be seen in front of the Astoria.

Society is changing rapidly, and the current of change never stands still. The eighties are here, the standard of living has risen, and nearly all the low Japanese-style houses have turned into skyscrapers. Coffee shops that strive for swankiness and oriental teahouses that strive for ambience appear constantly; there seems to be one on every street. Only the Astoria remains unchanged. Now I hear that it has gone out of business and been torn down. Its closure symbolizes the demise of the simple and yet elegant culture of the fifties, and one cannot help feeling a tinge of sadness.

[Picture Caption]

Chatting and reading in the Astoria was a happy part of the lives of many Taipei residents.

A plain inkwash painting and a pair of glowing wall lamps once accompanied the unbridled discussions of many figures from the artistic and literary world.

A plain inkwash painting and a pair of glowing wall lamps once accompanied the unbridled discussions of many figures from the artistic and literary world.