A Poet’s Visit to the Temple of Literature and War in Hong Kong

And a tourist’s inability to distinguish between the Taoist gods of literature (Man) and war (Mo) and what it means to worship both 

I’m sure you can imagine a writer’s (and English literature student’s) excitement at the mere thought of a temple dedicated to the God of Literature. I knew exactly what I would pray for - literary success, a substantial following of readers, being ‘known’ for my words. I had a lot of demands from Man specifically, and was determined to get them across. I didn’t have nearly as much to ask for from the God of War (Mo), of course. 

Through all the looping coils of incense set against Man Mo Temple’s red and gold interiors and the many idols nestled in its wooden walls, the place was at once familiar and unfamiliar to my foreign eyes. Everything from inscriptions to prayers written on paper by worshippers, which were hanging on softly yellow lamps, were in a language that was inaccessible and broken to me. 

When I finally got to the main altar with the idols of both Man and Mo beside each other, I realised there was no clear way for me to distinguish between them. They looked quite the same to me, the only difference being the colour of their robes. There was no sign around to help me label them and I was too shy to ask around, afraid I wouldn’t be understood. I didn’t have a foolproof way anymore to ensure my prayers reached the right address. 

Eventually, I gave up trying to distinguish between them. Man would have to be Mo and Mo would have to be Man. In the incense-laden room, lines were steadily blurring between literature and war, and so too between art and weapons. I smiled to myself and made a mental note to write about the symbolism of it, and now here we are. Back then in November, I didn’t know how much more relevant this little poetic epiphany of mine would feel in the months to come. 

Because we live now, increasingly, in a world where our voices as artists are suffocated and silenced. Jokes are banned on the basis of obscenity (which is defined by the vague and elusive definitions of the powerful), trends like the Ghiblification of AI infringe dangerously on the very rights and lives of artists, creative spaces are raided and demolished by political mobs. 

But the simple, hopeful fact is: the powerful are afraid of the power of art. They are afraid it is an accessible weapon, one that can traverse countries and transcend time and language. You cannot extract the war from literature or vice-versa. Literature is war, because voices - how they are used and how they are silenced - are undeniably political. 

Of course, that wasn’t why the temple was originally built. It was really a testament to traditional Chinese values of finding a balance between scholarly achievement (Man Cheong, the God of literature and civil service) and martial prowess (Mo Tai, the God of Martial arts or war). The idea was to pray for intellectual and professional success while guaranteeing peace and security. 

But the beauty of worship, to me, is that the same act, across countries and religions and traditions, is allowed to have multiple meanings. Much like art and literature - subjective and all-inclusive, and essentially timeless and languageless because of its sheer power. 

I was still too shy to ask, however, how exactly I was expected to pray, if there was an essential practice I was missing because I wasn’t acquainted with the religion. Eventually an old man walked up to the altar. He placed one hand on the big bronze sculpture of the pen before the idols, his fingers caressing the tip. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and muttered his prayers. When he was done, I quietly followed him. 

Worship probably meant something entirely different to him than it did to me, but for that instant I was grateful to him. I felt closer to his God - or rather, to my idea of his God. My visit to the temple, once ripe with the promise of literary success, turned out to be not so much about reaching out to the divine - in fact, I probably failed at that. But it helped me make sense of what is divine to me. 

So to stand in the Man Mo temple, my eyes burning from the incense, breath-taken by coils of gold and copper and language still broken to me, and to pray to literature like it was war, art like it was a fight, this glorious craft like it was a weapon, was enough. I stood looking from Man to Mo for a long time, and soon enough it really didn’t matter to me which one of them received my prayers.