The narrative seems simple but it's actually saying a lot about how little literature and writing is valued in Singapore, even more so for Chinese writing; about how booksellers and local publishers struggle to survive in such a climate; about the experience of ageing in Singapore where yes, the healthcare options are world class but they are also very expensive; about the lonely elderly who are largely invisible to the rest of society and how terrifying it is to confront the possibility of dying alone without anyone knowing, especially for those who live alone or who don't have caregivers; about how so many people are getting cancer these days and no one knows why; and last but not least, about how the necessity of a day job saps away one's creative energies and makes it difficult to produce works.
It didn't register like that to me at first, though. I thought it was comedy because it starts out with the protagonist, Ming Fai, bumping into his ex-rival who stole his first love over forty years ago. The beef is well done at this point, but he's still so pissed off at this guy, who is lowkey stalking Ming Fai so he can yap about himself and bitch about his wife, the very woman he stole. They're both pushing seventy by the way. Ming Fai comes off as a thoroughly ordinary old man, one who frequents the same few kopitiams, eats the same few dishes, meets the same few friends. He's susceptible to flights of fancy but never delusions of grandeur; he knows his place. But as he argues, so what? Must writers live colourfully (or scandalously) to write? He doesn't harm anyone or meddle in anyone's affairs, very much a guy who stays in his own lane and minds his own business. At the same time, I liked that the author did not let him off that easily and made it clear that indifference/ apathy/ inaction also has consequences.