Who is your favorite cartoon character?
I have none—choice was scarce in my childhood. Yet Old Master Q (Lao Fu Zi) stood as one of the most iconic Chinese comic series, spanning both television and newspaper pages.
Its protagonist wears traditional Chinese attire, carries an old-fashioned air, yet hides a playful, mischievous streak. His best friend, Big Potato (Dan Fan Shu), is a touch daft but delivers endless comic relief.
The comic’s signature? Four-character Chinese idioms as titles—capturing the humorous, often surreal predicaments of its characters. It mirrored my homeland’s shifting times from the 1960s onward, weaving traditional Chinese culture with modern Western influences. A few examples: nài rén xún wèi (food for thought), zì tǎo kǔ chī (asking for trouble), è yǒu è bào (evil returns to the evildoer). All of this echoed my parents’ teachings.
So with my mother’s blessing, I watched the ten-minute episode each week before leaving for school. They approved because the comic enlivened classroom lessons with vivid, humorous storytelling—and whetted my appetite for learning Chinese idioms.
Today, traditional comics like Lao Fu Zi no longer exist in children’s worlds. Conventional wisdom and values gather dust in history books. The digital age’s attention economy has arrived, making quick money, high traffic, and fast ascension the coveted prizes of modern pursuit. This transformation is driven by social media algorithms—digital economics and online rivalries are perhaps hardly reversible.
Such phenomena have outpaced any other societal change. I wonder: if children today were asked to name their favourite cartoon character, what would they choose? Perhaps they’d offer a favourite protagonist archetype rather than those naive imaginary figures—unknown to them, existing only in my generation and those before.
Last week, I took the lift from my home with two neighbours—a father in his forties and his teenage son, strangers to me. When we reached the ground floor, the security staff greeted us with “good morning.” I responded; they didn’t. She then reached for the door, opened it, and held it for us. I said “Thank you”; they offered not a word, not a gesture. Both were muttering about their video game characters. I wasn’t surprised—such scenes are hardly uncommon. But I sighed—for those cartoon teachers, Chinese and Western alike, who brought us joy and taught us humility, politeness, and respect, are no longer cherished.
It’s the world of IG/YouTube influencers, KOLs, and the like. High traffic, fast delivery, quick money—these are the chase. What we once believed—”Nature takes its time, and great things take time”—now feels outdated. In the virtual world, Rome can be built in a day, even at the cost of your health or harmonious relationships.
The poem below invites reflection on how the digital age affects the new generation—and our own use of the internet.
—
“Life Online”
Yesterday’s youth: seek knowledge, rise to the top.
Today’s youth: seek traffic, rise to fame.
Books they scorn; games they adore.
Sleepless nights, scrolling evermore.
The internet is their home,
Where traffic grows and money flows.
Parents don’t object—so long as wealth is made.
Society won’t reject—everyone’s getting paid.
Fame and fortune blind the eyes;
Whose name will trend tonight?
Lost an esports battle? Hit restart and fight.
Can’t sell your goods online? Bounce back overnight.
Alas, ten golden years slip swiftly by—
Yet youth, once gone, will never return.
—
en yan hua fang 