Throughout history, the handkerchiefs used by three individuals alone are worthy of being recorded for eternity. The first is Vincent van Gogh. We shouldn't only remember him for painting "Sunflowers." After a heated argument with Gauguin, Van Gogh cut off one of his own ears, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and gave it to a woman. If that handkerchief still existed today, it would certainly be worth more than "Sunflowers." The second is Lin Daiyu, who, on her deathbed, burned her manuscripts—poems she had once written on handkerchiefs. As the lyrics go: "This poetry-laden handkerchief was always with her, wiping away so many of my old tears. Had I known human feelings are thinner than paper, I would regret keeping this poetic handkerchief until now..." The third owner, Pavarotti, does not represent a tragedy. Every time he stepped on stage, he held a white handkerchief in his right hand, creating a striking contrast—black against white, heavy against light—with his 300-pound frame and thick, dark beard. This not only offered a visually impactful unity of opposites but also made him seem like the ambassador of handkerchiefs.
There is a fourth person who showed the world his handkerchief. Probably few people around the world remember him, yet he stubbornly hoped people would remember the handkerchief and that it should not become a thing of the past. He is Lester Brown, director of the Earth Policy Institute in the United States. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he said that for the past 30 years, he has used only handkerchiefs, never paper tissues. And the handkerchief he pulled out was half-worn. This wealthy yet deeply concerned American elder has not driven a car for 30 years, and his monthly electricity bill is just $3.85—living as if experiencing the simple life of three decades ago.
Thirty years ago, we also lived a simple life. Handkerchiefs were an essential part of daily living. Everyone, young and old, carried one. The current annual consumption of 8.5 kilograms of household paper per person is a recent phenomenon. The children's game "Drop the Handkerchief, drop the handkerchief, gently place it behind a little friend, don't let anyone know..." has become a classic, illustrating the social status of handkerchiefs. Children pinned them to the left chest, while men stuffed them in their pockets like old rags, along with keys and coins. But in women's hands, a handkerchief became much more than a mere cloth: a thrifty woman might wrap two steamed buns in it; a graceful woman might casually tie it around her ponytail, instantly bringing a riot of color and making her black hair flutter. As for an elegant woman, she would hold the handkerchief delicately in her palm when going out—it could be used to wipe, as a fan, or to conceal inner feelings. At this moment, the handkerchief gained spiritual significance, restoring the function of the "luo pa" (silk handkerchief). In classical tales, when a young lady secretly pledged her love in the garden, she would surely hold a "luo pa" in her fair hand—this handkerchief was often a token of affection.
In China, a handkerchief conveys one sentiment; in the United States, one handkerchief isn't enough—one needs at least a hundred. Americans love hanging hundreds of yellow handkerchiefs—symbolizing longing and waiting for loved ones whose fates are uncertain—on the old oak tree in front of their homes. The American yellow handkerchief conveys familial love, and the color yellow is the warmest of all. Around the yellow handkerchiefs beneath the old oak, Americans created original novels, films, and songs, all first-rate classics. Japan's Ken Takakura even filmed a movie with the same title. A few years ago, when Russia's Kursk submarine sank, the families of the crew refused for a long time to remove the yellow handkerchiefs from the birch trees. Half a century later, Koreans, unafraid of following others' ideas, produced a highly-rated TV drama titled "The Yellow Ribbon." The yellow handkerchief has become a conventional symbol for missing loved ones. Longing is heart-wrenching, yet the yellow handkerchief is happy, because it always has a reason to survive.
Focusing only on emotion and ignoring practicality seems to contradict the original purpose of the handkerchief. Mr. Lester Brown, who lives a simple life, advocates replacing paper tissues with handkerchiefs—a state of mind akin to "having seen the sea, one cannot be impressed by mere rivers." However, what matters most is that a handkerchief should be as meticulously cared for as the collar of a white shirt; otherwise, simplicity becomes mere sloppiness.