Upon being offered to write a column for the opinion section in this newspaper, I found myself at a loss as to what to say. Sure, had I been asked where my latest interests lay, I would have barely hesitated in providing a list of subjects: how miraculous the twin-turbo V8 of the 2015 Ferrari California must sound, what might be going through the mind of Gwyneth Paltrow when hearing her ex-hubby’s latest hymn to the twenty-something heroine of The Hunger Games, or why, for example, learning the art of Thai food may be a better choice than picking up ancient Greek for middle aged men.

But as for opinion, aren’t there too many of them flooding around the world as it is? Not just in everyday newspapers but on the Internet where almost everyone seems to have a say on everything. The real rub, however, stems from the weight attached to the word opinion itself. Because even in this so-called cyber-democratic age, few people get the privilege to air their thoughts under the headline of opinion, the latter requiring a good measure of credentials, authority, legitimacy, or even that mystery of all mysteries called aura. But aren’t those exactly what the fateful event of 4·16 and its undying aftermath annihilated?

Better to keep to yourself what may be construed as opinions. Even if or especially when one’s day-job happens to be a professor. This is not after all the height of the enlightenment era when university teachers had the due responsibility to pronounce their thoughts and learning to the public (which incidentally is the essential meaning of the term “profess”). So as I was looking for a way to dutifully decline the invitation for an article, news reached me on Twitter. By margin of 10%, Scotland’s independence was thwarted, it said. I was not particularly concerned about the economic future of the British Isles, or even the political stakes of the referendum for EU; even if, following the possible breakup, whiskey prices shot up, I would have stoically said, so be it. No, what the news reminded me was the reaction of young Scottish voters from age of 16 years old and up. How proud they must feel to know that they had a share in determining their nation’s destiny!

In his semi-autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce famously remarked, “Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.” I don’t know how to describe the state of this country which once went by the name morning calm, but one thing is for certain. There are too many old people laundering their solemn opinions in public and too small a number of youth making their voices heard. Until the latter begins to talk and start contributing to the future of this little Far Eastern corner under the sun, people like me ought to keep to themselves. One less adult contributing to the rabblement, so much the better.