Stealing isn't merely a matter of dexterity or skill. It's closer to a way of seeing the world, an attitude toward creation. In creation, this bizarre act is both a sly appropriation of others' work and an act of self-display that inevitably reveals the self. More depressingly amusing is the sophistry that the more one takes, the closer one gets to the ‘true self’. Now, let us unfold the thirteen tenets of the spirit of Stealing. Even if it seems like rotten humor, it's worth chewing on like freeze-dried jelly.

Stealing is not a skill of the hand, but a state of mind

The mere ability to copy others is nothing more than Xerox photocopying technology. True Stealing stems from viewing the world as a ‘vast storehouse of things worth stealing’. The mindset that sees everything—a single pebble on the road, a fragment of overheard conversation, a scene from an old movie—as potential spoils, constantly asking ‘What if I brought that into my work?’, is the starting point of Stealing. Technique comes later. The spirit of deciding to steal comes first.

Every creator is essentially a thief.

Picasso's statement, “Good artists copy, great artists steal,” isn't just pretentious posturing. Shakespeare stole ancient tales and made them his own; Bach deconstructed and reassembled the melodies of his predecessors. Even the most refined modern artists unknowingly pinch each other's ideas and borrow inspiration. The moment we acknowledge the truth that there is nothing new under the sun, we confront the reality that we are all thieves. The difference lies only in how brazenly, or how elegantly, we steal.

A good thief steals with discernment and edits with intelligence.

Stealing anything indiscriminately and turning it into a rainbow sherbet mess is the worst of the worst. True skill reveals itself in the sharp discernment of ‘what to steal’. The ability to find value in what others overlook, and to seek out the piece that fits precisely within the context of one's own work. And the editing sense to transform what you've stolen into your own style, to clash it with other elements or arrange it harmoniously. This is what separates the results. Good stealing is not just mechanical appropriation; it is outstanding curation and a work of re-creation.

The desire to steal is another name for admiration and love.

The intense desire to steal something paradoxically stems from deep admiration and love for it. Without being captivated by the perfect rhythm of that sentence, the shocking beauty of that image, the intricate structure of that story, the urge to steal wouldn't even arise. Of course, this might be romanticizing the desire for what isn't mine, but it's hard to deny that beneath it lies an intense interest and analysis of the object—a kind of ‘fan devotion,’ a profound love.

Therefore, creative stealing can be an homage.

Building on the previous point, ‘stealing born of admiration and love’ can be an expression of respect and gratitude toward the original creator—a kind of ‘tribute’. Acts like unconsciously mimicking a favorite author's style, paying homage to a scene by a respected director, or trying to replicate the visual language of an admired graphic designer. Of course, this could be genuinely pure admiration, or it could be a convenient excuse to mask a lack of originality. The important thing is that if the result looks plausible, people will gladly attach the beautiful label of ‘homage’. Ironically, interpretation always belongs to the victor.

Nothing in this world is truly ‘mine’. Everything is borrowed.

The words you use, your sentence structures, plot devices, even the ideas you believe to be original. Dig deep enough, and their roots connect to something that already existed. Language is a social contract, stories are variations on humanity's shared archetypes, and even the ways we express emotion are learned. Accepting this cold reality frees us somewhat from the compulsion to ‘create something from nothing’. Furthermore, if everything is borrowed, what matters becomes ‘what we borrow and how we combine it anew’.

The paradox of speaking for myself through others' words—that is creation.

If we cannot invent a completely new language, we have no choice but to express ourselves using borrowed language. When we take words written by others, structures created by others, and imbue them with our own emotions and project our own perspective, only then does it become ours. It's like borrowing someone else's clothes and finding they fit you strangely well. This process transcends mechanical imitation; it is the essential mechanism of creation, forming and manifesting the self through interaction with the external world. The paradox of finding one's true voice while imitating others'.

Stealing is an act of acknowledging anxiety and resisting oblivion.

Creators are perpetually anxious. Has my story already been told? Isn't this just a retelling of someone else's tale? And do I even possess anything truly my own? Thieves confront this anxiety head-on, refusing to evade it. It is an act of declaring, “Yes, I didn't create this alone, but this combination here, this perspective, is clearly mine.” Simultaneously, it resists forgetting by summoning back into the present and re-illuminating the good things of the past that were in danger of being forgotten. Stealing is both a dialogue with the past and a way of mourning what is fading away.

Breathing new life into what has been stolen.

Stealing sentences that lay dead like museum specimens, images faded like old film, ideas hardened like fossils, and making them breathe again within your work. This is the ‘creative resurrection’ Stealing pursues. Of course, done poorly, it risks looking like necromancy—merely digging up the dead for display. What matters is the ability to infuse new blood through your own context and sensibility, transforming it into an entirely different organism—far beyond simple transplantation.

A good thief doesn't hide traces; they reveal them.

Some thieves struggle desperately to conceal their theft, while others subtly reveal traces to showcase their discernment and transformative skill. They do this by adding quotation marks, mentioning influences in interviews, or cleverly hiding homages within their work. This goes beyond honesty; it's an expression of confidence. “Yes. I know this much, and I have the ability to transform it like this.” Of course, it's hard to deny that this can sometimes be calculated honesty to avoid criticism.

Citing sources is a responsibility that separates fraud from creation.

Transparently acknowledging where one draws inspiration or which works influenced them isn't merely a means to avoid legal trouble. It's a sign of respect for predecessors and peers as part of the creative ecosystem, while also placing one's own work within a broader cultural context. Conversely, deliberately concealing sources—especially on social media to claim all the glory—is outright fraud and deception. Of course, the problem is there's no clear answer on exactly how far you should go in acknowledging sources. To some extent, it depends on your acquired ‘sense of reading the atmosphere’.

Of course, there's also the path of stealing and failing.

Not all stealing leads to successful creation. When you take only the shell without deep understanding of the original work, force elements that don't fit your own context, or lazily replicate without the ability to transform what you've taken, the result is utterly disastrous. Stealing produces nothing more than tedious imitations relying on the original's aura, or clumsy patchworks that inspire no emotion. There is a level of sophistication to stealing; stealing without discernment or deliberation is a direct path to ruin.

The worldview of hyperlinks, and the final question.

Ultimately, Stealing connects to the worldview of hyperlinks: ‘I am not an isolated being; everything is interconnected.’ I stand upon the legacy of the past, breathe within the currents of my own time, and leave something behind for future generations. Standing on the shoulders of others, viewing the world through borrowed lenses. This is how creators engage with the world. So the real question we should be asking isn't the naive “Is it okay to steal?” but this: “Can we truly create anything without stealing?”