In this city in Southern China, I read a poorly edited book of modern Chinese fiction, Chairman Mao Would Not Be Amused. I correct the text with a pen, out of stringent habit. Maybe, the writers did not permit their text to be edited. Some of these stories have been turned into films, such as Raise the Red Lantern.
The first time I heard the name Herodotus was in a song written by These New Puritans, a UK group. Listening to music by a group called Wall, now. Anyway, Herodotus was a historian and storyteller. The responses to his work in his life typically encompass other recorded comments that range from disbelief to incredulousness.
I think about how anacoluthons are stylish in contemporary writing. Briefly, Goldblatt on Chinese literature's eras, "'scar literature' gave way in the late 1970s and early 1980s to 'introspective writing' and 'root-seeking literature,' both of which would have fit nicely into Mao's plans to keep the socialist pot boiling" (7). Goldblatt engages with speculation on the likes and dislikes of Mao. The sound of fireworks erupts on the streets.
It is always cloudy here, like I imagine in Seattle or like the Bay Area. The difference, I'm supposing, is that the clouds do not burn off like the smog in San Francisco. Near bus stops, no cruciverbalists, but people play card games and a game with pieces similar to Dominos™. Here, mobile phones are used by a smaller portion of the populace. There are carts selling everything from handwarmers to pears larger than American ones. Classicists drink Coke™ at bars and mention tradition.
Topically, that's the city.
Posts
