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272 pages, Paperback
First published April 30, 2013
I'm not sure how to feel about Iris Chang, her accomplishments, and her death. There's the sickness I feel over her tragic end, and then there are the details we had in common that add a macabre quality. Mostly, though, what pained me and troubles me still about her death is that she was someone I looked up to, who gave me hope and a little bit more courage. I had considered her a better, more respectable version of myself. When someone whom you've admired can't stand the heat in the kitchen and decides to off herself, what are you supposed to do?
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Sometimes when I want to give up everything and not get out of bed, I think of Iris. Not because she would've definitely gotten out of bed, but because I can. I have the chance to write about all these things that happen to me, and somewhere there's someone whom I may never meet and she is reading my books. Maybe my words can make her feel better, or inspire her to be the next writer who makes a difference. We all keep passing the baton to the next person who can tell the truth, and that humble continuity is what we'll need to break apart the abstract wall of Chinese silence that keeps us separate, each alone within ourselves.