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304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2024
"Naturally, Chef Bei was skilled in all the disciplines, and could prepare any dish the Emperor so desired. But once in a while, he would serve up exquisite combinations – roasted duck, twice-cooked pork, lamb hotpot – only to reveal by meal's end, and to the Emperor's roars of laughter, that it had been tofu all along."
"He wanted no story of simple ascension, wanted nothing of the truth of how He had won that slippery throne. For the youth knew Himself to be Exceptional, and Exceptional Men (such as He) had Exceptional Stories. They came to be Emperors through cunning, ruthless strategy and force of will. They certainly did not do it by gawping as their purple-faced fathers clawed and sputtered on what would later be determined to be an awkwardly lodged chicken bone. Exceptional Men did not watch, frozen, unable or unwilling to help. Exceptional Men did not wait, in lacklustre fealty, for that final breathless minute to expire."
" 'This all feels so surreal,' I say. 'Three days ago I was in Sydney, wallowing in jobless solitude. Then I meet you, and it feels like I've known you my entire life. And now, I'm flying across an ocean, bound for China's most infamous ghost city.'
'You know,' she says, looking out the window, 'I have always had this silly thought that maybe, somehow, every city is the same. So when you go from one place to another, it's simply an illusion of flight. The take-off and landing is a simulation. In reality, you've never left the ground, or maybe you have, but are simply flying around in circles for hours, waiting for the new city to "load".'
'Is this why all airports look the same?' I ask.
She nods significantly. 'See? It takes longer for international flights because the city needs to undergo a more drastic change. But domestic flights are quicker. Why? Because the streets and buildings are already similar. They need less time to change.'"
"What I was on the cusp of saying to her then, on the street, halfway between the gallery and the ruins of the neighbouring canton, and what I did say to her eventually, much, much later, once, after emerging from the shower, brow furrowed, eyes down, because it is much easier to remember the order of words like that, a mini-speech practised in my head, was this:
'If you are living a life aligned towards art – the making of it, the receiving of it – then the patterns you leave in your wake, whether you are aware of them or not, whether you intend them to be or not, will be indistinguishable from the art itself.'"