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256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1996
On one occasion, in a second-year survey examination, I think, in answer to the question, "Would you say that you deeply love politics?" my response was, "Only if it is permissible to lie," which netted me a long talking to by the school authorities.It's been a minute since I read something of this sort: experimental, trauma, mental illness, woman. Add in queer and the eye of the storm of Tiananmen Square, and you have a tale that could've gone much longer on thematic inertia alone. Thank goodness it didn't, as while most of this narrative engaged me in unexpectedly extraordinary ways, there were also a handful of moments when I had to step back from my immediate perceptions and acknowledge how much more easily I would be able to deal with this if it benefited more from the arbiters of (Anglo) status quo: Woolf & Frame & Lispector, to name a few. It was what kept me afloat past prepubescent (pedophilic) encounters with multiple sexes and into the realm of truly touching scenes of social and sexual reclamation, a fiercely individual track wending its way through the torn connections and drowned mentalscapes of China in the last decades of the 20th c.
Time is an artist. I am a stone rubbing: the lineaments of a range of peaks, of the caves of a grotto. Before I came into this world, the picture was already complete. As I slowly proceed along the watercourse of this segment of time, I discover my place in it. I see that the picture itself is a piece of history, a depiction of the life of all women.