Christopher Waller

“A piece of newspaper had stuck to a bun, and gravely he peeled it away; the ink had transferred to the bun, and the writing was in reverse, as in a mirror. He pored over the words till he could make them out: "Obituaries... Positions Wanted... Stock Market Developments ...Now Playing..."—all normal, useful expressions, though funny, somehow, seen on a bun. Eating, it seems, is serious business; it turns everything else, by way of contrast, into a joke.”
― Zhang Ailing

“There was Wang Qiyao in her autumn coat, her hair blown about by the wind as she tightly clutched her lambskin purse. Her eyes were fixed ahead, as if she was searching for something… this chance encounter filled him with despair. It was a scene emblematic of a chaotic world, one snapshot in a life that was flying past.”
― Wang Anyi, The Song of Everlasting Sorrow: A Novel of Shanghai

“The old fellow gazed out at the empty tent, painted a soft green by the carbide lamps, and at the tables, now missing their tablecloths, and felt utterly desolate, imagining that this is what his funeral would be like: the tent would become a place of mourning, but there would be no dutiful sons or grandsons in mourning attire kneeling before his coffin, nothing but a few casual acquaintances playing mahjong through the night”
― Lao She, Rickshaw Boy

“The tramcar would have gone on forever, if the city hadn't been shut down. It was. The streets were sealed off. "Ding-dingding-ding" rang the bell. Each "ding" was a small, cold dot: dot after dot, they formed a line that cut through space and time.”
― Zhang Ailing