I am reading Years of Red Dust, some anecdotes and tales (stories, fiction) of Shanghai from 1949 to the more or less present (2005). For some reason, recalling a previous read, I thought the author, Qiu Xiaolong, was a woman, but I am mistaken. I am reading these stories through the lens of my own visits to China and history of China watching, and trying to adapt them to my own experiences. Is my condo association like a neighborhood political action committee? No, but it is frighteningly conceivable. Am I trapped in some world of limited potentials by my family background, my political persuasion? No, but I could be. But perhaps to even imagine these parallels, is to romanticize--not quite the right word--the reality of China from 1949 and on.
|Rich, red, zinfandel.|