It strikes me as sad that some haven’t seen what should be obvious.
I sometimes think of the activist world as being like the jianghu of Chinese-language martial arts novels.
In the absence of concrete facts, frightful rumors flourish.
It’s strange to me that people actually think they save a lot by spending a lot.
They are all fools and nou-choi in a sense; none of them have the sense to confront the master.
“Get to the point in just Chinese” echoes in my head every time she talks to me, while I only look at her expressionlessly, struggling to be polite.
I’ve become increasingly aware of how much of my reputation in Taiwan is built on the knowledge of my New York upbringing.
For a split second I had constructed a little narrative that Paul Manafort was here, trying to rebuild his life working in hospitality in eastern China.
Here’s where the conversation, which had already been strange enough, truly took a turn for the bizarre.