“He wasn’t late, this detective. She was early. She had told him to meet her at eleven. She had eaten a light breakfast at nine. Then, terrified of facing the desert of the day, she had walked over at nine thirty.”
“9:45 AM, Monday, the heat was oppressive, clouds unmoving, the sky a toxic blue.”
“I had read lots of news about people being kidnapped on the bus, usually when they were sleepy. I had an instinct that I should be careful tonight.”
“Ah! Matchmaking corner! I remember it! We used to walk along the river every day! Ah! I miss the dandelions! The dandelions in the town have all been pulled out. “
I heard him calling out every night. The voice was mixed with acute distress and anguish. It was sometimes loud and sometimes low, and it was getting fainter: one can sense the life of its owner draining away.
In 1351, on the banks of the Yellow River, in the hands of a few downtrodden laborers, history began to turn.
Zhu’s text will resonate deeply with anyone who has a curiosity into the internal life of words—how they live, how they move, how they capture us.
Mate, oolong, jasmine . . . in this personal tale of transnational existence, author Ruru Hoong discovers tea as a throughline across continents and generations, life and death.