"Facing eternity, or the lack of it, each day."
It is strange to think that these words, spoken by a foreigner so long ago, could describe our current situation so well.
When an author first starts writing, they value craft and skill. Eventually, though, stamina – and things learned from personal experience – are what really matter. Today a writer’s vision is more important than ever.
The part of the brain responsible for producing and understanding speech is called Broca’s area. As it happens, that area is also responsible for processing music.
There’s a lot of research suggesting that musical training also brings language-related benefits. One is that musicians learn second languages faster than non-musicians.
Ever since the rise of personal computers in the 1980s, the typewriter has become an object of nostalgia, and commitment to one the mark of a luddite, ranging in likeability from Frank Navasky, the eccentric reporter in You’ve Got Mail (1998), to the Unabomber, who composed his letters on a Smith Corona. The Chinese typewriter, which has been even more displaced by modern word processing, is less well known, especially to those unfamiliar with the language and script.
How I Learned to Drive, a 1998 Pulitzer Prize-winning drama about sexual abuse by Paula Vogel first performed in New York, made its debut in Chinese this December at one of Beijing’s leading independent theaters. The performance premiered as the country raged over recent scandals plaguing China, including allegations against professors at Nanchang and Beihang universities in the midst of China’s own #metoo movement. On a cold Friday night, over two hundred Beijingers, mostly in their twenties, came out to watch the play. Some couples held hands tightly and while others averted their eyes as they saw the character Uncle Peck subject his twelve-year-old niece Bit to unwanted touching.
I had originally meant to leave Beijing on the Friday after I arrived, but when I went to the main train station on Thursday to pick up a ticket, I was told that all the tickets had been sold, and that the next available ticket was for Saturday afternoon, and yingzuo.
Yingzuo means “hard seat,” and refers to a class of ticket that will get its holder a spot on a thinly-padded wooden bench with three other people. Yingzuo is considered uncomfortable by even seasoned travellers, ones who can understand Beijing cabbies and use Chinese-style squatter toilets without flinching.
