Many years ago, Saining and I had great ambitions and formed a band. But Hong just lolled around all day, living only for love. Now she's a writer, and her writing has become a kind of trend, spontaneous and of the moment. Hong the writer and her imitators were overnight sensations—at least their bullshit images were. If you browse the black-market bookstalls, you'll see pirated versions of their books displayed all together, right next to the cheap quarzt watches. What I'm trying to say is that fame is a crock of shit! Other people pick out the most searing elements of Hong's writing and turn them into badges. Then they pin them onto their own crap, and it makes them rich and famous. The papers say this kind of writing "represents youth culture in transformation."

Representative, my ass! That's what Hong said. She said, I'm thrilled to death that I can't speak for anyone or anything. The window is open, and we can see the ocean outside, but our bodies are still here, inside. These times are witnessing the birth of many new things, people are abadoning the old rules, and everything's looser.

Mian, Mian. Candy, Andrea Lingnfelter, Trans. New York: Back Bay Books, 2003. (1st pub Zhongguo Xiju Chubanshe, 2000)