They really are an "asshole" regime, as my--Chinese--friend says. It's funny, I know no Chinese assholes. None. Oh, Weili Ye is difficult and annoying. I wouldn't say she's an asshole though. Song. I can't claim to "know" Song. I know a lot about Song though. From what I know "of" Song, she's closer to being an asshole. Yeah, she's an asshole. But the regime? Well, my God.
I have sometimes rued that boozy night in 2006 when I made reservations to first go to China. China did not draw me in immediately. I thought Beijing was fake, still think it's fake, I had a great vacation there though. What first drew me in was reading about Song in Mao's Last Revolution after I came back. That was the hook. Of course, it was a negative hook if hooks can ever be positive. I was outraged that this symbol of the Cultural Revolution had changed her name, come to the U.S. and just went on living an elite life. There's a biography of, I think, Hemingway titled A Life Without Consequences. That has always struck me as the perfect title for the life of Song Binbin too.
That drew me in and I, as untold numbers of Westerners have, became utterly fascinated by the place. Endlessly interesting. Every page of every book, "What?" So different, so interesting. The people I have met and corresponded with, have, Weili Ye aside, been gracious, helpful. Friends, they became friends.
I cannot say that I love the Chinese people though. Even the friends I've made, I cannot say that I love them the way one can say one loves friends. In the 1990's I went to Cuba, another communist country. Nothing fake about Santiago or Baracoa. I was only there a week as I recall, less time than I spent in Beijing the first time. LOVED Pablo, whose family I and the unfortunate second ex-Mrs. Harris, stayed with. At the end of the trip, Pablo said to the Unfortunate, "You like Cuba, but Benjamin, he... simpatico," which now that I Google translate it just means "sympathetic," but when it was said was translated for me as "loves" (Swine Google translate.).
I did, I loved Cuba, loved Pablo. I wanted to move there! Me, an Americano, an Anglo-Saxon Americano, as Americano as you can be, wanted to move to communist Cuba. Pablo and I tried to keep in touch, we wrote to each other, but the authorities always intercepted our letters. Years later, a friend of the Unfortunate's went, and looked up Pablo and he asked about me. Still remembered me.
There was a warmth, a tremendous warmth I felt from Pablo, which warmth I returned, that I have never felt about or from Chinese. My Chinese friendships have only become personal with two people, where we talk about things other than China the subject. I have shared laughter with only those two and have not had any contact with one of them in a couple years. I've only exchanged jokes with one. I think more than sharing laughter, joking is a better metric for the degree of personal connection between two people. If one tells a joke and the other gets it, that's a real connection, you laugh together. If you tell a joke and the other doesn't get it, is there any more uncomfortable feeling than that, any better illustration that the two people don't "get" each other? Only laughed with two, only joked with one. There's just some distance, some barrier.
I have sometimes rued that boozy night in 2006 when I made reservations to first go to China. China did not draw me in immediately. I thought Beijing was fake, still think it's fake, I had a great vacation there though. What first drew me in was reading about Song in Mao's Last Revolution after I came back. That was the hook. Of course, it was a negative hook if hooks can ever be positive. I was outraged that this symbol of the Cultural Revolution had changed her name, come to the U.S. and just went on living an elite life. There's a biography of, I think, Hemingway titled A Life Without Consequences. That has always struck me as the perfect title for the life of Song Binbin too.
That drew me in and I, as untold numbers of Westerners have, became utterly fascinated by the place. Endlessly interesting. Every page of every book, "What?" So different, so interesting. The people I have met and corresponded with, have, Weili Ye aside, been gracious, helpful. Friends, they became friends.
I cannot say that I love the Chinese people though. Even the friends I've made, I cannot say that I love them the way one can say one loves friends. In the 1990's I went to Cuba, another communist country. Nothing fake about Santiago or Baracoa. I was only there a week as I recall, less time than I spent in Beijing the first time. LOVED Pablo, whose family I and the unfortunate second ex-Mrs. Harris, stayed with. At the end of the trip, Pablo said to the Unfortunate, "You like Cuba, but Benjamin, he... simpatico," which now that I Google translate it just means "sympathetic," but when it was said was translated for me as "loves" (Swine Google translate.).
I did, I loved Cuba, loved Pablo. I wanted to move there! Me, an Americano, an Anglo-Saxon Americano, as Americano as you can be, wanted to move to communist Cuba. Pablo and I tried to keep in touch, we wrote to each other, but the authorities always intercepted our letters. Years later, a friend of the Unfortunate's went, and looked up Pablo and he asked about me. Still remembered me.
There was a warmth, a tremendous warmth I felt from Pablo, which warmth I returned, that I have never felt about or from Chinese. My Chinese friendships have only become personal with two people, where we talk about things other than China the subject. I have shared laughter with only those two and have not had any contact with one of them in a couple years. I've only exchanged jokes with one. I think more than sharing laughter, joking is a better metric for the degree of personal connection between two people. If one tells a joke and the other gets it, that's a real connection, you laugh together. If you tell a joke and the other doesn't get it, is there any more uncomfortable feeling than that, any better illustration that the two people don't "get" each other? Only laughed with two, only joked with one. There's just some distance, some barrier.
