In May 1966, at the end of a rainy spring, a twenty-three-year-old worker employed at a scissor factory in Yangzhou trekked 50 kilometres inland to Purple Mountain, a historic location said to be haunted by spirits. Its peak, now in every shade of green, often vanished in mysterious clouds of gold and purple at sunset...Amid the bamboo groves and ancient oak trees growing in the shade of a mausoleum where the Hongwu emperor, founder of the Ming, had been entombed, Chen Zhigao swallowed a vial of cyanide.
I have read the previous two books of Frank Dikotter's trilogy on modern China, wrote a laudatory review on Amazon of "Mao's Great Famine." Dr. Dikotter is a marvelous historian. I didn't know there was a poet in there with the historian.
In May 1966, at the end of a rainy spring, a twenty-three-year-old worker employed at a scissor factory in Yangzhou trekked 50 kilometres inland to Purple Mountain, a historic location said to be haunted by spirits. Its peak, now in every shade of green, often vanished in mysterious clouds of gold and purple at sunset...Amid the bamboo groves and ancient oak trees growing in the shade of a mausoleum where the Hongwu emperor, founder of the Ming, had been entombed, Chen Zhigao swallowed a vial of cyanide.
Really, is that passage not poetic?
When I read, especially fiction, I judge the writing by whether that light switches on in my brain that enables me to see the scene. That light doesn't get switched on much in history. How many books have I read on the Civil War? Can't remember the light being switched on once, not once. It switched on there, the beginning of chapter five, of "The Cultural Revolution. A People's History 1962-1976." That is beautiful, evocative, magnificent writing by Frank Dikotter.
I have read the previous two books of Frank Dikotter's trilogy on modern China, wrote a laudatory review on Amazon of "Mao's Great Famine." Dr. Dikotter is a marvelous historian. I didn't know there was a poet in there with the historian.
In May 1966, at the end of a rainy spring, a twenty-three-year-old worker employed at a scissor factory in Yangzhou trekked 50 kilometres inland to Purple Mountain, a historic location said to be haunted by spirits. Its peak, now in every shade of green, often vanished in mysterious clouds of gold and purple at sunset...Amid the bamboo groves and ancient oak trees growing in the shade of a mausoleum where the Hongwu emperor, founder of the Ming, had been entombed, Chen Zhigao swallowed a vial of cyanide.
When I read, especially fiction, I judge the writing by whether that light switches on in my brain that enables me to see the scene. That light doesn't get switched on much in history. How many books have I read on the Civil War? Can't remember the light being switched on once, not once. It switched on there, the beginning of chapter five, of "The Cultural Revolution. A People's History 1962-1976." That is beautiful, evocative, magnificent writing by Frank Dikotter.
