Zhang Ai is lying.

Author: Eileen Chang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-09-01
Features: The Modernist Woman of This Life and This World by Hu Lan Cheng
I used to have nothing to do in Nanjing and didn’t read many books, magazines, or newspapers. But one day, Feng Heyi sent me a copy of Tian Di Monthly, and I liked her name, so I moved a wicker chair to the lawn in the yard and lay down to read in the sun. First, I read the editorial, only to find out that Feng Heyi was also known as Su Qing. Such a bold and decisive style in a woman’s writing—it was hard to believe. Turning to an article titled "Blockade," written by Zhang Ailing, I read only a couple of sections before I couldn’t help but sit up straight and read it over and over again. When I showed it to Hu Jinren, he praised it, but I still felt unsatisfied. I wrote to Su Qing, asking who Zhang Ailing really was. In her reply, she simply said she was a woman. I felt that anything or anyone connected to Zhang Ailing was somehow good. When the second issue of Tian Di Monthly arrived, it included another article by Zhang Ailing—this was it, for real. And this issue also featured a photograph of her. When you encounter something or someone wonderful, you tend to doubt it at first, as if you need to prove it over and over again that it truly is what it seems. So, I kept getting foolishly happy over and over, not caring what it had to do with me. Later, when I asked Su Qing about Zhang Ailing, she said she didn’t like to see people. When I asked for her address, she hesitated before writing it down: Apartment 65-6, 6th Floor, No. 192, Jingshan Temple Road, near the Hedde Intersection. The next day, I went to visit her, but she ignored me. Her serious demeanor made me feel that she wasn’t lively, nor was she charming, yet I felt as if she was the only person before me. I didn’t even think of her as beautiful—I didn’t like her at all, and I was even afraid of hurting her. Beauty is a concept, something that must be this way or that way. Even the feeling of liking beauty has a certain fixed form, but Zhang Ailing completely shattered all of that for me. I often thought I understood what “stunning” meant, but when I truly encountered her, the “stunning” wasn’t like that, and the “shock” wasn’t like that either. I found myself competing with Ailing, criticizing contemporary works, and telling her where her writing was good, even sharing my experiences in Nanjing, because in her presence, I became so clearly myself. I even asked her about her monthly income from writing, and she answered very honestly. It was impolite to ask such questions when meeting someone for the first time, especially when she was a lady, but in front of a good person, the desire to cherish her could only mean caring about her health and well-being.
This book is a collection of Zhang Ailing’s finest essays and essays by her former husband, Hu Lan Cheng, recalling Zhang Ailing. It is a “comparative collection” of Zhang Ailing and Hu Lan Cheng, their lives, and their writings. Please pour a pot of black tea, light a night lamp, and immerse yourself in the love story of this talented man and extraordinary woman during those turbulent times. This book takes you into a Zhang Ailing world you’ve never been to before. To focus on Zhang Ailing is, at its core, to focus on her and the fate of her time. How many details remain unknown to us? How many emotions have Zhang fans yet to express? How many flavors of longing does Zhang Ailing herself feel unable to convey?