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Li Juan’s memoirs of pastoral life give glimpses into disappearing livelihoods in the Altai Mountains
新疆作家李娟和她筆下的阿勒泰：行将消失的生活方式与独特的生活体验
To express surprise， 9-year-old Nurgün exclaims “Aiya！” in Mandarin， while everybody else in her Kazakh family would say， “Allah！” This is one of many everyday observations Li Juan makes in Winter Pasture. The book follows a Kazakh family whose children have come home for winter break， subtly transformed by their education at a free public boarding school.
Translated into English for the first time， Li Juan’s writings are timeless in their portrayal of loneliness， vastness， and death—yet bear the marks of the times in cross-cultural collisions on a shifting grassland. Two books by the Xinjiang-born， ethnic Han writer were released in English this February， cementing her arrival onto the international literary scene.
Winter Pasture， translated by Jack Hargreaves and Yan Yan， records a grazing journey Li takes in 2010 with an ethnic Kazakh family and their 100 sheep， over 50 cattle， six horses， and three camels， living in burrows dug into the snow-covered ground in the Altai Mountains. Originally published in 2012， it is a masterpiece of vivid character sketches. Distant Sunflower Fields， translated by Christopher Payne， is a later work from 2017. It spans the years Li sought to cultivate 100 hectares of sunflowers on a plot of rented land with her mother and grandmother， and turns meditatively inward toward her own life and family.
Li Juan was born to an agricultural family in Chushur county of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in 1979. After dropping out of high school， she headed to ?rümqi to work on an assembly line. She later worked as a clerk and a magazine editor， before joining her mother on the sunflower fields.
Like many young Chinese writers today， Li’s first literary community was online， where she blogged about her life under the screen name “Li Juan of Altai.” She published her first book， Nine Pieces of Snow， at the age of 24. In the two decades since， Li has written nine books. Distant Sunflower Fields， her most recent， garnered an award in essay prose category at the prestigious Lu Xun Literary Prize.
The cross-cultural premise of Winter Pasture could have easily come off as voyeuristic， but is saved by Li Juan’s biting， self-deprecating honesty. She discloses that Cuma， the father of the family， probably agreed to host her for the winter because he owed her family some money. The characters light up the story. Cuma， who feels that “idleness is destruction，” turns to all kinds of antics to fill time： spray painting the family cat pink （thus earning it the name Plum Blossom）， casting family members in reenactments of television dramas， and inventing tales about Li Juan for the other herders. “There was no limit to his creativity，” notes Li. Thus， the other herders confusedly believed she was an unemployed vagabond out to steal herding secrets， a furloughed reporter from the county TV station， or the child of a high-level official banished to the countryside.
Li notes she could have queried about their lives with “a professional tone…except I wasn’t stupid; I knew that these high-minded questions were actually quite silly.” Instead of an authoritative account of Kazakh life or culture， she purports only to record her own experiences and feelings as she works alongside the family. Her burning self-awareness imbues her writing with awkward grace.
The cross-cultural communication is more entertaining and revealing when it fails. When Li cannot understand Cuma’s jumbled explanation of the Kazakh calendar， she concludes， “Anyway， I write essays， not dissertations; better stick to the basics.”
The “basics” are the unflinching descriptions of daily life among the herders， such as the process of removing camel testicles， or padding the walls of their burrow with manure for warmth. Li is at her most tender when writing about Kama， the eldest daughter of the family， who dropped out of school to support her younger siblings. Yet Li adds a rare note of indignation when Cuma’s wife puts more food on her son’s plate than on her daughter’s， seething in the text， “This was clearly favoritism！”
Li shrewdly chronicles the growing rift between generations—when 15-year-old Zhada returns for winter vacation “as fashionable as a city kid…Cuma picked up the new coat that had been discarded on the felt mat on the bed and studied it from every angle before asking the boy how much it cost. It was moments like these that revealed that his boy was slowly becoming a stranger.”
Cuma gives Zhada money to visit the doctor， but instead he buys a mobile phone so he can listen to music. He never goes herding without it， and insists on taking his sister’s phone too， in case his runs out of battery. “Zhada was the son of a shepherd，” Li concludes， “so of course he loved the land， but what truly inspired him was the glittering life beyond the pastures.” The book reveals near the end that this winter journey could be the family’s last. Under a new grassland restoration policy， herding families would receive a government subsidy of several hundred thousand RMB in exchange for fencing off their overgrazed pastures for several years. Li writes that the subsidy would be enough for Cuma to fulfill his dream of buying a car， and feed the whole family for the duration of the grazing ban. Yet although Cuma looks down on the “pathetic， deprived lives” of farming， he sighs over the loss of his land， on which he could grow all the feed for their animals.
The disappearing livelihoods of the Altai region include not only the nomadic lifestyle of the Kazakhs， but Li’s mother’s convenience store， which serves herders arriving in the town of Akehara after slaughtering and selling their animals. Even farming is becoming passé， as desertified lands are gradually stripped of nutrients， and the city exerts its magnetism on young people. After an unsuccessful harvest， many of Li’s neighbors simply pack up and leave.
While Winter Pasture contains a clear narrative within the herders’ journey， Distant Sunflower Fields meanders through Li’s thoughts and memories without much of an overarching structure besides the change of seasons on the farm. However， it is in the sunflower fields that we glean the most unguarded insight into the author as she comes to terms with her own sense of rootlessness.
For Li， and three generations of women in her family， restlessness is an inheritance—she calls herself “an expert at leaving.” Li’s mother， an agricultural scientist who traveled from Sichuan province to Xinjiang working on land reclamation projects with the Kuitun Construction Corps， moved towns every few months when Li was young. When Li’s grandmother is evicted from her low-rent six-square-meter home in Sichuan， she is forced to join them on a sunflower field the family has rented in Xinjiang.
When grandmother arrives， Li Juan writes， “Walking stick in hand， she toured the underground pit， then strode out onto level ground， looked in every direction， and began to cry.” Already in her 90s， Li’s grandmother finds it difficult starting over again in a new place. Family history is no source of comfort either—Li notes that unlike the Kazakhs， who learn the names of all their ancestors going back nine generations， she does not even know the names of her grandfathers： “I imagine a sober drunk knew much more of their place in the grand scheme of things than I did，” she writes. The cast in Sunflower Fields is mostly non-human. There’s a chapter for each of the family dogs Saihu and Chouchou （the village’s infamous shoe thief）， a cat （who “ignored any and all rules of combat. The Geneva Convention meant nothing to it”）， and the chickens， cows， and rabbits worth several hundred thousand RMB on the farm. The menagerie provide ample comedy： a constant stream of barefoot neighbors arrive at their door in search of lost footwear; and Li’s mother sewing clothes for the chickens and underpants for the dog （which doubles as a form of canine contraception）.
Page by page， the narrative vacillates between aching and awe in a timeless land. Year after year， the family waits for sunflowers to burst forth from the desert， and their toil is punctuated by euphoria. Standing in a field on an early spring day， meeting the gaze of a lizard， Li writes， “And in that moment， I found that I could suddenly say all those things I’d been too shy to say before. I could talk of ‘love’ and ‘attachment’…I felt love for my home， for the day-to-day realities of living， the complexity and the messiness of it all， the contradictions and weight that went with it.”
The largest detractor of Sunflower Fields is that Christopher Payne translates the word “Han，” a Chinese ethnicity， to “Chinese，” a nationality. While this may be a shortcut to make the book more accessible to international readers， the conflation results in phrases throughout the book like： “My whole family were Chinese， which meant it wasn’t always convenient for us to try and follow Islamic rules regarding what was OK to eat and what wasn’t.” The equating of ethnicity with nationality negates the reality of a multiethnic and multi-religious Chinese identity （substitute “Chinese” with any other nationality—Indian， French—and see how that sentence sounds）.
Inevitably， an assumed metropolitan audience is coded into Li’s writing. The sunflower fields are “distant，” but the “center” is never identified. Cuma’s family know they are not the intended audience for the programs on their TV. In China’s Han-centric cultural establishment， portrayals of Xinjiang’s ethnic diversity still come largely from Han creators. Han director Wang Lina’s A First Farewell， a film about Uyghur communities， was screened in theaters across the country in 2020. In contrast， Eternal Lamb， a novel by the ethnic Kazakh writer Yerkex Hurmanbek， saw a limited showing when it was adapted into China’s first Kazakh-language film in 2010. Many of Li’s readers are romantics， urbanites who ache for the supposed purity of rural life. One fan commented on her online blog， “Please keep your innocence and genuineness， and don’t be polluted by the city and reality！” Li replied that true innocence does not need to be maintained. “Nobody can avoid the mark of the era，” Li said to journalists in 2019. “If you are strong， you are not controlled by it. If you are weak， you hide from it.”
Sojourners in Peking
Paul French’s latest deep dive into the characters of Republic-era Beijing
Since the publication of Midnight in Peking nearly a decade ago， British writer Paul French has become synonymous with vividly told tales of foreigners running amok in the Middle Kingdom. His latest， Destination Peking， once again invites readers to journey back to the alluring and sordid world of early 20th century China.
The 18 biographical sketches in the book include well-known Beijing residents such as Edmund Backhouse （“The Hermit of Peking”） and Helen and Edgar Snow （Red Star Over China）， as well as famous names not often associated with the city. Wallis Simpson， then Wallis Spencer， spent a year exploring Beijing’s hutongs a decade before she scandalized Britain by marrying the Prince of Wales. Her year in Beijing transformed the recently divorced navy wife into an international sophisticate， giving her a penchant for jade and Chinese-style fashion， and her distinctive chignon hairstyle.
Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton traveled to Beijing on the first of five honeymoons she would enjoy over a lifetime of failed marriages. While Hutton passed most of the time antiquing with her flamboyant playboy cousin Jimmy Donahue （the Hutton extended heirs might adequately be classified under the genus “Proto-Kardashian”）， her new husband Alexis Mdivani was busy trying to parlay a questionable claim to Russian nobility into political support against the Soviet Union among Beijing’s Russian exile community. Mdivani’s scheming failed， as did the marriage soon after.
Beijing also provided lifelong inspiration for American artist Bertha Lum， famous for her work with Chinese and Japanese woodblock printing; and Martha Sawyer， whose evocative posters of stalwart Chinese resisting Japan became famous across the US during World War II. Even though Red Star Over China made Edgar Snow famous， French argues that Helen Snow was probably the better writer of the couple. Helen was certainly a formidable journalist who covered China during a difficult period of its history （while also finding time to work as a living mannequin， modeling the latest fashions at the Camel’s Bell boutique in the Grand H?tel de Pekin）. Two other remarkable women inspired by their time in China were Ellen La Motte， author of the trenchant 1919 travelogue Peking Dust， and her partner Emily Crane Chadbourne， who became ferocious crusaders against the international opium trade. They are also among the many LGBTQ people that French highlights in this book. Aesthete Desmond Parsons lived on Cuihua Hutong and invited his old classmate Robert Byron to stay with him while Byron finished his book， The Road to Oxiana， about his travels across Central Asia.
Harold Acton， who was rumored to have had an unrequited crush on Parsons， wrote Peonies and Ponies， the delightfully bitchy roman à clef of the foreign community in Beijing circa 1939. In his chapter on Acton， French does a little literary sleuthing to unmask some of the real-life inspirations for Acton’s many colorful characters. Likely suspects include American writer George N. Kates and the opera star Mei Lanfang.
French also looks beyond the Beijing anglophone community， with fascinating sketches of Soviet diplomat Lev Karakhan and of Eugen Ott—formerly Nazi Germany’s ambassador to Japan， who was forced into a meaningless posting to Beijing during World War II following a scandal in Tokyo. There is a fascinating chapter on Isamu Noguchi， the Japanese-American sculptor who found a mentor in the Chinese painter Qi Baishi （齊白石）.
While in Beijing， Noguchi also made friends with Nadine Hwang who， like Noguchi， was mixed-race， and well-known in both Paris and Beijing artistic circles for her outspokenness， her sexuality， and her penchant for dressing in male clothing. According to French， a version of Hwang—clad in military uniform and in the employ of a Chinese warlord—even makes an appearance in Acton’s Peonies and Ponies as the character “Ruby Yuan.”
As with his other books， French deploys an evocative palette of period details， sounds， smells， and even tastes （lettuce leaves washed in ash？）. Republic-era Peking springs from the page into fully-realized technicolor， warts and all. Where possible， French links his subjects to specific places in the city—even if， as in the former address of Edgar and Helen Snow’s swinging salon on Kuijiachang Hutong， all that exists today is a tawdry hotel of more recent vintage.
A few chapters feature fascinating people whose connection to Peking is tenuous. The chapter on Mona Monteith is a titillating entrée into the world of foreign prostitution in China at the turn of the 20th century （President Theodore Roosevelt was apoplectic over the term “American girl” being used to refer to white prostitutes in Beijing and Shanghai）. But Monteith was primarily based in Shanghai and only came to Beijing for a short time to renew her passport. Similarly， Denton Welch was a well-known 20th-century author born in Shanghai， where he set his sexually frank autobiographical novel Maiden Voyage. Welch’s only connection to Beijing was a dreary and brief Christmas visit in 1932. Nevertheless， chapters on Monteith and Welch， and artist Martha Sawyer—who was also only briefly in Beijing—provide French an opportunity to tease out broader issues of internationalism， colonialism， and representations of China during this period.
Despite a few typos and a wrongly dated map， Destination Peking is French’s gift to fellow Chinese history geeks. It is a deeper dive into the characters and archetypes which populate books like Midnight in Peking or City of Devils， intended for a broader audience. Anyone interested in China during the inter-war period will enjoy spending time with the fascinating rogues’ gallery French has collected here. Readers with a connection to Beijing will undoubtedly feel a particular affinity to the city’s sojourners of an earlier era. – Jeremiah Jenne
The Drunkard
Written and set the rampantly capitalistic Hong Kong of the 1960s， The Drunkard is one of the first stream-of-consciousness novels in Chinese. The anonymous narrator， who fled the war-torn mainland in the 40s， leads a self-destructive life， numbing his pain with alcohol and women. The novel offers intimate depictions of his inner world as he is torn between his literary pursuit and the practical need to survive. Its imagery of Hong Kong—with neon lights， rainy days， and morally ambiguous citizens—also inspired Wong Kar-Wai’s movies.
Monkey King： Journey to the West
One of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese literature， Journey to the West by the 16th-century author Wu Cheng’en， has a new translation by Julia Lovell， scholar and noted translator of Chinese literature. The new title emphasizes the Monkey King， highlighting his role as a defiant magical hero. Four disciples atoning for sins in their past， demons and immortals among them， accompany the Monk on a journey of truth-seeking to ancient India. They are attacked， tricked and tested non-stop by demons， fairies， humans， and gods along the way. The fantasy is also a sharp satire of the Ming society.
My Name Will Grow Wide Like a Tree
As an unmarried woman in her 30s in 1985， Lei Yi asked for a pregnancy test; to her surprise and anger， she was shamed and scolded by her gynecologist. Yi then wrote “A Single Woman’s Bedroom，” a poem in 14 sections exploring feminist identity and personal freedom， which made her one of the most important contemporary poets in China. This collection presents Yi’s signature work and 27 other poems in translation alongside the Chinese original. The translations by Changtai Bi and the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Tracy K. Smith capture Yi’s rebellious spirit and elegant style. – LIU JUE （劉珏）
新疆作家李娟和她筆下的阿勒泰：行将消失的生活方式与独特的生活体验
To express surprise， 9-year-old Nurgün exclaims “Aiya！” in Mandarin， while everybody else in her Kazakh family would say， “Allah！” This is one of many everyday observations Li Juan makes in Winter Pasture. The book follows a Kazakh family whose children have come home for winter break， subtly transformed by their education at a free public boarding school.
Translated into English for the first time， Li Juan’s writings are timeless in their portrayal of loneliness， vastness， and death—yet bear the marks of the times in cross-cultural collisions on a shifting grassland. Two books by the Xinjiang-born， ethnic Han writer were released in English this February， cementing her arrival onto the international literary scene.
Winter Pasture， translated by Jack Hargreaves and Yan Yan， records a grazing journey Li takes in 2010 with an ethnic Kazakh family and their 100 sheep， over 50 cattle， six horses， and three camels， living in burrows dug into the snow-covered ground in the Altai Mountains. Originally published in 2012， it is a masterpiece of vivid character sketches. Distant Sunflower Fields， translated by Christopher Payne， is a later work from 2017. It spans the years Li sought to cultivate 100 hectares of sunflowers on a plot of rented land with her mother and grandmother， and turns meditatively inward toward her own life and family.
Li Juan was born to an agricultural family in Chushur county of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in 1979. After dropping out of high school， she headed to ?rümqi to work on an assembly line. She later worked as a clerk and a magazine editor， before joining her mother on the sunflower fields.
Like many young Chinese writers today， Li’s first literary community was online， where she blogged about her life under the screen name “Li Juan of Altai.” She published her first book， Nine Pieces of Snow， at the age of 24. In the two decades since， Li has written nine books. Distant Sunflower Fields， her most recent， garnered an award in essay prose category at the prestigious Lu Xun Literary Prize.
The cross-cultural premise of Winter Pasture could have easily come off as voyeuristic， but is saved by Li Juan’s biting， self-deprecating honesty. She discloses that Cuma， the father of the family， probably agreed to host her for the winter because he owed her family some money. The characters light up the story. Cuma， who feels that “idleness is destruction，” turns to all kinds of antics to fill time： spray painting the family cat pink （thus earning it the name Plum Blossom）， casting family members in reenactments of television dramas， and inventing tales about Li Juan for the other herders. “There was no limit to his creativity，” notes Li. Thus， the other herders confusedly believed she was an unemployed vagabond out to steal herding secrets， a furloughed reporter from the county TV station， or the child of a high-level official banished to the countryside.
Li notes she could have queried about their lives with “a professional tone…except I wasn’t stupid; I knew that these high-minded questions were actually quite silly.” Instead of an authoritative account of Kazakh life or culture， she purports only to record her own experiences and feelings as she works alongside the family. Her burning self-awareness imbues her writing with awkward grace.
The cross-cultural communication is more entertaining and revealing when it fails. When Li cannot understand Cuma’s jumbled explanation of the Kazakh calendar， she concludes， “Anyway， I write essays， not dissertations; better stick to the basics.”
The “basics” are the unflinching descriptions of daily life among the herders， such as the process of removing camel testicles， or padding the walls of their burrow with manure for warmth. Li is at her most tender when writing about Kama， the eldest daughter of the family， who dropped out of school to support her younger siblings. Yet Li adds a rare note of indignation when Cuma’s wife puts more food on her son’s plate than on her daughter’s， seething in the text， “This was clearly favoritism！”
Li shrewdly chronicles the growing rift between generations—when 15-year-old Zhada returns for winter vacation “as fashionable as a city kid…Cuma picked up the new coat that had been discarded on the felt mat on the bed and studied it from every angle before asking the boy how much it cost. It was moments like these that revealed that his boy was slowly becoming a stranger.”
Cuma gives Zhada money to visit the doctor， but instead he buys a mobile phone so he can listen to music. He never goes herding without it， and insists on taking his sister’s phone too， in case his runs out of battery. “Zhada was the son of a shepherd，” Li concludes， “so of course he loved the land， but what truly inspired him was the glittering life beyond the pastures.” The book reveals near the end that this winter journey could be the family’s last. Under a new grassland restoration policy， herding families would receive a government subsidy of several hundred thousand RMB in exchange for fencing off their overgrazed pastures for several years. Li writes that the subsidy would be enough for Cuma to fulfill his dream of buying a car， and feed the whole family for the duration of the grazing ban. Yet although Cuma looks down on the “pathetic， deprived lives” of farming， he sighs over the loss of his land， on which he could grow all the feed for their animals.
The disappearing livelihoods of the Altai region include not only the nomadic lifestyle of the Kazakhs， but Li’s mother’s convenience store， which serves herders arriving in the town of Akehara after slaughtering and selling their animals. Even farming is becoming passé， as desertified lands are gradually stripped of nutrients， and the city exerts its magnetism on young people. After an unsuccessful harvest， many of Li’s neighbors simply pack up and leave.
While Winter Pasture contains a clear narrative within the herders’ journey， Distant Sunflower Fields meanders through Li’s thoughts and memories without much of an overarching structure besides the change of seasons on the farm. However， it is in the sunflower fields that we glean the most unguarded insight into the author as she comes to terms with her own sense of rootlessness.
For Li， and three generations of women in her family， restlessness is an inheritance—she calls herself “an expert at leaving.” Li’s mother， an agricultural scientist who traveled from Sichuan province to Xinjiang working on land reclamation projects with the Kuitun Construction Corps， moved towns every few months when Li was young. When Li’s grandmother is evicted from her low-rent six-square-meter home in Sichuan， she is forced to join them on a sunflower field the family has rented in Xinjiang.
When grandmother arrives， Li Juan writes， “Walking stick in hand， she toured the underground pit， then strode out onto level ground， looked in every direction， and began to cry.” Already in her 90s， Li’s grandmother finds it difficult starting over again in a new place. Family history is no source of comfort either—Li notes that unlike the Kazakhs， who learn the names of all their ancestors going back nine generations， she does not even know the names of her grandfathers： “I imagine a sober drunk knew much more of their place in the grand scheme of things than I did，” she writes. The cast in Sunflower Fields is mostly non-human. There’s a chapter for each of the family dogs Saihu and Chouchou （the village’s infamous shoe thief）， a cat （who “ignored any and all rules of combat. The Geneva Convention meant nothing to it”）， and the chickens， cows， and rabbits worth several hundred thousand RMB on the farm. The menagerie provide ample comedy： a constant stream of barefoot neighbors arrive at their door in search of lost footwear; and Li’s mother sewing clothes for the chickens and underpants for the dog （which doubles as a form of canine contraception）.
Page by page， the narrative vacillates between aching and awe in a timeless land. Year after year， the family waits for sunflowers to burst forth from the desert， and their toil is punctuated by euphoria. Standing in a field on an early spring day， meeting the gaze of a lizard， Li writes， “And in that moment， I found that I could suddenly say all those things I’d been too shy to say before. I could talk of ‘love’ and ‘attachment’…I felt love for my home， for the day-to-day realities of living， the complexity and the messiness of it all， the contradictions and weight that went with it.”
The largest detractor of Sunflower Fields is that Christopher Payne translates the word “Han，” a Chinese ethnicity， to “Chinese，” a nationality. While this may be a shortcut to make the book more accessible to international readers， the conflation results in phrases throughout the book like： “My whole family were Chinese， which meant it wasn’t always convenient for us to try and follow Islamic rules regarding what was OK to eat and what wasn’t.” The equating of ethnicity with nationality negates the reality of a multiethnic and multi-religious Chinese identity （substitute “Chinese” with any other nationality—Indian， French—and see how that sentence sounds）.
Inevitably， an assumed metropolitan audience is coded into Li’s writing. The sunflower fields are “distant，” but the “center” is never identified. Cuma’s family know they are not the intended audience for the programs on their TV. In China’s Han-centric cultural establishment， portrayals of Xinjiang’s ethnic diversity still come largely from Han creators. Han director Wang Lina’s A First Farewell， a film about Uyghur communities， was screened in theaters across the country in 2020. In contrast， Eternal Lamb， a novel by the ethnic Kazakh writer Yerkex Hurmanbek， saw a limited showing when it was adapted into China’s first Kazakh-language film in 2010. Many of Li’s readers are romantics， urbanites who ache for the supposed purity of rural life. One fan commented on her online blog， “Please keep your innocence and genuineness， and don’t be polluted by the city and reality！” Li replied that true innocence does not need to be maintained. “Nobody can avoid the mark of the era，” Li said to journalists in 2019. “If you are strong， you are not controlled by it. If you are weak， you hide from it.”
Sojourners in Peking
Paul French’s latest deep dive into the characters of Republic-era Beijing
Since the publication of Midnight in Peking nearly a decade ago， British writer Paul French has become synonymous with vividly told tales of foreigners running amok in the Middle Kingdom. His latest， Destination Peking， once again invites readers to journey back to the alluring and sordid world of early 20th century China.
The 18 biographical sketches in the book include well-known Beijing residents such as Edmund Backhouse （“The Hermit of Peking”） and Helen and Edgar Snow （Red Star Over China）， as well as famous names not often associated with the city. Wallis Simpson， then Wallis Spencer， spent a year exploring Beijing’s hutongs a decade before she scandalized Britain by marrying the Prince of Wales. Her year in Beijing transformed the recently divorced navy wife into an international sophisticate， giving her a penchant for jade and Chinese-style fashion， and her distinctive chignon hairstyle.
Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton traveled to Beijing on the first of five honeymoons she would enjoy over a lifetime of failed marriages. While Hutton passed most of the time antiquing with her flamboyant playboy cousin Jimmy Donahue （the Hutton extended heirs might adequately be classified under the genus “Proto-Kardashian”）， her new husband Alexis Mdivani was busy trying to parlay a questionable claim to Russian nobility into political support against the Soviet Union among Beijing’s Russian exile community. Mdivani’s scheming failed， as did the marriage soon after.
Beijing also provided lifelong inspiration for American artist Bertha Lum， famous for her work with Chinese and Japanese woodblock printing; and Martha Sawyer， whose evocative posters of stalwart Chinese resisting Japan became famous across the US during World War II. Even though Red Star Over China made Edgar Snow famous， French argues that Helen Snow was probably the better writer of the couple. Helen was certainly a formidable journalist who covered China during a difficult period of its history （while also finding time to work as a living mannequin， modeling the latest fashions at the Camel’s Bell boutique in the Grand H?tel de Pekin）. Two other remarkable women inspired by their time in China were Ellen La Motte， author of the trenchant 1919 travelogue Peking Dust， and her partner Emily Crane Chadbourne， who became ferocious crusaders against the international opium trade. They are also among the many LGBTQ people that French highlights in this book. Aesthete Desmond Parsons lived on Cuihua Hutong and invited his old classmate Robert Byron to stay with him while Byron finished his book， The Road to Oxiana， about his travels across Central Asia.
Harold Acton， who was rumored to have had an unrequited crush on Parsons， wrote Peonies and Ponies， the delightfully bitchy roman à clef of the foreign community in Beijing circa 1939. In his chapter on Acton， French does a little literary sleuthing to unmask some of the real-life inspirations for Acton’s many colorful characters. Likely suspects include American writer George N. Kates and the opera star Mei Lanfang.
French also looks beyond the Beijing anglophone community， with fascinating sketches of Soviet diplomat Lev Karakhan and of Eugen Ott—formerly Nazi Germany’s ambassador to Japan， who was forced into a meaningless posting to Beijing during World War II following a scandal in Tokyo. There is a fascinating chapter on Isamu Noguchi， the Japanese-American sculptor who found a mentor in the Chinese painter Qi Baishi （齊白石）.
While in Beijing， Noguchi also made friends with Nadine Hwang who， like Noguchi， was mixed-race， and well-known in both Paris and Beijing artistic circles for her outspokenness， her sexuality， and her penchant for dressing in male clothing. According to French， a version of Hwang—clad in military uniform and in the employ of a Chinese warlord—even makes an appearance in Acton’s Peonies and Ponies as the character “Ruby Yuan.”
As with his other books， French deploys an evocative palette of period details， sounds， smells， and even tastes （lettuce leaves washed in ash？）. Republic-era Peking springs from the page into fully-realized technicolor， warts and all. Where possible， French links his subjects to specific places in the city—even if， as in the former address of Edgar and Helen Snow’s swinging salon on Kuijiachang Hutong， all that exists today is a tawdry hotel of more recent vintage.
A few chapters feature fascinating people whose connection to Peking is tenuous. The chapter on Mona Monteith is a titillating entrée into the world of foreign prostitution in China at the turn of the 20th century （President Theodore Roosevelt was apoplectic over the term “American girl” being used to refer to white prostitutes in Beijing and Shanghai）. But Monteith was primarily based in Shanghai and only came to Beijing for a short time to renew her passport. Similarly， Denton Welch was a well-known 20th-century author born in Shanghai， where he set his sexually frank autobiographical novel Maiden Voyage. Welch’s only connection to Beijing was a dreary and brief Christmas visit in 1932. Nevertheless， chapters on Monteith and Welch， and artist Martha Sawyer—who was also only briefly in Beijing—provide French an opportunity to tease out broader issues of internationalism， colonialism， and representations of China during this period.
Despite a few typos and a wrongly dated map， Destination Peking is French’s gift to fellow Chinese history geeks. It is a deeper dive into the characters and archetypes which populate books like Midnight in Peking or City of Devils， intended for a broader audience. Anyone interested in China during the inter-war period will enjoy spending time with the fascinating rogues’ gallery French has collected here. Readers with a connection to Beijing will undoubtedly feel a particular affinity to the city’s sojourners of an earlier era. – Jeremiah Jenne
The Drunkard
Written and set the rampantly capitalistic Hong Kong of the 1960s， The Drunkard is one of the first stream-of-consciousness novels in Chinese. The anonymous narrator， who fled the war-torn mainland in the 40s， leads a self-destructive life， numbing his pain with alcohol and women. The novel offers intimate depictions of his inner world as he is torn between his literary pursuit and the practical need to survive. Its imagery of Hong Kong—with neon lights， rainy days， and morally ambiguous citizens—also inspired Wong Kar-Wai’s movies.
Monkey King： Journey to the West
One of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese literature， Journey to the West by the 16th-century author Wu Cheng’en， has a new translation by Julia Lovell， scholar and noted translator of Chinese literature. The new title emphasizes the Monkey King， highlighting his role as a defiant magical hero. Four disciples atoning for sins in their past， demons and immortals among them， accompany the Monk on a journey of truth-seeking to ancient India. They are attacked， tricked and tested non-stop by demons， fairies， humans， and gods along the way. The fantasy is also a sharp satire of the Ming society.
My Name Will Grow Wide Like a Tree
As an unmarried woman in her 30s in 1985， Lei Yi asked for a pregnancy test; to her surprise and anger， she was shamed and scolded by her gynecologist. Yi then wrote “A Single Woman’s Bedroom，” a poem in 14 sections exploring feminist identity and personal freedom， which made her one of the most important contemporary poets in China. This collection presents Yi’s signature work and 27 other poems in translation alongside the Chinese original. The translations by Changtai Bi and the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Tracy K. Smith capture Yi’s rebellious spirit and elegant style. – LIU JUE （劉珏）