If you've noticed my silence here, it is because I am trying to save what little creative energy I have for the novel I am trying to write by the end of this month. Some things can not be put off that long however.
With this heartbreaking news I break my silence, Iris Chang took her own life this week.
I posted this earlier, elsewhere:
The Rape of Nanking sits on a bookshelf in my mother's house. I have passed by it many times wanting to read it, but I think I know what lies inside and I am afraid that I might not have the stomach for it. Instead I look at its red binding and think of how it was a gift from Iris, who had once stayed a few hours in our house, to rest between book signings. Our mothers were friends I think, but I was never too sure; there are so many people I call Auntie. And so it is with thin thread of acquaintance that I express my sadness. Honestly, I can't explain why this news touches me so, but it does. It does.