A stark reminder of how low the class ladder goes in China, and how privileged my daily life is by comparison.
Xiao Hai spent years in southern factories — garments, electronics, the work most of my Shanghai friends never touch. Next to him, those friends look almost absurdly elite; next to friends back in the UK they look completely normal — same flats, same anxieties. Holding both pictures in my head is uncomfortable, and this memoir made that feeling sharper.
He writes without begging for sympathy. The poetry thread — stitching shirts by day, still wanting to write — is what I keep remembering.