Today, I started reading Death of a Red Heroine by Qiu Xiaolong, a mystery novel set in Shanghai in 1990. I could relate to this paragraph:
A glimpse of a veiled face at the entrance of Beijing subway, a waft of the jasmine blossom fragrance from a blue teacup, or a particular rhythm in an attic with a train rumbling into the distant night, and he would have the feeling that he was on the verge of producing a wonderful poem. All this could turn out, however, to be a false lead, and he would end up crossing out fragments of unsatisfactory lines. (p.47, Soho Press Inc., 2000)
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