i saw half of a tv program on fenghuang (the hk channel) about a man who had been sentenced to prison in xinjiang. (i don't know what for because i missed the beginning of the program) being of a literary bent, he began to write a book while he was in prison. this was not easy, for the inmates only got $8 a month, and paper and ink did not come cheap. moreover, when his book had been completed, he hadn't the stamps with which to send his work to the publishers, and a manuscript is not a light package. he did odd jobs for the other inmates; in winter, he does their laundry in the bitter cold, in the hope that someone would give him a stamp. at long last, having accumulated enough stamps, he was able to send his manuscript off. shortly after the publication of his book, he received a letter from a young girl. he felt ashamed - "i'm a prisoner, a criminal, how can i write to this girl?" he did not reply. several months later, a second letter comes for him: she's moving to a different city because of her job, and she has yet to hear from him, "wo hen zhao ji". she is v anxious that she should not miss his letter. in the letter too, she had included her telephone number. calls were precious to the inmates - they were only allowed three a year, and usually reserved for chinese new year or the mid-autumn festival, but the man decides he would call this girl who seemed so interested in him. they liked each other immensely, and though 8 years his sentence was, they kept up their correspondence. post was only sent or delivered on the 5th, 15th and 25th of each month, and had to be censored either coming or going by the prison guards, causing long, agonising delays between letters. he became a celebrity of sorts in prison - most of the prisoners were divorced - the long years in prison and the disgrace had estranged them from their family - few wives were willing to wait - yet here he was, with a young girl he had never met, so constant, and writing to him over the years. for the mid-autumn festival, she sent him mooncakes - the only box that anyone has ever received in the prison. and you will know how this story is going - for you know the power of letters - think of the story of christabel and randolph - and they too fall in love. but he was always fearful - how do i know she loves me? he wonders. perhaps like desdemona to othello, it is no love but a mixture of compassion and admiration and novelty and youthful desire - how can he be sure she loved him, or perhaps, even if she did, was she necessarily the right girl for him, though she had been a true friend? all around her, her young friends are dating, in love, and whenever anyone asks her, she says, oh, i have a boyfriend, in xinjiang. but she too begins to wonder if it means anything to be in love with a man she is not and may never be with, and if what she has is even real, if letters are all there are - in a beautiful letter she speaks of it as a phantom love "mo bu dao, zhua bu zhao" he says to her: "wo zhi dao zhe yang hen wei qu ni" i know the way we live is unfair to you. she weeps on the phone. he tells her he loves her: "wo zhen de hen ai ni" then he is released early for good behaviour. walking and hitch-hiking part of the way, and travelling part of the way by train - it took him altogether seven days to reach her in guangzhou. at every major train stop he gets off and calls her to say - i've got this much nearer. they were both terrified. she nearly decides not to show up on the promised day, though armed with a friend she does. when they meet he is shocked at how young she was - no more than 21 or 22, and she at how old he was - prison had aged him far beyond his 29 years. they are married now, with a child, though i almost thought the story would have an unhappy ending. i am not sure this is a happy ending either. he runs a small printing shop, and they are not supremely well off. he feels that he has lost the drive to continue writing, and that supporting his family and making ends meet takes all his energy and days, and this day-to-dayness is wearisome. he is asked if he is happy. he says, not really. somehow, this is not the life he saw himself leading. perhaps he wishes to be a writer, perhaps he might have gone on to write a second book in prison, and more afterwards, but all that is behind him. still, he loves his family, and he is grateful for all her encouragement through those dark prison years. is she the price of his writing, or is his writing the price of her?