Volume 3

拉扯  / 

pull  / 

绕道  / 

detour  / 

过敏原  / 

allergen  / 

注脚  / 

footnote  / 

悬停  / 

hover  / 


beak  / 


escape  / 

香烟  / 

cigarette  / 

脆弱  / 

vulnerability  / 

剧场  / 

theater  / 

anamerican  / 

anamerican  / 

出门  / 

go out  / 

炸锅  / 

deep fryer  / 

perceive  / 

perceive  / 

瓷器  / 

porcelain  / 


be  / 

喜悦  / 

joy  / 

想象  / 

imagination  / 

外乡人  / 

foreigner  / 


state of exception






Zhao Song


Born in 1972 in Fushun in Liaoning province, Zhao Song is a writer and critic based in Shanghai. His awards include the Biennial Short Story Prize and the One-Way Street Literary Prize, and his story “Waiting for the Snow” was included in the best stories of 2021 published by Harvest. He is the author of nine books.


If you don’t drag in history, any pieces of porcelain collected by a museum or on private display—or even plates, bowls, or cups that once belonged to a distant relative—naturally spark a peculiar form of comprehension. You may not know they’re made by firing together materials like pottery stone, kaolin, quartz, and feldspar, but that won’t change the stillness you feel as you stand alone before them. They’re simply there, and it doesn’t matter what era they’re from: the breath and traces they contain concern only you, who belong to this moment. Between you two, time is intact, but between them and the world time is fractured and fissured, and even history’s pretense of reassembling the innumerable pieces into a whole is of no use. Of course, nearly perfect porcelains keep us from seeing these fractures and fissures, just as the stars often make us forget the vast and empty dark. They say that over 300 years the Celestial Empire sold 300 million pieces of porcelain to Europe, and a good deal besides lies shipwrecked at the bottom of the sea.