Wu Hanhun, a Chinese national, 32 years old, Doctor of Literature, graduated from the University of Chicago on June 1, 1960.

After attending the graduation ceremony, Wu Hanhun returned to his apartment, endlessly repeating his résumé in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more confused he felt. The job application required him to write an autobiography, but after starting the first sentence, he couldn’t continue. He stared blankly at the autobiography on his typewriter, which had been sitting there for three or four days. The twenty or so black letters suddenly started moving, like a swarm of black ants carrying a dead insect. Wu Hanhun quickly shut his eyes, and cold sweat began to drip from his forehead.

Wu Hanhun had been in America for six years, studying at the University of Chicago—two years for his master’s and four for his doctorate. In the early years, without a scholarship, he rented a basement apartment in a 20-story old building on South Clark Street in the city center. Such basements were usually rented to poor students or destitute bachelors. The air was damp, the light dim, and the rent was only one-third that of regular housing. Every afternoon from 4 to 7 p.m., Wu Hanhun worked at a nearby Chinese laundry shop called Wang James, delivering laundry for 25 cents a bag. He could earn over three dollars a day. On weekends, he washed dishes at the Nanjing Restaurant in the city, earning $1.50 per hour. Together, it was just enough to cover his food, lodging, and tuition. Due to his tight schedule, Wu Hanhun had trained himself to make the most of his time, never wasting a minute. From 7 to 7:30 p.m., he ate dinner, and then he studied from 8 p.m. until midnight, sometimes continuing until 2 or 3 in the morning.

The window in his basement apartment was right next to the sidewalk, with half of it sticking out above ground. In the summer evenings, the neighboring Black and Puerto Rican residents would gather on the apartment steps to cool off. Even at midnight, some would still be leaning on the stone railings, humming dreamy little tunes. At first, the noise outside often distracted Wu Hanhun. He would look up, and shadows of people would often flicker across the dirt-streaked windowpane. Eventually, whenever he read, he would cup his head and plug his ears with his hands. Not hearing anything made him feel as if his basement was completely cut off from the world. Winter was much better. When heavy snow fell, the sidewalk would be buried under one or two feet of snow, completely sealing his window. Huddled beneath the snow, Wu Hanhun felt like an Eskimo, finding a sense of safety.

During his Ph.D. studies, he received partial scholarships. He quit his job but didn’t move out of the basement. Over the years, the room had become cluttered with books and miscellaneous items, making it a hassle to move. The twenty-some dollars he saved on rent each month, he sent back to his mother in Taipei. Before he left for America, his mother had whispered into his ear, trembling, “Come back to see me while I’m still alive. It’s okay if it takes three or four years, but you must come back.”

Each time his mother wrote to ask when he would receive his degree, he would always reply that it would be another year, and then he’d buy a money order with his saved money and enclose it with his letter.

While preparing for his Ph.D. qualifying exams one night, he suddenly received an urgent telegram from his uncle. It read: “Your mother has passed away. Please take care of yourself.” He stared at the yellow telegram in shock for a long time, then crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into the corner of his drawer. On his desk lay The Complete Works of Eliot. He sat down, turned to The Waste Land, and began to recite softly:

April is the cruelest month,
Breeding lilacs out of the dead land,
Mixing memory and desire,
Stirring dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm,
Covering Earth in forgetful snow—

Outside, the snow was melting, and the slush trickled down his window, splattering the glass with grime. He forced his weary, bloodshot eyes to stay open, reciting Eliot line by line. A pot of thick coffee was boiling on the gas stove, bubbling and gurgling.

During the exam period, Wu Hanhun studied until the milk truck screeched to a stop outside his window each morning. From Yeats to Hopkins, he read through to Beowulf, battling the ghosts of English writers from the past seven or eight centuries for more than a month. The day before the exam, he received a letter from his uncle. Without opening it, he stuffed it into the drawer. After the exam, Wu Hanhun slept for two full days and nights.

His uncle’s letter stated that his mother had died from kidney failure. Because of his exams, his mother had instructed that he not be notified, so as not to distract him. She had fallen into a coma before her death and left no final words. Wu Hanhun took out the crumpled telegram and placed it next to the letter. He stared at both for a while, then burned them together in the fireplace. That night, he developed a high fever and was plagued by nightmares. He dreamt of his mother’s naked body lying on top of a coffin lid—her corpse pale and bloodless. When he approached her, his mother suddenly opened her eyes wide, staring blankly at him. Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to speak, but no sound came out. He rushed to her, trying to push her body, but it was cold and heavy, like frozen ice. Using all his strength, he finally managed to push her corpse back into the coffin.

Wu Hanhun walked to the bathroom, filled a basin with cold water, and submerged his head completely. At the University of Chicago square, he stood in the blazing sun for three hours in a heavy black doctoral gown, with the weight of the square cap pressing down on his head. The ceremony was long and tedious, and the president’s speech was solemn and dull. When the ceremony finally ended, all his American classmates rushed to embrace their families and take photos together. Wu Hanhun, alone, walked over to the refreshments table and asked for a glass of iced water, constantly wiping the sweat from his forehead. His shirt was soaked, and deep grooves were pressed into his forehead by the hard edge of the square cap. Even after returning to his dim basement, he still felt his vision was blurred by the sun’s glare. He wiped his face dry and sat on his old couch by the window. For the first time, he sat there in idleness. Normally, he was too busy. As soon as he returned to the basement, he would immediately cook, bathe, and then plug his ears and bury himself in his studies. His mind was always calculating: from 8 to 10 p.m., read 60 pages of Dickens; from 10 to 12, read five of Shelley’s poems; from 12 to 3—. Now that he had nothing to do, no plans to make, sitting on the worn-out couch felt extremely awkward and uncomfortable. The lines on the typewriter seemed to leap out at him like a curse:

“Wu Hanhun, Chinese, 32 years old—”

The sunlight streaming through the half-exposed window painted a streak of pale yellow. Chicago was lazily awakening from its summer afternoon slumber. It started with a few car horns, like soft sighs—clear and distant—followed by bursts of children’s laughter. Suddenly, various noises erupted from all directions. The sounds grew louder and faster, and the trucks on the street roared like caged beasts. The waves of people on the street surged with increasing intensity, as the entire city of Chicago began to tremble like a wild, twisting jazz melody. Wu Hanhun suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of anxiety. The shadows of people moving outside the window twisted like film slides. Milk-white legs, straw-colored legs, chocolate-colored legs—a row of legs in different shades, framed by the window. For the first time, Wu Hanhun noticed how many women’s legs appeared in his dust-covered window, and how different the shades of those round legs were. A group of female clerks, walking quickly past the window after work, suddenly burst into loud laughter. Wu Hanhun felt his ears grow hot, and his temples began to throb.

Since coming to America, Wu Hanhun had rarely interacted with women. His coursework was heavy, and his job kept him busy, leaving no time or energy for social activities. Although he was short in stature, his facial features were decent. But by his second year of his Ph.D. program, his hair had started thinning on top, and his crown had a shiny, greasy patch, making him look seven or eight years older than his actual age. As a result, he always felt a bit self-conscious in front of young women. He had attended one or two of the annual Chinese student dances in Chicago. Each time, he would cling nervously to his dance partner, hiding in a corner, fetching Coca-Cola or snacks for her. His anxiety made his dance partner tense as well, and in the end, he would quietly ask one of his friends to dance with her, relieving the awkward situation.

There was only one person in front of Wu Hanhun that had ever made him feel at ease, and that was Qin Yingfen. She had a kind heart. He knew she truly loved him, especially on the night before he left Taipei. Qin Yingfen clutched his shirt tightly, her eyes shining as she said to him:

“I know that once you leave, it’s over for us. But you know, I have no regrets—”

Qin Yingfen’s voice was slightly choked with emotion. Wu Hanhun gently removed her hands, draped a short coat over her shoulders, and silently walked out of the botanical garden with her. Qin Yingfen kept her head down the entire time, and he could feel her arm trembling in his hand.

Qin Yingfen wrote to him frequently, sometimes sending one or two letters a week. Wu Hanhun, however, replied rarely. For some reason, every time he remembered to write back to Qin Yingfen, it was always when he was drafting a report or preparing for an exam. When he got busy with his studies, he would put it off. Over the span of three years, Qin Yingfen’s letters accumulated into a large box. At the start of the fourth year, she sent him a gilded wedding invitation. Wu Hanhun spent an entire afternoon in a gift shop, selecting an elegant greeting card, which he then mailed to her. He threw Qin Yingfen’s letters and the wedding invitation into the wastepaper basket, lit a match, and watched the paper burn. The letters sizzled and crackled as they were consumed by the flames. When the fire was done, Wu Hanhun reached into the basket and pulled out a handful of soft, warm ash.

“Lucinda, you sure are a cute little thing!”

“Go away! Stop with the slick talk.”

A woman in a yellow skirt appeared at the window, her firm hips swaying as she walked. A muscular, brown arm wrapped around her slim waist and guided her forward.

Wu Hanhun abruptly stood up from the sofa. Though he had lived in this basement apartment for six years, it suddenly felt as though this was the first time he had noticed how stifling the damp air was. The lingering smell of mildew, mixed with the grease from old cooking oil, had been baked by the summer heat and humidity, slowly rising from the ground at around six or seven in the evening, so thick it was almost suffocating. Wu Hanhun looked around his dimly lit room: dirty dishes overflowing from the sink, a laundry bag with its neck stretched open, spilling out filthy underwear and socks. His desk was cluttered with paper, buried under which were three coffee mugs stained with yellow rings. The entire room was crammed with four bookshelves, piled high with books: The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Selected Greek Tragedies, Plato’s Dialogues, Nietzsche’s Selected Works. From Macmillan, Knopf, Penguin, Black Cat Press—six years of painstakingly saved spare change had been spent on books from various publishers. Like building a wall, he had erected these volumes around his desk, a fortress of books. Over the past six years, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge, he had imprisoned himself within this fortress, pouring all his time and energy into the abyss of scholarship. Wu Hanhun suddenly shivered. The rows of tightly packed books on the shelves, for a brief moment, seemed to transform into a heap of colorful, rotting corpses. The stench filling the room seemed to emanate from those corpses. His stomach turned, nauseous, as though he had just inhaled formaldehyde from a morgue. Wu Hanhun grabbed the suit jacket draped over the back of a chair and rushed out of the basement apartment.

In June, Chicago at dusk felt like a steak fresh off the grill, juices dripping, its yellowish color radiating a tender, meaty aroma. The sky was tinged with purple smoke, hovering above the old, dark buildings, utterly still. The pedestrians on the street wore bright, colorful clothing, but the air was so murky that they all seemed to be covered in a thin layer of soot. Wu Hanhun followed the crowd, crossing one zebra-crossing after another, guided by the whistle of the traffic police. From Clark Street to Madison, from Madison to Monroe. Every street in the city center was packed with people and cars. Office workers heading home, students leaving school, and well-dressed young couples standing at the entrances of theaters, waiting to enter. The couples nestled close to one another, oblivious to the world around them, as if Chicago were a dreamlike giant balloon, and they were lovers floating into the sky on that balloon.

Wu Hanhun continued to follow the crowd, passing the Palmer House Hotel, Marshall Field’s department store, and the Golden Dome Hotel. He stared in a daze at the luxurious, opulent buildings. Although he had lived in Chicago for years, it felt as though this was the first time he had truly entered the bustling downtown area. Usually, when he ventured into this part of the city, it was with his head down, hurrying to the market and then rushing back to his apartment. There had never been time, nor the inclination, to admire the glittering displays in the shop windows. He looked up at the fading purple sky between the towering buildings on Monroe Street. Suddenly, Chicago felt unfamiliar to him, as though it had become nothing more than a geographical term. “Chicago,” the old buildings, and the crowds of people moving like puppets, no longer felt connected to one another. Wu Hanhun began to feel a strange sense of panic. The vehicles and pedestrians moved in sync with the rhythmic pulse of the city, but as he stood at the intersection of Monroe and Clark, he felt lost, as if he had lost all sense of direction and purpose, like he had suddenly been thrust into an enormous ballroom, unable to keep up with the city's throbbing rhythm beneath his feet.

As the evening grew darker, the city’s lights flickered on, and the crowds scattered like chickens released from a coop. Wu Hanhun wandered aimlessly, as if sleepwalking. The scenery around him blurred, becoming dreamlike. When he reached LaSalle Street, a blinding light hit him, causing him to squint. He felt as though he had stepped into King Solomon’s treasure trove, with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and cat’s eyes gleaming in every direction. Neon lights in every color stretched from one end of the street to the other. Hundreds of bars, vaudeville theaters, and strip clubs lined both sides of the street, overflowing with tourists. The strong lights painted the faces of the pedestrians, making their features stand out vividly. Women wearing heavy makeup flitted in and out of the bars like shadows. When Wu Hanhun reached the entrance of the Red Magnolia, a burst of cheers erupted from inside. The Red Magnolia had two flamboyant red doors adorned with French-style carvings, with neon lights twisted into grape vines hanging above. Clusters of grape-like purple neon lights seemed to drip down onto the heads of passersby. Wu Hanhun pushed open one of the red doors and stepped inside. The bar was in a basement. As he descended the stairs, it felt as though he were stepping into a scene from one of Hoffmann’s tales. The air was thick with smoke, the lighting a soft rose, turning the smoke into a milky haze. The bar was packed with people seeking refuge in alcohol. Across from the bar, on a small stage, stood an enormous Black woman, her arms outstretched, her mouth a wide black hole with rows of shining white teeth. She sang with a deep, melancholic, yet primal voice that seemed to reverberate throughout the room. The rose-colored light reflected off her glossy, oiled skin, making her appear damp and radiant. People leaned against the bar, watching her performance. Some young men and women giggled as they commented on her, but their voices were drowned out by her powerful song. They could only be seen moving their mouths in vain. When the Black singer finished, applause exploded from the crowd, and then everyone started to move again—some heading out, others pushing their way in.

“Brandy.”

“Hey, two bottles of Rhine Gold!”

“Martini, I said Mar-ti-ni—”

“What’ll you have, sir?” asked a bartender in a floral vest.

“I’ll have a whiskey soda,” said Wu Hanhun. He didn’t drink much, and whiskey soda was the only cocktail he was familiar with. Holding his glass, he squeezed into the far end of the bar. The air was filled with the pungent smell of cigars, the sour scent of spilled liquor, and the thick perfume worn by the women. The atmosphere was stuffy, and the jukebox kept repeating wild jazz tunes: Twist Till Dawn, Kick This World Away, Baby, You’re Killing Me. Wu Hanhun took two sips of his whiskey, the strong alcohol burning his throat, and his temples began to pulse.

The bar patrons were divided into two extremes. Some were huddled together, talking and laughing loudly, each person vying to speak over the others. The men had loosened their ties, their faces shiny with sweat, while the women had kicked off their high heels, laughing uncontrollably. A tall man, over six feet, had his arms draped around a woman barely reaching his chest, his huge bear-like hands casually massaging her hips as she twisted and giggled flirtatiously. Meanwhile, others sat like statues, perched silently on the barstools, drinking one glass after another. Not far from Wu Hanhun sat an old man who had downed six or seven martinis in a matter of minutes. He wore an old felt hat, withstraw-like white hair peeking out from beneath the brim. He was bundled up in a worn leather jacket, and with his neck tilted back, he gulped down one drink after another. His eyes were glazed over, staring unblinkingly, as though oblivious to the flirtatious banter around him.

As the night deepened, the bar grew even more crowded. People’s necks were flushed purple with heat, their drunken eyes glazed, yet none of them seemed willing to leave. They all vied to drink themselves into oblivion, as though determined to drown their lives in the emerald glow of their drinks before the night ended.

"Why are you sitting here alone, spacing out?" A woman squeezed past Wu Hanhun and suddenly leaned close to his ear, speaking in a sultry voice.

Wu Hanhun stared at her blankly, without saying a word.

"Can’t find a partner, huh? I bet." The woman gave him a flirtatious wink, her tone playful.

"Come on, let me keep you company for a bit." Without waiting for a response, she slipped her arm through his, guiding him through the crowd toward the back of the bar. The sofas were all filled with couples whispering to each other, but there was a four-person table occupied by a single drunk man. His head was slumped over the table, mouth wide open. The woman shoved the empty glasses in front of him to one side, then sat down across from Wu Hanhun.

"I'm Rona, but everyone calls me Magnolia—call me whatever you like," she said with a smile.

"And you?"

"Wu Hanhun."

"Wu—" Rona burst into laughter, covering her mouth. "That’s awkward! I’ll just call you Tokyo."

"I’m Chinese," Wu Hanhun said.

"Ah, whatever. You people from the East all look the same—hard to tell apart," Rona laughed, flashing a row of white teeth, with a smear of lipstick on her front tooth. Her face was caked with thick makeup, her eyeshadow a deep blue, and her fiery red hair looked like a mass of flames. She had a full figure, with a well-endowed chest tightly squeezed into a peacock-blue dress.

"Feeling lonely, came here looking for some excitement?" Rona tilted her head, pretending to be empathetic.

"This is my first time here," Wu Hanhun replied, nervously sipping the remaining whiskey in his glass.

"Yeah, right. You Eastern guys always play it shy," Rona said, shaking her head.

"I swear, it’s my first time in a place like this," Wu Hanhun repeated.

"Don’t worry, I’m open-minded." Rona patted Wu Hanhun’s shoulder. "Don’t take things too seriously. Let me guess—you’re a student, right?"

Wu Hanhun didn’t respond. Instead, he drained the last of his whiskey, feeling the fiery burn of the alcohol claw at his throat.

"Did I guess right?" Rona suddenly leaned in close to his neck, wrinkling her nose and taking a sniff before bursting into laughter. "I can smell the bookishness on you."

"I'm not a student anymore—I just graduated today," Wu Hanhun mumbled, staring blankly at Rona as if he were speaking to himself.

"Well, congratulations then!" Rona raised her glass, finishing her drink in one gulp before exclaiming excitedly, "Now go buy me a gin, and get yourself another drink. Let’s have some fun."

Wu Hanhun squeezed through the crowd to the bar, bought two more drinks, and returned to Rona. She snuggled up to him from time to time, playfully calling him "my little Chinese man" and raising her glass to toast "to the Easterners." The jukebox blared an ear-splitting twist song called Sally, and the crowd at the bar swayed back and forth in unison, their shoulders and feet moving to the beat. The entire bar was filled with flickering shadows. Suddenly, a couple emerged from behind the bar, and the crowd erupted into cheers, forming a circle around them. The man was as thin as a bamboo pole, wearing a bright red shirt, with his hair dyed pale gold. His wrinkled face was marked by dark brown eyebrows. The woman was dressed entirely in black, in a men’s suit, with a white silk tie draped over her chest, resembling a shrunken old man. The audience cheered and clapped as the man danced with increasing enthusiasm, his movements as flexible as a cobra. At the height of the woman’s performance, she suddenly let out a hoarse shout: "Hoo-la!" The crowd’s applause exploded like thunder.

Rona leaned against Wu Hanhun’s shoulder, laughing as she pointed at the man and said, "That’s the famous 'Miss Red Magnolia.' His partner is 'Mr. Red Magnolia.'"

"Where’s my drink?" The drunk man at the table woke up, mumbling incoherently as he lifted his head before slumping back down onto the table, foaming at the mouth. His hand knocked over Wu Hanhun’s drink, spilling whiskey all over his suit jacket. Wu Hanhun silently pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the liquor from his jacket. Rona studied him for a moment, then said, "Hey, what’s wrong? You don’t look so good."

"My head hurts. The air here is too stuffy," Wu Hanhun said. He could hear his temples throbbing, and the people around him began to blur, dissolving into the rose-colored smoke.

Rona hooked her arm through his and whispered, "Let’s go back to my place. I’ll take care of you."

Wu Hanhun followed Rona to her apartment. As soon as they entered, she kicked off her high heels, throwing them onto the sofa with a sigh, "It’s so hot!" Rona walked barefoot to the fridge, pulling out two fried chicken legs, handing one to Wu Hanhun.

"I don’t want this," Wu Hanhun shook his head.

Rona shrugged and poured him a glass of ice water.

"I’m starving," she said, sitting on the sofa, crossing her legs as she greedily gnawed on the chicken leg. Wu Hanhun stared blankly at her as she licked her lips and sucked the sauce from her fingers.

"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you," Rona said with a grin, her lips glistening with oil. "But you know, I can’t do anything on an empty stomach."

After finishing the chicken leg, she tossed the bone into the ashtray, then walked over to Wu Hanhun. With a quick tug, she ripped off her tight peacock-blue dress. In the brighter light, Wu Hanhun noticed that the skin on her exposed shoulder blades was wrinkled, like the skin of milk that has been left out too long. Rona turned around, ran a hand through her hair, and pulled off her flaming red wig. Underneath was a patch of sparse, dull-blonde hair. In an instant, she looked like a forty-year-old woman, her cheeks unnaturally red, her eyeshadow a faded blue, her teeth gleaming stark white against her lipstick. Wu Hanhun suddenly felt a surge of nausea in his stomach, as if the alcohol was making his head split open.

"What’s wrong? Shy about taking off your clothes?" Rona laughed, walking over to the door and switching off the light. "Honestly, I’ve never been with a Chinese man before. They say you Easterners are really gentle."

By the time Wu Hanhun stepped back onto the street, it was already the early hours of the morning. Chicago looked like a drunkard slumped against the doorway of a bar, nodding off but refusing to fall asleep, too drunk to open his eyes. The streets were deserted, save for a few cars speeding down the empty roads, carrying the last of the revelers home. Wu Hanhun wandered from one street to another, the grid-like pattern of the streets feeling like a labyrinth. He felt trapped, sinking deeper and deeper. His head felt too heavy to lift, his eyes stinging as though they had been soaked in vinegar, but his legs kept dragging his exhausted body forward. Some streets were completely dark, lined with overflowing garbage cans spewing out piles of milk cartons, beer cans, and egg shells. Other streets were brightly lit, their shop windows displaying headless, armless mannequins. Wu Hanhun walked faster and faster. When he turned onto Michigan Avenue, he suddenly stopped, stunned. The sky was pitch black, but the avenue was illuminated by floating lights. He stood in the middle of the street, looking in both directions. The greenish glow of the lights flickered like ghostly flames, scattering everywhere. The towering buildings, layered and dense, loomed like giants that had escaped from ancient tombs. A chill seeped into his bones, and he shuddered. Suddenly, he broke into a blind run, sprinting past buildings, fences, and trees, until he found himself standing on the breakwater of Lake Michigan.

The breakwater curved out into the lake, and at its end, a lighthouse glowed faintly blue in the fog. Wu Hanhun walked toward the end of the breakwater. Before him stretched a vast expanse of black water, blending seamlessly into the boundless night sky. The waves crashed relentlessly against the shore, solid and heavy. The darkness was thick, with countless sticky tentacles reaching down from the night sky, wrapping around him. Step by step, Wu Hanhun walked into the embrace of the sticky, black net. The air was warm and humid, carrying the scent of the lakewater, mixed with the alcohol lingering on his clothes and the faint perfume left by Rona. The combination turned into a nauseating stench that made him want to vomit. His heart pounded violently, in sync with the crashing waves, each beat growing faster and louder. Suddenly, a feeling of pre-dawn anxiety gripped him. It felt as though he could hear the tearing sound of the night breaking apart, signaling the approach of dawn. In the park behind him, thousands of crows exploded into an impatient chorus of noise. Yet the night clung on, like an old man on his deathbed, its skeletal arms wrapped greedily around the earth, unwilling to let go.

Wu Hanhun walked to the base of the lighthouse, where its soft blue light shone out into the endless depths of Lake Michigan. The anxiety gnawing at his chest felt like thousands of moths eating away at his insides. Cold sweat dripped down his face and neck. The night seemed endless, each minute and second stretched out unbearably long. In the moment before dawn, it felt as though time had come to a standstill, and the darkness had become eternal.

But daylight would inevitably come, and when it did, he would lose the comforting cover of the night. He would be nakedly exposed again under the scorching sun, laid bare before others and, worst of all, before himself. No, he thought, he could not face the daylight again. He didn’t want to see the sun, didn’t want to see people, didn’t want to see himself. The towering buildings of Chicago, the serpentine dancers of the Red Magnolia, the wrinkles on Rona’s back—it all suddenly blurred together with the image of his mother’s corpse, her trembling lips. He seemed to hear her voice calling out: “You must come back. You must come back.” Wu Hanhun buried his head in his arms, pushing the thought away. He didn’t want to go back. He was too tired. He longed to find a hidden place where he could close his eyes and forget the past, the present, and the future, and sleep forever.

On this Earth, there wasn’t an inch of ground where he could rest. He didn’t want to return to Taipei. Taipei had no twenty-story skyscrapers. But neither did he want to return to his basement apartment on Clark Street. He couldn’t bear the thought of that damp, mildewy smell or living again with the ghosts of the books that lined his four bookshelves. Six years of fervent pursuit of knowledge had drained him, like water trickling from a leaky pitcher. By graduation day, the last drop had finally run out. Just thinking about Shakespeare made his stomach churn, as if it were being squeezed. He had once memorized all four of Shakespeare’s great tragedies by heart, but the only line that remained in his mind now was one from Macbeth:

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Chicago—Chicago was like an ancient tomb, trapping millions of living people alongside the dead, all rotting away together.

"Wu Hanhun, Chinese, 32 years old, Doctor of Literature, graduated from the University of Chicago on June 1, 1960—"

The lines of his autobiography came back to him like a curse. Without thinking, his mind finished the next sentence:

"June 2, 1960, died in Chicago, Lake Michigan