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times on their backs—you could even say that they are this city’s proclamation. And whenever a star is born in this city, whether on the stage or on the screen, they all become ardent fans and admirers. They are the captive readers of romance novels serialized in the newspaper supplements. The intrepid among them write letters to authors and film stars, but all they are really hoping for is an autograph. In the world of fashion, they are the foundation.
    There does not exist a single Wang Qiyao who isn’t sentimental, fashionably sentimental—the kind of sentimentalism that is acquired. Dried leaves are kept in the pages of their books, dead butterflies in their rouge boxes. They may cry, but even their tears follow the mainstream. Their sentimentality is acted out before it comes into existence, the display preceding the feelings. You cannot say that it is completely artificial, only that the order is backward—it is something real that has been artificially produced. Everything in this city has a copy, and everything has someone who leads the way. Wang Qiyao’s eyes are a bit dull, as if enshrouded in shadow—it is the shadow of sentimentalism. These Wang Qiyaos often appear sad, but this sadness makes them even more enchanting. When they eat, their appetite is no bigger than a cat’s, and when they walk they take feline steps. Their skin is so fair that it seems transparent; you can even see their pale blue veins. In summer every one of them gets sick from the heat; in winter they can never stay warm enough under their quilted blankets. They need to take traditional Chinese medicine to strengthen the vital fluids and nourish the blood—the smell of medicinal brew fills the air around them. Between the media and the stage, there are men working behind the scenes to create a fashion perfectly suited to Wang Qiyao, a fashion that moreover seems to anticipate Wang Qiyao’s every need and desire.
    Between the Wang Qiyaos is a sisterly love, sometimes strong enough to last a lifetime. Whenever they get together, they regress back to the days before they were married. They are symbols to each other of that innocent period in their lives, living monuments or witnesses on whom to rely when recalling lost times. Many things in their lives are replaceable, but this sisterly love remains until death. Sisterly love is a strange thing indeed: it is not the kind of love that endures through thick and thin and inspires one to help a friend when she is down—it recognizes no attachments, no responsibilities. Rootless and unfettered, it offers no security. You cannot really say that these girls keep each other as confidantes—after all, just how many secrets do women store up in their hearts? Most often they are there to keep one another company, but not in any intimate way—they simply keep each other company on the way to and from school, sporting the same hairstyle, wearing identical shoes and socks, and walking hand-in-hand like lovers. If you should ever see a pair of young girls like this on the street, don’t ever mistake them for twins. It’s simply sisterly love—Wang Qiyao style.
    They depend so much on each other, they treat each other with such exaggerated affection, and their expressions are so earnest that you can’t help but take their relationship seriously. But when they keep one another company, all they are doing is making loneliness lonelier and helplessness even more helpless, because neither is in a position to do anything for the other. Divested of utilitarian motives, their sisterly love is all the more pure. Every Wang Qiyao is accompanied by another; some are classmates, some neighbors, and others cousins. This relationship is one of the few social activities in their chaste, simple lives. They have too few opportunities for social interaction and so when an opportunity arises they cannot help putting everything they have into it—and the result is sisterly love. The Wang Qiyaos of the world all