This is a novel about family expectations, a story about Chinese struggles with so many pretty et ceteras, about beating da sa jieh on the head with heightened morals and a squeaky bandinet spoon; about a girl who is too spoiled and proud to admit that life is too difficult for her, and there are devilish expectations by macabre parents who long to bind her life into a quietus sorrow, in which there are no outs save the fickle whims of a society in which one yearns to paint with minu-tiae in a tiny, disturbed room, to see civility in this or that man’s eyes. About rushing into it—your destiny. There was some fake tenderness that was terrible to witness. It’s about a girl who does not want to be a quintessential butterfly queen—-whose parents force her to wear the slipper, a fairytale unfit for the muses. What she loves is her ineffable charm, and her freedom; it is a book against excess filial piety and religion (life is so short, so stop washing the dishes); Why so good? It is the personae of the picture of a woman who is quirky, complex, and quasi-essential whatever that means in this laudable day.