I first met the Chinese writer Hong Ying many years ago in a fashionable bookstore in London's upmarket Chelsea district. She was surrounded by literary stars and critics, looking a little tense, yet somehow pensive, elegant, patient. A blend of curiosity and bewilderment creased her face while, just beneath, there was an expression best described as a hard-as-nails vigilance.
Acclaimed Chinese-born writer tackles feminism and sex
From Chinese slums to London's literary circles, Hong Ying's themes remain universal