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351 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2005
Narratives of female suffering conferred power onto those who publicized them, be they male nationalist reformers or urban educated women, who occupied a male subject position. One woman's pride and freedom was predicated on another woman's shame and bondage.The majority of writing that is deemed 'nonfiction' isn't actually such, but is instead a menagerie of fairy tales, self-help books, and project proposals for video games. In the first, you have your heroes, your villains, your perfect princes, your prettily pitiful princesses, your honorable kings, your rapacious queens, your demon hoards, your evil dragons (all of the Eurocentric gender dichotomy implied by every previous category except for, conveniently, the latter two), etc, etc, etc, all leading to the likes of genocidal Winston Churchill being known as "the last lion" or whatever such nonsense. In the second, you have the result of a people living in a misogynistic, capitalistic, and white supremacist society, which is that they need to be told what to think. All the time. Bonus points if you can transform it into a witch hunt manual à la movie-glutted and sadism-apologist The Sociopath Next Door, which could well be greatly enhanced in this country of mine by the passage of the underreported Murphy Bills which basically state no, actually, mentally unwell people aren't human beings, and we need to help their families take control of them for the good of society. In the third, you have the passage of time as a twist on the first person shooter/politician/liberal do-gooder. Fifteenth century? Level up to the End of the Dark Ages! Nineteenth? Bonus end of slavery in the only country that currently matters at the moment! Twentieth? All women can vote (the ones can count, at any rate)! All that is great if you want to feel good about yourself, horrible if you actually want to read something that doesn't try so hard to resemble narrative fiction that it undermines itself before the first sentence has even begun.
Envy, cruelty, violence, objectification: these horrible things that men do to others are also a part of the story, but they are inadequate explanations for the longevity of the practice and the stubbornness with which women embraced and perpetuated it.You can tell that this work isn't any of those sorts by how pissy most of the top reviews are. What they wanted was something that looked like the footbinding tag on tumblr, full of shock tropes and condemnation and Orientalist twittering. What they got was nonfiction that took what evidence it could get from esteemed classics, experimental compiling powered by collective fetish, philosophy, history, theory, cultural critique, colonialist tracks, (archae/anthrop)ology, and so much else that gave the slightest hint of this thing known as "footbinding". Much like my concurrent read The History of White People, the closest description you can get is an idea that managed over centuries to encompass enough bodies to constitute a culture, albeit this work, instead of chugging along from the Greeks to US anthropology, went backwards. This made for reading that resembled ripples on a globed body of water more than the A + B = C / D = E = F ? [Solution] the typical representative of nonfiction will do its best to shove itself into, especially when the words of white-savior types are found to have occurred a century or more earlier in Chinese prose, inherently more aware and less drowned in imperial agenda.
For women, footbinding amounted to the achievement of Confucian goals (modesty and civility) using an anti-Confucian means (maiming the body).
A new view of the machine-like body created in the image of the Christian god had taken hold. Regardless of the women's subjective wishes, both the utopian and the mundane manners of improving upon one's body had become hopelessly dated.To be honest, my interest in this book was born in titillation. The subject was a vague mysticism from my early years, the cover intrigued in a manner bordering on erotic fascination, and as a woman still coming to terms with her bisexuality, I'll never be able to fall in line with the men have the sexual incentive, women have the sexual incentive thrust upon them ever again. I knew all of this going into the work, and bore it in mind throughout, for a free will that has no regard for others compromises the very definition of "free" with a facile dichotomy that can only define itself via scapegoat. Does that mean I read this as erotica? Maybe in part, albeit mixed with all the other things I'm turned on by, like well founded analysis and novel instances of insight and motivation to read the works venerated as opus magnum by cultures that are not by own. The reviewers who were sickened by the chapters spent on Chinese men writing voyeur morality tales about golden lotuses will probably pass me by because of this, but that's okay. I don't trust anyone who takes themselves that seriously. Or is it that they don't take themselves in conjunction with others seriously enough? Whatever the case, from one white woman to another, if you're thinking of saving the nonwhite women from the nonwhite men: don't.
Antiquity, we may recall, is as inaccessible as the splendors of the capital for the scholar in exile. Instead of riding on the historicist faith that the distance between past and present can be bridged by painstaking archival research, factual verification, and logical deduction, Yang Shen dispensed with the pretension altogether that one can return to the distant capital.Isn't that a great passage? I doubt I'll remember Yang Shen's context or even his name for very long, but I'll always adore Machado de Assis (a black man, fyi) types, nonfiction or otherwise. This text is more contemplative than fun for the most part, but it has that sense of wonder that the best scholars always have. This wonder is necessarily muted as the subject of footbinding demands, but true to the introduction's proposal and the conclusion's reiteration, this is not a fairy tale chock full of awful dragons and beleaguered princesses, nor a self-help guide to how one should think, nor a progressive linearity wherein footbinding is the final boss. Neither is this an easy read, what with the academic tone and the end notes encompassing nearly a third of the pages and borderline requirement of fluency in Mandarin Chinese and Taiwanese and even some Japanese. I spoke of titillation earlier, but if the annals of analysis of cultural history are where you look for your porn, you're going to have to try really, really, really hard.
Instead of despair, however, Yang rode into the unknown with optimism and a sense of freedom, even mischief. In invading the integrity of the archives as a repository of knowledge and in insisting on a playful reading strategy, he alerted his readers to the lack of one-on-one correspondence between text and meaning. In so doing, he changed the reader's expectations of the kind of cultural work performed by a text. Subsequent scholars, too busy to correct his mistakes, seem oblivious to Yang's main message: that there is life beyond the search for certainty and authenticity.
Toward the end of this book, I harbor a lasting regret. The crux of the matter—the bodily sensations of premodern women with bound feet—is ultimately unknowable. My quixotic goal in this chapter is to get as close to their bodies as possible. These bodies once occupied a temporal and cultural space, leaving behind material imprints and traces which rarely took literary forms. However fragmentary, shoes, socks, binding cloths, foot powder, medicinal recipes, and embroidery patterns provide clues to the vanished body, its subjective experiences, and the histories of which they were a part.I'll be over by The Plum in the Golden Vase in a few months or so if anyone needs me.