Remember the last time we visited that wretched and bruised little street urchin, Sanmao? Oh, what dark laughs we shared.
Well, the other day I found two new Sanmao books. From 1980 and 1985, they were full of strips I’d never seen. I leapt with joy and overpaid for them — they were antiques, the old man insisted. When I flipped them open, though, I discovered something saccharine and horrible.
What? He’s benching 90? He’s a master of calligraphy? He’s… he’s… what about the blood, gore and sick Chinese humor???
Just to remind you, this is where we last left this homeless waif… Continue reading “The Disastrous Fall of Sanmao”