A book mostly boring, richly atmospheric, at times, exceedingly charming:
The man who has never hesitated under a cloudy moon on a night fragrant with plum blossoms, or has no memories of the dawn moon in the sky as he started to walk through the dewy gardens inside the palace gate, had better have nothing to do with love.
This book has the advantage of being short little stories, more or less, so you do not need to read it in order, but it contains a lot of very colloquial ephemera amidst the passages of beauty.
Today, on the plane, I glanced at a neighbour's phone, and she was reading an article:
15 Things that are shockingly similar to completely unrelated things
I did not jump out of the plane, because we had already landed, but it seems we live in an age so seemingly dedicated to its own absurdity that it has become quite impossible to create satire.