I came to Chinatown on a mission to get copies of the Chinese classics in their original language. This was at a time that I was much younger. I wished to know how the system was. Of course, I thought, they must come in volumes. At least the narrative prose. Surely there was not a solid 2500-page book weighing down the shelf there. I had no idea what I would come to see. I came to an exclusively Chinese bookstore, and there I found an abundance of semi-pornography, as true pornography is illegal in China, comic books, and documents on political theory. This was most of what I saw, and mostly what I expected. I came to the woman in charge, trying my best with the broken Putonghua I had about me at the time, to find their narrative works. She was incredibly confused. Finally, she lit up, and she seemed to come to a revelation. She walked to a far-off shelf and pulled from it, not a book, but a pamphlet. She handed it to me and said, last one. I studied the thing, unfolding it, and indeed it did carry the name of the 2500-page tome I was looking for. Only, it seemed to be only about 20 or so pages. Quickly I checked the back. It said in Chinese, volume ten. Seventeen dollars.