In 1908, the same year Chen Ke received his first Nobel Prize, his daughter Chen Qianru was born.

Chen Qianru inherited her face shape from her mother He Ying, while her brows and eyes came from Chen Ke — a fact that pleased and relieved him greatly. Chen Ke's own face was the classic square-jawed look of a handsome northern Chinese man, and if that jaw had been passed on to a daughter, it would have been somewhat tragic. However, Chen Ke's brows and eyes had a slightly feminine quality, which, combined with his square jaw, added a touch of refinement to his imposing countenance and effectively masked the ravages of age. When the Japanese revolutionary Kita Ikki first met Chen Ke in 1911, Chen Ke was already thirty-one, yet in Kita's estimation he looked no older than twenty-three or twenty-four. Kita was astonished by his youthfulness. Another of Kita's comrades — the self-confessed Chen Ke fanatic Miyazaki Toten — once evaluated Chen Ke in the manner of a traditional Japanese: "Across the five hundred provinces of the great Chinese land, heroes abound, yet Chairman Chen's physiognomy marks him as a man who was never meant to be ordinary."

Chen Qianru, who inherited the best features of both parents, embodied the Chinese aesthetic ideal of her era. And in the eyes of many Westerners, she was the most beautiful Eastern face they had ever seen.

Chen Ke's adoration of his daughter was known to all. In an age of male supremacy, even the People's Party — which never tired of championing gender equality — generally still hoped for a son. Chen Ke was nothing of the sort. He once said privately to his wife He Ying shortly after the birth: "Any family lucky enough to have two daughters would die of happiness." The remark was rather baffling, since virtually no family in China at the time would have shared such a sentiment — though in today's China, it might be plausible. Many people therefore assumed it was merely a diplomatic nicety to console his wife. But Chen Ke's subsequent behavior proved that his love for his daughter was anything but feigned.

Chen Ke loved his daughter so much that on the Chinese internet, people jokingly dubbed this habitually ascetic great man a "daughter-con" — a label that drew fierce criticism from some quarters while winning enthusiastic endorsement from others, who declared that Chairman Chen was a born rebel and that being a daughter-con was beyond moral reproach.

Compared to Chen Qianru's overwhelming presence, Chen Ke's son was virtually invisible. In the West, many people did not even know he had a son. When Chen Qianru and her younger son died in a plane crash in 1970, a self-proclaimed Chen Ke follower — a Chinese-American gay man named Xia Chenxing — wailed in anguished tones: "I @#$%! (expletive), beloved Chairman Chen's line has been extinguished!" Anyone capable of uttering such absurdly neurotic words was obviously unaware that Chen Ke not only had a son but also several grandsons and grandchildren. From this pseudo-follower's outburst, one can appreciate just how thoroughly overlooked Chen Ke's son truly was.

Chen Qianru's name came from her great-aunt He Qian — the sister of Chen Ke's wife He Ying's father. She was an unfortunate woman: independent and strong-willed, yet ultimately a victim of old China's Confucian social codes. He Ying had been very close to this aunt, and with Chen Ke's consent, named her daughter Qianru in her memory.

Chen Qianru received this name at the age of three. Before that, she went only by her nickname "Yueyue." This clever, lovable little girl spent very little time with her father. When she was barely a year old, Chen Ke — as Chairman of the People's Party — led the Mobile Central Committee on an inspection tour of the various regions. The journey lasted over a year, and when father and daughter were reunited, Chen Qianru had no memory of the man standing before her. She ran inside and told her mother: "There's a strange uncle outside I don't know." Hearing those words, even a figure as towering as Chen Ke — an unparalleled hero in human history — could not hold back tears.

As China's leader, Chen Ke was exemplary. As a father and husband, he was sorely lacking — a fact that left him perpetually indebted to his family and made him treasure every moment he spent with them all the more. This may well be one of the reasons for Chen Ke's extraordinary devotion to his daughter. Unlike the traditional Chinese family dynamic of the stern father and gentle mother, Chen Qianru always felt that her father was the more affectionate and approachable of the two. It was her beautiful mother who was quick to put on a stern face, leaving little Qianru's lips pushed out in an aggrieved pout.

Having recognized his failings as a family man, Chen Ke brought his wife and daughter along when he traveled north to Beijing to meet with then-President of China Yuan Shikai. It was He Ying's first trip home since she had followed her husband into revolution, and Chen Qianru's first time in Beijing — everything was wonderfully new. It was also from this visit that Chen Ke's reputation as a doting father spread. When He Ying's relatives came calling to curry favor, she grew impatient and used her daughter as a shield: "My little girl is about to take her afternoon nap. Everyone should head home for now."

This struck everyone as absurd. He Ying apparently felt the excuse lacked credibility, so she invoked Chen Ke himself: "My Wenqing absolutely adores our girl. Even when he's out campaigning and fighting, his letters home always ask whether she's eating and sleeping on time. The two of us rode the train back with Wenqing, and our girl hasn't been sleeping well. We've been trying to get her back on her routine." She even flashed the watch on her wrist. "It's already time. Everyone, please go."

Chen Ke's decision to bring his wife and daughter to Beijing carried genuine risk. Within the Beiyang government, quite a few people wanted him dead — Yuan Shikai's son in particular had already begun making plans. As a precaution, before leaving People's Party territory, Chen Ke had even prepared a backup leader. During their stay in Beijing, over a hundred thousand People's Party troops were massed along the border, keeping Beiyang too intimidated to make any rash moves. Only then was the Chen family's safety in Beijing assured.

This was probably the most dangerous situation Chen Qianru ever faced in her life, but she was only three or four at the time. The first Beijing trip left few traces in her young mind, let alone any awareness of the political gamesmanship involved. What did leave an impression was something Chen Ke said out of fatherly guilt: "Someday, when we get the chance, Daddy will take you boating on Kunming Lake." Later, she asked her father on multiple occasions: "Daddy, when are we going boating in Beijing?"

Kunming Lake is an artificial lake within the Summer Palace — the private garden built for Empress Dowager Cixi, the last true wielder of power in the Qing Dynasty. Chen Ke had once inadvertently let slip that the Dragon Throne in the Forbidden City was uncomfortable, but rowing on Kunming Lake was quite enjoyable. This remark sparked endless speculation over the next century. It was from this moment that the rumor of Chen Ke's Manchu imperial lineage first took root.

Little Chen Qianru waited with eager anticipation for her father to take her boating. The wish would not be fulfilled for many years — not until the autumn of 1923.

That very year, on October 1st, the People's Republic of China was officially established. Chen Ke built a pentagonal government building in the capital, Zhengzhou, erected the Monument to the People's Heroes, and reviewed the Grand Military Parade from atop the Pentagon with his many comrades and foreign envoys. Afterward, Chen Qianru went to her father and said she wanted to watch the parade from the building too. This innocent request was summarily vetoed by the iron-faced people's leader. But Chen Ke then offered an alternative: the country was newly founded and needed inspection tours. Lüshun had been recovered just days before the founding ceremony, and the north was a priority inspection zone. Under the cover of this trip, he could take her to Beijing to play.

Since the collapse of the Beiyang government in 1915, Beijing had lost its status as China's political center. The Forbidden City — once the supreme symbol of imperial authority — was opened to the public as the Palace Museum on Chen Ke's orders. Not for free, of course. Chen Ke's shrewd commercial mind kicked into gear once more, and he concocted a "Sit on the Dragon Throne" gimmick: anyone could experience the sensation of sitting enthroned like an emperor in the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The rate was ten yuan per minute — an outrageous price, but people flocked to it, and the Palace Museum's coffers overflowed.

Naturally, this also drew opposition. Beijing was never short of Qing loyalists and imperial nostalgists, who found such blatant desecration of imperial authority inconceivable and filed protests with the People's Party government. In response, Chen Ke signed off on an expansion: visitors could not only sit on the Dragon Throne but also lie on the Dragon Bed, at a rate of five yuan per minute. The Palace Museum had gained another revenue stream.

For this northern tour, Chen Ke brought his family along. He was normally too busy for them, but he stole a day from his schedule to tour the Forbidden City together. Naturally, they sat on the Dragon Throne and lay on the Dragon Bed, paying the prescribed fees — which cost Chen Ke a pretty penny. Both children were little imps. The son, not yet two, was bursting with energy and refused to leave the Dragon Throne. The little fellow had apparently developed an intense fascination with the exquisite carved dragon heads and was trying, with his drool-drenched little mouth, to gnaw one off. Chen Qianru stood beside him, clapping with delight.

The family of four eventually squeezed together on the Dragon Throne for a photograph: Chen Ke and his wife He Ying sitting side by side, their son cradled in their arms, their daughter at the other side, all four faces beaming — indescribably warm and beautiful. This photograph later became one of the Palace Museum's priceless treasures.

The four of them spent a total of half an hour cavorting on the Dragon Throne, costing Chen Ke eight thousand yuan — an enormous sum at the time. If Chen Ke had not won a second Nobel Prize, the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1922, providing him with a substantial award as a source of income, he might not have been willing to spend so lavishly.

Speaking of which, by 1922 Chen Ke had received three Nobel Prizes. The second came in 1920, when Chen Ke made public the formula for a military stimulant he had previously sold during the First World War, along with an accompanying paper. This earned him the 1921 prize and another large sum, but he turned the entire amount over to the People's Party. By the time he won again the following year, with a new family member to support, he was compelled to stop surrendering his personal income to the organization. Even the illustrious Chairman of the People's Party felt the pressure of supporting a family.

Having finished with the Dragon Bed, Chen Ke could finally fulfill his promise: rowing on Kunming Lake with his daughter. This time it was just the two of them. Chen Ke rowed; Chen Qianru sat at the bow, cheering her father on. A gentle breeze blew. The fifteen-year-old girl — graceful and radiant — bloomed with boundless vitality against the autumn scenery. The camera faithfully recorded this moment, and it was here that Chen Qianru's allure first revealed itself to the world. Many of her future admirers would later say that they were first captivated by the young girl in this photograph — the scene was like an audience laying eyes on a fourteen-year-old Sophie Marceau in La Boum. Everything was so pure, so beautiful, that one could not help but be completely swept away.

My father, Edgar Snow, was among those admirers. He was three years older than Chen Qianru, born the very year Chen Ke launched his revolution. Father came to China in 1928 and was immediately captivated by the father-daughter pair. For decades afterward, he devoted himself to publicizing Chen Ke to the Western world. From my earliest memories, our home was always hung with photographs of Chen Ke and his daughter — especially Chen Qianru. Every single one was so vivid and striking that it made an indelible impression. Father's behavior once made my mother quite displeased. To this he would simply smile and say to her mildly: "You're quite taken with Chen Ke yourself, aren't you?"

From that moment, I knew our entire family had been bewitched by this father and daughter.

Chen Ke's talents were known to all the world. As a revolutionary leader, he shook the globe. As a scientific titan, he transformed daily life. As an artistic master, he set trends. Novels, music, films, theater — works flowed from him effortlessly. Even the military anthem of his mortal enemy, the Beiyang Army — "The Beiyang Army March" — was his composition. "My Motherland" moved every Chinese person to tears; "March of the Volunteers" overflowed with fervent patriotism. He had even composed two revolutionary songs for Japan — "Song of the Taisho Restoration" and "Thousand Cherry Blossoms" — which Kita Ikki carried home to enormous popularity. During this outing to Kunming Lake, inspiration struck, and Chen Ke spontaneously performed a song for his daughter: "Let Us Row Our Oars," which would later become known worldwide through a Chinese film of the same name.

As a revolutionary leader who despised the privileged class, Chen Ke was careful about his family's public appearances, rarely allowing them to appear before the public unless absolutely necessary. Thus, before 1928, very few people knew anything about Chen Ke's family — until my father arrived in China.

Chen Ke was forty-eight at the time, at the golden age for a politician. Western interest in this enigmatic Eastern ruler had always been intense, and journalists making the long journey to China in hopes of interviewing Chen Ke were a constant stream, but Chen Ke was not particularly interested. My father was merely a young reporter at the time — no connections, no credentials — driven to China purely by passion. He expected it would take enormous effort just to meet Chen Ke, but approval came with surprising speed. Reportedly, Chen Ke happened to see Father's name on the list of interview applicants and, for reasons unknown, took an interest. He specifically requested to see Father, and personally translated his name into Chinese as Aidejia Sinuo.

Father's excitement, one can easily imagine. He could clearly sense Chen Ke's goodwill toward him, which puzzled him greatly. Their meeting was warm and relaxed. Chen Ke noticed Father's nervousness and tried to ease the tension, but his joke-telling abilities were lacking. So he made a move that astonished my father: after consulting his secretary, he summoned Li Runshi — later China's second-generation people's leader — and tasked him with lightening the mood. Li Runshi delivered admirably, offering Father a cigarette and making a quip, visibly thawing the atmosphere. Throughout this exchange, Chen Ke said nothing, merely observing the two men in silence, his gaze carrying a certain indescribable quality.

Li Runshi later told Father: that look, in Chinese, could only be described as "immensely amused."

Father was enlightened and yet even more bewildered. He asked Chen Ke why he had been so immensely amused. To this, even Li Runshi — peerless in cunning and known as "the Second Chen Ke" — could offer no answer. The question puzzled both old men for the rest of their lives; they never figured it out.

Once the atmosphere had warmed, Father gradually relaxed, no longer timid as a schoolboy, and conversation flowed naturally. During their talk, Father showed Chen Ke a painting he had brought from America. It depicted a chemistry laboratory — tall, intricate glass apparatus arrayed on workbenches, filled with colorful, bubbling reagents that lent the scene a slightly psychedelic air. A narrow-chinned, high-cheekboned Chen Ke stood with squinting, slitted eyes — the quintessential image of an Oriental man as imagined by Westerners.

Father told Chen Ke the painting had existed for several years already. At that time, due to his Nobel Prize in Chemistry, Chen Ke's image in the Western mind was far more associated with chemistry than revolution. Eastern revolution was too remote; the various drugs Chen Ke had invented had tangibly changed Western lives.

Chen Ke glanced at the portrait, turned to Li Runshi, and smiled: "They've turned me into Dr. Manchu."

Father was stunned by Chen Ke's erudition at the time and was even more awed by his uncanny prescience in later years. When, ten years later, he first watched the film Sherlock Holmes vs. Dr. Manchu in a theater — the film designed to vilify Chen Ke — he could not help but see Chen Ke's enigmatic, half-smiling face hovering before his eyes.

Father told me: that interview, for him, was nothing less than a treasure hunt.

The meeting with Chen Ke proved endlessly useful to Father. He not only got to know the People's Party's first-generation leader but also established a relationship with the second-generation leader — an absolutely unique privilege in the Western media world. Sometimes Father would wonder: had Chen Ke already begun planning his succession even then? Arranging a successor forty years in advance seemed almost inconceivable, and Father never took the thought beyond idle musing.

Aside from meeting two generations of People's Party leaders, the greatest prize of this interview was meeting Chen Qianru. Chen Ke, who had always been secretive about his family in front of Western reporters, this time opened up to Father, waxing eloquent about his daughter. The tenderness and indulgence in his voice were impossible to conceal. This nearly short-circuited Father's brain. According to his later recollections: "At that moment, the identity of father overwhelmed that of revolutionary leader, as though his greatest accomplishment in life was not founding a new nation, not changing the lives of a quarter of humanity, but simply having this daughter." The senior leaders of the People's Party all adored this little girl — not merely out of the reflected affection for Chen Ke, but because Chen Qianru was genuinely irresistible. In Chinese, the word would be taox — delightful.

Li Runshi of course also knew Chen Qianru. Their first meeting was quite amusing. Like Chen Ke, Li Runshi's brows and eyes had a slightly feminine softness. In his early twenties at the time, he even looked rather boyish. He was only fifteen years older than Chen Qianru, and in appearance the gap seemed closer to ten. The well-mannered little girl greeted Li Runshi in a bright, ringing voice: "Hello, Brother Li!"

According to Li Runshi's later account to my father, Chairman Chen's mouth twitched at the sound — as if his daughter's "Brother Li" had shattered his worldview. For a Chairman whose expression never changed even when Mount Tai collapsed before him, this was remarkable. Both old men were once again left bewildered, and once again failed to solve the mystery before their deaths.

The incorrect address was corrected. Chen Ke very seriously instructed his daughter to call him "Uncle Li" instead. The young Chen Qianru, intimidated by her father's stern tone, obediently complied, but nursed a grudge. From then on, whenever she saw Li Runshi, the little girl rarely showed him a smile.

By 1928, Chen Qianru was twenty years old — like her father, at the most beautiful stage of life, radiating infinite charm. Father told me: the moment he laid eyes on Chen Qianru, he thought he had seen an angel.

This cliched, utterly unoriginal description made it perfectly clear to me: Father had fallen in love.

After the interview, Father returned to America and published a series of articles describing his observations in China. A completely new image of China appeared before Western eyes. No one had ever brought back such detailed reporting. Father's articles were enthusiastically received by readers. Chinese cinema was just beginning to exert its worldwide influence at the time, and Father's reports appeared with perfect timing. Public curiosity was piqued, and a wave of interest in Chen Ke and his family swept through society. Chen Qianru's name became known to the Western world.

As the originator of soft-power theory, Chen Ke understood the critical importance of a national leader's personal image. To change Western perceptions of China, the most direct approach was to change perceptions of him, China's leader. Until then, Chen Ke's image in Western media had been far too dark — even evil. From the moment he won the 1921 Nobel Prize in Chemistry, the label "Demon Chemist" had followed him everywhere. If China's leader was a demon, then China itself was a hell crawling with monsters. Chen Ke had been working relentlessly to reverse this perception. Distributing Chinese films worldwide was one method; granting interviews to sympathetic Western journalists was another. And Father's reporting inspired yet another new idea.

Father had once visited the Zhengzhou Zoo with Chen Qianru — her favorite leisure spot. She loved the mammals there because they all had thick, fluffy fur, which always reminded her of the stuffed animals at home. Chen Ke playfully dubbed his daughter's passion a case of "fluff-con" — the first recorded use in China of the suffix "-con" (from "complex") as a synonym for "enthusiast." It subsequently entered common Chinese usage.

Chen Qianru was especially fond of pandas. These lovable, chubby creatures with their perpetual dark circles around their eyes never failed to send her into helpless fits of laughter. Father, too, was enchanted by this uniquely Chinese animal and spared no film in photographing them. One photograph captured Chen Qianru with a baby panda perched atop her head, smiling radiantly beneath a bamboo grove. Father's years of photography experience reached their peak in this single shot. Every great photographer seemed to possess him in that moment, rendering the radiant girl and the adorable panda with irresistible charm. When the photograph was published in the newspaper, it captivated the entire world.

Chen Ke saw the photograph as well. He immediately decided to create new diplomatic breakthroughs by launching Panda Diplomacy — with his daughter Chen Qianru as ambassador.

For the legions of young Western men at the time — and the shut-in otaku of later generations — the age of the Panda Goddess, Chen Qianru, had arrived.

Beyond describing his own observations, Father's reporting also served, to some extent, as Chen Ke's mouthpiece. During the interview, Chen Ke expressed considerable goodwill toward the West and asserted that beneath the West's dazzling surface lurked a grave crisis. He predicted the crisis would arrive soon — no later than 1930 — and that the entire West would be wailing in misery. Father was skeptical but published it in the newspaper nonetheless, drawing endless ridicule. An Eastern dictator, presuming to lecture the Western world — could there be anything more laughable? Chen Ke's remarks were dismissed as the narrow, jealous ravings of an ignorant Easterner.

Reality, however, soon delivered a resounding slap. The arrival of the Great Depression stripped these people of everything.

As the real world reeled from devastation, people sought ever more spiritual refuge. Cinema entered its golden age, and Chen Ke's perfectly timed launch of Panda Diplomacy achieved spectacular success. People were conquered by this adorable animal, and they also remembered the angel-sweet girl. Their image of China underwent a dramatic transformation: a father who raised such a lovely daughter could hardly be a demon, could he? And a country that nurtured such a pure, intelligent young woman surely could not be a sunless hell?

Love me, love my dog — as the Chinese saying goes. Love the pandas, love Chen Qianru, love China.

Everyone loved Chen Qianru. In Japan, her fame was especially great, owing to the revolutionary song "Thousand Cherry Blossoms." The People's Party included numerous Japanese revolutionaries, from whom Chen Qianru learned Japanese. Though she could manage only simple conversation, it was enough to sing a Japanese song. This spirited, vivacious girl burned with revolutionary passion no less fierce than her father's. China's revolution had already succeeded, so she hatched the fantastical notion of going to Japan to lead its revolution. She even assembled a group of female classmates into a Red Women's Corps, appointing herself Commander. Chen Ke did not know whether to laugh or cry at his daughter's antics, but upon discovering the girls' artistic talents, he maneuvered to convert the group into a cultural troupe — basically singing and dancing to boost morale. Chen Ke told her this, too, was a way of supporting revolution. Chen Qianru, however, was not so easily hoodwinked. "Thousand Cherry Blossoms" remained the sole work of her artistic ambitions, after which she resigned from the Women's Corps.

What she never expected was that her actions sparked a craze in distant Japan. The daughter of the great revolutionary leader Chen Ke was ablaze with passion for the Japanese revolution and had organized a military corps to cheer it on! This somewhat exaggerated version of events won enthusiastic support. Chen Qianru acquired a nickname in Japan that would follow her forever: Commander Chen.

In 1935, the twenty-seven-year-old Commander Chen married. The news plunged countless young men around the world into despondency. Many Westerners demanded duels with Chen Qianru's husband. Some radical Japanese youths even committed ritual suicide. Chen Ke had intended to conclude his daughter's wedding quietly, but the resulting social upheaval left him marveling: this world truly is insane. That year, Father was already thirty. He silently set aside the thread of yearning in his heart and settled down to build his own family and career.

Regarding his daughter's life's work, Chen Ke once said: "I have spent my entire life maneuvering through plots and schemes. In pursuing the national interest, a break with the West is inevitable. Westerners like pandas, and my daughter likes pandas — that's a good thing. At least there is one thing both sides can agree on. When the Iron Curtain falls, there will at least be a ready-made channel for communication. Sports transcend borders; compassion transcends borders. Using cultural and athletic exchanges to share information and break diplomatic ice is an efficient and effective approach. My daughter loves pandas — that's wonderful. If only my son's athletic abilities weren't so abysmal, I'd have liked to leverage him for some sort of Ping-Pong Diplomacy. Coming from a political family, completely avoiding politics is impossible, but one wrong step and you'll be exploited. Using this kind of approach to contribute is not a bad method at all. Conveying love, promoting peace, calling for tolerance — no matter how you look at it, these are politically unimpeachable things to do."

Over the next thirty-five years, Chen Qianru served as China's Panda Diplomacy Ambassador, wielding significant international influence. At her father's direction, she launched a series of initiatives for environmental and animal protection, becoming the founder and honorary chair of numerous conservation organizations. Her constant companion, the giant panda, became the symbol of wildlife worldwide. The World Wildlife Fund, established in 1950, adopted the panda as its emblem. Her efforts bore fruit: people recognized the importance of ecological conservation and came to understand that China — a country that valued harmony between man and nature — was a truly civilized nation.

Chen Qianru had two sons, much to Chen Ke's mild disappointment. The daughter-con gene resurfaced; he always hoped for an adorable granddaughter and remarked on multiple occasions: "My daughter is so beautiful — any daughter she has is bound to be stunning." The granddaughter fantasy went unfulfilled, but fortunately there was still a granddaughter to be had from his son, who dutifully produced a pair — one boy, one girl — bringing great comfort to Chen Ke in his old age.

1970 was a year that left an indelible mark on everyone. That year, Chen Qianru perished in a plane crash at the age of sixty-two. Also killed were her younger son and a pair of pandas. They had been en route to America when the accident occurred. When the news broke, the world was shaken. The angel-like woman who had devoted her life to protecting our planet had departed — so suddenly, so without warning, that many initially suspected it was a hoax.

Chen Ke, ninety years old, learned the news immediately. The doting strongman deflated like a punctured balloon, deteriorating with terrifying speed. His wife had already left him ten years earlier. Now his daughter was gone too. It was an unbearable blow. He fell ill, slipped into a coma, and one month later departed this world.

Two years after that, as Father lay dying, he took my hand and asked me to complete his unfinished work — to see the historical biography of Chen Ke through to publication. He said he had believed there would be plenty of time, never imagining death would come so much sooner than expected. I understood the reason perfectly well: when that godlike father and daughter left him, his life was no longer whole.

Time flows on. More than twenty years have passed in the blink of an eye. The new century has arrived, and Father's dying wish has at last been fulfilled. The historical biography Chen Ke is about to be published. Although I am not the author, I share in the honor nonetheless. This biography began with my father, and through the tireless efforts of three successive writers, it has been completed — reconstructing Chen Ke's life to the greatest extent possible. Inevitably, errors remain, but if you wish to understand the most influential figure of the twentieth century, this book is absolutely indispensable. The book goes on sale July 27th — the birthday of Ms. Chen Qianru. Absolutely worth every penny. Absolutely superior to every comparable work. Grand in scope, authentic and riveting — a rare gem without question. Print runs are limited, so remember: buy your copy before they're gone.

— Ren Wu'ai Sinuo, July 17, 2000