Chang's obsession with privacy made her known as the 'Garbo of Chinese letters,' and photographs reveal a woman whose elegance and contemplative introspection justify that title. Nevertheless, from out of the frenzy of renown that surrounded her, the sheer quality of Chang's prose emerges clearly,and her voice...has a sound like none other in the canon of Chinese, or for that matter, American prose stylists.
— Boston Review

With language as sharp as a knife edge, Eileen Chang cut open a huge divide in Chinese culture, between the classical patriarchy and our troubled modernity. She was one of the very few who could see on both sides of that divide, into which her heroines so often disappeared. Eileen Chang is the fallen angel of Chinese literature, and now, with these excellent new translations, English readers can discover why she is so revered by Chinese readers everywhere.
— Ang Lee

　　且看《红玫瑰与白玫瑰》里一段翻译：

　　……搬进去这天，振保下了班，已经黄昏的时候，忙忙碌碌和弟弟押着苦力们将箱笼抬了进去。王士洪立在门首叉腰看着，内室走出一个女人来，正在洗头发，堆着一头的肥皂沫子，高高砌出云石塑像似的雪白的波鬈。她双手托住了头发，向士洪说道：“趁挑夫在这里，叫他们把东西一样样布置好了罢。要我们大司务帮忙，可是千难万难，全得趁他的高兴。”王士洪道：“我替你们介绍，这是振保，这是笃保，这是我的太太。还没见过面罢？”这女人把右手从头发里抽出来，待要与客人握手，看看手上有肥皂，不便伸过来，单只笑着点了个头，把手指在浴巾上揩了一揩。溅了点肥皂沫子到振保手背上。他不肯擦掉它，由它自己干了，那一块皮肤上便有一种紧缩的感觉，像有张嘴轻轻吸着它似的。

　　王太太一闪身又回到里间去了，振保指挥工人移挪床柜，心中只有不安，老觉得有个小嘴吮着他的手。他搭讪着走到浴室里去洗手，想到王士洪这太太，听说是新加坡的华侨，在伦敦读书的时候也是个交际花。当时和王士洪在伦敦结婚，振保因为忙，没有赶去观礼。闻名不如见面。她那肥皂塑就的白头发底下的脸是金棕色的，皮肉紧致，绷得油光水滑，把眼睛像伶人似的吊了起来。一件纹布浴衣，不曾系带，松松合在身上，从那淡墨条子上可以约略猜出身体的轮廓，一条一条，一寸一寸都是活的。世人只说宽袍大袖的古装不宜于曲线美，振保现在方才知道这话是然而不然。他开着自来水龙头，水不甚热，可是楼底下的锅炉一定在烧着，微温的水里就像有一根热的芯子。龙头里挂下一股水一扭一扭流下来，一寸寸都是活的。振保也不知想到哪里去了。

　　王士洪听见他在浴室里放水放个不停，走过来说道：“你要洗澡么？这边的水再放也放不出热的来，热水管子安得不对，这公寓就是这点不好。你要洗还是到我们那边洗去。”振保连声道：“不用，不用。你太太不是在洗头发么？”士洪道：“这会子也该洗完了，我去看看。”振保道：“不必了，不必了。”士洪走去向他太太说了，他太太道：“我这就好了。你叫阿妈来给他放水。”少顷，王士洪招呼振保带了浴巾、肥皂、替换的衣裳来到这边的浴室里，王太太还在那里对着镜子理头发，头发烫得极其蜷曲，梳起来很费劲，大把大把撕将下来。屋子里水气蒸腾，因把窗子大开着，夜风吹进来，地下的头发成团飘逐如同鬼影子。

　　振保抱着毛巾立在门外，看着浴室里强烈的灯光照耀下，满地滚的乱头发，心里烦恼着。他喜欢的是热的女人，放浪一点的，娶不得的女人。这里的一个已经做了太太，而且是朋友的太太，至少没有危险了，然而……看她的头发！到处都是——到处都是她，牵牵绊绊的。

　　士洪夫妻两个在浴室里说话，浴缸里哗哗放着水，听不清楚。水放满了一盆，两人出来了。让振保进去洗澡。振保洗完了澡，蹲下地去，把瓷砖上的乱头发一团团捡了起来，集成一股儿。烫过的头发，稍子上发黄，相当的硬，像传电的细钢丝。他把它塞进袴袋里去，他的手停留在口袋里，只觉浑身热燥。这样的举动毕竟是太可笑了。他又把头发取了出来，轻轻抛入痰盂。

  On the day he was to move in, Zhenbao left work just after dusk. He and his brother were busy supervising the coolies as they carried the trunks in, and Wang Shihong was standing arms akimbo in the doorway, when a woman walked in from the room behind. She was washing her hair, which was all lathered up with shampoo, the white curls standing high on her head like a marble sculpture.  "While the workmen are here," she said to Shihong, holding her hair with her hands,  "have them arrange all the furniture and things. It's no use asking our majordomo to help: he'll just make excuses—if he's not in the mood he won't do anything."

  "Let me introduce everyone," said Wang Shihong.  "Zhenbao, Dubao, my wife. I believe you haven't met yet?"

  The woman withdrew her hand from her hair to shake hands with the guests, but seeing the shampoo on her fingers, she hesitated. She nodded and smiled instead, then wiped her fingers on her dressing gown. A little shampoo splashed the back of Zhenbao's hand. Instead of rubbing it off, he let it dry there. The skin puckered up slightly, as if a mouth were lightly sucking at the spot.

  Mrs. Wang turned and went back into the other room.  Zhenbao directed the workers as they moved the bed and wardrobe, but he felt troubled, and the sucking sensation was still there. His mind wandered as he headed to the bathroom to wash his hands, thinking about this Mrs. Wang. He'd heard that she was an overseas Chinese from Singapore who, when she was studying in London, was quite a party girl. She and Wang Shihong got married in London, but Zhenbao had been too busy to attend the wedding. Seeing her was much better than hearing about her: under her white, shampoo-sculpted hair was a tawny gold face, the skin glistening and the flesh so firm that her eyes rose at a long upward slant, like the eyes of an actress. Her striped dressing gown, worn without a belt, hugged her body loosely, and the black-and-white stripes hinted at her figure, each line, each inch, fully alive. People like to say that the wide, long-sleeved gowns of former times didn't flatter curvaceous beauties, but Zhenbao had just discovered that this was not the case. He turned on the faucet. The water wasn't very hot, though the water heater downstairs was certainly on, and yet the lukewarm stream seemed to have a lighted wick running through it. Twisting and winding, the water ran from the faucet, every inch of it alive, while Zhenbao's mind went running off to who knows where.

  Wang Shihong heard the sound of running water and came into the bathroom.  "Do you want to take a bath? The water never comes up hot in this bathroom. The hot water pipe wasn't connected properly. That's one bad thing about this apartment.  If you want to wash, come into our bathroom."

  "Oh no, please don't bother,"  Zhenbao said.  "Isn't your wife washing her hair?"

  "She must be finished by now. I'll go and have a look."

  "Oh, really, it's not that important."

  Wang Shihong went to speak with his wife, and his wife said, "I'm just finishing. Tell the amah to draw him a bath."

  A little later, Wang Shihong told Zhenbao to bring his soap, towel, and clothes into their bathroom. Mrs. Wang was still in front of the mirror, struggling to get a comb through her tightly permed hair. The bathroom was full of steam, and the night wind blew in through the open window. On the floor, clusters of fallen hair swirled about like ghostly figures.

  Zhenbao stood outside the door holding his towel and watching the tangled hair, in the glare of the bathroom light, drifting across the floor. He felt quite agitated. He liked women who were fiery and impetuous, the kind you couldn't marry.  Here was one who was already a wife, and a friend's wife at that, so there couldn't be any danger, but . . . look at that hair!  It was everywhere. She was everywhere, tugging and pulling at him.

  The couple stood in the bathroom talking, but the water filling the tub was loud and Zhenbao couldn't hear what they said.  When the tub was full, they came out so he could take his bath. After his bath, Zhenbao crouched down and started picking up stray hairs from the floor tiles and twisting them together. The permed hair had turned yellow at the ends; it was stiff, like fine electrical wire. He stuffed it into his pocket. His hand stayed there, and his whole body tingled. But this was too ridiculous. He extracted the hair from his pocket and tossed it into the spittoon.