The time I speak of is the twenty-eighth year of the Wanli reign, and the place is Suzhou. Whenever people mention Suzhou, the first things that come to mind are its beauties and its silk embroidery. It is as if everything else is as monotonous as the city's crisscrossing waterways, with nothing special about it. The water, in particular, has long since become foul from every household washing vegetables and rinsing out chamber pots, so it is best not to bring it up. In truth, Suzhou is just a stinking cesspool wrapped in beauty and silk. And once you strip away the silk from Suzhou's beauties, you find that they stink too, no different from Suzhou's water, all cut from the same cloth.
