Even if I did live in a mostly empty house, I was doing pretty well.
I didn't need so much. I had my bed and my books. I had lamps by the bed, books to read stacked up on the floor, and a phone on which I could hear Hillary's voice in my ear. We had books to discuss. We had many thing to discuss.
Then it happened, he was gone, and I never got to say it. And now I feel like, really, what's the point of being angry? What's the point of being angry at anything, because what if you're wrong about it, and you don't ever get the opportunity to admit it? I'd rather not take that chance."
"What is this place? I asked softly. The smell of age permeated everything, like my grandparents' basement when I was a boy. A little boy.
"This," Hillary whispered, "is Man Mo Temple, where Hong Kongers make offerings to Man Cheung, the god of literature."
"There is a god of literature?"
"Isn't it perfect?"
Not far from us, a man knelt, slowly waving long sticks of burning incense held fanned-out between his hands. His eyes were closed, and the smoke trickled up to disappear in the open rafters. I watched his lips silently moving.
"What is he saying?" I asked.
"I think he wants good books," Hill said. "Just like we do. Come."