If only all China memoirs could include the kind of caveat emptor with which Ellen La Motte begins her 1919 travelogue, Peking Dust:
Two classes of books are written about China by two classes of people. There are books written by people who have spent the night in China, as it were, superficial and amusing, full of the tinkling of temple bells; and there are other books written by people who have spent years in China and who know it well, — ponderous books, full of absolute information, heavy and unreadable. This book falls into neither of these two classes, except perhaps in the irresponsibility of its author. It is compounded of gossip, — the flying gossip or dust of Peking. Take it lightly; blow off such dust as may happen to stick to you.
Despite the warning, it is rather hard to imagine much dust — Peking or otherwise — sticking long to this particular China author.
