``In Chinese, we think it is something like fate. . . . Some way, something provides that you meet this person, that you are bound to this person, somehow,'' said Ying Ying, who, with her husband, had dinner with Leonsis in Washington last year. ``For some reason, he didn't know why, he couldn't forget about the obituary.''
Nor could many others. Ying Ying got that completely right—a lot of people, myself included, who met and barely knew Iris Chang were amazed by her and thrilled to be in her presence. She was one of the most impressive people I have ever met—a brilliant mind, effortlessly articulate, seemed to never forget anything or anyone, committed to her family and her people. Intelligence and, we thought, energy to burn. Iris Chang succumbed to a horrible disease, one she fought against valiantly but was unable to conquer. We are lucky that she wrote beautifully and prolifically and left and indelible record.
Seeing the movie is going to be strange—not sure if I will see it since I will be too ready to judge it against her book and already think it won’t be worth either of its subject or the book. Which is strange because Iris Chang probably would have welcomed it under any of a number of circumstances less than ideal since she burned with such a bright fire regarding the Rape of Nanking.
