I have a delightful book by Chinese painter and essayist, Chiang Yee, entitled The Silent Traveler in London. It was written in 1938 while the Japanese were raping their way through Manchuria, and the Germans were pulling off the Aunschluss. It was a scary time to be Chinese or British, but the book is about none of that. Chiang Yee doesn’t read headlines, or lean closer to the wireless to hear the latest from the BBC. HE writes about what a quiet man with opened eyes might see in London. He sees swans in Kew Gardens, bookshops on Charing Cross Road, moonlight on Hampstead Heath, and fog. He loves the changing colors and textures of London’s famous fog.

He recounts being taken by a friend to the top of the tower of Westminster Abbey to view the city. When they get to the top all they can see is fog. He couldn’t have been more happy. He waits for the fog to roll in again (it isn’t a long wait) to get the same view. The lift operator doesn’t want him to waste his money on a worthless view. “Don’t waste your shilling on nothing,” he advises. “That nothing is exactly what I want to see,” Yee replies. It is the same fog – worthless to the tired Londoner, heaven to a Chinese ink-brush artist.