The West Lake Fairy Tale

A single dancer in traditional dress is lit in the middle of the lake. Sometimes she travels in a slowly moving boat - at other times it is as though she walks through the water itself. Around her music seems to waft like mist. Then, all at once, the shores of the lake are lit


every tree, every house, seems to have its own light, and the music surges into a crescendo that barely dies away.

I've told the story before, and in a lot of ways it doesn't matter. It is the spectacle that is the thing: the hundred dancers each holding a large white feather


and then the crane flying overhead. The lovers die, but they proceed triumphantly to heaven. Then the lights fade away, and the music too, and the rain which has been threatening all day starts to fall, warm gentle drops.