The reception of Kung Fu fiction : problems of register , problems of culture

If I may, I begin with an anecdotal recollection from another time and place. While living in London, I had a window cleaner by the name of Mike Merry, a splendid Shakespearean name which may or may not be real. He was almost 7 feet tall, had a shaved head, ate only macrobiotic food and carrot juice, practised karate to a high level, and was probably responsible for burgling the house after my departure for Hong Kong. As he cleaned my windows, we would sometimes talk about God and the world. At every philosophic turn in the conversation, he would bow deeply to me, glaze his eyes as if blind, and begin his speech (intoned in a breathy Hollywood Asian accent) with: "Ah grasshopper. To know not always understand the wind that carries the feather of the gods." My formulaic response was varied (and at the same level of low wit) but invariably concluded with a "Master" drawn out in an equally breathy voice, but with a hint of skepticism.