A Little Sun, in the Backstreets of Pingtung

It was several weeks ago when we first stumbled across Xiaoyang Books (小陽。日栽書屋) in Pingtung. Tucked away in a back-alley in the former Victory Star military dependents’ village, the shop is a quiet haven of secondhand (and some new) books, passing cats, and the kind of shambolic charm that the south of Taiwan does so well. On our first visit, we got chatting to the brilliant bookshop owner, Hilda Tsai (蔡依芸), and immediately felt like we’d found one of those places where—just new in town—you know you’re going to feel at home. We called back a couple more times, and every time we found ourselves overwhelmed by Hilda’s hospitality and boisterous good cheer. The name of the bookshop, literally translated, is “Little Sun.” And the place itself is like a small, blazing furnace of everything good about human life, where people can stop by to warm themselves.

So, some time over the past few weeks, we decided that together we should cook up an event. That’s how, this afternoon, I found myself, along with my collaborator and friend Hannah Stevens, spending a couple of hours running an event talking about storytelling, literature and language with a small group of people from Taiwan, Albania, the USA, and Japan. We talked about stories, about the books we publish at Wind&Bones—in particular Tâigael: Stories from Taiwanese and Gaelic and Hilda Hoy’s wonderful Mother Tongue—and about why Pingtung is a generally excellent place to be. I did my best to translate between Mandarin, English and (feeling emboldened by the friendly atmosphere) Taiwanese. And as we shuttled between languages and exchanged stories, talking about the things that matter most to us, the afternoon descended into a carnival of fun, hilarity, chaos and—ultimately, care.

A group of people in a wood-panelled room, chatting.
Photo © Hilda Tsai

The last few weeks have been incredibly busy. And in many ways, 2026 has already felt like a challenging year. The world feels unstable, unsettled. So this afternoon was necessary medicine: a reminder of everything in life that is brilliant, and strange, and funny, and creative, and hopeful.


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