he was signed by an artists-management company that arranged for him to go to Taiwan two weeks later. He stayed in a hotel with a bathtub, in which he had his very first bubble bath. The furniture was modern and new, with clean lines and leather upholstery. The room smelled of paint, but he thought that it was extremely luxurious. Now he realizes, of course, that it was only a modest and functional hotel used by sales companies wanting somewhere cheap to hold their training conferences. These days, Gary stays in only the most exclusive hotels in every city he visits.
In just under eight years in Taipei, he released four albums that each sold more than three million copies across Asia. In the months following the release of his debut album,
Rainy Day in My Heart
, he narrowly missed out on winning the Best Newcomer category at the Golden Melody Awards, and he starred in a film as an apprentice cop who ends up accidentally shooting the gangster girl he has fallen in love with. The film was a total failure at the box office, but everyone who saw it remarked that Gary’s face was perfectly proportioned, beautiful to look at from every angle. Maybe you saw it too and came to the same conclusion. Teenage girls began to send him presents—designer clothes, jewelry, watches, homemade CDs, cards with photos stuck to them, and even highly personal items, such as the girls’ own underwear and antiques that had belonged to their families. Every week his record company would receive enough of these gifts to fill a small room. He would stare at this unwanted pile and feel guilty that so many fans wanted to give him such valuable things. He could not bear the thought that all these people, whom he did not know, were thinking of him. They were thinking of him so much that they would spend time and money sending him objects that represented parts of their lives—of themselves. And he felt bad because he was not strong or big or deep enough to accept their love. The record company arranged for it all to be donatedto charity or simply destroyed, but still he could feel their desire lingering over him like a rain cloud on a muggy day, refusing to budge.
Early last year, on the eve of a major concert at the Taipei Arena, Gary collapsed and was admitted to the hospital. The diagnosis was not serious: He was anemic, which explained not only his famously pale complexion but his frequent dizzy spells. He was also found to have low blood pressure and an elevated cholesterol level for someone so young. It was all the takeaway curry, the pizzas, and other junk food he ate during late-night sessions recording in the studio. His punishing work schedule exacerbated all these underlying conditions, and it was no surprise that he eventually succumbed to the pressure, the doctors said. They prescribed a fortnight’s complete rest, some supplements, and a balanced diet. Before he left, one doctor asked Gary if he was
stressed
. When Gary appeared to be somewhat confused by the question, the doctor posed it again, this time asking whether he found it difficult to deal with the pressures he had placed upon himself and whether, for example, he worried about things beyond his control. Gary thought for a few seconds before truthfully answering no. Because when he stopped for that moment to consider his life, he realized that there was nothing in it that was within his control. Every minute of his day was organized by his management company, even the number of hours he should sleep. It had been like this for so long that it made him wonder if he had ever known a different way of living.
The press was full of hysterical reports. Some said he had fallen ill from toxins ingested while eating moray eel down on the coast; some said he had suffered from an overdose; others said he had AIDS. He had not been seen in public or photographed by the paparazzi for only five days when one tabloid newspaper began to surmise that he was dead. From his apartment, he peered
In just under eight years in Taipei, he released four albums that each sold more than three million copies across Asia. In the months following the release of his debut album,
Rainy Day in My Heart
, he narrowly missed out on winning the Best Newcomer category at the Golden Melody Awards, and he starred in a film as an apprentice cop who ends up accidentally shooting the gangster girl he has fallen in love with. The film was a total failure at the box office, but everyone who saw it remarked that Gary’s face was perfectly proportioned, beautiful to look at from every angle. Maybe you saw it too and came to the same conclusion. Teenage girls began to send him presents—designer clothes, jewelry, watches, homemade CDs, cards with photos stuck to them, and even highly personal items, such as the girls’ own underwear and antiques that had belonged to their families. Every week his record company would receive enough of these gifts to fill a small room. He would stare at this unwanted pile and feel guilty that so many fans wanted to give him such valuable things. He could not bear the thought that all these people, whom he did not know, were thinking of him. They were thinking of him so much that they would spend time and money sending him objects that represented parts of their lives—of themselves. And he felt bad because he was not strong or big or deep enough to accept their love. The record company arranged for it all to be donatedto charity or simply destroyed, but still he could feel their desire lingering over him like a rain cloud on a muggy day, refusing to budge.
Early last year, on the eve of a major concert at the Taipei Arena, Gary collapsed and was admitted to the hospital. The diagnosis was not serious: He was anemic, which explained not only his famously pale complexion but his frequent dizzy spells. He was also found to have low blood pressure and an elevated cholesterol level for someone so young. It was all the takeaway curry, the pizzas, and other junk food he ate during late-night sessions recording in the studio. His punishing work schedule exacerbated all these underlying conditions, and it was no surprise that he eventually succumbed to the pressure, the doctors said. They prescribed a fortnight’s complete rest, some supplements, and a balanced diet. Before he left, one doctor asked Gary if he was
stressed
. When Gary appeared to be somewhat confused by the question, the doctor posed it again, this time asking whether he found it difficult to deal with the pressures he had placed upon himself and whether, for example, he worried about things beyond his control. Gary thought for a few seconds before truthfully answering no. Because when he stopped for that moment to consider his life, he realized that there was nothing in it that was within his control. Every minute of his day was organized by his management company, even the number of hours he should sleep. It had been like this for so long that it made him wonder if he had ever known a different way of living.
The press was full of hysterical reports. Some said he had fallen ill from toxins ingested while eating moray eel down on the coast; some said he had suffered from an overdose; others said he had AIDS. He had not been seen in public or photographed by the paparazzi for only five days when one tabloid newspaper began to surmise that he was dead. From his apartment, he peered
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