Among the Chinese artefacts in Jung Chang’s Notting Hill drawing-room there is a large terracotta horse and a 19th-century painting of “big noses” – as she was taught to call foreigners – kow-towing to an emperor in the Forbidden City. “They are to remind me of what he destroyed,” the 53-year-old author says in her slightly guttural, Chinese-accented English.

The “he” referred to is Mao Tse-Tung, the subject of an 800-page biography Chang has spent the past 10 years researching and writing with her husband, the British historian Jon Halliday. It occurs to me that her waist-length mane of black hair might also be a reminder of, or rather reaction to, Mao: when Chang joined the Red Guard at 14 she was forced to chop off her plaits because long hair was considered bourgeois. “No, no,” she says with a tight smile. “I just like long hair, and so does my husband.”

She certainly has a brisk, no-nonsense way about her, this Jung Chang. And although she deploys an infectious giggle from time to time, she can come across as a little humourless and literal-minded, too. Her emotional guard is permanently up, one suspects, and this is completely understandable.

The first half of her life was hard, marked by distrust and fear. Her parents were committed Communists who were, nevertheless, denounced as class traitors during the Cultural Revolution. Her mother was paraded through the streets with a derogatory placard around her neck. Her father was tortured and sent to a labour camp – where he went insane and died in 1975. Chang herself was exiled to the foothills of the Himalayas, where she worked first as a peasant in the fields and then as a steelworker in a factory before being “rehabilitated” and, unusually, allowed to study abroad.

So it was that, in 1978, she came to Britain to read linguistics for a doctorate at York University – and decided to stay on in self-imposed exile. After a visit from her mother 10 years later, she wrote a family memoir that was to change not only her life but also, arguably, the way China was perceived by the outside world.

Wild Swans became the biggest-selling non-fiction paperback in publishing history – 10 million copies were sold and it was translated into 30 languages. When I ask her if she still has to pinch herself about the success of that book she gives a bluntly self-confident answer: “No. I can believe it.”

Wild Swans is still banned in China; did this make it difficult for her to research her new book? “Yes and no. There was a top secret edict about me issued to Mao’s inner circle in 1994. And some people were worried and declined to be interviewed. But most were not put off and they talked to us. I think people were dying to reveal what really happened. The trouble is,” she says, “the current regime claims its legitimacy from Mao and so doesn’t want the myths about him to be dismantled.”

They’re not going to like this book much, then, I suggest. “No, they’re not,” she replies flatly. “It won’t be published in China but it will be smuggled in and I am translating it into Chinese for publication in Taiwan and Hong Kong.” I imagine that her argument about Mao being as evil as Hitler and Stalin will go down well in the People’s Republic. “But it’s true!” she says. “Mao was responsible for the deaths of 70 million people in peacetime, through his organised famines and purges. That makes him the biggest mass murderer in the history of the world.”

But surely nothing he did can compare to the hideousness of the gas chambers?

“No, but Mao did create a climate of almost unparalleled fear, suspicion and hatred. The terror was such that parents were even afraid of talking to their children. Mao was different from Hitler and Stalin in that he liked to have people tortured and executed in public. Hitler and Stalin did their torturing and killing in secret. And whereas those two European despots were condemned in their own countries shortly after their deaths, Mao is still a holy cow in China. For as long as his portrait and corpse remain in Tiananmen Square, China will never be able to move on and grow as a country.”

Clearly Chairman Mao was a monster – he was as cruel to his own close family as he was to the nameless masses – but did Chang find any aspects of his character she liked? “As ‘liking’ implies a moral dimension I can honestly say there is nothing I like about Mao. But I was constantly impressed by his ability to scheme and come out on top when he seemed to be in a hopeless situation. He was smart. He could outsmart even Stalin. And he was far-sighted. He knew he could only conquer China with the help of Stalin and he knew he would have to use terror and brainwashing to keep hold of power.”

As a teenager, Chang was indoctrinated along with everyone from her generation. “The Cultural Revolution started when I was 14,” she says, “and very quickly I saw the violence and the atrocities that came with that. At school I and the rest of my class saw our teachers being abused and beaten. And we were ordered to pull up the grass from the school lawn because cultivation of flowers and lawns had been deemed bourgeois.

“I watched my mother being denounced at public meetings. She would have to kneel on broken glass, head bowed, while the crowd berated her, screaming hysterically, their fists clenched. She would come back with her knees full of glass fragments and my grandmother would have to pick them out with a tweezer. In that audience I learned to be a little brave. I hoped my mother would see me or know there was someone out there who loved her and that she would draw strength from that.”

But if Mao was so successful at brainwashing people, how did Chang alone come to have doubts about him? “I wasn’t the only one and, anyway, my doubts only came later. I didn’t challenge him explicitly in my mind because I thought it must be the people around him who were letting him down and doing these bad things. It is difficult to think clearly when there is no other source of information and you cannot discuss matters with other people.

“I probably first came to doubt Mao on my 16th birthday. I wrote my first poem that day, but then my father’s persecutors raided the flat and I had to tear it up and flush it down the lavatory. I thought to myself then, ‘If this is a socialist paradise on Earth, what can Hell be like?’ But I didn’t dare to challenge Mao openly. He was too frightening even to think about.”

When Chang came to England she felt as if she had stepped onto another planet. “I remember feeling so happy at the sight of flowers. And I remember walking into a gents because the sign had a picture of someone wearing trousers, which is what women had to wear in China. You know, the Mao suit. I was in a group of 14 all wearing that suit. I didn’t know how to be polite to people at first because being polite was considered bourgeois in Mao’s China. The traditional forms of greeting there were: “Where are you going?” and “Have you eaten?” I kept asking people this in London and I kept getting funny looks.

“We were not allowed out on our own and we certainly weren’t allowed in pubs, because we were told they were indecent places in which nude women gyrated on tables. We were also told anyone who took a foreign boyfriend would be drugged and put in a jute sack and carted off back to China. For at least a year after I came here whenever I went near the Chinese Embassy my legs would turn to jelly and, if I was in a car, I would slide down the seat so that my head would not show. I had nightmares about China for a long time after I came here. Writing Wild Swans was my therapy.”

And is writing Mao her revenge? “I wouldn’t say so. Revenge implies something personal. I wanted to write a biography that was fair and objective. Mao did not just do harm to me and my family, he did it to the whole of Chinese society.”

When I ask about her working methods, Chang stands up unsteadily – she is wearing a leg brace over her jeans, having torn a ligament on a recent skiing holiday – and hobbles to the top of the stairs to call down to her husband’s study. “Jon, come up here!” she shouts in a raspy voice. Jon Halliday, a genial 65-year-old, duly appears. They met while teaching at London University in the 1980s and got married in 1991. “He wants to know about our working method,” Chang says.

“We would work in separate studies and come together at lunchtimes to share discoveries,” Halliday says as he sits down next to his wife. “We divided the workload by languages, really. So all the work to do with China, the reading and travelling, fell to Jung and that is the bulk of the book.”

“Jon is being modest,” Chang says. “He speaks many languages. He did most of the important discoveries in places such as the Russian archives.”

“But the interviews we did together,” Halliday adds. The list of people they interviewed for the book is impressive. It includes George Bush senior, Gerald Ford, Edward Heath, Lech Walesa and the Dalai Lama. I tell them, though, that I am most intrigued by their encounter with Henry Kissinger. He was an apologist for Mao, was he not?

“I did get the impression that Kissinger was quite seduced by the idea of absolute power and by the mystery of China,” Halliday says. “He de-demonised Mao for many Westerners. But it was Nixon who built up a propaganda unit in the White House which encouraged the press to compare him [Nixon] to Mao – two people from underprivileged backgrounds rising to the top against the odds. Quite a bizarre comparison, really.”

If Mao were to walk into the room now what would they ask him? They laugh uneasily and think for a moment. “I don’t think there is any question you could ask that would get a useful answer,” Halliday says eventually. “He would evade. He’s not going to level with you. Whenever he was asked a difficult question he would sit completely silent, playing at being inscrutable.”

“I feel that over the years Jon and I have come to such an understanding of the mind of Mao that we could work out his motives,” Chang adds. “We wouldn’t need to ask him. We would know his answer.”

Wouldn’t they want to know if Mao felt any guilt, I ask? “We know he didn’t,” Chang says. “He cleared his conscience at the age of 24. He simply decided he would not feel guilt. He said he rejected the concept of a conscience. To compensate for this lack of guilt, though, he developed an intense fear. On the eve of taking power he would tremble at the sight of a stranger. He became full of self-pity and obsessed with his personal security.”

Ten years is a long time to devote to one book, I point out. Has Mao haunted their dreams? “No,” Chang says. “But sometimes when we were wrestling with a problem of why he did something, the answer would come to me in a moment of reverie while lying in bed, at a point between being awake and falling asleep.”

Wild Swans chronicled the lives of three generations of women in Chang’s family: her grandmother, who was the concubine of a warlord general; her mother; and Chang herself. Does she regret not having had a daughter to continue, as it were, the story? “I must say the thought has come to me sometimes,” she says, “but I don’t dwell on it.”


James Blunt

It could be the homes around the world; his military bearing; or that he’s our biggest musical export since Elton. For whatever reason, being called annoying, a philanderer or – worse – middle class doesn’t exactly keep James Hillier Blount awake at night. Nigel Farndale met him

It’s not the sight of the groupies that haunts me, but the sound, or rather the absence of sound, as they ghost past us on their way up the stairs to the dressing-room. It takes me a moment to figure out that the reason they aren’t talking to each other is that they don’t know each other. One of the band members, the keyboard player, I think, has picked them from the audience on the basis of their looks. Half-a-dozen of them, all in their late teens and early twenties, and all, surprisingly, in pretty frocks, as if they were going to a Sunday school meeting. They have been separated from their friends like lambs weaned from their mothers. The silence of the lambs.

The ‘us’ they are filing past is James Blunt and me. He has a bottle of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and not a hair in place – tousled just so, like a Renaissance painting of John the Baptist – but they don’t realise it’s him because he has changed out of the suit he was wearing on stage and is now in jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket, as well as a pink feather boa and star-shaped novelty sunglasses. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is the end of the day; we need to go back to the start, well, to the middle, when the seats are empty and the Texan sun is at its most unforgiving.

A barefoot and unshaven Blunt is wearing normal sunglasses and shorts as he plays his piano, strums his guitar and sings his plaintive songs into the microphone for the sound check, all the while looking out with his soulful eyes over an empty, open-air arena in Houston. At 5ft 7in, he’s not a tall man, but he has presence and an unaffected manner – a certain maturity, too, one that you wouldn’t normally associate with a pop star in the ascendant.

But then he is 34 and this is his second career, his first being as an officer in the Household Cavalry. He joined after graduating from Bristol University with a degree in sociology. He became a champion skier for the Army and not only saw active service in Kosovo, but also guarded the Queen Mother’s coffin when she was lying in state.

Tonight he will be supporting Sheryl Crow, though, since his second album ‘All the Lost Souls’ and the single from it, ‘1973’, went straight to number one in America, he is arguably the bigger act these days. Indeed, not since Elton John has there been a more successful British singer-songwriter in the States.

His first album, ‘Back to Bedlam’, also went to number one over here, as it did in 18 other countries, making it the biggest-selling album of the millennium. It even entered the Guinness Book of Records as the fastest-selling album in one year. But it was his first single that really put him on the map. You’re Beautiful became the sound of that summer. It was everywhere, and still is – having become a favourite at weddings, funerals and bar mitzvahs. I even heard a brass band playing it at an agricultural show in the Yorkshire Dales this summer.

As well as millions of sales, James Blunt has won Brit awards, Ivor Novello awards, MTV awards and various Grammy nominations. In terms of credibility, he’s headlined at Glastonbury and won the respect of the world-weary music press. Yet not everyone loves him, as he points out when we get something to eat in the canteen area back stage.

‘After Back to Bedlam really started selling,’ he says, ‘there was this sudden aggression towards me in the UK, for whatever reason, and that focused my mind, made it clear to me what I was doing and why I wanted to do it. I write songs for myself. I don’t write them for you, or for anyone else, I write them because I have experiences that I need to process. I don’t have the answers all the time, but I do have lots of questions, and I express them in the songs I write.’

He is, I think, alluding to a poll last year of ‘the most annoying things in life’, which put him at number four, just behind cold-callers and queue-jumpers. ‘I haven’t met anyone who voted in the poll, have you?’ he says when I mention this. ‘That poll probably came from a website that was after some publicity. You and I could do the same poll very quickly right now and it would count as a poll. We could do one about annoying newspapers, for example. I promise the Sunday Telegraph wouldn’t be in my list. My parents take it.’

His father, a retired colonel in the Army Air Corps, manages his son’s finances. His mother arranged the purchase of his six-bedroom villa in Ibiza (he also has a chalet in Verbier and recently bought a place in Chelsea). ‘I’m not married,’ he says, ‘and so the support structure in my life is my parents. I’m closer to them now than I have ever been.’

He certainly isn’t married, as the photographs of him emerging from nightclubs with various high-profile women on his arm attest. Tara Palmer-Tomkinson was probably the best known socialite, Jessica Sutta, of the Pussycat Dolls, the most glamorous. He also seems to be photographed regularly cavorting on beaches with bikini-clad models such as Petra Nemcova, whom he dated and then dumped – unceremonious dumping being his way of ending relationships, according to the tabloids. He once said he found himself in a swimming pool in LA with nine naked women. ‘I was the only bloke. It was the only time I wished my mates were there, purely to spectate. I had arrived. It was a moment.’

Now he says of the tabloid interest in his peripatetic love life: ‘Last week I went to my home in Ibiza and was photographed by the paparazzi in my swimming trunks with girls. What is the point of that? I’m not that bothered, but maybe the media should be concentrating more on global warming or the Russian invasion of Georgia.

‘Looking at me in my swimming trunks is not a great sight. It’s a waste of time. There generally is a long lens pointing at me wherever I go, these days. I’m comfortable with it. I appreciate how things work. But my record label said something about my always being photographed coming out of nightclubs and I thought, “But this is what I do. I was doing it before the second album came out, so what is different now? You didn’t tell me to stop then.” I’m not going to change my life because of these people. I don’t see why I should.’

His label also gets him to dye his grey hairs and be enigmatic about his love life, which is an old tactic dating back to the Beatles – they had to pretend they didn’t have wives and girlfriends so that fans could fantasise they were in with a chance.

Actually, at the time of going to press, Blunt seems to be going out again with one of his old flames, Verity Evetts, an Oxford-educated barrister. He has also stayed friendly with some of his other exes, the socialites at least. He told one – an ex who got married not long ago – that he doesn’t feel ‘centred’ at the moment and would like to get married as well. Then again, he also said that he never tires of singing You’re Beautiful night after night because it gets him laid night after night.

Either way, he tells me he has grown used to the idea that his mother will probably find out from the papers what he has been up to, and with whom, before he has had a chance to tell her. ‘And my [two] sisters are quick to email me about things in the papers, laughing their heads off. I get healthy, ritual abuse from them, and give it back myself.’

As we are talking, I can’t decide whether the way Blunt smiles all the time is disarming or disturbing. He’s like a victim of a religious cult, smiling at the beginning of the sentence and at the end. I guess he has a lot to smile about, but also I sense a great deal of insecurity to disguise.

Then, I’m distracted by the sight of Sheryl Crow playing table tennis across the room. She has been holding her adopted son in one arm as she bats with the other, and now, even more distractingly, she is heading straight for us. ‘Are we going to have one of our little conversations on stage again tonight, James?’ she says. ‘That flirting thing. I think it worked well last night.’

They discuss the duet they will sing – a cover of Cat Stevens’s The First Cut is the Deepest – then we both watch her shimmy away, her blonde curls bobbing. ‘She’s very down to earth,’ he says. ‘I’d met her a couple of times, which was why she asked me on this tour. We do end up playing a lot of table tennis on the road. We’ve done 117 shows so far this year, in 117 cities, and there are a lot of hours to fill in the day.’

As he sleeps on his tour bus with his band, one city tends to blur into another. When I joke that he is in Cincinnati now, he looks genuinely confused. ‘No, this is?… Oh, right. Actually, I always get the tour manager to say where we are just as I’m going on stage. I still managed to get it wrong the other night, saying “Hello Dallas” when I meant Austin. I’m surprised I got out alive.’

He is funny on the subjects of things that go wrong. ‘People are normally surprised by my show, which is more energetic than you might think. Jumping on the piano. Jumping out into the audience and running up and down the aisle high-fiving them. But going off the stage can be quite dangerous. I broke my finger once. My legs carried on when I jumped off, and I smacked down on the ground. The spotlight was on me, and when I got back to the piano I hit the wrong note and thought, “Why did I do that?” And I looked down and saw it was because my finger was broken, sticking out an angle. Look,’ he says holding it up. ‘It’s still crooked.’

On another occasion, in Chicago, he jumped 8ft off the stage. ‘When I began running to the audience, a security guard stuck his arm out and I thought, “Does he want a hug?” Then next thing I know he’s rugby-tackled me. He wouldn’t release me and I was screaming in his ear, “I’m the f—ing singer.” I had to wait for the other guards to pull him off.’

I would have thought Blunt’s training in unarmed combat would have helped. I presume he still works out. ‘No, never. Couldn’t handle it. Too boring. I am a hyperactive person though.’ He likes an adrenaline rush, as well, having recently bought an 1100cc Moto Guzzi V11 Sport motorbike. There’s also the skiing, which he still does, and the riding. Actually, he tells me, he never really liked horses before joining the Life Guards. So why did he join that particular regiment?

‘Well, it is a reconnaissance regiment.’ But they are all so tall in the Life Guards, did that not make him self-conscious? ‘Some are. The Foot Guards tend to be taller regiments, though. The Life Guards take a few shrimps, as well. Besides, they are on horses, so height isn’t so important. Also being in that regiment had the benefit of being in Knightsbridge. I got a chance to be in London and meet people in the music scene.’ And groupies, as it happens.

As he paraded up and down the Mall in plumed helmet and shiny breastplate, girls would stick their phone numbers down his knee-length boots. But it was his time in Kosovo that really made girls swoon. He used to strap his guitar to the outside of his tank, because there wasn’t room for it inside. He had learnt to play the violin at five, the piano at seven and the guitar at 14, while a pupil at Harrow.

He writes his songs on piano and guitar. ‘But mainly guitar because it is easier to carry around. It’s like a child messing around with a toy. If a tune comes to me I don’t record it instantly. I think if I remember it, then it must be worth remembering, and if I forget it, then it was forgettable.’

Does he have any anxiety dreams about forgetting lines or chords? ‘Not yet. Perhaps I will tonight. Perhaps you’ve jinxed me. But audiences aren’t judgmental, and if things go wrong and you can look them in the eye, that is fine. The only people who are judgmental are the journalists. I will be conscious of you being there in the audience judging me.’

Blimey. Sorry about that. Is it true he signs breasts? ‘Not that I remember. Not that I’m fussy what I sign. A lot of men started coming to the shows after I appeared on Top Gear last year. That was such fun. I spun the car five times. I thought I might as well make the most of it. I am competitive.’

He recorded one of the fastest laps, but I’m surprised blokes didn’t think him manly before that, given his tour of duty in Kosovo. ‘It’s because I sing songs that are heart-on-your-sleeve and therefore I must be overly emotional. Nothing I can do about it. I could pose more, but I am comfortable with my masculinity.’

He has said that his lyrics are autobiographical, in which case, are we to assume that the lyric on his new album, ‘I killed a man in a far away land’, means he killed a man in a far away land? I only ask because in the past he has said that he would never try to exploit what he went through, what he saw. ‘You should ask any soldier how many lives he has saved. How they do it is no one else’s business. What I took from my experience in Kosovo is that you are told from one day to the next who your enemy is and it keeps changing. That’s what is happening in Iraq, too. I believe in looking people in the eye, looking for the common humanity.’

He is a great believer in looking people in the eye. He will use the phrase again later and it seems to reveal a Christ complex, or a John the Baptist one. That direct and challenging stare of his. It would also explain the hair.

It is time for him do some photographs before he goes on stage and, endearingly, he says he is ‘not fussed’ about the grooming he is offered before they are taken.

On stage his features contort with passion when he sings. The big video screen goes in tight on his face. His voice is by turns soft and tremulous and forceful, but always high. Having seen him in concert once before, a couple of years ago, I notice the tone of his banter has changed.

‘Wow it’s hot tonight,’ he says now. ‘I’m surprised any of you are wearing any clothes. We could all take them off and get friendly.’ It is suggestive, designed to get the teenage girls in the audience screaming. Before he used to joke about his ‘girlie voice’ and taking helium to get it that way, and being ‘a bit wet’ and the ‘housewives’ favourite’. I think now he has realised that, actually, he is a proper musician, a popular one, too, and that he doesn’t need to apologise for it.

Afterwards, back in the dressing-room, he strips to the waist as he talks because he wants to take a shower before going back on to do his duet with Sheryl Crow. ‘Things got a bit hairy out there when I jumped into the crowd,’ he says. ‘Did you see that? Some thought it was some kind of sport to grab me.’

I watch his duet from the side of the stage and notice he whispers something in Sheryl Crow’s ear and then she starts running her hands over his trousers suggestively, patting them. Afterwards, I ask what he said. ‘”Is now a good time to ask for your phone number?” She was checking my pockets, pretending to look for a pen.’

He shows me round the gold-coloured tour bus where he will be sleeping tonight as they drive to their next gig in Dallas. It is full of hi-tech equipment and is nicely air-conditioned but there isn’t much space in the bunks. ‘We do live in close proximity,’ he says. ‘Some of us stay up late. This is the crew end, they have to get up early.’

Where do the groupies go? ‘Never have groupies on here. Never. They’d only get in if we invited them in. But we’d only ever invite friends in.’

Does he sleep OK? I heard he has to take sleeping pills. ‘It is a bit of a rough sleep, but better than a hotel and taking planes all the time because you have to get to the airport two hours early, which is miserable. Then your flight gets delayed.’

He is drinking champagne from a plastic cup. ‘This is for your benefit,’ he says. ‘The tour management went out and bought a bottle of champagne because he thought I should be seen drinking it. Better for my image. Isn’t that sweet? Normally, we drink vodka and beer. In fact, I think I’d rather have a beer, now. Want one?’ He opens a well-stocked fridge then takes me to the back of the bus where there is some seating space. He has one small case which he pulls out from a cupboard. It continues a few pairs of socks, T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans. No photographs or mementos. ‘This is all I have for 14 months on the road,’ he says. ‘I’m not known for style.’

Does he know how much he is worth? ‘No I don’t, not very interested in it to be honest. I travel with hand luggage only. That is why I always seem to be wearing the same clothes in photographs. If a tabloid says my clothes aren’t fashionable or my hair looks stupid, I really don’t worry about it. Don’t have any hair gel.’

In London, he takes the Tube or the bus. He prefers pubs to restaurants. When he goes to Ibiza, he flies easyJet. Still, that’s at home. Presumably on the road he can afford to be more self-indulgent.

Another lyric that we can only assume is autobiographical is ‘I’ve taken a s—load of drugs’. It is. Though his only comment on the subject is that he has ‘a comfortable relationship with drugs’. His relationship with fame is less comfortable. Oscar Wilde said there were two forms of tragedy: not getting what you want, and getting it. Is that how it felt for him when he went to number one? ‘Actually, I don’t think I had been dreaming about it. Certainly, I hadn’t anticipated being so recognisable so quickly.

‘I do remember getting a phone call from the record company, who said both the single and the album have gone to number one, and thinking, “S—, this is not what I expected.” I hadn’t prepared myself for it. Number two is great. Number two is nice. I sensed then it would mean having to change from being a musician to being a celebrity and that that would be a change for the worse. Fame doesn’t affect me, but it does affect everyone else around me. As for celebrity, it is the worst invention of the modern world. Gossip columns treat your life as if it were a cartoon. Relationships reduced to cartoons.’

Although there are other public-school bands around at the moment – Radiohead, Coldplay – Blunt seems to have suffered more than most from a perception that he is too posh to be credible. His family name is Blount (and his middle name Hillier), but he changed it to Blunt to sound, well, blunter and more proletarian.

When he tells me he would nevertheless still send a son of his to Harrow – ‘I think I would. I think I would. Public schools make individuals rather than sheep’ – I ask what he makes of the mood change now that the old Etonian David Cameron has made it OK to be posh. ‘Is it? I must come back to Britain immediately. Is it really safe to come back?

‘It’s not a dirty word to be posh, people come up to me and no one gives a damn if I’m posh. It’s about having a normal conversation and looking people in the eye.’

We head back to the dressing-room where he puts on his feather boa and novelty sunglasses then we wander back downstairs to have a word with Sheryl Crow, who is signing autographs. This is the moment at which the keyboard player says: ‘This way to the good-time room girls’ and the silent groupies dutifully appear.