I became a magician by accident. When I was nine years old, I learned how to make a coin disappear. I'd read The Lord of the Rings and risked coming into the adult section of the library to search for a book of spells (魔法) — nine being that curious age at which you're old enough to work through more than 1, 200 pages of mysterious fantasy literature but young enough to still hold out hope that you might find a book of real, actual magic in the library. The book I found instead taught basic sleight-of-hand (戏法) technique, and I devoted the next months to practice.
Initially, the magic wasn't any good. At first it wasn't even magic; it was just a trick — a bad trick. I spent hours each day in the bathroom running through the secret moves in front of the mirror. I dropped the coin over and over, a thousand times in a day, and after two weeks of this my mom got a carpet sample from the store and placed it under the mirror toeradicatethe sound of the coin falling again and again.
I had heard my dad work through passages of new music on the piano, so I knew how to practice — slowly, deliberately, going for precision rather than speed. And then I tried the illusion (错觉) in the mirror and an unbelievable scene took place. It did not look like a magic trick. It looked like a miracle. I knew that I had got what I wanted.
One day I made the performance on the playground. We had been playing football and were standing by the backstop in the field behind the school. A dozen people were watching. I showed the coin to everyone. Then it disappeared. The kids screamed. They yelled, laughed, scrambled away. Everyone went crazy. This was brilliant.
