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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 to eradicate
the 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.
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 to eradicate
the 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.
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