Last weekend in New York, I stumbled across the temporary installation of Ai Weiwei's Chinese zodiac sculptures outside the Plaza Hotel. Despite the sunny day and the cheerful people having their pictures taken with the lovable animal heads, it was a chilling scene considering that the artist is rotting in a jail and can't see this scene for himself.

I returned to Seattle to find a review copy of the new MIT Press book of Ai Weiwei's blog—which was shut down and erased from the Internet entirely by the Chinese government in 2009, after the artist finally pushed too far by publishing the names of children killed by the collapse of shoddily constructed government "tofu-dregs" schools during the 2008 Sichuan Province earthquake. I read the book today; you should buy it immediately.

Ai writes about haircuts, the backpacks of dead children, Chinese identity, Obama, Zinedine Zidane, and the importance of the here and now. He is a philosopher, reporter, and poet. These 242 pages are the highlights—selected and translated by editor Lee Ambrozy—of his more than 2,700 posts between 2006 and 2009, and they constitute a glimpse at Chinese self-reflection, political history, and the simple audacity of an artist.

First of all, it's a pleasure boat, because Ai is a terrific writer.

Even in translation—that was another thing about the blog: I tried reading it when it was active, but it was not available in English—he's a master. Open to any page and on any subject, the sentences sparkle and glint.

Page 56: "Later on, and even worse, the great fool of a man named Zhu spoke. I had overheard he's a cultural critic...This guy was so pretentious and criticized Yu Hua so harshly that he nearly made me believe that 'Yu Hua' was some inanimate object, or a kind of bird that could write. ...I need to remember: never again appear at any horseshit culture forums. Cherish your mind, stay away from ignorance."

Or take this architectural design advice, from another essay: "As for those people who hope to seek out the feeling of the countryside in the city, or achieve an urban feel in the countryside, they should be sent directly to the madhouse."

Secondly, Ai's actual life experiences are equal to his wit. His father, the poet Ai Qing, was forced into servitude in "Chinese Siberia"; in his childhood, Ai Weiwei lived with his family in a hole in the ground. Pigs ran across top, on the hole's makeshift covering, which gave Ai Weiwei a memory of familiarity with the "nether regions" of swine.

"I remember some details: on one occasion, because there was no light in our earthen pit, my father was descending into our home and smashed his head on a roof beam. He fell immediately to the earth on his knees with a bleeding forehead. Because of this, we dug out one shovel's depth of dirt, an equivalent to raising our roof twenty centimeters. Architecture requires common sense, a ton of common sense. Because we were a family of readers, we needed a bookshelf in our home, and my father dug out a hole; in my opinion that was the best bookshelf. These are reasons why I don't believe in ideal architecture."

This all was written and published before the 53-year-old artist was thrown into jail on April 3. He has only been allowed one visit with his wife since. She reported finding him different, changed, confused.

His last blog entry, on page 230 of the book, is eerie. It was posted May 28, 2009, after he had already been surveilled, chased down, harassed while caring for his 78-year-old mother, and beaten about the head by government officials once and nearly died. (He continued to Tweet, some of which are published here, too.)

It's called "I'm Ready," and it reads in part, "Reject cynicism, reject cooperation, reject fear, and reject tea drinking, there is nothing to discuss. It's the same old saying: don't come looking for me again. I won't cooperate. If you must come, bring your instruments of torture with you."