" From A Writer's Diary By The Phong"/ The Phong -- source: TENGGARA / October 1968 " .

 

VIRGIL GHEORGHIU

         26 / 01/ 2012

"From a Writer  's Diary By The Phong " 

--  source: TENGGARA/ October 1968 --number two -- volume two

         

TENGGARA/ October 1968- volume two- number two

        FROM A WRITER'S DIARY 

                            By 

                 THE PHONG 

            translated by  ĐÀM XUÂN CẬN

Saigon 1963

         I started  writing in 1952 in Hanoi - in the  first days of Vietminh-launched autumn winter offensive when the rumble of artillery reached even the capital.   My mother was the last of the  ĐỖ clan to  be reported as lost after the fall of my native town Nghĩa Lộ.   I felt compelled to write in my lonely state.   Writing the brought me some solace.

       At the beginning of 1963 when I ceased to receive any money from my mother, I was obliged to embark on journalism of the humblest sort.   I was  charged with the  collecting news around the four districts of Hanoi and the courts as well.   I also assumed the duties of a proof-reader in the afternoon and evening.   Whereas my collagues received one thousand piaster's monthly, my boss Vũ Ngọc Các paid one thousand only.   I had to earn my daily bread by the sweat of my brow.

        I came to the South Vietnam before Điện Biên Phủ  and the subsequent Geneva Agreements.   Of the first ten years of my profession as a writer, I was an official on a contractual basis for eighteen months only.   I was known under the pen name The Phong coined by Lê Trọng Duật and myself at the foot of an electric pole in front of my aunt's villa in Chợ Đuổi  Street.   This magical name keeps ringing in my ears.

       In those days, there were vere few Northerners and life was pretty hard for me.   The highest price I enjoyed for a review was one  hundred and fifty piaster's.   At the time, I had in store some memorial novels dealing with life of the montagnards in my homeland in the nothernmost part of Vietnam.   They were ' Tình Sơn Nữ' ( A Highland Lass' Lover) written in Hanoi, ' Đợi ngày Chiến Thắng' ( Waiting for Day of Victory),  and' Cô  Gái Nghĩa Lộ' ( A Girl From Nghĩa Lộ),  written in Saigon.   The royalties for each of this trio were thousand piasters for the first edition of two thousand copies.   It was really great for an apprentice writer like me.   The public received my novels with much enthusiasm.

       The charge that I held many a critic in slight contempt was partly justified.   The so-called critics could not fail to acclaim any book by any influential man.   Take this case.   When a book by Phan Văn Tạo was released, lots of provincial cadres offered to sell it and some tens of newspapers were quick to comment on it favorably.   Even  a minister in Bảo Đại' s  era wrote a partisan review in his extremely polished style in ' Le Journal d'Extrême  Orient'  the prominent French language  daily in Saigon.   I knew and I still believe he did not write it out of sincere admiration.    When Phan  Văn Tạo presented his book to Nguyễn Đức Quỳnh writer,  then adviser to the Minister, the latter said,

 " You're only a writer with half of your being because you're only acquainted with the pink  side of things".

       To quote Jan Kott,

       Uniformity of opinion among intellectuals is always a bad thing.   The more complete it is, the worse the omen is.   Uniformity of poorly informed opinions are all the more.   We deplore conformity.   It's like witnessing a farce to hear a Minister of Cultural Affairs making a plea to writers to work harder while he did not believe in literature.

        Although the situation then was not so bad as in Poland where writers commissioned by the government, we are heading towards such a course of things.   After the war many writers who could not put up with privation, hunger, and misery have dropped their sense of mission.   Here is another quotation by Jan Kott:

        " What worries me is not the fact that many Polish stories are badly written, but the fact that many Polish writers are standing around and telling lies.   As a critic I feel it is my duty to scrutinize the artist's motivation, that is, real behavior or his attitude towards life.   I cannot praise a book it if does not reflect some concern about life.   I felt nauseous when literary awards were decided by government officials who had very little knowledge, if any, of literature."

         Can government officical become great writers ?  Perhaps, but only something like on out of a million.   The majority of them only uphold the order of the Town Hall clock

         I was never keen on behaving myself and writing as if I had my head in the clouds.   Only those to whom luxury and misery make no difference and who do not compromise with their conscience can understand me.  For this I wrote these words by  Essenin in capitals:

' DRINK WITH ME, O SUFFERING FEMALE DOG!   DO COME AND DRINK WITH ME !'

  In alien Paris, after losing his money Mayakovski asked for help from  friends and had to swear, shrugring  his shoulders," How could these lousy bastards dare to think of generosity ?" 

        Those who insist on having a tasty breakfast with a gulp of delicious coffee, those who enjoy the wishful thinking of having contributed to national culture after attending functions held in luxurious hotels had better not read my books if they wish to avoid disappointment.   My sort of rugged literature is definitely not to your taste.  Don' t torture me anymore.  Stop giving me the fly-caused itchy sensation to a pussy wound.   You can go and pick up pretty girls, suits expertly tailored in cities as far as Paris, a set of weird buttons, a new pipe, a special imported tie or a top bottle of perfume.   Sophisticates, you are surely much smarter than I can afford to be.   Most of us writers are lucky if we have enough for ourselves to eat, let alone feeding wives and kids.   We write simply because we cannot escape it, because victims of what we can all ' complexe  d'obession' .

          In the last years of writing how did I live?   Time and again I faced hunger, humiliations of all sorts and committed such unsavory acts as theft and extortion of money from friends.   All sorts of queer things.   All my enemies can use these to discredit me if they want to; there is no need for them to forge any other accusations.   Or, they can just quote from my published autobiography' Nửa Đường Đi Xuống ' ( Midway in My Life's Journey ) , wherein the author is never evasive about any issue, however touchy it is.   I have never practised blackmail and I am living victim of blackmail; I have never been a vandal and I am branded a literary vandalist unhonourably.   I am just an agnostic - never an atheist.   I am condemned of being a Judas, the traitor who sold out Jesus Christ.   An innocent. I was reported to be chief of the destructive committee.   All this happened to the simple writer that I was when the tempo of our literary activities was at an all time low.

          In France the great playwright Jean Anouilh swore he would never write for dailies.   I cannot but thoroughly agree with him, knowing what rubbish Vietnamese dalies are.   As a former journalist, I cannot believe my eyes when I read all the rubbish in the newspapers.   Fortunately I am no longer a journalist.   I was a contractual official for eighteen months because of hunger and because of my lack of courage.   Afterwards, I served again as an official for six months.   According to the contract I was received five thousand piaster's a month  .   After two months, I was given four thousand only, due to the budget squeeze.   I was forced to resign when I learnt   there would be a further cut in my salary.   And it took me unbelievable patience  to realize a claim for the salary I was entitled to.   At last I was convinced that I could not hang on to the  government payroll as long as I wanted to write.   Independence of thought is the sine qua non of any conscientious writer.

         In my ten years of writing, there are at least three memorable events concerning three of my readers and myself.   I am going to relate them one by one.   I did not know the first reader, a Quang Trung Training Center  Canteen  salesgirl.   Nguyễn Quốc  Toàn, who has fed meet some time came to the Center as a national serviceman.  

 He took some of my books there to read and lent  her my autobiography' Nửa Đường Đi Xuống' ( Midway  In My Life's Journey )  .  Upon returning it to him she said," I think I should lodge a complaint against you.   I was so absorted in reading The Phong you lent me I forgot to watch the customers.   As a result, I lost a couple of fountain pens ".  Nguyễn Quốc Toàn also said he was allowed to buy on credit.   I felt immensely proud of having such as a keen reader.  

 The second reader was a Faculty of Letters student from Central Vietnam who met me in the street.   He stopped to say " Hello there " and then continued, " I know you because I've read your book

' Nửa Đường Đi Xuống' which my brother bought.   I can recognize you from your  photo on the jacket'.

          Hesistantly, he asked me whether I had lunch.   It  was around three in the afternoon then.   I was deeply moved, knowing my account of hunger in the autobiography was very convincing.   I have not see him since and do not even recall his name.   But I would still recognize him  if I saw him again and I remember the address he gave me, 66 Phó Đức Chính  St.  Saigon 1.    I did not not go there.

          The third event occurred during a visit I paid in 1963 to Dalat, the settlement area reserved for the Thais of Lai Châu, Sơn La and Nghĩa  Lộ.   I had brought a camera with the entention of taking snapshots of the sweet Thai girls - the beautiful flowers of my hometown  Nghĩa Lộ.   I was a bit disappointed because I did not see any girl in the traditional dress.    When my friend and I stopped in front of a house next to  a well I struck up a conservation with a Thai woman.    When her daughter of about seventeen or eighteen overheard me speaking in Thai she came out to join us although she was ill at the time.   I asked her in Vietnamese whether she was Thai.   She nodded and very graciously she invited us in.   We sat around a table made of rough unplanned wood.   She asked us where we came from  and what we were doing.   Before I could reply my friend hastily declared I was a writer.   She put out her tongue and frankly confessed she was very much afraid of journalists.   Then she asked me about my job.   She let me know that she read a  ' forest' story about highland and had enjoyed it very much.   I enquired about the title of the book and the name of the author.   I also asked her if she had kept it.   She went in and brought it out.   The cover of the book was torn and covered with signatures of all sizes and descriptions and in all sorts of ink.   The  student accompanying me was very young and did not know much about me except that I was a writer.   Looking at the jacket, he said in surprise," Here he is, the author of this book!"

        I was deeply touched that my book was appreciated by a girl in this isolated place - a girl from my hometown.   I told her I wrote it a long time ago.   She praised and criticized me at the same time.

 

  According to her, the description of life in highland was accurate but I had made a mistake the word ' koóng khảu' for'kóm khảu'. 

  I learned  that her name is Lò Lệ Thu or La Lệ Thu if it is Vietnamese.   But I prefer the first.   later I wrote a dedication to her at the beginning of my book of poetry ' Trước Mắt Nhìn Thi Sĩ'

 ( Under the Poet's Eyes) written in Dalat in this period.   Those who cared for me most were poor people.

         Let's stop wandering about the innumerable manifestations of hyprocrisy in a society like Vietnam.   Let's no forget Vietnam has been under a process of disintegration for eighty years under French domination and twenty years of grinding war.

         When I come to these lines it is eleven in the morning.   People are battling which other right next to my boarding house.   The cause of it all ?   The rubbish from foreign-operated trucks stationed near the rubber plantation.   They hope and so do I.    But my hope is only that I would be able to write a story about their hard life, their relentless struggle for life in this hard-core porstitute-infested area.   After probing deeper into their motives.   I no longer feel nauseous.   They are just human beings.   Let us struggle for life, no matter how much sweat we will have to shed.   I wrote them in' Khu Rác  Ngoại Thành' (The Rubbish Tip Outside the City) .

          How to sum up my experience in ten years of writing ?   What mkes me so bitter was the just the sheer lack of courage on the part  of the so-called intellectuals, writers, artists, enginners of the masses' soul ' - in short the backbone of any viable society - those who were ready to do anything, no matter how degrading it was, to achieve a sort of petty satisfaction.   They knew the damn well.   What makes me still hate them like hell is simply their hyprocritical preaching about humanity's love and so on.   And I wrote:

      'Be assured, intellectual worms who cling to the vegetable tops

       when you die,  you'll occupy three-meter-long tombs

        and these bitter lines of poetry:

      suddenly I was dumb-struck by the fact my country was in full plight

                    I live in Saigon the year round without a warm coat

                    witnessing my people searching for food

                              around the foreigner-operated rubbish dump

                    I am standing pensively at the Bẩy Hiền crossroads

                    watching kids growing on bread scattered on the earth

                              and the older boy presenting his brother

                             with a  piece of chocolate picked up from the roadside

                    I cannot contain my anger...

                    why on earth did they dare consider art as mere ornament

                    the white-collared students by day turned artists by night

                    the visiting- card supported poets are so numerous

                    the printers cannot promptly carry out the the orders

                   all of them are using literature the same way as bar hostesses                                                                                                        look!

                       the millionaire's poet son is expressing his pity for beggars

                      the ex-sub prefecture chief is expounding a new way of life

                 can  we believe in the love for humanity expressed in his book

                with a fervid tone which can be matched by a judge's voice

               while he keeps giving his dog a daily ration better than a Viet's,

                            when I visited Thai settlers in Dalat

                            I was struck by this scene:

                   Thai kids have water in their mouths, craving for sticky rice

                   and they cry because this  Tết they won't have fire carckers.

                   when their parents share their sadness, who is a position

                             to tell  them to be cheerful

                             thinking of what the future holds for them, I give

                                                                                   this conclusion:

                                     ... 

And this society, this life, this sun is still as dark

                                                                                   as night itself...

    I believe my same statements scattered here and there still shed

     light on reality, and consequently will help politicians to do

                                    something about this shocking state of affairs.

              o the people who have lived through so many years

                                                                                            of ordeal due

           to the Communists and colonialists and the Fanoti rulers:

                            the million square meters of cultivated land belong

                                                                                    to my countrymen

                           the million lines of poetry which can become directives

                                                                           for this nation in the future

                           should be preceded by the million lines of poetry

                                                             cataloguing the hardships of today...

                        ( Trước Mắt Nhìn Thi Sĩ - Under the Poet's Eye )

           After a full breakfast consisting of steak and casse-croute

 a friend of mine, aged 50 gave me this' advice' reassuringly:

            " ... Go one like this for sometime, man.   After you get married it won't be long before you understand us better and then it's entirely up to you to hate or pity us".

             I was really upset, although for a very brief moment only.

             A lot of indecent intellectuals who used to be very keen on doing good to the public in pre-war times tried by any means to achieve wealth in the post-war period.   And their famous excuse was that they did such and such a thing because of wives and kids.   What a shame for them.   And what a pity for the woman who are their wives and the boys who are their children !   Unsuccesible writers have the potential to become efficient censors or alert informers.

              In think I will get married.   This year I am thirty-two.   According to Shin Nai Am who wrote that masterpiece of Chinese fiction, All Men Are Brothers.   I  should not get married at this late age.   But if I do, I will strive to feed my wife and children by the sweat of my brow.   I am no different from you, nor do I want to because I still cannot afford another thing than red rice, dried fish, chilly and pepper.   But I'm a bit different from you because I have the guts to say that I have been a bloody liar or I  have robbed a needy friend.   I am not a coward and I know what I am doing for my country's literature.   And this is the reason; I could not help writing this short account of my life as a writer.   I am not simply  man beset by narcissisms.

              In 1959  Thiên Giang writer wrote an open letter to

 Nguiễn- Ngu- Í discussing my case.   Mr Í has shown me the letter.   He also expressed his desire to see me in his residence at Xóm Chuồng Ngựa -Gia Định Province  to have the opportunity to praise my efforts in promoting the national literary output.  That is enough for me.   I want to say thanks to the journalist who jokingly,

" Never think that there are such words as The Phong in Vietnamese language.   Never mention them".

 THE PHONG

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(*)  - The Phong, Khu Rác Ngoại Thành / The Rubbish Tip Outside the City  .

 (  Dai Nam Van Hien Books,  Saigon South Vietnam .( 1963, 2006).

( p. 52 to 57 - TENGGARA, October 1968,

   Volume 2. No 2. / University of  Malaya/ Malaysia  ).

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