" From A Writer's Diary By Thê Phong"/ Thế Phong " -- translated by Đàm Xuân Cận [ 1939- ] -- reprinted article December 06, 2022 .

 

Thephong's poems

THỨ BA, 29 THÁNG 3, 2016

       From A  Writer's Diary 

                    By 

               Thê Phong 

-  translated by Đàm Xuân Cận

- TENGGARA/ October 1968

 Volume Two Number Two )

.


         From a Writer's Diary

                   By 

      Thê Phong (*) 

          TRANSLATED BY ĐÀM XUÂN CẬN

                   (*)  A selection of Thephong's poetry

                            appeared in The April 1968

                                    Issue of TENGGARA.

                      The Phong  [ i.e. Đỗ Mạnh Tường 1932-      ]
                                                                                                    (photo: LỮ QUỐC VĂN)
                                                                                                      


Saigon 1963

I started writing in Hanoi -- in the first days of the Vietminh-launched autumn winter offensive when the rumble of artillery reached even the capital.  My mother was the last the Do clan to be reported as lost after the fall of my native town Nghĩa Lộ. 

 I felt compelled to write in my lonely place. Writing then brought me some solace.

At the beginning of 1953 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 collecting news tips 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 colleagues received one thousand five hundred piasters monthly, my boss Vũ Ngọc Các paid me 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 Thê Phong coined by Lê Trọng Duật and myself at the foot of an electric pole in front of my aunt's villa of Chợ Đuổi Street.  This magical name keeps ringing in my ears.

In those days, there were very few Northerners and life was pretty hard for me.  The highest price I enjoyed  for a review as one hundred ad fifty piasters.  At that time, I had in store some memorial novels dealing with life of the montagnards in my homeland in the northernmost part of Vietnam. 

  They were Tình sơn nữ (A Highland Lass' Love) 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 three 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 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 favourably.

  Even a minister in Bao Dai's era wrote a partisan review in his extremely polished style in le journal d' Extre^me Orient the prominent French language daily in Saigon. 

I knew and still believe he did not write it out of sincere admiration.

  When Phan Văn Tạo presented his book to Nguyễn Đức Quỳnh, 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 so.  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 he situation then was not so bad as in Poland where writers were 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 scene of mission.  Here is another quotation by Jan Kott,

       What sorries 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  my duty to scrutinize the artist's motivation, that is, real        behaviour or his attitude towards life.  I felt nauseous when literary awards were decided by government officials  who had very knowledge, if any, of literature.

Can government official become great writers?  Perhaps, but only something like one out of a million.  The majority of them only uphold the order of the Town Hall clock, not that of the Eternal 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  SUFFE-RING FEMALE DOG!  DO COME AND DRINK WITH ME !  In alien Paris, after losing his money Mayakovsky asked for help from friends and had to swear, shrugging his shoulders, " How could these lousy bastards dare to think of generosity?"

Those who insist on having a tasty breakfast with a gulf 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 any more.  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 wierd buttons, a new pipe,  a specially imported tie or a top bottle of perfume. Sophisticates, you are lucky if we have enough for ourselves to eat, let alone feeding wives and kids. We write simply because we cannot escape it, being victims of what we may call complexe d' obession.


                                                                                                                ***

In the last ten years how did I live ?  Time and again I faced hunger, humiliations of all sorts and committed such unsavoury 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 needs for them to forge any other acusations.  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 dailies 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 once 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 piasters 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 I 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, a man who had fed me for some time came to the Center as a national serviceman.  He took some of my books there to read and lent her my auto-biography 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 absorbed in reading the Thê 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 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."

Hesitatingly, 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 seen him since if I saw him again and I remember the address he gave me, 66 Phó Đức Chính St.

 I did not go there.  The third event occurred during a visit I paid in 1963 to Tùng Nghĩa, the settlement area reserved for the Thais of  Lai Châu, Sơn La and Nghĩa Lộ.  I had brought a camera with the intention 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 tradition dress.  When my friend and I stopped in front of a house next to a well I struck up a conversation 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 the a table made of rough unplaned 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 Thailand 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 very deeply touched that my book [Tình Sơn Nữ (A Higland Lass's Love) ] 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 criticised me at the same time. According to her, the description of life in Thailand was accurate; but I had made a mistake in using the word koong khau for kom khau.  I learned that her name is Lò Lệ Thu.  (or La Lệ Thu if it is Vietnamized). 

 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 wondering about the innumerable manifestations of hypocrisy in a society like Vietnam. Let's not forget Vietnam has been under a process of disintegration for eighty years under French domination and twenty year of grinding war.

When I come to these lines it is eleven in the morning.  People are battling with each 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 prostitute-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 about them in Khu Rác Ngoại Thành  . (The Rubbish Tip Outside The City.)*

      

           Thephong by Thephong:; the writer the work & the life 
                           [bookseller: Rulon-Miller Books]
    

            The Rubbish Tip Outside The City / The Phong
                                                                                     (Rulon-Miller Books ; catalogue  146 rare & fine ... )
         
                     
                      * Thephong, Khu Rác Ngoại Thành 

                     ( The Rubbish Tip Outside the City) 

                  Dai Nam Van Hien Books,  Saigon (1963.)

How to sum my experience in ten years of writing?  What makes me so bitter was just the sheer lack of courage on the part of the so-called intellectuals, writers, artists, engineers 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 this damn well.  What makes me still hate them like hell is simply their hypocritical 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                            round the foreigner operated
                                                 rubbish dump

        I am standing pensively at the Bảy 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 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 Tùng Nghĩa /Dalat
      I was see this scene:
   Thai kids have water in their mouths, craving                                                    for sticky rice
   And they cry because this Têt 

                            they won'1 have firecrackers
  When their parents share their sadness\

                       , who is in 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 sane statements scattered here                                  and there will 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 French 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 hardship
                                                       of today ...

                                                                                        (Trước mắt nhìn thi sĩ/ Under the poet's eyes)


After a full breakfast consisting of steak and cass-crou^te 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 women who are their wives and the boys who are their children!  Unsuccessful writers have the potential to become efficient censors or alert informers.

I think I will get married.  This year I am thirty-two.  According to Shin Nai An 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 be because I still cannot afford any other 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 lite-rature.  And this is the reason, I could not help writing this short account of my life as a writer.  I am not simply a man beset my narcisim.

In 1959 writer Thiên Giang 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 ny efforts in promoting the national literary output.  That is enough for me. I want to say thanks to the journalist who jokingly said,

 " Never think that there are such words as 

Thê phong in the Vietnamese language.  Never mention them. "

  

  THE PHONG
                                                                                                       

                                                                                                TENGGARA / October  1968 -- 

                          volume II  number II
                                                                                         Thephong :  From a Writer's Diary  (p. 52- 57)

                            -----------------------------------------=----

                             - reprinted article / Dec., 06/ 2022

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