From A Writer Diary By Thê Phong "/ translated by Dam Xuan Can [ 1939- ] -- Thephong ' s poems , 29/ 3/ 2016.

 

Thephong's poems

        TUESDAY 29 / 3 / 2016

                 

                  From A Writer's Diary

                        By 

            Thê Phong (*)

                     TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN

                        ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                              (*) -  A selection of The Phong 's poetry

                    appeared  in the April 1968 issue of TENGGARA.

             --------------------------------------------------------------

 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 Nghia Lô.  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 Vu  Ngọc Cac 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 Dien Bien Phu 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 LTD  and myself at the foot of an electric pole in front of my aunt's villa of Cho Duoi 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 Tinh Son Nu(A Highland Lass' Love) written in Hanoi, Đoi Ngay Chien Thang (Waiting for Day of Victory), and

 Co Gai Nghia Lộ (A Girl From Nghia Lô), 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 Nguyen Đuc Quynh, 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 its 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 Nua Đuong Đi Xuong (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.   Nguyen Quoc Toan, 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 Nua Duong Di Xuong (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."   Nguyen Quoc Toan 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 Nua Duong Di Xuong 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 Pho Đuc Chinh St. I did not go there.  The third event occurred during a visit I paid in 1963 to Tung Nghia, the settlement area reserved for the Thais of  Lai Chau, 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 Nghia 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 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 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 Son Nu  (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 criticized 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 Truoc Mat Nhin 

Thi  Si (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 Rac Ngoai Thanh  . (The Rubbish Tip Outside The City.) (*)

      

  THEPHONG: 

     THE WRITER, THE WORK & THE LIFE

 - autobiography

                                                                                                                                       [bookseller: Rulon-Miller Books]
    

                     THE RUBBISH TIP OUTSIDE THE CITY  

                                            T        HE 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 Bay Hien crossroad    

    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 Tung Nghia /Dalat 

  I was struck by 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 she  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 ...

                                                                                                                                                   (Truoc Mat Nhin Thi Si
                                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 literature.  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 narcissim.

In 1959 writer Thien Giang wrote an open letter to Nguien Ngu Í discussing my case.  Mr. Í has shown me the letter.  He also expressed his desire to see me in his residence at Xom Chuong Ngua, Gia Đinh 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 said, " Never think that there are such words as Thê Phong in the Vietnamese language.  Never mention them. "

 

  THÊ PHONG

                                                                                                       

                                                  TENGGARA 

                          / October  1968 --  Volume II  Number II
                        The phong :  From a Writer's Diary  ( p. 52- 57)

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                                       - Reprinted ,  15/ 6/ 2023

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