Thephong by Thephong:; the writer, the work & the life - autobiography by Thephong - 7
Thephong by Thephong .. - 7 - autobiography
Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Saigon 1973
Thephong by Thephong ; : the writer, the work & the life
autobiography by Thephong
At Christmas of 1962, I journeyed to Dalat. My poetry book Under the Poet' s Eyes reflects my state of mind then, and expresses my grateful love to the beauteous highland I set foot in for the first time. I almost the days around Bảy Hiền crossroads where people fought against one another for rubbish from American residences. They beat, they quarelled and even let Americans sleep with their girls to get dollars which, in turn, brought them what they wanted : rice, clothes ... . Since Mr Phạm quang Huyến' s family moved to this zone they had to work hard to earn their daily bread and to deal with bitter foes, among them the airman who was the authorized rubbish -receiver, and the neighbour who wanted their house. When he was still in Chí linh Refugees' Hamlet settlement, one day he invited me to come and have tea with him. While talking, he disclosed that we could work with a lighter heart once we did not have to worry about an apartment. But grown to manhood, I no longer believed in any easy way of earning money. I wrote about these things in the short story entitled The Rubbish Tip outside the City.
Dirty things - quarrels, thefts, immoral parctices - wre daily happenings. And we just could not ignore them. Ironically, the so-called rubbish also comprised valuable things such as a new table, a wardrobe, and a chair. Sometimes i found a carboard whose market price amounted to two or three hundreds piasters. I felt extremely sad every time I saw the pile of rockets in front of my house . The higher it rose, the more casualities my nation
suffered . Among innocent victims were peasants and youths. Coca-cola was served every time the American truck driver came. More than that, the airman even used his wife as a seductive bait for rubbish . I discovered that his wife was an ex-prostitute, and this partly accounted for it. The conflict between Mr Phạm quang Huyến and the airman over, the latter had to move while we stayed. One day, I heard a colleague of the airman saying that he exploited his wife again. An American sergeant was free to make love with the
suffered . Among innocent victims were peasants and youths. Coca-cola was served every time the American truck driver came. More than that, the airman even used his wife as a seductive bait for rubbish . I discovered that his wife was an ex-prostitute, and this partly accounted for it. The conflict between Mr Phạm quang Huyến and the airman over, the latter had to move while we stayed. One day, I heard a colleague of the airman saying that he exploited his wife again. An American sergeant was free to make love with the
airman' s wife during working house. The sergeant gave him a Harley in exchange.
Then I wrote astired poem which want :
... On the farther side of the road
A curious news is being spread - a reliable one, alas !
Concerning a seventy-thousand- piaster worth
American motor-cycle
A two- cylinder Harley which can ride fast on the mute road
And the Vietnamese motor-cycle whose price is unknown -
A talkative woman-motor-cycle who only moves in bed
The two crasy men exchanged the aforesaid things,
as in a fairy tale
A lover of good living, the airmanz preferred the moto-cycle
to his wife
So he was in treaty with the American sergeant for ... her
In working-hours, the American and the woman-motor-cycle
are free to rock in their bed
And the Vietnamese man can ride the Harley on the road
We rightly guess he would evade the questioning on its price
Such is the story of the woman with two husbands
The story which makes an eighteen-year-old girl burst out
laughing hysterically ...'
( UPLIFTING POEMS )
This volume was written prior to the 1963 coup d' état. It contains my reflections on our wretched society . My fear of policemen is one among them. All my friends, living near or far, had been arrested. Captain Đinh thạch Bích, whose machine I used to type the mss of Post War Writers second edition - and who gave a number of stencils, invited me to drink fin and tonic. I refused. Then, he replied, ' I guess you prefer $ 150 for five reams of paper'.
Journalist Uyên Thao and Thắng were detained at The Directorate General of Police, writer Nguyễn đức Quỳnh was reported lost after he got a haircut. When I came to the crossroads to buy cigarettes, I met an apprentice-writer-policeman who rode a yellow Mobylette. He told me news about journalist Uyên Thao and Thắng, then advised me to seek asylum as I being hunted. He and I went to a coffeshop. I a joking voice, the shopkeeper Thăng Long said, ' You still here, you cowboy writer ? '. This unduced me to tell the agent to arrest me if he wanted to. He shook his head .
***
My dog Lili followed me as a shadow. She entered my life after I returned from my first trip to Dalat. As we passed Hàm Nghi St. , she licked my hand, and I touched her ash-gray coat. I let loose her leash, lead her to the coffee- shop. I gave her a bowl of sugar to eat. The sudents accompanying me burst out laughing. I would not keep a she-dog, a student said. The prejudice against females made no impression on me.
She followed me every time I went to the rubber forest near my house, as white Lulu. We were both happy. I climbed a tree, and lay on an arched branch, reading a book defining the way of Great Society should go. She was my real guard in this moment. I caressed her and felt pity for her; she would have died some days before. She used to run out to the crossroads for food and amorous adventures. I called her back and beat her with a stick. She was so badly hurt her foetus was expulsed. I thought I had to dig the ground to bury her. I hurt me to see her thin body and bleary eyes. She was so weak she could not walk through the doorstep as before. There was nothing I could do as I had no mney. Unable to eat cooked rice, she only sipped the cup of milk I gave her every day. But she recovered slowly and now she was definitely well . I was glad that she was no longer fond of getting out the crossroads. I said to myself. ' In this mad , monstruos world, lfe has become so hard I am not able to feel myself and a female dog '.
I drew inspiration from my life with Lili to write this poem :
... A strange dog came to see me off for the lowland
I was about to go away, leaving behind me Dalat forests
She was fond of me and felt pity for my lonely life
She lay at my feet and made me sad
I wrote poetry depicting life in this mad country
Though badly hurt by dishonest and base people
I gave my dog the name of a ' new wave' singer, Lili
I caressed her gray fur as if it was my departing sweeheart's
hair
I mounted the hill, accompanied by my precious
four-legged friend
I longed to be a farmer free to till his land
While she helped me to find out my real enemies
I had been betrayed many times, so I loved dogs deeply
Being wise, I could not be cheated by the bourgeois
Being energetic, I love Youth
The soul of our Fatherland seemed to hover on the pine-forest
You young people, foster patriotism along with
the vigilance of dogs
Raise your heads to see the sky high up and be careful
not to fall down ...
(UNDER THE POET' S EYES)
I often told my friends the story of Lili. Some held that I showed contempt to the whole human race. I had no definite defence to offer but I reaffirmed that animals were loyal and my Lili was a perfect friend. She did not stop loving me though I had beaten her. Mind you, it was not because she forget that; even now, when I called her back from the crossroads, she always tried to hide herself and did not run back instantly, and when she heard my threatening voice, she managed to lie down in a quiet corner. But she loved me. Well, I also loved Lili my dog because she knew how to behave. I had written a short story The Respectful Dog *. I just could not help putting it down as the human species behavbed this way :
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* In 'The Rubbish Tip Outside the City' . (TR)
... My friend, the bourgeois dressed smartly in European clothes
Nothing is lacking for them who are so gracious and beautiful
But they want to sell out our fatherland, mocking at our sorrows
They want to sell out our fatherland along with our colors
as they did chemical sugar
And they fly abroad, leaving us behind
And what can we do when they are already in the air ?
Oh ! They are never to be trusted, the henchman of the foreigners !
Not one of them have ever cared for us ...
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
A great number of writers and poets in the East and West have never ceased attacking human injustice and it still exists. This is why I want to defend the poor, the oppressed although I fully realised the futility of my task. I wrote in the introduction to my Vietnamese translation of
Yevtshenko' s autobiography :
' ... Yevtushenko held that there were no such things as nationalists and communism. There ere but good people and mean people and he always tried to be on the side of the good people to work for the world of tomorrow so that the number of the good continued to increase day by day. But I believed there would still be bad people in thirty thousand more years. I was not disheartened by this. And I decided to fight on. The final victory would be achieved by the good ...' *
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* Yevgeny Yestushenko, Autobiography précoce, translated from French into Vietnamese , Hồi ký văn chương viết sớm , Saigon,1963. (TR)
I raise my voice to bring dogs to writers ' attention and am sure they would love and honour dogs. Dogs are more than a source of inspiration. They are worthy of our warmest praises because they could help build a great society. The stories of dogs in war time, dogs being faithful to men always moved me deeply. Here is one. Once, a man had a dog. The dog accompanied the man to the bus stop twice a day. And then he ran home. He ran to the office when the day' s work was over. The war broke out. The man was killed by a bomb. The dog was always on the usual spot to wait for the man. Day after day passed. Year after year passed but he would never see his master again. His eyes became blear, he had been worry sick a a heavy cold that did not leave him and died on the waiting place.
Unfaithful widow always hate dogs because the latter nevr forget their masters .
***
Our home faces the key street linking Bảy Hiền Crossroads, Tân sơn Nhất Air Port, Cộng Hòa Military Hospital, and Saigon itself to the East and West of the country. Seeing the funeral processions of the youths who died in the civil war, I wrote :
Beside our dwelling was a house crammed with many beds that there was apparently no way out
The soldiers' wives renting the house could do nothing but sleep,
Their husbands at war had not come back
We read in newspapers that thousands of youth had been killed, their bodies left unburied
A silent sea of faces blurred in tars
Every month one thousand Vietnamese soldiers lost their lives while the enemy casualties were four times as numerous
Let's hang these papers as talismans on our beds
... We could hear the funeral march beating
As coffins passed through the road
Through day and night without crape-weiled women following the coffin
Who had died ? How did he live ? Could life be so short and sad ?
Well, I knew you were those who paid the price of patriotism seeing your flag-wrapped coffins
... Alas it breaks my heart that those wives forget you, not long after that
I know you they want to get married, leaving your sons uncared for
I know why they hate dogs like hell ...
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
I wrote this poem in anger. Not only did the fire and flood of fratricide broke years of building up, it also destroyed our souls...
***
Writer Nhất Linh committed suicide on July 7, 1963. I was extremely distressed, but I found he died at the right moment. I wrote a poem on the 49 th day after his death. Men of letters wrote articles and poems on his life, but the majority of them dared not attend his funeral for fear of secret agents. Meeting lawyer Nguyễn tường Bá at Thanh Thế Restaurant, I promised to come on the 49 th day after his death. The Diệm government failed in the attempt to foil the commeration ceremony. Here is the poem :
... Then came one afternoon... Dressed in smart clothes
I took a seat and ordered a morning cup of coffee
Angry with myself turned a bourgeois who knew how to spend money
I looked or a daily, stared dismally into space and indulged in day- dreams
Hearing the sweet sounds of music by these who crossed the Pacific Ocean years ago
What do Asians think of, surrounded by waste land ?
Suddenly something strucks at my head, cool as a needle
Writer Nhất Linh committed suicide, swallowing poison on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year
Reading his biography on newspers
I had to frown at distortions, yes, cruel distortions
Aimed at him and Asian literature as well
I must put down the cup of coffee on the table
Thinking of you who had left this world for ever and for ever
I decide this volume of poetry should contain only uplipting poems
And scred numbers Let us remember
the 7 th day of the 7 th month ín 963
the 40 th day after his death
He who lies in the grave has the power on the destiny
of the living
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
Poet Đông Hồ wrote a poem on Nhất Linh in Bách khoa Magazine, poet Vũ hoàng Chương in another one. I did not think he was sincere as he had lately published a volume of poetry entitled The Flowered Lantern * as a token of his loyalty to the Diệm' s régime. He was sent abroad to attend literary meetings and subsequently awarded a big sum of money. Then he spread the rumor he had gained a million in lottery. We must know no anti-conformist writer was sent abroad in Diệm' s era. Now you can have an idea of what
PEN VIETNAM was. As early s 1962, I wrote, ' PEN VIETNAM are just fine words coined by journalists Phạm việt Tuyền and Thanh Lãng. Most famous writers refused to join it ...' **. When poet Vũ hoàng Chương wrote a poem in praise of the death of Venerable Thích quảng Đức, later mimeographed in the Xá Lợi Pagoda and distributed free, I did not believe he was sincere at all, as I knew the clan of journalist Phạm việt Tuyền and poet Vũ hoàng Chương too well. When régime was still strong, they were quoted as saying that President Ngô đình Diệm was irreplacable although he had done many wrongs. But when his power was starting to slip quickly, they began condemning him and even attempted to stage a general strike of Saigon journalists in order to review their tarnished images. I never approved of their opportunistic way But I admitted that journalist Phạm việt Tuyền was by far better than a politician, as he also a poet, author of Breaking in Chains ***. I had always loved poets, because they were at least morally good.
On August 25, 1963, I was deeply moved by the dead of a Pharmacy girl student in a march of protest at Bến Thành Square. The victim was later identified as a secondary school gil named Quách thị Trang. After a fortnight I composed the poem What did I see ... to voice my indignation :
Her frail body in clothes whiter than witeness fell on the asphalted road
Have you died, my sister aged only eighteen who has not known love,
Who will write two words Vietnam on the gloomy sky of to day ?
I also admired Lê văn Duyệt High School girls who made banderoles out of their white áo dài :
What did see, alas my short sighted eyes could not see far
What did I see, they killed people in the roundup last night
What did I see, my barefooted people with mourning bands on their loose and dreary hair bursting into tears
What did I see, many newborn children refusing to live in this
monstrous world
What did I see, sisters and mothers awaiting their lost brothers and sons
The sight of schoolgirls tearing their coats to make banderoles
haunted me
I shouted out to exhort others to rebellion ...'
(UPLIPTING POEMS )
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* Hoa đăng / thơ Vũ hoàng Chương.
** The Current Situation of South Vietnamese Literature from 1957 to 1961/
Hiện tình văn nghệ miền Nam : 1957- 1961 , Saigon 1962 .
*** Phá lao lung / thơ Thanh Tuyền ( Phạm việt Tuyền).
(TR).
Once again. I had to leave the city. For the moment, I brought some old books to a shop at the corner of Lê văn Duyệt and Trần quý Cáp Sts. The shopowner, Phạm minh Đỗng, was very kind to me and he knew to value rare, old books. So, when there was no rice left I would come ro see him and was rarely dissapointed. Some of my close friends asked me whether I wanted to sell books on politics at reduced prices to have more readers. They did not believe me when I said I did so merely because I was broke. Then I had to make clear that I was not in the mood of kidding. In fact, they were somewhat cheated by my appearance. Saigon was a phony city like Paris. Owing to Mr Phạm minh Đỗng I could afford to buy stencils.
In 1963, we published two books each month. I went to the premises of Vietnamese Association for Asian Culture Relations and typed there. Alas, to have a typewriter of my own had been a long-cherished hope of mine. I felt a deep compassion for myself every time I saw in my mind' s eye a typewriter, along with reference books on a wordesk and a case full of precious mss. When I was still living on Trương minh Giảng St., I once borrowed a type writer and was stopped at the Trương minh Giảng bridgehead and brought to the branch of police station inside the City Housing Estate for not having the invoice of the machine. Those days secret agents and policemen swarmed the streets to check suspected passengers, especially those bringing books with themselves. At dusk I was ordered to carry rice to the police chief' s house at Hai bà Trưng St. At midnight they brought me in a car to my friend who lent the typerwriter. In the afternoon we came but my friend was not at home and his sister did not recognize me; so, they threatened to beat me. If the same thing happened this time I would be thrown into prison. They let me ring the bell while pressing the revolver against my back. I only felt safe when seeing my friend coming towards me.
***
It took me nearly an hour to bicycle from my house to the premises of the Association. I typed until noon, went home for lunch and came back in early afternoon. Downstairs was The Refugees Affairs Special Commisariat. Fortunately the guards did not keep an eye on my activities. One day, scholar Nguyễn đăng Thục, Chairman of the Asscociation and editor of the magazine, asked me, ' You're still free, boy ?' . I became more cautious than ever, not knowing what he really meant. I then explained to him that my recent book were translation, sharing his view that our men of letters were still not mature enough for creative writing. When I showed him my translation of the history book by Louis Roubaud, he was much pleased and stopped suspecting me of stenciling leaflets. To tell the truth much stories as The Respectful Dog exhorted rebellion against the phony society just as leaflets did. I did not worry about the guard, Mr Khiêm, as he was dedicated Buddhist. He sometimes handed me press releases from Xá lợi Pagoda, and the notorious poem by Vũ hoàng Chương.
Besides the tiring job of writing books, running the duplicator and collecting money brought me unspeakable pains. I had to borrow money of jackets, stencils, and finally, I myself bound the copies. It was not true that my only concern was to manage to propagate the so-called rebellious literature.
Deciding to stop displaying books in public, Writer Thế Nguyên and I wrote to some fifty people including fellow writers and dedicated readers requesting them to pay fifty piasters for each copy, and intellectuals were keen on foreign books only - a sad reality of a developing country. In urging them to pay for what they peviously received free, we irritated them a lot. But to read our publications had become a must to many of them. We mimeographed books to carry our sruggle, to reveal the real circumstances of an economically and politically unstable society, and to enable ourselves to continue writing without being influenced by petty fashions. I expressed these opinions in the article On Mimeographing Books and Its Problems *. When poet Hoàng Trinh alias Phạm xuân Ninh held that we had better means at our disposal than mimeographing, he adopted the point of view of a high official-director of the National Broadcasting Commission. When still an independent and free man, Hoàng Trinh liked Constant Virgil Gheotghiu and he himself had translated part of The 25 th Hour. When a director he did not appreciate my Vietnamese version of it. I was rather annoyed, by this failure to understand that, the book was meant as a blame of Vietnamese Phanariot in power **. My consolation was that he was a regular subscriber to our books in two consecutive years. Unfortunately, it took us many times for collect money from him as he had to visit him in hours he was likely at home; namely, sleeping, eating, and waking hours. Some of our readers did not pay us in two long years and we often load patience with them and gave up. Writer Triều Đẩu reminded some of them that we were not beggars and we only collected money for books sold. But the situation did not change much hereafter. Lawyer Triệu bá Thiệp only paid us on the fourth encounter. Enginner Đỗ đình Chinh failed to pay us after many visits in the span of two years. The mother of Lộc, one of my friends, frowned at our man after the latter bicycled in one hour from Bảy Hiền crossroads to 797 Trần hưng Đạo St. We also mailed books to painter Đinh Cường in Huế. When he came in Saigon, and he did not acknowledge the receipt of books. We knew he was a liar, but he could do nothing as we did not register parcels. Later when I came to get the jackets for poet Ninh Chữ, painter Đinh Cường was not home.
I suddenly saw on his wordesk our publication The Curfew Bell ***. I did not let him know this, but I never expected to see him again.
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* Life Magazine / nguyệt san Sống / Ngô trọng Hiếu , Saigon 1960.
** The Whip / Chiếc roi ngựa / a novel by Virgil Constant Gheorghiu .
*** Hồi chuông tắt lửa/ Thế Nguyên, Saigon 1963.
***
The Curfew Bell, written by Thế Nguyên, condemns a Catholic priest who exploited his followers and took a wife. I received a letter form Professor Nguyễn văn Trung, Saigon Faculty of Arts, ordering a copy of the novel and expressing his wish to meet the author. It was a happy surprise for me to hear from the man who had denounced me as a saboteur of cultural activities in South Vietnam and who now became our reader. I dispatched a man to bring him the book and get money for it. My man did not met him. I urged my man to come again and again, because I had made it clear from the outset that an intellectual should pay for what he got. I did not know for sure whether writer Thế Nguyên reminded Professor Nguyễn văn Trung of that in their encounter. This made me think of Negro poet L. Hughes and Haward Professor Alain Locke. At first, Hughes hesistated to meet a college professor, but later in Paris, he was much satisfied with the fruitful, happy encounter. As for me, I understood Professor Nguyễn văn Trung better; He did not hate me as before.
Having lived through so many tortures and himiliation, I even felt myself to be in a position to realistically help those who used to complain about their hardships in life. But I never imagined to receive the following letter from Director General of Information Phan văn Tạo:
REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM 25 th July, 1963 DIRECTORATE GENERAL OF INFORMATION ref. 4044 CDV/TT/HDKD
79- 81 PHAN DINH PHUNG ST.
SAIGON
Mr Thế Phong
Director
Dai Nam Van Hien Pubblishing House
201 / 11 Nguyễn Huệ St, Phú Nhuận
Dear Mr Phong,
Thank you for sending me your translation of Constant Virgil
Gheorghiu' s The Whip.
I would like to draw your attention to the press law requiring you to submit all copies for censorship prior to publication.
May I remind you that immediately after I received your
'Open Letter addressed to Writers, Poets and Readers'. I sent you an official note, ref. 349/TT/HDKD on the 2nd of July urging you not to violate the regualtion.
In my capacity as Director General of Information, I am sorry to refuse your gift. I am returning it to you.
I also take liberty to act upon Articles 6 and 7 of the decret-law 275/PTT/TTK of April 5, 1954 establishing the regualtions concerning domestic publications .
Thank you your due consideration.
Sincerely yours,
PHAN VĂN TẠO
(signed and sealed)
Enclosed were two copies for Mr Phan văn Tạo and Chiarman of the Councill of Censors Phạm xuân Thái, reading the letter, I thought of a phone all from the Directorate General of Police. In fact the address of the publishing house was that poet Diễm Châu alias Phạm văn Rao. He and his wife were watched by plain- clothes agents because of me. Phạm văn Rao also receive my visitors students- students and military men. He would tell those worthy of confidence my real address. Ywo youths named Hoàng văn Giang and Trần như Huỳnh lived next to my door without knowing it. Fearing I would receive them, they wrote to me they would like very much to meet me to express their ideas about some good points in my autobiographical novel Looking Back at Midway of Life *, which they appreciated immensily. Writing was only amusement then. On the other hand, my life was freed from entanglements, but I found it rather hollow and wanted to love and be loved. In my trip to Dalat in October 1963 to search for holy water on Lang Bian Highland, I met Lê thị Kim Dung in the same party. I loved her at first sight as she looked like my mother. The trip in search of holy water ** was a long prose poem recording this
event .
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* Nửa đường đi xuống/ Thế Phong, Saigon 1963, 1969.
** Chàng ơi đừng quên em / Cho thuê bản thân / Thế Phong, Saigon 1963.
(TR)
I later though I could avoid her, but I saw her again at the corner of Lê văn Duyệt and Hồng thập tự Sts. one morning and I let her know I was not a soldier as I told her before. I dispateched my nephew to bring The Phong,
A Selection from his Writings * to her residence. Only then I realised she was the daughter of a colonel- judge .
I dedicated to her the first pages of Uplipting Poems **I still receive her letters from a bleak part of the world *** inquiring about my life and work as a writer. Dear readers, don' t think I wrote poetry to win a girl' s affections. My poetry is imply the history of my life.
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* Tuyển truyện Thế Phong, Saigon 1961.
** Thơ làm lớn dậy con người/ Thế Phong. (TR)
*** Canada
I admitted all my wrongdoings and tried to mend my ways. I wrote Reaaaraisal f writer Nguyễn đức Quỳnh * as a reminder and warning to youth about the gruesome consequence of bad faith, but I never meant him any harm.
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* Nhận diện vóc dáng Nguyễn đức Quỳnh/ Thế Phong, Saigon 1962, 1964.(TR)
In this period I worked from7 a.m till noon. After lunch I continued untill dusk, and after dinner, to midnight. I sometimes thought of giving up, being too tired, but I always insisted in complaining the work. After the work was finished, I began to worry naf wondered what could become of me if there was nothing more for me to do. So I carried out project after project.
In difficult times we can distinguish good friends from bad ones. This is particularly true of artists and writers. Flight lieutenant Nguyễn cao Nguyên bought our books but he never came to pay, requiring I would come to him personally. I found out he was afraid as our books had not been censored. Poet Bùi khải Nguyên refused to buy our books and even failed to come to the Post Office to mail me $ 500 at my request.
One noon Nguyễn mạnh Cường came to see me on a Solex. After I brought him to the rubber forest near my house for reasons of security he invited me to join The Commitee for the Defence of Human Rights, headed by Lawyer Triệu bá Thiệp. I refused on the ground that I disbelieved his comrades and held that they were also good at exploiting others when they rose to power and far as I was concerned I only fought for a true revolution. Nguyễn mạnh Cường left me, looking very sad. I later heard that he had been detained.
Another noon, poet Bùi khải Nguyên returned and urged me to join in the full-fleged protest against the government' s repressive measures. As for me, I condemned him as a coward through his attitude to my publishing house and I had no idea about The Buddhist affair to offer *. He then said I was a hedgehog but I did not feel the need to defend myself. Nobody could incite me now, only sincerity moved me. Every time a book was mimeographed we had to find out the safest way to deliver copies to readers and to mail them to those living outside the capital. I thought the security measures were not so tight as I read Dr Nguyễn- trần Huân resident in Paris acknowledging the receipt of books. A distinguished scholar and translator, he was the senior lecturer at Sorbonne Univeristy. After the mimeographed translation of The Whip reached him, he wrote to me that he knew Dr Métianu to whom the book was dedicated. I regret not having asked him about the author's impressions on being translated, and about Dr Métianu on my Vietnamese spelling of his name. I felt a deep compassion for the Rumanian people who suffered like my people. I was ready to be jailed after a book was released. Every time I went to the Censorship Office, Phạm quang Huyến' s son, Cừ, accompanied me so that he might report a likely kidnapping to the family as the authorities often refused to let civilians know of arrest. Nobody was aware of my secret intention except Nguyễn cao Đàm, internationally known artist photographer and Ministry of Information official. As the Ministry did not approved of our publication. Well, he simply wanted to get his pay regularly nad I was never chagrined. I was not afraid of sorrows, worries nad even betrayals. This had place in my acerbic opinions expressed in my poems. 'Life would be dull if there was no evil whatever about it', O once wrote. I used to sleep with a prostitute following a sad incident. Every time I had venereal disease I felt much pity for prostitutes who never compalined about diseases.
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* The author had serious misgivings of the so-called Buddhist revolt in 1963 . (TR)
Nowhere else in the world could you have a good fuck with fifty piasters *. A well-known poet agree with this. The good nad the bad exist together eveywhere in the world, and happiness must be paired with sorrow. The matter-of-fact acceptance of the human condition enable us to live with lighter hearts.
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* US 0,50 ( Translator's note)
In my stay in Dalat at Christmas time 1964, a young student from the Saigon faculty of Letters expressed this opinion about me after living with me for two weeks :
'... When I came back in saigon I will tell Professor Lê thành Trị that I did learn much logic from you ...'
These words deeply moved us. I intended to tell my young friend more about my past experiences, but he had to return to Saigon sooner than as scheduled.
When I was twenty I told my beloved all my fantasies. At thirty I was reticent and could not win the hearts of women. Life had been unfair to me and literature failed to make wounds more bearable. During the last twelve months I had not written one word. After a hugely successful career, William Faulner admitted in his last days that to pursue literature was not so interesting as to go hunting. I am still not old but I feel tired after more than ten years of writing. I now like stories like the following better than serious pieces of writing. The story runs like this; A former dancing girl named HUỲNH THỊ THU THỦY got the permission from her husband to go with me to Dalat as only a atmosphere there could bring her to life again. The days who planned to return to Saigon she got up very early . Perhaps whe was the first riser in all Dalat Hotel. Four o' clock . It was rather cold. We slept in the same room, on two beds. The bellboy knocked the door before entering, which he never did when I was alone. I recalled the first day in the hotel , Thu Thủy met Kim Cji, another dancing girl in the corridor. Looking at me, she said, 'Where is your husband ?' Thu Thủy shook her head and introduced me as her
husband' s friend. We also met poet Tuệ Giác who exclaimed, 'How nice she
is !' and wrinkled his eyes. I replied, ' We are just friends.' Then I told him to ask Thu Thủy for confirmation. He did and Thu Thủy smiled radiantly and the cold atmosphere suddenly warmed up. After getting up, she awoke me did her make up. I looked at the window. In the mist lighted lamps moved. I rubbed my eyes and found out the moving lamps were those cars flitting past.
Thu Thủy pushed me back when I descended the slope too fast. We played like a newly wed couple in the honeymoon. Her old friends applauded her when we entered Maxim's Night Club. I told her she had rendered me famous and she praised me for my elegant manners, from the way of holding conversation to manipulating the coffee spoon. I asked whether or not she had stopped being afraid of me. In our first night at the hotel I told her I would sleep elsewhere and be back in the morning, but I later found it unnecessary as I could submit to restraint, Thu Thủy later said, laughing,
' What do you think my reactions whoud have been had you touched me when I got out of the bathroom?'. We joined hands and went plucking flowers.
I told her that I also liked the red and the black as she, and we would have been bitter rivals and she been a man. We spent magical days and nights together. I still remember her last words to me in Dalat, ' In our society woman does not have the right to choose her husbands. You have that right. When you have a wife I hope you' ll know how too treat her and she' ll be certaintly most happy .'
Thank you, Thu Thủy. Thank you again.
We were back in Saigon. One night I brought Thu Thủy to a fortune-teller in Calmette St. Then we went to a coffee shop where a group of teddy boys harassed us. Thu Thủy calmed me, ' Please don' t bother. Only a woman knows how to deal with them properly'. Seeing her sweeping I said, ' I really on't want to cause trouble. Do you think it's guilty to go out with a friend' s wife'.
Journalist Nguyễn thu Minh, and his wife, Phương Duyên also knew our story in spite of your discretion. I was forced to say to her husband Nguyễn mạnh Cường, ' When I love your wife with all the fire of my soul, I' ll hand you a revolver and in case you refrain from killing me, you' ll lose her '. I did not believe he was convinced but I felt assured nothing had change since our night in Dalat Hotel. I hoped to write a novel on THU THỦY, the woman whoo appreciated Uplifting Poems and the novel The Adulteress. The novel delighted her during a whole night and caused lots of laughter. Once she showed me her favorite stanza of poetry, looking in the faces of her cute son and me :
'I want to follow my love
Who has never pressed about marriage
As far as Dalat to pass the night together
We will be warm, we will be cold
And forget all, all, all ...'
Oh my HUỲNH THỊ THU THỦY, My wishes were so simple you could not believe them :
' This century
rugged land exceeds fertile part
I grew up in difficult times;
I refuse to hear soothing words.
Life is stripped of liberty;
Every line of poetry should be a bullet
To bring down walls of calumny and hypcorisy
Look!
We grow Europe-imported grass in public gardens
I feel estranged in my country
and turn a foreign visitor
Let me be like a heroic mockingbird flitting in the setting sun
Let me evade the world I never made
even in the brief moment
When I cast a glance at the desolate expanse ...'
As we like pine forest, cold evening sunshine, I' ll never forget one rainy afternoon Thu Thủy was alone on the misty hill when a soldier of my age rushed to console her as he thought she was about to commit suicide. On seeing me he said he had been rather shocked. Thu Thủy lost a sun glasses and I a pair it Hitkok wrisbands . She later told me these shoud be considered as love-tokens to the darling city. I still see on my mind' s eye the light flickering on the tree tops on misty nights there. But she is gone now !
The enthralling atmosphere of the moss-covered hotel Au Sans Souci in the pine forest haunts me. On gloden afernoon I sat looking out in front of a piece of paper whcih had remained blank for a fortnight. I was forced to come back to Saigon. I have always liked this poem, sincere as genuine and lasting friendship which is the same yesterday and today and forever.
Like Nicolas Gogol, I hope my people and I will be happier than today. I plan to get married as soon as I come back, and my wife will be as happy as Thu Thủy predicted. My wife and I will come to say thank you to her. We' ll await her at door. We' ll have no guets but her :
'... I choose Autumn, pine forest and sad sunshine;
I give up writing poetry
and do not torture myself anymore
Do me a favour, my solemn- faced and wise wife
Say to me,
' Burn a fire ! Hang the mosquito-net'
I am now the voluntary slave who is fully contended !
Tomorrow morning
we' ll wake up early
set out to grow vegetables.
Outside the hedge
near the farm gate
TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
All languages of the world.
SAIGON SOUTH VIETNAM
FEBRUARY, 1965
thephong
*****************************
DAI NAM VAN HIEN BOOKS
PO BOX 1123
SAIGON, SOUTH VIETNAM
FIRST PUBLISHED
BY DAI NAM VAN HIEN BOOKS, 1966
SECOND EDITION, 1968
THIS EDITION, FEBRUARY, 1972
COPYRIGHT BY THÊ PHONG, 1966, 1988, 1972
MIMEOGRAPHED IN SAIGON, SOUTH VIETNAM
THIS EDITION, MARCH, 2014
IN HOCHIMINH CITY
****************************
She followed me every time I went to the rubber forest near my house, as white Lulu. We were both happy. I climbed a tree, and lay on an arched branch, reading a book defining the way of Great Society should go. She was my real guard in this moment. I caressed her and felt pity for her; she would have died some days before. She used to run out to the crossroads for food and amorous adventures. I called her back and beat her with a stick. She was so badly hurt her foetus was expulsed. I thought I had to dig the ground to bury her. I hurt me to see her thin body and bleary eyes. She was so weak she could not walk through the doorstep as before. There was nothing I could do as I had no mney. Unable to eat cooked rice, she only sipped the cup of milk I gave her every day. But she recovered slowly and now she was definitely well . I was glad that she was no longer fond of getting out the crossroads. I said to myself. ' In this mad , monstruos world, lfe has become so hard I am not able to feel myself and a female dog '.
I drew inspiration from my life with Lili to write this poem :
... A strange dog came to see me off for the lowland
I was about to go away, leaving behind me Dalat forests
She was fond of me and felt pity for my lonely life
She lay at my feet and made me sad
I wrote poetry depicting life in this mad country
Though badly hurt by dishonest and base people
I gave my dog the name of a ' new wave' singer, Lili
I caressed her gray fur as if it was my departing sweeheart's
hair
I mounted the hill, accompanied by my precious
four-legged friend
I longed to be a farmer free to till his land
While she helped me to find out my real enemies
I had been betrayed many times, so I loved dogs deeply
Being wise, I could not be cheated by the bourgeois
Being energetic, I love Youth
The soul of our Fatherland seemed to hover on the pine-forest
You young people, foster patriotism along with
the vigilance of dogs
Raise your heads to see the sky high up and be careful
not to fall down ...
(UNDER THE POET' S EYES)
I often told my friends the story of Lili. Some held that I showed contempt to the whole human race. I had no definite defence to offer but I reaffirmed that animals were loyal and my Lili was a perfect friend. She did not stop loving me though I had beaten her. Mind you, it was not because she forget that; even now, when I called her back from the crossroads, she always tried to hide herself and did not run back instantly, and when she heard my threatening voice, she managed to lie down in a quiet corner. But she loved me. Well, I also loved Lili my dog because she knew how to behave. I had written a short story The Respectful Dog *. I just could not help putting it down as the human species behavbed this way :
----
* In 'The Rubbish Tip Outside the City' . (TR)
... My friend, the bourgeois dressed smartly in European clothes
Nothing is lacking for them who are so gracious and beautiful
But they want to sell out our fatherland, mocking at our sorrows
They want to sell out our fatherland along with our colors
as they did chemical sugar
And they fly abroad, leaving us behind
And what can we do when they are already in the air ?
Oh ! They are never to be trusted, the henchman of the foreigners !
Not one of them have ever cared for us ...
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
A great number of writers and poets in the East and West have never ceased attacking human injustice and it still exists. This is why I want to defend the poor, the oppressed although I fully realised the futility of my task. I wrote in the introduction to my Vietnamese translation of
Yevtshenko' s autobiography :
' ... Yevtushenko held that there were no such things as nationalists and communism. There ere but good people and mean people and he always tried to be on the side of the good people to work for the world of tomorrow so that the number of the good continued to increase day by day. But I believed there would still be bad people in thirty thousand more years. I was not disheartened by this. And I decided to fight on. The final victory would be achieved by the good ...' *
----
* Yevgeny Yestushenko, Autobiography précoce, translated from French into Vietnamese , Hồi ký văn chương viết sớm , Saigon,1963. (TR)
I raise my voice to bring dogs to writers ' attention and am sure they would love and honour dogs. Dogs are more than a source of inspiration. They are worthy of our warmest praises because they could help build a great society. The stories of dogs in war time, dogs being faithful to men always moved me deeply. Here is one. Once, a man had a dog. The dog accompanied the man to the bus stop twice a day. And then he ran home. He ran to the office when the day' s work was over. The war broke out. The man was killed by a bomb. The dog was always on the usual spot to wait for the man. Day after day passed. Year after year passed but he would never see his master again. His eyes became blear, he had been worry sick a a heavy cold that did not leave him and died on the waiting place.
Unfaithful widow always hate dogs because the latter nevr forget their masters .
***
Our home faces the key street linking Bảy Hiền Crossroads, Tân sơn Nhất Air Port, Cộng Hòa Military Hospital, and Saigon itself to the East and West of the country. Seeing the funeral processions of the youths who died in the civil war, I wrote :
Beside our dwelling was a house crammed with many beds that there was apparently no way out
The soldiers' wives renting the house could do nothing but sleep,
Their husbands at war had not come back
We read in newspapers that thousands of youth had been killed, their bodies left unburied
A silent sea of faces blurred in tars
Every month one thousand Vietnamese soldiers lost their lives while the enemy casualties were four times as numerous
Let's hang these papers as talismans on our beds
... We could hear the funeral march beating
As coffins passed through the road
Through day and night without crape-weiled women following the coffin
Who had died ? How did he live ? Could life be so short and sad ?
Well, I knew you were those who paid the price of patriotism seeing your flag-wrapped coffins
... Alas it breaks my heart that those wives forget you, not long after that
I know you they want to get married, leaving your sons uncared for
I know why they hate dogs like hell ...
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
I wrote this poem in anger. Not only did the fire and flood of fratricide broke years of building up, it also destroyed our souls...
***
Writer Nhất Linh committed suicide on July 7, 1963. I was extremely distressed, but I found he died at the right moment. I wrote a poem on the 49 th day after his death. Men of letters wrote articles and poems on his life, but the majority of them dared not attend his funeral for fear of secret agents. Meeting lawyer Nguyễn tường Bá at Thanh Thế Restaurant, I promised to come on the 49 th day after his death. The Diệm government failed in the attempt to foil the commeration ceremony. Here is the poem :
... Then came one afternoon... Dressed in smart clothes
I took a seat and ordered a morning cup of coffee
Angry with myself turned a bourgeois who knew how to spend money
I looked or a daily, stared dismally into space and indulged in day- dreams
Hearing the sweet sounds of music by these who crossed the Pacific Ocean years ago
What do Asians think of, surrounded by waste land ?
Suddenly something strucks at my head, cool as a needle
Writer Nhất Linh committed suicide, swallowing poison on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year
Reading his biography on newspers
I had to frown at distortions, yes, cruel distortions
Aimed at him and Asian literature as well
I must put down the cup of coffee on the table
Thinking of you who had left this world for ever and for ever
I decide this volume of poetry should contain only uplipting poems
And scred numbers Let us remember
the 7 th day of the 7 th month ín 963
the 40 th day after his death
He who lies in the grave has the power on the destiny
of the living
(UPLIPTING POEMS)
Poet Đông Hồ wrote a poem on Nhất Linh in Bách khoa Magazine, poet Vũ hoàng Chương in another one. I did not think he was sincere as he had lately published a volume of poetry entitled The Flowered Lantern * as a token of his loyalty to the Diệm' s régime. He was sent abroad to attend literary meetings and subsequently awarded a big sum of money. Then he spread the rumor he had gained a million in lottery. We must know no anti-conformist writer was sent abroad in Diệm' s era. Now you can have an idea of what
PEN VIETNAM was. As early s 1962, I wrote, ' PEN VIETNAM are just fine words coined by journalists Phạm việt Tuyền and Thanh Lãng. Most famous writers refused to join it ...' **. When poet Vũ hoàng Chương wrote a poem in praise of the death of Venerable Thích quảng Đức, later mimeographed in the Xá Lợi Pagoda and distributed free, I did not believe he was sincere at all, as I knew the clan of journalist Phạm việt Tuyền and poet Vũ hoàng Chương too well. When régime was still strong, they were quoted as saying that President Ngô đình Diệm was irreplacable although he had done many wrongs. But when his power was starting to slip quickly, they began condemning him and even attempted to stage a general strike of Saigon journalists in order to review their tarnished images. I never approved of their opportunistic way But I admitted that journalist Phạm việt Tuyền was by far better than a politician, as he also a poet, author of Breaking in Chains ***. I had always loved poets, because they were at least morally good.
On August 25, 1963, I was deeply moved by the dead of a Pharmacy girl student in a march of protest at Bến Thành Square. The victim was later identified as a secondary school gil named Quách thị Trang. After a fortnight I composed the poem What did I see ... to voice my indignation :
Her frail body in clothes whiter than witeness fell on the asphalted road
Have you died, my sister aged only eighteen who has not known love,
Who will write two words Vietnam on the gloomy sky of to day ?
I also admired Lê văn Duyệt High School girls who made banderoles out of their white áo dài :
What did see, alas my short sighted eyes could not see far
What did I see, they killed people in the roundup last night
What did I see, my barefooted people with mourning bands on their loose and dreary hair bursting into tears
What did I see, many newborn children refusing to live in this
monstrous world
What did I see, sisters and mothers awaiting their lost brothers and sons
The sight of schoolgirls tearing their coats to make banderoles
haunted me
I shouted out to exhort others to rebellion ...'
(UPLIPTING POEMS )
--------
* Hoa đăng / thơ Vũ hoàng Chương.
** The Current Situation of South Vietnamese Literature from 1957 to 1961/
Hiện tình văn nghệ miền Nam : 1957- 1961 , Saigon 1962 .
*** Phá lao lung / thơ Thanh Tuyền ( Phạm việt Tuyền).
(TR).
Once again. I had to leave the city. For the moment, I brought some old books to a shop at the corner of Lê văn Duyệt and Trần quý Cáp Sts. The shopowner, Phạm minh Đỗng, was very kind to me and he knew to value rare, old books. So, when there was no rice left I would come ro see him and was rarely dissapointed. Some of my close friends asked me whether I wanted to sell books on politics at reduced prices to have more readers. They did not believe me when I said I did so merely because I was broke. Then I had to make clear that I was not in the mood of kidding. In fact, they were somewhat cheated by my appearance. Saigon was a phony city like Paris. Owing to Mr Phạm minh Đỗng I could afford to buy stencils.
In 1963, we published two books each month. I went to the premises of Vietnamese Association for Asian Culture Relations and typed there. Alas, to have a typewriter of my own had been a long-cherished hope of mine. I felt a deep compassion for myself every time I saw in my mind' s eye a typewriter, along with reference books on a wordesk and a case full of precious mss. When I was still living on Trương minh Giảng St., I once borrowed a type writer and was stopped at the Trương minh Giảng bridgehead and brought to the branch of police station inside the City Housing Estate for not having the invoice of the machine. Those days secret agents and policemen swarmed the streets to check suspected passengers, especially those bringing books with themselves. At dusk I was ordered to carry rice to the police chief' s house at Hai bà Trưng St. At midnight they brought me in a car to my friend who lent the typerwriter. In the afternoon we came but my friend was not at home and his sister did not recognize me; so, they threatened to beat me. If the same thing happened this time I would be thrown into prison. They let me ring the bell while pressing the revolver against my back. I only felt safe when seeing my friend coming towards me.
***
It took me nearly an hour to bicycle from my house to the premises of the Association. I typed until noon, went home for lunch and came back in early afternoon. Downstairs was The Refugees Affairs Special Commisariat. Fortunately the guards did not keep an eye on my activities. One day, scholar Nguyễn đăng Thục, Chairman of the Asscociation and editor of the magazine, asked me, ' You're still free, boy ?' . I became more cautious than ever, not knowing what he really meant. I then explained to him that my recent book were translation, sharing his view that our men of letters were still not mature enough for creative writing. When I showed him my translation of the history book by Louis Roubaud, he was much pleased and stopped suspecting me of stenciling leaflets. To tell the truth much stories as The Respectful Dog exhorted rebellion against the phony society just as leaflets did. I did not worry about the guard, Mr Khiêm, as he was dedicated Buddhist. He sometimes handed me press releases from Xá lợi Pagoda, and the notorious poem by Vũ hoàng Chương.
Besides the tiring job of writing books, running the duplicator and collecting money brought me unspeakable pains. I had to borrow money of jackets, stencils, and finally, I myself bound the copies. It was not true that my only concern was to manage to propagate the so-called rebellious literature.
Deciding to stop displaying books in public, Writer Thế Nguyên and I wrote to some fifty people including fellow writers and dedicated readers requesting them to pay fifty piasters for each copy, and intellectuals were keen on foreign books only - a sad reality of a developing country. In urging them to pay for what they peviously received free, we irritated them a lot. But to read our publications had become a must to many of them. We mimeographed books to carry our sruggle, to reveal the real circumstances of an economically and politically unstable society, and to enable ourselves to continue writing without being influenced by petty fashions. I expressed these opinions in the article On Mimeographing Books and Its Problems *. When poet Hoàng Trinh alias Phạm xuân Ninh held that we had better means at our disposal than mimeographing, he adopted the point of view of a high official-director of the National Broadcasting Commission. When still an independent and free man, Hoàng Trinh liked Constant Virgil Gheotghiu and he himself had translated part of The 25 th Hour. When a director he did not appreciate my Vietnamese version of it. I was rather annoyed, by this failure to understand that, the book was meant as a blame of Vietnamese Phanariot in power **. My consolation was that he was a regular subscriber to our books in two consecutive years. Unfortunately, it took us many times for collect money from him as he had to visit him in hours he was likely at home; namely, sleeping, eating, and waking hours. Some of our readers did not pay us in two long years and we often load patience with them and gave up. Writer Triều Đẩu reminded some of them that we were not beggars and we only collected money for books sold. But the situation did not change much hereafter. Lawyer Triệu bá Thiệp only paid us on the fourth encounter. Enginner Đỗ đình Chinh failed to pay us after many visits in the span of two years. The mother of Lộc, one of my friends, frowned at our man after the latter bicycled in one hour from Bảy Hiền crossroads to 797 Trần hưng Đạo St. We also mailed books to painter Đinh Cường in Huế. When he came in Saigon, and he did not acknowledge the receipt of books. We knew he was a liar, but he could do nothing as we did not register parcels. Later when I came to get the jackets for poet Ninh Chữ, painter Đinh Cường was not home.
I suddenly saw on his wordesk our publication The Curfew Bell ***. I did not let him know this, but I never expected to see him again.
-----
* Life Magazine / nguyệt san Sống / Ngô trọng Hiếu , Saigon 1960.
** The Whip / Chiếc roi ngựa / a novel by Virgil Constant Gheorghiu .
*** Hồi chuông tắt lửa/ Thế Nguyên, Saigon 1963.
***
The Curfew Bell, written by Thế Nguyên, condemns a Catholic priest who exploited his followers and took a wife. I received a letter form Professor Nguyễn văn Trung, Saigon Faculty of Arts, ordering a copy of the novel and expressing his wish to meet the author. It was a happy surprise for me to hear from the man who had denounced me as a saboteur of cultural activities in South Vietnam and who now became our reader. I dispatched a man to bring him the book and get money for it. My man did not met him. I urged my man to come again and again, because I had made it clear from the outset that an intellectual should pay for what he got. I did not know for sure whether writer Thế Nguyên reminded Professor Nguyễn văn Trung of that in their encounter. This made me think of Negro poet L. Hughes and Haward Professor Alain Locke. At first, Hughes hesistated to meet a college professor, but later in Paris, he was much satisfied with the fruitful, happy encounter. As for me, I understood Professor Nguyễn văn Trung better; He did not hate me as before.
Having lived through so many tortures and himiliation, I even felt myself to be in a position to realistically help those who used to complain about their hardships in life. But I never imagined to receive the following letter from Director General of Information Phan văn Tạo:
REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM 25 th July, 1963 DIRECTORATE GENERAL OF INFORMATION ref. 4044 CDV/TT/HDKD
79- 81 PHAN DINH PHUNG ST.
SAIGON
Mr Thế Phong
Director
Dai Nam Van Hien Pubblishing House
201 / 11 Nguyễn Huệ St, Phú Nhuận
Dear Mr Phong,
Thank you for sending me your translation of Constant Virgil
Gheorghiu' s The Whip.
I would like to draw your attention to the press law requiring you to submit all copies for censorship prior to publication.
May I remind you that immediately after I received your
'Open Letter addressed to Writers, Poets and Readers'. I sent you an official note, ref. 349/TT/HDKD on the 2nd of July urging you not to violate the regualtion.
In my capacity as Director General of Information, I am sorry to refuse your gift. I am returning it to you.
I also take liberty to act upon Articles 6 and 7 of the decret-law 275/PTT/TTK of April 5, 1954 establishing the regualtions concerning domestic publications .
Thank you your due consideration.
Sincerely yours,
PHAN VĂN TẠO
(signed and sealed)
Enclosed were two copies for Mr Phan văn Tạo and Chiarman of the Councill of Censors Phạm xuân Thái, reading the letter, I thought of a phone all from the Directorate General of Police. In fact the address of the publishing house was that poet Diễm Châu alias Phạm văn Rao. He and his wife were watched by plain- clothes agents because of me. Phạm văn Rao also receive my visitors students- students and military men. He would tell those worthy of confidence my real address. Ywo youths named Hoàng văn Giang and Trần như Huỳnh lived next to my door without knowing it. Fearing I would receive them, they wrote to me they would like very much to meet me to express their ideas about some good points in my autobiographical novel Looking Back at Midway of Life *, which they appreciated immensily. Writing was only amusement then. On the other hand, my life was freed from entanglements, but I found it rather hollow and wanted to love and be loved. In my trip to Dalat in October 1963 to search for holy water on Lang Bian Highland, I met Lê thị Kim Dung in the same party. I loved her at first sight as she looked like my mother. The trip in search of holy water ** was a long prose poem recording this
event .
----
* Nửa đường đi xuống/ Thế Phong, Saigon 1963, 1969.
** Chàng ơi đừng quên em / Cho thuê bản thân / Thế Phong, Saigon 1963.
(TR)
I later though I could avoid her, but I saw her again at the corner of Lê văn Duyệt and Hồng thập tự Sts. one morning and I let her know I was not a soldier as I told her before. I dispateched my nephew to bring The Phong,
A Selection from his Writings * to her residence. Only then I realised she was the daughter of a colonel- judge .
I dedicated to her the first pages of Uplipting Poems **I still receive her letters from a bleak part of the world *** inquiring about my life and work as a writer. Dear readers, don' t think I wrote poetry to win a girl' s affections. My poetry is imply the history of my life.
----
* Tuyển truyện Thế Phong, Saigon 1961.
** Thơ làm lớn dậy con người/ Thế Phong. (TR)
*** Canada
I admitted all my wrongdoings and tried to mend my ways. I wrote Reaaaraisal f writer Nguyễn đức Quỳnh * as a reminder and warning to youth about the gruesome consequence of bad faith, but I never meant him any harm.
----
* Nhận diện vóc dáng Nguyễn đức Quỳnh/ Thế Phong, Saigon 1962, 1964.(TR)
In this period I worked from7 a.m till noon. After lunch I continued untill dusk, and after dinner, to midnight. I sometimes thought of giving up, being too tired, but I always insisted in complaining the work. After the work was finished, I began to worry naf wondered what could become of me if there was nothing more for me to do. So I carried out project after project.
In difficult times we can distinguish good friends from bad ones. This is particularly true of artists and writers. Flight lieutenant Nguyễn cao Nguyên bought our books but he never came to pay, requiring I would come to him personally. I found out he was afraid as our books had not been censored. Poet Bùi khải Nguyên refused to buy our books and even failed to come to the Post Office to mail me $ 500 at my request.
One noon Nguyễn mạnh Cường came to see me on a Solex. After I brought him to the rubber forest near my house for reasons of security he invited me to join The Commitee for the Defence of Human Rights, headed by Lawyer Triệu bá Thiệp. I refused on the ground that I disbelieved his comrades and held that they were also good at exploiting others when they rose to power and far as I was concerned I only fought for a true revolution. Nguyễn mạnh Cường left me, looking very sad. I later heard that he had been detained.
Another noon, poet Bùi khải Nguyên returned and urged me to join in the full-fleged protest against the government' s repressive measures. As for me, I condemned him as a coward through his attitude to my publishing house and I had no idea about The Buddhist affair to offer *. He then said I was a hedgehog but I did not feel the need to defend myself. Nobody could incite me now, only sincerity moved me. Every time a book was mimeographed we had to find out the safest way to deliver copies to readers and to mail them to those living outside the capital. I thought the security measures were not so tight as I read Dr Nguyễn- trần Huân resident in Paris acknowledging the receipt of books. A distinguished scholar and translator, he was the senior lecturer at Sorbonne Univeristy. After the mimeographed translation of The Whip reached him, he wrote to me that he knew Dr Métianu to whom the book was dedicated. I regret not having asked him about the author's impressions on being translated, and about Dr Métianu on my Vietnamese spelling of his name. I felt a deep compassion for the Rumanian people who suffered like my people. I was ready to be jailed after a book was released. Every time I went to the Censorship Office, Phạm quang Huyến' s son, Cừ, accompanied me so that he might report a likely kidnapping to the family as the authorities often refused to let civilians know of arrest. Nobody was aware of my secret intention except Nguyễn cao Đàm, internationally known artist photographer and Ministry of Information official. As the Ministry did not approved of our publication. Well, he simply wanted to get his pay regularly nad I was never chagrined. I was not afraid of sorrows, worries nad even betrayals. This had place in my acerbic opinions expressed in my poems. 'Life would be dull if there was no evil whatever about it', O once wrote. I used to sleep with a prostitute following a sad incident. Every time I had venereal disease I felt much pity for prostitutes who never compalined about diseases.
----
* The author had serious misgivings of the so-called Buddhist revolt in 1963 . (TR)
Nowhere else in the world could you have a good fuck with fifty piasters *. A well-known poet agree with this. The good nad the bad exist together eveywhere in the world, and happiness must be paired with sorrow. The matter-of-fact acceptance of the human condition enable us to live with lighter hearts.
----
* US 0,50 ( Translator's note)
In my stay in Dalat at Christmas time 1964, a young student from the Saigon faculty of Letters expressed this opinion about me after living with me for two weeks :
'... When I came back in saigon I will tell Professor Lê thành Trị that I did learn much logic from you ...'
These words deeply moved us. I intended to tell my young friend more about my past experiences, but he had to return to Saigon sooner than as scheduled.
When I was twenty I told my beloved all my fantasies. At thirty I was reticent and could not win the hearts of women. Life had been unfair to me and literature failed to make wounds more bearable. During the last twelve months I had not written one word. After a hugely successful career, William Faulner admitted in his last days that to pursue literature was not so interesting as to go hunting. I am still not old but I feel tired after more than ten years of writing. I now like stories like the following better than serious pieces of writing. The story runs like this; A former dancing girl named HUỲNH THỊ THU THỦY got the permission from her husband to go with me to Dalat as only a atmosphere there could bring her to life again. The days who planned to return to Saigon she got up very early . Perhaps whe was the first riser in all Dalat Hotel. Four o' clock . It was rather cold. We slept in the same room, on two beds. The bellboy knocked the door before entering, which he never did when I was alone. I recalled the first day in the hotel , Thu Thủy met Kim Cji, another dancing girl in the corridor. Looking at me, she said, 'Where is your husband ?' Thu Thủy shook her head and introduced me as her
husband' s friend. We also met poet Tuệ Giác who exclaimed, 'How nice she
is !' and wrinkled his eyes. I replied, ' We are just friends.' Then I told him to ask Thu Thủy for confirmation. He did and Thu Thủy smiled radiantly and the cold atmosphere suddenly warmed up. After getting up, she awoke me did her make up. I looked at the window. In the mist lighted lamps moved. I rubbed my eyes and found out the moving lamps were those cars flitting past.
Thu Thủy pushed me back when I descended the slope too fast. We played like a newly wed couple in the honeymoon. Her old friends applauded her when we entered Maxim's Night Club. I told her she had rendered me famous and she praised me for my elegant manners, from the way of holding conversation to manipulating the coffee spoon. I asked whether or not she had stopped being afraid of me. In our first night at the hotel I told her I would sleep elsewhere and be back in the morning, but I later found it unnecessary as I could submit to restraint, Thu Thủy later said, laughing,
' What do you think my reactions whoud have been had you touched me when I got out of the bathroom?'. We joined hands and went plucking flowers.
I told her that I also liked the red and the black as she, and we would have been bitter rivals and she been a man. We spent magical days and nights together. I still remember her last words to me in Dalat, ' In our society woman does not have the right to choose her husbands. You have that right. When you have a wife I hope you' ll know how too treat her and she' ll be certaintly most happy .'
Thank you, Thu Thủy. Thank you again.
We were back in Saigon. One night I brought Thu Thủy to a fortune-teller in Calmette St. Then we went to a coffee shop where a group of teddy boys harassed us. Thu Thủy calmed me, ' Please don' t bother. Only a woman knows how to deal with them properly'. Seeing her sweeping I said, ' I really on't want to cause trouble. Do you think it's guilty to go out with a friend' s wife'.
Journalist Nguyễn thu Minh, and his wife, Phương Duyên also knew our story in spite of your discretion. I was forced to say to her husband Nguyễn mạnh Cường, ' When I love your wife with all the fire of my soul, I' ll hand you a revolver and in case you refrain from killing me, you' ll lose her '. I did not believe he was convinced but I felt assured nothing had change since our night in Dalat Hotel. I hoped to write a novel on THU THỦY, the woman whoo appreciated Uplifting Poems and the novel The Adulteress. The novel delighted her during a whole night and caused lots of laughter. Once she showed me her favorite stanza of poetry, looking in the faces of her cute son and me :
'I want to follow my love
Who has never pressed about marriage
As far as Dalat to pass the night together
We will be warm, we will be cold
And forget all, all, all ...'
Oh my HUỲNH THỊ THU THỦY, My wishes were so simple you could not believe them :
' This century
rugged land exceeds fertile part
I grew up in difficult times;
I refuse to hear soothing words.
Life is stripped of liberty;
Every line of poetry should be a bullet
To bring down walls of calumny and hypcorisy
Look!
We grow Europe-imported grass in public gardens
I feel estranged in my country
and turn a foreign visitor
Let me be like a heroic mockingbird flitting in the setting sun
Let me evade the world I never made
even in the brief moment
When I cast a glance at the desolate expanse ...'
As we like pine forest, cold evening sunshine, I' ll never forget one rainy afternoon Thu Thủy was alone on the misty hill when a soldier of my age rushed to console her as he thought she was about to commit suicide. On seeing me he said he had been rather shocked. Thu Thủy lost a sun glasses and I a pair it Hitkok wrisbands . She later told me these shoud be considered as love-tokens to the darling city. I still see on my mind' s eye the light flickering on the tree tops on misty nights there. But she is gone now !
The enthralling atmosphere of the moss-covered hotel Au Sans Souci in the pine forest haunts me. On gloden afernoon I sat looking out in front of a piece of paper whcih had remained blank for a fortnight. I was forced to come back to Saigon. I have always liked this poem, sincere as genuine and lasting friendship which is the same yesterday and today and forever.
Like Nicolas Gogol, I hope my people and I will be happier than today. I plan to get married as soon as I come back, and my wife will be as happy as Thu Thủy predicted. My wife and I will come to say thank you to her. We' ll await her at door. We' ll have no guets but her :
'... I choose Autumn, pine forest and sad sunshine;
I give up writing poetry
and do not torture myself anymore
Do me a favour, my solemn- faced and wise wife
Say to me,
' Burn a fire ! Hang the mosquito-net'
I am now the voluntary slave who is fully contended !
Tomorrow morning
we' ll wake up early
set out to grow vegetables.
Outside the hedge
near the farm gate
TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
All languages of the world.
SAIGON SOUTH VIETNAM
FEBRUARY, 1965
thephong
*****************************
DAI NAM VAN HIEN BOOKS
PO BOX 1123
SAIGON, SOUTH VIETNAM
FIRST PUBLISHED
BY DAI NAM VAN HIEN BOOKS, 1966
SECOND EDITION, 1968
THIS EDITION, FEBRUARY, 1972
COPYRIGHT BY THÊ PHONG, 1966, 1988, 1972
MIMEOGRAPHED IN SAIGON, SOUTH VIETNAM
THIS EDITION, MARCH, 2014
IN HOCHIMINH CITY
****************************
được đăng bởi khedo@outlook.com @ 15:17
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