A Life in Words

by You Jin

  Saying this, my father handed the paper back to me and added gently, “If you ask me, you should write more about school life, and you should put more of your real feelings into it. Remember, in every work, before you want to touch anyone else’s heart or mind, you have to touch your own.”

  I lowered my head, not saying a word. I had hoped for praise, but had received blunt criticism instead. It was really a blow to my ego.

  Now, many years after my father gave me this advice, I see its influence on my writing, even as my own understanding of it has grown. Generally, I write realistically about things that are quite close to my own life experiences. In instances where I need to write about unfamiliar topics or lifestyles, I make a point to research the matters with which I am not already familiar. For instance, when I wrote a novel about drug use among young people, I spent a long period of time visiting numerous rehab centres to gain a better understanding from the young women and men there, people who had experience I did not and could help me make the world I was creating live and breathe. And when I wrote a novella about koi fish, I spent a good deal of time reading widely about koi and asking friends who had a good body of knowledge about raising koi. Only when I had fleshed out my own understanding of what had before been unfamiliar did I take up my pen to write about it. In other words, I am very cautious and do not rush headlong into writing about unfamiliar lifestyles or topics when I write realist fiction.

  Dropping into the Wine Cellar

  After I started Secondary 3, my parents began giving me pocket money each month. Of course because our family was still not at all wealthy, my allowance was very meagre, only enough for a bowl of noodles at school.

  In order to buy books for pleasure reading, I kept track of every cent. Every night, like a miser, I would count the money I kept in a cardboard box. I would count, calculate, and count again. As soon as I had enough money, I would rush to the bookstore.

  Most of the Chinese bookstores were concentrated around North Bridge Road. Every time I went there, it was like stepping into a treasure house filled with sparkling jewels. Faced with such a vast array of books, in one way, it was like I had stepped into a machine that could transport me into other times and places, allowing me to converse with voices from the Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties. In another way, it was like I had been swept up into distant China and allowed to worship at the altar of the masters who had gone before, becoming completely lost in that world and forgetting my own.

  My emotions bounced up and down like a yo-yo, as I browsed in bookstores during my school days, when I was embarrassingly short of money. Sometimes when I found a good book, I felt as if I went soaring into the clouds, but when I did not have enough money to buy it, I felt empty inside. As soon as I had a little money, I would joyfully fly to Bras Basah Complex, only to discover that the book I coveted had been sold, and my heart would come crashing down. In this way, constantly on an emotional roller coaster, I passed an interesting youth.

  During this time, I made friends with several other bibliophiles at school; sometimes we would go on outings to Bras Basah Complex together. But when they experienced my crazed expression as I browsed the books, they declined future offers to accompany me to the shops.

  Most of the bookstores opened at nine on Sunday mornings. By eight, I would be standing anxiously on the doorstep, waiting for them to open. As soon as I entered the bookish world, I turned into a greedy silkworm, and the books became mulberry leaves. I opened my mouth and nibbled through the pages. If anyone else spoke to me, I did not hear. The books and I were one. I stood from nine in the morning until six in the evening, not eating lunch, or even resting. Once, a friend, feeling exhausted, squatted on the floor and cried for help. I did not lift my eyes from the page for a second, but just told my tired friend, “You go ahead home. I’m not done looking yet.” She stormed out, and from then on, I became a lone ranger in Bras Basah.

  Sometimes I cannot help but think that, in a previous life, I was a little Chinese character imprinted on a page and that’s why, in this life, no matter how crazy I am about the written word, I always feel I have not loved it enough.

  At Bras Basah Complex, I found a wonderful treasure. It jolted me to life, filling me with vitality. It was Tang poetry.

  What first drew me in were the five-character lines. Ah! Where did this beautiful writing come from? It was like a series of beautiful pictures. If there were a person in that picture, he was a lively fellow of some years, his light clothing seeming to brush against you. If there were flowers, those flowers were reaching toward your window, their fragrance wafting in as the breeze.

  Reading Wang Wei’s “Deer Park”, I was struck speechless by the artistic conception, complete with sounds, light, and colours, created by the writer.

  in the deserted mountains, not a soul is seen

  yet I hear the voices of people

  through the forest’s shadows the sun’s rays are spied

  their falling light shining once more on the moss

  The characters were quiet, but the aesthetic beauty expressed by them was so dynamic. It was just 20 words, but if I were to use 2000, I would not have been able to express the same thing. This was the first time in my life that I had really understood what the phrase “the boundless power of language” really meant. All along, without me realising it, language was like a huge net. When it was spread out, it could capture all manner of things floating in the sea.

  On Reading Wang Zhihuan’s “On the Heron Tower”, I discovered the stunning wonder of combining one’s emotion with the scenery:

  day draws to an end on the mountain

  as the Yellow River flows to the sea

  wishing to see its grand, distant destination

  I continue my climb to greater heights

  Though on the surface, it is a brilliant, grandiose scene, the author is expressing his own philosophy of life. He quietly and subtly lets his thoughts seep into the poem, and when the reader chews on it, the essence of those thoughts gradually flows into her, making her thoughts one with the poet’s.

  Reading Yuan Zhen’s “Imperial Residence”, I marvelled at the exultant power of words:

  in the sparse grounds of the ancient palace

  an imperial blossom, solitary and crimson

  a cluster of elderly courtesans sit

  leisurely gossiping of emperors and ancestors

  Using just 20 words, the whole life of an elderly palace maid has been captured. It is a poem, but also a novel. It is a work of literature, and of history. It opens an expansive space for the reader’s thoughts. As I read, the history of the Tang Dynasty, from its peak to its decline, passed before my eyes like a revolving scenic lantern.

  I knew I had no talent for visual art but faced with the images from these poems, I developed an interest in painting. I bought several exercise books and, each time I finished reading a poem, I would copy it into the book, then, based on my understanding of the poem, I drew a picture to accompany it. The drawings were clumsy. If the sprinting horses in Xu Beihong’s paintings had seen my drawings, I am afraid they would have cried out in fright and raced right out of the canvas. But at that time, I was having fun, and I filled one notebook after another. Sometimes I even took the trouble to colour the whole drawing.

  This madness also extended to the reading of poems with four character lines, classical poetry, lyric poetry and regulated verse; I was like an alcoholic, who fell fortuitously into a wine cellar, where there were rows upon rows of good wine, brewed with Tang poetry. I imbibed it with gusto, completely losing track of the world around me.

  I considered Li Bai, Du Fu, Wang Wei, Meng Haoran, Liu Zongyuan, Bai Juyi, Wei Yingwu, Li Shangyin, Du Mu, and other famous Tang Dynasty poets a part of my secret fraternity.

  To put it bluntly, in my avid reading of the literary masterpieces of these ancients, without my even realising it, each poem was actually like a whetting stone. Each one helped me fashion my own writing instrument, perfe
cting it, preparing it to cut to the meaty parts of writing, trimming the flab and leaving behind a lean, spirited text.

  Pleasure Garden

  My mother always harboured hopes that she could have a home that was truly her own, a place she could treat as she pleased, a space to let her own decorating dreams run wild. Though our apartment at Kim Tian Road was quite pretty and comfortable, it was still a shared office and home. This caused a degree of tension at home. We could not raise our voices to call each other and we could not get rowdy while we played, nor could we run about as we pleased. We couldn’t do this, and we couldn’t do that. To use my mother’s words, it was like we were kept in a jail cell with excellent facilities.

  One night, when she had finished the housework, our mother sat at the table reading the newspaper. As she read, she suddenly smiled, then handed the paper to our father, saying, “Read this.”

  The newspaper reported that the government was making a push for “everyone to be a homeowner”. To keep the market reasonable, the government was setting up a subsidy scheme.

  Our mother said earnestly, “Let’s move. If we could have a whole place just to ourselves, that would be perfect.”

  Our father looked at her. From her bright expression, he could see that this was something she really wanted, and it was also a more suitable arrangement than our present house. Before long, we finally found a suitable place we could afford, and so we moved.

  Ah! Moving into our own house—one we owned, a place where we could yell, call, run, jump, and laugh to our hearts’ content— was really a great feeling.

  We lived in a three-room HDB flat—two bedrooms and a living room, along with a kitchen and a toilet. It was small, but it had everything we needed. This new place was on Alexandra Road. Downstairs was a row of shops that included among them a coffee shop, a sundry goods store, a small bookstore, a cooked-foods store, and a fruit stall. There was a secondary and primary school nearby, as well as a wet market, a movie theatre, and a playground, along with many other establishments. It was really quite convenient.

  The whole flat was painted a pleasant beige. Our parents bought two sets of bunk beds for my siblings and me, then installed wall cabinets and desks along and against the walls, utilising every inch. There was no chance of me having my dream bookshelf, so all my books went under the bed in a square cardboard box. Fearing that the covers would get dirty, I carefully wrapped each book in clear plastic. When I wanted to read a book, I would squat beside the bed, pull the box out, tugging with all my might, and slowly choose which one to read. At the time, I did not have enough money to buy many books, so I chose very carefully before buying one. I also went to the trouble of carefully writing out a catalogue of my books and, when I had a lot of free time, I would carefully look over my inventory, like a miser keeping track of my wealth. When counting these books, I was as proud and pleased as any rich person has ever been.

  Some people say Singapore’s HDB flats are like pigeonholes, arranged in such close proximity, crowded together in a small area. We lived on the 12th storey. On our floor, there were a dozen or more flats, all using a common corridor. During the daylight hours, children romped and played noisily in the corridor, but at night, all the families opened their doors to catch the breeze, inadvertently creating the opportunity for gossip among the neighbours. This corridor was a communication link. Joy, sorrow, hopes, disappointments and all manner of little bits of information and news flew up and down the corridor at top speed.

  At the time, our neighbours were an Indian family who loved spicy food. At some point every day, we would hear the pounding of spices, then the thick odours of ghee and spices would start to circle in the air all around us, tickling our noses and throats. At first we were not any more used to the smells then we were to the sounds of the language our neighbours spoke, but gradually we got used to it. I think that mutual understanding and respect were important ingredients in bringing the different races together in a harmonious relationship. Sometimes our Indian neighbours would bring a big pot of curry over to share with us. When we saw the pot with its glistening red surface, it was like seeing the bright friendly smile on our neighbour’s face. Occasionally, when we cooked something special, like glutinous rice, my mother would send me to the neighbour’s home with a pot of our own speciality for them to try. I am sure they likewise saw in the shiny face of the glutinous rice our own friendly intentions.

  HDB life, in contrast to our previous existence in the communal residence and the apartment, was a completely different experience with a style all its own. It was still far from our ideal living environment, but since we had moved to Singapore, this was the first time my mother had a whole place of her own, someplace that she could close the door and keep her family in and the rest of the world out. Even if it was not our dream home, it was still our pleasure garden. From that time on, our father’s work went along smoothly, and our family’s financial situation started to ease a bit.

  The Spread of the Peacock’s Tail

  When I finished Secondary 4 and started junior college, we moved one more time, this time to a four-room HDB flat on Holland Road. We four siblings were now split into two separate rooms: my sister and I in one, and my two brothers in the other.

  After we had moved to the new place, as soon as I went into the house one day after school, I was greeted by the smiling face of my father. He happily announced, “I bought you a birthday present. It’s in your room.”

  It was only then that I remembered that the following day was my birthday. Going into the room, I cried out in surprise. It was a beautiful new desk! The pinewood surface was bright. It was about two feet tall, and had three drawers. I walked around the desk, inspecting it. I looked at it, touched it, just wanting to confirm that it was real. It was like a precious stone, shining brightly there.

  It was just a desk, but it was also a brilliant dream come true. This sort of feeling is hard to describe to another person.

  For so many years, I had used the dining table as a desk. It was always a little oily, and sometimes its odours would seep into my books. No matter what I did, I could not get rid of those smells, which would frustrate me to no end. What really mattered was that this desk was all mine, my own little study. If I had held Aladdin’s lamp in my hands, when the genie asked, “What do you want?”, I am sure the answer would have been, “A desk. I want a desk.” Now, I had this thing I had wanted so desperately. For a brief moment, it made me so happy I could not quite believe it was mine.

  From then on, that desk was my closest companion. Every day after school, the first thing I did when I got home was take a cloth and wipe the surface of the desk clean. Then, I would make myself comfortable, settling in to do my homework and read my extracurricular books.

  I was seventeen that year, and had already shed the playfulness of my childhood. My more rational side had been awakened, and I had become a hardworking student. What was most important was that, as I sat in the classroom listening to lessons, I gained a new interest in learning from what my teachers said and how they presented it. I started to be inquisitive about more things, and all of these various topics started to capture my interest. I began employing the camel’s method of feeding in my quest for knowledge, regurgitating its food and chewing it again. Every day when I went home, I would carefully revise what I had learned that day, reviewing everything the teacher had said. I did not just accept everything, but constantly questioned, searching tirelessly for more profound, wider, and more solid answers. This sort of spirited quest for knowledge drew me deeper into the things I had been studying, leading me to do more extracurricular research.

  They say, you will reap what you sow. This correct attitude of learning and my inquisitive spirit finally allowed my parents to see a ray of hope for me. In my first year of JC, I placed top in my class.

  When I handed that beautiful report card to my father, who had never given up on me, his face brightened. His smile was brilliant. He held my green report book in
his hands, looked at it, then looked at it a little more, unable to bear putting it down. I sat at the table and watched his expression, a mixture of pleasure and disbelief, and tears filled my eyes. Others saw me as a sparrow, but he did not. My father had been waiting, ever so patiently, for the peacock to display its tail feathers; now I had finally done so.

  Ever since, no matter what I did in life, my father’s face brightening like it did has always been a beacon for me. For the sake of seeing that joy on his face, I would really push myself to be master of my own garden, tilling the ground, then tilling it again if I had to, tending the garden until it finally yielded fruit.

  It was in junior college that I learned to burn the midnight oil. During the day, I would go to school and do my homework. At night, when everyone else in the family was already sound asleep, I would stay up and read those literary treasures, tossed about in a sea of text. At the time, the written word was like strings and I was like a puppet attached to them, unable to control whether I would laugh or cry. If the book told me to laugh, I cracked up. If it told me to cry, I wept in torrents. Sometimes, when I came across some really good passages, I hammered my desk in praise. In the light of my lamp, there was just me and my shadow. But the people in those books would parade across the desk, filling the room with their silent shouts. I was drawn in, made a part of their world. My joy and sorrow, all my tortures, were tied up with theirs, as I shared their worries and fears. When I finished a book and had to bid farewell to its characters, I would feel a deep sadness, unable to let go.

  As the night grew darker and the people around me quieter, I would take out my journal and write in it. My mind was a pond, and there were all sorts of fish flipping about inside it. These fish came in all varieties. They were happy, mournful, pleased, sorrowful, dissatisfied and angry. Under the cover of night, I let each one swim forward and released it into my journal. Once each fish had swum out, the pond inside me was again placid, so the next morning, there was an empty space ready to welcome new fish.