by You Jin
Professor Li Xiao Ding, who taught us Chinese Philology, had a very deep foundation of knowledge. He never wasted a moment in the classroom. As soon as he entered, he would stand in front of the blackboard and explain what he had learned from his research on philology. Those of us who liked philology said each word was a gem. Regrettably, he spoke with a very thick regional accent, and I only understood about 50 or 60 per cent of what he said. When you add on the profundity of the subject matter and how difficult it was to understand, the class was quite tough.
When I was doing my honours year, my classmates and I, about ten of us, stayed in the dorm some distance from the school. One morning when I got up, there was a huge storm. Our first class that day was Chinese Philology. No one felt like going. Some suggested we make an excuse, saying the road was flooded, and skip class together. Agreeing on this idea, we all went back to our rooms and crawled under our warm blankets. When the rain let up, we all took the bus to school together. In the classroom, I saw something I will never forget. Standing in the classroom was a professor, lecturing a single student. As long as there was a student there to listen, he would not cancel class. The student’s name was Peng Shi Zhuo (pen name Yi Ran) and the professor was, of course, Li Xiao Ding. According to Shi Zhuo, he had left the dorm very early that day, and so had not received word that we planned to skip class. Then, when Professor Li entered the classroom and saw there was only one student, he was neither surprised nor angry. He simply carried on as usual, not once losing his cool, and delivered his lecture with his usual seriousness. This event was a silent life lesson for me. From that day on, I did not skip class again. Many years later, when I became a teacher myself, I often thought of the image of Professor Li. He taught me that an educated person is like a person saving starfish by the sea. As the waves come in and wash countless starfish onto the beach, this fellow walks back and forth on the sand, bending over to pick up each one, throwing it back to the sea. Others laugh, saying. “There are thousands of starfish washed ashore. Why do you want to throw that one back? What can you gain from that?” That person patiently answers, “Each one you save is one saved.”
I liked Professor Chen Xian Ze’s Journalism Studies very much. When Professor Chen lectured, it felt like listening to the news. It was precise, clear and rich. In a simple, straightforward fashion, he methodically imparted the knowledge of journalism to his students, and we were always able to quickly absorb much general knowledge. This subject was very practical and interesting. I had always had an interest in journalism, but after taking this course, I was even more certain that this was the direction I would take in the future.
The one who made the greatest impression on me during those years at university was Professor Yeo Song Nian. During my third year, he taught us from the Book of Songs. As soon as class started, we became completely absorbed in his unique way of lecturing. He would go through a detailed, perceptive analysis. He also adopted a rational attitude, painstakingly delving into the deeper meaning of the text. His narrative was vivid and lively, his analysis energetic and profound. Professor Yeo had very high expectations of himself, so before each class, he would do thorough preparation. During the class, he would pore meticulously over every detail. What was most unique about his teaching was his emphasis on imparting concepts. Every topic he touched on got through to the hearts and minds of his audience, as incisive as a blade cutting to the core. Prof Yeo was kind, but everyone knew that as soon as class began, he became very strict and would take no nonsense. As long as one put forth her best efforts, he would devote his full attention to offering pointers or instruction. If a student sought his help after running into some difficulty, he would offer a clear explanation with pinpoint precision. His rigorous research methods and his quest for perfection in everything he did made a very deep impression on me.
Professor Miao Xiu was also noteworthy. His novels became quite popular in Singapore and Malaysia, and all students of the Chinese Studies Department were familiar with his works. In the past, he had been a bank clerk and also an editor for translations and supplemental materials. What was most interesting to his students was that he had been through the English education stream, but he wrote in Chinese. He had never been to university himself, but here he was employed as a lecturer in the Chinese Studies Department at the university, which had never happened before. He taught Introduction to Literary Theory. At his early morning lectures, the lecture hall would be filled with students. As soon as he walked in, a silence so complete you could hear a pin drop fell over the room. He was short and round, with dark skin and a red face. We waited for him anxiously, never imagining that he was even more nervous than we were. He never lifted his eyes from the floor when he spoke, which he did with a heavy Cantonese accent. I remember him saying that we need not be so formal, but more like friends, learning and researching together. He spoke very slowly, and with a slight stutter. Before he even got to the lesson plan for the semester, our first session together was over. He looked at his watch and said, “That’s all for today. We’ll stop here.” He often employed the Cantonese pronunciation for words, turning the Mandarin shijian (meaning “time”) into xigun, and jiang (meaning “to speak”) into gong. The students laughed at these gaffes, but Mr Miao did not know what was so funny. His whole face would turn red, and he seemed rather deflated. He did not speak well, but his lessons were always orderly. He would write the outline of his lecture on the blackboard, then follow it carefully. He spoke extremely slowly, every now and then stopping to ask, “Are we clear? Have I expressed myself clearly?”
He had produced many popular works, such as Under Singapore’s Roof, On the Riverbank, After Regaining Independence and Billows of Flame. Most were about the lives of everyday people who reflected attitudes common in society. They were very realistic, and his style always stayed firmly rooted in reality. Now, listening to him lecture, we felt that the writing really reflected the writer. He was very unobtrusive, never saying anything just to shock people, and never going off on tangents. He used concrete examples to explain abstract literary theories, using simple language to transport us to the profound hall of the “Introduction to Literary Theory”. Everyone agreed that he was an extremely diligent teacher.
Do Not Be a Blind Camel
My life in that paradise garden was routine. I spent every day trekking back and forth between the library and the classroom.
I really liked taking notes. When I was in class, I would eagerly listen to the lecture, noting down everything the teacher said. After class, I would go to the library and try to digest what I had absorbed during the lectures, combine it with my own opinions on the matter, and write a review. When exam time came around, many of my classmates would ask to borrow my notes, and I always lent them freely. I heard that some students took the borrowed notes and photocopied the whole set. Some people thought I was silly, because in university, notes were like wealth in text form, and sharing my notes was like giving away my fortune. For me, I had always thought it more blessed to give than to receive. The ability to help someone was a way of affirming oneself. Seeing someone else benefit was a very beautiful thing.
When the library closed at ten every night, I would carry my stack of heavy books to the long road outside the library and start my slow trek to the dorm, walking in the golden moonlight. When I got back to the brightly lit dorm and had a short rest, I once again became like a little spider, deeply absorbed in the great web of literature.
At this time, my reading followed two tracks. One was works translated from other languages, including Turgenev, Tolstoy, Maupassant, Hemingway, Mishima Yukio and Kawabata Yasunari.
The other track was the May 4th writers. I had started reading Ba Jin, Lu Xun, Bin Xin, Ding Ling, Xiao Hong, Xiao Jun, Lao She, Shen Congwen, Yu Dafu and other famous writers. I had started dabbling in these works since I was in Secondary 4 but, at the time, I had read haphazardly, picking up whatever I came across without any sort of system. Now I had a reading plan. I read a p
erson’s most famous works, followed by his secondary works, then moved on to another writer. In this way, I could be more thorough and engage more deeply, gaining a fuller understanding of the author’s thought and style.
Reading these works opened many windows not only to different places, but to different times. I moved back and forth freely through these windows. Every time I did so, I gained greater knowledge.
Literature has such a rich, colourful face, its world boundless. I was like a little seed planted deeply in its soil, struggling to absorb all the nutrients coming from different directions, poised for the opportunity to break through the soil.
When I finished my first year of university and started my second, I began using You Jin as my pen name when I submitted works to magazines. Many people have been curious about why I chose this pen name. Actually, it comes from my given name, Yew Chin (“Chin” being the same Chinese character as “Jin”, pronounced in dialect). My father has often tried to explain to me the special meaning attached to those two characters, Yew Chin. Yew means “not enough” or “inadequate”, or “undeveloped”, and chin means “me at this present stage.” But together, the two words mean “Though I, as I am now, am in many ways undeveloped, I must continue to work hard, so that I will grow into all that I can be.”
Looking at it another way, Yew Chin has two meanings. The first is that my father wanted to tell me clearly, “Don’t stop learning, because each mountain is higher than the one before.” The other is that he wanted me to bear firmly in mind that complacency leads to loss, and pride comes before the fall. He wanted me to take ”always strive to be the best” as my motto throughout life.
When I selected my pen name, I used my own name, Yew Chin, as a blueprint, modifying its meaning into something broader and wider. “You Jin” means “I have worked hard in the past and, today, I’m still doing just that.” It builds on my father’s wish for me, and also adds an element of my own aspirations.
Later, I am not sure why, readers who wrote me letters, reviewers of my books, reporters who interviewed me, magazines which published my articles and programmes for events at which I spoke often misprinted my name, writing Jin as 金 (gold) instead of 今 (today, now).
These two words being pronounced the same, I suppose it is an easy mistake to make but their meanings are completely different. Every time I see this error, I feel very unhappy. So every time I am given a keepsake with my name misprinted, I return it on the spot. When I receive a letter or greeting card with my name misprinted, I refuse to reply. The most memorable experience of this sort was when I was asked to lecture at a big event. Hanging in the venue was a huge sign announcing “Ms You Jin’s (金) Lecture.” Only half joking, I turned to the organiser and said, “I’m leaving. Goodbye.”
Shocked, he just stared at me with a puzzled expression. I said, “The speaker is not me, so why should I stay?”
Then he realised the error. It was only fifteen minutes before the lecture began. In a panic, he rushed to have the people in charge of the sign write a new one.
I have used other pen names besides You Jin. Some of them included Qian Yezi, Zi Jing and Tang Mei.
Qian Yezi refers to the saying “a thousand leaves complete the tree.” This phrase points to the fact that every leaf endures the elements, but when a thousand of them come together to form a tree, the tree can then display its charm of strong, leafy branches. Later though, someone pointed out to me that this name, when written in Chinese, had too strong a Japanese flavour about it. When I thought about it, I felt the same, so I stopped using that name.
Zi Jing was the name I used when I was writing a certain column for Nanyang Siang Pau. Originally, it pointed to the hope that the words flowing from my pen would be shiny like the amethyst crystal. But later, I felt it was not implicit enough, and was too common, so I discarded this name too.
As for Tang Mei, it was a name I used for a specific time and circumstances. Later, a friend pointed out that it was not a name well suited to a pen name, but sounded more like the name of an artist. This touches on the special circumstance for which I had used the name. At the time, I was the editor in charge of the film section for Nanyang Siang Pau. I had to interview many celebrities from Hong Kong and Taiwan so, in order to fit in with that crowd, I adopted this pen name. When I was no longer doing this job, I threw off the name.
When I was in my third year of university and had already started writing under the name Qian Yezi, I entered the Singapore National Development Council’s University Students’ Short Story Contest, sending in my story “Fluttering”, for which I placed second. This was the first time I had ever entered a contest, but also the last. The reason I did not enter more contests was that I found a better adversary to compete with—myself. On my creative journey, I think my greatest enemy was myself, and there was a firm line between taking pride in my accomplishments and growing stagnant. Joining contests was the sort of stumbling block that might cause me to inadvertently cross that line.
There is a true story that I often like to tell. I use it to push myself as much as to instruct others. Once, I went to Morocco for a holiday. In a remote village, I saw the traditional way the Berber people extracted olive oil. The round millstone was huge and heavy. They put a cloth around the camel’s eyes as it turned the millstone around, temporarily blinding it. It walked round after round, repeating its steps over and over. As it trampled that same ground over and over, it produced fragrant olive oil. The Berber man explained, “When the camel is blinded, it thinks it has walked for a thousand miles, so feels a sense of accomplishment. Being misled like this, it will have a sense of purpose and a strong fighting spirit, and you can keep it working for a very long time. But as soon as you uncover its eyes and it can see that it is still in the same spot after such a long walk, it will not continue for much longer. It will be bored out of its mind.”
For so many years, it endlessly repeated that same short path over and over, believing the lie that the scenery along its journey was new, different, and beautiful every day. The greatest tragedy of all was that its ear had been closed by someone else, so it would never learn the truth.
I often take this as a warning for myself. In the creative world, I don’t want to see my own shadow in the blind camel. In choosing to compete only with myself, I have to compete every day, to make myself better today than I was yesterday, and then to try to be even better tomorrow. My greatest wish for myself is that each day I will be better than the day before.
When I entered university, I started writing more, particularly focusing on university life. At that early age, I had already come to understand clearly that my essays should be very matter-of-fact representations of real life. If what I wrote was nothing but a lot of hot air, it would not be something that would really get into the reader and touch her or him.
During the early stage of my writing, despite my avid love of the written word, I had a clear feeling that the written characters flowed quite slowly from my pen. They did not originate from my heart, my blood or my body. In other words, I was detached from the things I wrote. I was me, and the text was the text. Words were like a tool to me, a means of expressing certain thoughts, and when I used words, I used them to serve me. These written characters had no sparkle, no flair, but simply did their job of expressing their own intrinsic meaning.
During my university days, my works were mainly published in “School Days” in Nanyang Siang Pau, and “Creative Writing” in Nanyang Jiaoyu. Mr Xie Ke was the chief editor for the former, and Yap Koon Chan (pen name Luo Ming) for the latter. Getting to know these two editors had a tremendous impact on my career.
The name Xie Ke is familiar to many students. He is a well known author and editor. He edited several publications including School Days, World of Fiction and New Age, all very popular with literature and art lovers. He was kind to the juniors, occasionally writing us short notes of encouragement. He was also good about keeping in touch with authors.
During my
second year of university, my classmates suddenly, and very excitedly, informed me that Xie Ke was coming to the university to lecture on a literature-related topic. In the routine of university life, news like this was like a breath of fresh air, and we were all very excited. On the night of the lecture, there was not an empty seat in the auditorium; it was absolutely packed. Xie Ke sat on the stage. He was thin, with jet-black hair that glistened in the light. He was not especially loquacious, but he was very genuine. When he spoke, you could tell it came from the heart. He did not put on airs or in any way pretend to be a profound literary critic, and he did not engage in clichés, or commonplace talk of an old scholar. From the dual perspectives of author and editor, he shared creative writing tips with us. It was a very edifying lecture.
When the topic turned to literary news, he transformed into a living encyclopaedia. Whether he spoke about a specific author’s style, a written work, or some interesting bit of information from literary circles, he gave a careful and convincing account, igniting interest in others in the process. It was an astounding demonstration of his amazing memory and great erudition as he waded through all sorts of books.
In his role as an editor, Xie Ke was conscientious and meticulous. He was a groundskeeper in the literary garden for many years. He exhibited unlimited patience and care as he cultivated and nurtured the next generation of writers. In fact, he played an integral role in making me the writer I am today. When I was a student, I grew from my experience with School Days, and from there was able to move on to submitting to New Generation and Fiction World, and my submissions were not in vain. To an aspiring writer, this sort of experience is sunlight for a growing plant. When I occasionally made a careless error, Xie Ke would call me and politely ask, “Is this word an error?” Because of his meticulous approach, the essays that appeared in his publications were always error-free. It is an absolute truth that a careful editor leads to a happy author and a relaxed reader.