by You Jin
When I read that letter, I was suddenly filled with sorrow, clearly remembering what my grandmother had once said to me: life is finite, but learning is limitless. Because she wanted to read extensively, she would not waste time rereading any book. But now, why was she spending her time rereading the old classic Dream of the Red Mansions? Was it perhaps because she knew death was near, and so she wanted to read this beloved book one more time?
I looked at the stationery pad next to her desk and saw among a stack of letter paper two envelopes with my name and address written neatly on them. There was nothing in the envelopes. When I looked more closely, I found inside the envelopes a thick stack of “invisible letters”, thickly dotted with “invisible words”.
I looked at these letters, these words, and I understood them all. I turned to face the picture of my grandmother and said, “Grandmother, I won’t disappoint you. Now I have fulfilled your academic dream. Next, I’ll realise your dream of becoming an author. I’ll do it. I will. Please don’t worry.”
On our way back to Singapore, my mother hugged the blue urns throughout the long car journey. The next morning, we chartered a boat to take us out to sea. The sky was very blue, like a vast, placid lake, quiet and sapphire-like. The clouds overhead, each one white and fluffy, seemed to smile down on us.
I looked up, gazing overhead, and my eyes suddenly grew moist. It was my grandmother in her qipao, watching over us!
We quietly poured my grandmother’s ashes into the sapphire sea. As they scattered into the waves, our little boat floated over the endless swells, as if we were being rocked in our grandmother’s warm embrace.
Handwritten Dissertation
When my graduation ceremony was over, I stayed on at Nanyang University to do my honours year. According to the university’s requirements at the time, the top ten per cent of students in the class could continue on for their honours year, which required each of us to write a dissertation. After careful consideration, I decided to pursue research on The Book of Songs.
The Book of Songs is China’s oldest, richest work of literature. It is a collection of eulogies, folk songs and works written by scholar officials from 3500–2500 BCE. It offers deep insight into the politics, economy, society, rites, customs and lifestyles of the times, along with the thinking and emotional life of its people. Its rich language and social history, not to mention its literary value, have shone upon Chinese poetry circles for thousands of years, securing us a significant resource for later generations. Any research into Chinese poetry must begin with a study of The Book of Songs.
The supervisor for my thesis was the renowned Yeo Song Nian. I planned to focus on the section of The Book of Songs entitled “Guo Feng” (The Chinese Spirit), trying to get to the heart of The Book of Songs. When I mentioned this to Professor Yeo, he disagreed. After giving it much thought, he explained, “Reading The Book of Songs from this perspective, you can use your own ideas to analyse the thinking within the poems and songs, but if we want to take a scholarly approach, we need to set aside these subjective attitudes and see the work from a more objective perspective, and establish an irrefutable position. Otherwise, when you write your thesis, other people may easily discover an obvious loophole in your subjective ideas.”
After rethinking it, I decided to listen to his advice. I titled my thesis, “The Art of Composition in The Book of Songs: The Chinese Spirit”. The art of composition in The Book of Songs is based on repetition; many of the chapters are written in a layered form, full of musical quality. Duplicated words, refrains, alliteration and assonance are very commonly used. This rhetorical technique has had a huge impact on generations of literature that came after it. Besides this, in the past, many scholars who have studied The Book of Songs have offered exegesis of the text’s words and expression or studied its phonology, but few have examined its composition in any detail. Even though there are some such studies, they are not comprehensive enough. But in fact, composition and structure have a great impact on the writing of poetry and its artistic expression, therefore the subject was definitely worth studying.
Having confirmed my research topic, I plunged anxiously into the research. I was extremely fortunate to be supervised by Professor Yeo. He had a great wealth of learning and was strong in logic. His eyes were like blades. When he dissected a question, he could look beyond what most people could see, drawing a comprehensive picture. When he analysed a problem, he could come up with new things, offering fresh, insightful comments. His great learning opened a window for me, allowing me to understand how to use systematic methods to analyse perceptual literary works. This had a profound effect on my later creative writings.
When I had finally done my research, under Professor Yeo’s guidance, I completed the work of research and analysis, writing an 80,000-word thesis. As I held this thick first draft in my hands, one big problem kept gnawing at me: who was going to transcribe this?
The exam period was drawing near, and I really could not afford the time it would take to rewrite it. All my classmates who came from richer families sent their work off to others to be typed, printed and bound, but at the time, typing Chinese was not easy, and it was very costly to hire someone to do it. My father was paying for both my sister and me to study at the university, and we were still not Singaporean citizens, which meant that our tuition fees were much higher, so I was not willing to add to my father’s financial burden.
Worried about this problem, I moped about, so nervous that my hair stood on end. That night, after my mother had finished her housework, she wiped her hands on her apron and said to me casually, “Give me your thesis. I’ll transcribe it.”
I thanked my lucky stars, and handed her my thesis with both hands. For several weeks, my mother stayed up very late every night, helping me transcribe my thesis. Each night, she would sit down at the table and, in her beautiful handwriting, would carefully capture each stroke. She was so intensely focused, as if she were inscribing the world’s finest work of art. Seeing her at work, I was very touched.
For a long time, I had been like a hedgehog in my mother’s eyes. I had inherited her stubbornness, developing it to a new level of tenacity. I was self-confident, but my confidence was stronger than my inferiority complex. I could not stand criticism or being reprimanded. I would respond to one word of criticism with two defensive words. If I was reprimanded with a few words, I would be stormy-faced for days. The spines on my back were quick to stand up.
My mother had all sorts of work to do each day. From the moment she opened her eyes, she was busy. Naturally, she was sometimes short-tempered and, having a little hedgehog like me to deal with, conflicts erupted all the time. Neither of us gave an inch, and sparks flew everywhere, just waiting to explode.
Once when I had been scolded, I did not speak to my mother for several days. Then one night, while she was cleaning the table, she sighed and said, “I’m your mother. How can a few unpleasant words turn me into your enemy?”
I looked up. In the night’s glare, I could see several strands of white in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes. I was astonished. Since when had my mother become grey and wrinkled? A thousand words of apology formed in my mind and on my lips, but I could not utter a single one.
When I started university and moved away from home to stay at Yunnan Garden, I entered a new life and was busy making new friends. I only went home on the weekends but, even then, it was more like a dragonfly on the water’s surface, just skidding by, then flying on my way again. I sought my happiness in the vast world outside.
Now, my mother sat at the table, seriously copying the thesis for me. I suddenly thought of a not very appropriate, but suitable idiom: A friend in need is a friend indeed. I could not help but laugh.
In June 1973, I was awarded a First Class Honours Degree.
More than ten years later, I learnt how to type in Chinese on a computer. I met Professor Yeo one day, and we talked about computers. He said, “If you had learnt how to type in Chinese when y
ou were still studying in Nanyang University, then your mum wouldn’t have needed to slave over copying your thesis!”
CHAPTER 7
A Match Made in Heaven
A Quiet Vitality
STANDING ON STAMFORD Road in front of the old-style redbrick building, I was filled with a deep, pervading sense of joy. During the days of my youth, when I did not have much money, the National Library, this shrine of books, was like a paradise to me, filled with everything I could ever want. Such rich treasures were housed here, and I was like a treasure hunter. Every time I came and went, I greedily returned to hunt for yet more treasures.
Often, after borrowing books, I would sit in the reading room and let my eyes flow over the streams of text, turning the pages as quickly as I could. If I felt the book suited my tastes, I would happily carry it home and slowly absorb it. If not, I would immediately return it and go in search of another more to my taste. I often passed an entire day in the library this way.
Shortly after donning my graduation cap, I went job hunting and was able to secure a post as a librarian; I was going to be joined to the National Library like blood and flesh. However, the reality was vastly different from my idealistic dreams. The first year I went to work for the library, I was assigned to the children’s section. The work was tedious, including numerous tasks like registering new members, arranging for school groups to visit the library and stamping borrowed books. This monotony left me feeling extremely bored. Every day was just like the one before, creating a stiff, mechanical routine.
The only one of my assigned tasks that I enjoyed was introducing children to the world of stories. A few times a week, staff members would read stories to the children in different languages. When story time arrived, the children formed into a huge circle. Their eyes lit up with curiosity and enthusiasm as I told fairy tales or children’s stories to draw them into the beautiful world of imagination. Their expression told me they were hungry for more, and that was my biggest, most satisfying reward.
Children’s literature is actually a sort of sacred space in the creative world. In Singapore, there are not many people working in this field, and yet there is never a shortage of readers. But there are several things required for the creation of children’s literature. First, the author needs to have an unfading youthfulness. The language he or she employs also needs to be simple but colourful. And finally, the stories have to be lively and interesting, and have a deeper meaning. The first requirement already disqualified me, so I never tried to become a children’s writer. Still, I did learn a great deal from my time working in the children’s section at the library, including the fact that like faces, people’s mentalities vary.
There were parents who saw children’s books as a form of nourishment meant to strengthen their children’s minds. They had self-respect, speaking softly and gently, and treating the books with care as they stood at the shelves. If one was deemed unsuitable, they returned it to its original place. At the check-out counter, they thanked the librarian profusely. The old saying “you reap what you sow” was proved by their children, who were obedient and well mannered. In time, those parents reaped a good harvest.
The real headaches were the parents who treated the books as toys. They chose stacks of hardcover books and just plopped them onto the short tables, then let their two-or three-year-old children play with them as they pleased. When the librarian walked over to intervene, they stared her down and said angrily, “If it’s ripped, of course we’ll pay you. What are you so upset about?” The worst sort were those selfish rogues who treated the books as their private property. As soon as they saw a story or picture they liked, they tore the page out when nobody was looking. Such people are Public Enemy Number One on every librarian’s list.
Some parents treated the library like a free childcare centre, dropping their children off and rushing off to do their own thing, leaving behind the burden of unruly, unattended children. Without anyone to watch them, the children ran about among the bookshelves, playing tag, shouting as they played rowdily. The librarian had no choice but to transform into a fiendish hawk, weaving among the book shelves in her smart clothes, sweating profusely as she chased the chicks. It was a funny scene, but quite infuriating.
Before long, I was assigned to work at the branch library in the heavily populated housing estate of Toa Payoh. There I experienced an unforgettable incident that made me so angry I nearly lost my mind. Early every morning, before the library was open, a large queue would form at the main entrance. As soon as the doors were opened, a crowd would flood through to return, search for, and borrow books, listen to stories, learn handicrafts (like origami) and join other such events. To prevent chaos, we librarians would have to step outside the library in the early morning to maintain order.
One day, as usual, I was standing at the entrance to the library. It was terribly crowded, and there was a winding queue outside, a thin black line tracing the path of a dragonfly as it traversed a great distance. The noise of the crowd was deafening, but everyone still seemed to obey the first come, first served rule. Then, I saw a mother pulling her six- or seven-year-old son behind, trying to sneak to the front of the queue. At the time, I was still very young and inexperienced. Seeing this injustice, I flew to the spot. Face flushed in anger, I said loudly, “You cut queue! Now you’ll have to follow the rules. Go to the back of the queue.”
I never imagined this woman would stare at me ferociously and yell: “Who says I didn’t queue? If you want to accuse me of cutting queue, show me your evidence!”
Had I a little more work experience then, or if I had just looked the other way, perhaps things would not have developed as they did. But I was a fresh graduate, and I did not handle the situation with much tact. In a stony voice, I said, “My eyes are my evidence. Now, please go immediately to the back of the queue. That’s the rule.”
She really gave voice to her complaints then. “What sort of attitude is this? You’re supposed to serve us, but you’re so rude. You should apologise. I’m going to complain to your supervisor, do you hear?”
As she grew more frustrated, she became even more worked up and her language became coarse. I got angry too and really dug my heels in. Finally, the people behind her chimed in, saying “You did cut queue just now. Stop arguing and go to the end of the line.”
Seeing more people get involved and realising she would not get away with it, she shot a venomous glare my way. She yanked her son away and walked to the back of the queue.
By this time, the library had opened. I put the unpleasant situation out of my mind.
It had never occurred to me that I might, in a short while, be summoned by the head librarian, Mr Cheong. With a grave expression, he said, “Just now, a woman named Zhang went to Toa Payoh police station to report you.”
“Report me?” I was startled. “What did I do wrong?”
“She said you wronged and insulted her. She has filed a police report, requesting that they investigate. The police called and asked for a detailed written report from the library.”
Before I could say anything, tears started to fall. I could not tell whether they were tears of anger, hurt or grief. Maybe it was all of them.
I wrote a lengthy report, explaining the situation very clearly. There were so many witnesses, surely it would be easily settled.
It did not work out the way I expected. I finally came to understand the saying, “When a scholar encounters a soldier, he will not be given a chance to explain.”
Once I had worked in the children’s section for about a year, I was transferred back to the redbrick building, working in the Chinese records department. There, I used the Dewey Decimal System to arrange the indexes of books that came in from overseas. The various newly arrived books were like a bunch of unfettered demons. I read each one carefully, and when I had the gist of it, I would look for the appropriate number under which to catalogue, then it could go to the shelves with others of its own kind, where it would await someone who
could appreciate it. Working hard to stamp a cultural birthmark on the books, I found life’s greatest joy within that redbrick building, engulfed in the thick aroma of books. I was like a happy little fish, swimming in my beloved sea of books.
You could say this was the time I got to read the most books. I read passionate literary texts, complex books of theory, thought provoking works of philosophy and everything else imaginable. I read it all, as was my job. Those books that I wanted to read I could read to my heart’s content. Those I did not want to read I had to finish reading too. Sometimes, when I could not finish a book in the office, I would take it home and continue reading.
My life was inextricably bound to the written word once more, but during this time, my relationship with the written word had more tension than at any other point in my life. I still loved the written word, but sometimes work would require me to be holed up with books so dull they made me shiver, or books so shoddy I would feel goosebumps all over. I would feel unhappy as I stared at the text in the book under the bright light. It would begin to seem the words were like little black ants crawling over the page, biting my skin and driving me half-crazy. Reading for sheer joy or for the sake of gaining knowledge was a completely different ballgame from reading for work. I gradually began to understand how Tao Yuanming felt when, disgusted with corruption among officials, he retired from public office, saying he was not willing to bow for five packs of rice.
After another year, I was transferred to the adult section to be in charge of loans. It exposed me to a world where I could observe all sorts of people.