Subject
Memoirs that you particularly admire ...Da Chen & Speak, Memory
From
Date
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NABOKV-L thanks Sandy Klein for this string of VN items.
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Memoirs that you particularly admire ...
Date: Sun, 31 Mar 2002 17:42:41 -0500
From: "Sandy P. Klein" <spklein52@hotmail.com>
To:
CC:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/books/chi-0203290369mar31.story
[chicagotribune.com] Composing in the music of English
Chinese immigrant Da Chen uses the `most romantic language' to tell his
life story Elizabeth Taylor, Tribune literary editor
Published March 31, 2002
Writer Da Chen was born in China in 1962, referred to by some as the
Year of Great Starvation, to a family that was part of the despised
landlord class. With eloquence and humor, Chen recalled his childhood of
poverty and pain in his critically acclaimed 2000 memoir, "Colors of the
Mountain." The book closes as Chen heads to Beijing for college. In the
second installment of his life story, "Sounds of the River" (see
accompanying review), Chen tells of that time and of his determination
to reach America. He arrived with $30 and a bamboo flute in Lincoln,
Neb., before heading to New York, Columbia Law School and, eventually,
Wall Street. Returning to the Midwest recently, he spoke with Tribune
literary editor Elizabeth Taylor about his journeys:
Q. How did you start writing?
A. First of all, I write in English. At the very beginning of my writing
career I looked at my legal pad and just stared at the first few words I
wrote. I think I got stuck with the word "the" for a long time. Then I
usually locked myself into this one little spare bedroom at night. In
that nightly solitude I was visited and joined by laughter and cheers,
and of course, tears of the past. That was when the memories began to
come, and I think that really propelled me into this cause of writing.
I think my first book really taught me how to write, and that was a book
that . . . just leapt out of me. It gave me the chronological structure
and the colors, the density, richness, all the cast of people that I
adore. It seems that these two books, as I reflect now over the course
of writing them, I just really begin to realize there's only one word
that really captures the spirit of writing both of them, which is the
word "love." And I think these works are really for those who love me
and for those who I love. And in doing so I want to remember them.
The thing about having poverty and humiliation in your childhood, as you
recall the stories I told in "Colors of the Mountain," is that you have
a lot of bad memories, but through writing this I realized that good
people who helped me during that time now look extraordinarily good.
They became giants in my head.
Q. So writing about the pain of your childhood eased the pain?
A. Not only that, it gives you joy. And now I begin to understand why
["Angela's Ashes" author] Frank McCourt thanks his father for poverty;
not just that he was writing about poverty and became well-known and all
that, but because that writing gives you a sort of a joy and almost a
privilege that nobody would ever have. I think that was the point.
Q. How do you write so vividly in English about China?
A. I just see this unique opportunity to be able to combine both
literary traditions within me, if I may say so. I grew up in these two
cultures. It usually takes a second generation to make that happen, but
I feel so blessed that I'm able to stand on the verge of both cultures
and try to take the best from them, to tell the tales from that distant,
that faraway land.
People tell me, "You know, Da, I really really love what you write about
China. You have a China that is political, and you have an inner China
that you love, that we share the love with you. That you bring us to
really see the China that is not quite seen through some other
writings." There are people who write about China and they hate it.
Q. You describe China as a colorful place, so how did it feel to be on
Wall Street?
A. Still a country man, a country boy. I tell you, my first day on Wall
Street, at Rothchild's Inc., . . . I bought a pair of nice leather
shoes. And it rained on me. So the first thing I did was I took off my
shoes and I hid them under my jacket because I really don't want the
rain to rain on my shoes, on my new shoes. That was my first day on Wall
Street.
Wall Street was a strange place, very. [E]verybody dressed so
beautifully and so wonderfully, but it's a strange world for me. You
know, the distance, the journey I have taken from the muddy field in
Yellow Stone and then to arrive in the hallways in Wall Street, in a
hallway that was basically a field with all those Rothchild brothers
staring at you, is strange. It's like: "Mmm. What are you doing here?
Aren't you supposed to be doing some plowing somewhere?" So it was a
journey.
Q. You did take a detour through the Midwest, stopping in Lincoln, Neb.
A. That was my first stop [in America]. . . . I instantly connected with
the land, that prairie. It just opens you right up. The sweet air. I was
so glad when I arrived that the airport was not like Denver, you know
sprawling and with so many planes, but it was just like a bus station.
And that, to me, looked like a destiny, like a destination. There's
something final about it, the smallness. You know it's a very little,
small station. And you say, "Honey, this is home." When you are in the
middle of New York, you say: "This is not home. This is something still
happening."
And I remember my first trip to a Supersavers in Lincoln, a big
superstore, looking at the food and wondering why they have to have so
many types of beef. And instantly I realized I had arrived in a food
heaven. There were so many foods--watermelons, fruits, all kinds of
them, begging for you to have them. When someone took me--realize I was
still quite skinny then--to a Kentucky Fried Chicken for a treat, they
bought me a bucket of drumsticks. I, of course, gobbled them up. The
first question I asked was, "How many legs do American chickens have?"
because in China, legs are very precious; all those chicken drumsticks
are very precious, and here I have a bucket of legs.
I saw the miracle of college girls, my classmates, in Lincoln wearing
matching earrings with matching scarves, all the way to the socks. And
those are just melodies. You know, I'd be happy in China to have a shirt
on my back, but here there's this music that flows through, that
something makes sense, nicely tossed together, but it's there. And boys
wearing matching ties with their socks and everything, sometimes
boyfriends and girlfriends. You know, little miracles that we don't
notice so much, like that road that connects all the way from the
network of highways all the way to that dot of a farmhouse in the middle
of Nebraska where an old farmer lives and they have a refrigerator, big
TVs. Those are miracles. And you could really live a very secluded life
but be connected with the world.
Q. As an artist, how does your calligraphy and flute music fit together
with your writing?
A. I'm known for playing a soulful mountain song on my bamboo flute, a
Chinese melody that I [learned] through my father, who taught me.
I talk about learning how to play flute in "Colors of the Mountain." The
music that took me away from the misery, bounced off the river and
hitting--eventually echoing against--the mountain. It brings me back to
where I was.
I just really enjoy sharing this message of love, of unconditional
family affection, that beauty of China. In my [book tour] talk, I speak
again and again about the soul, about redemption, about fate and the
significance of being a son and being a father.
Q. There's a line that you're told, "Don't forget where you come from
little brother." And as I hear you talk I wonder, how could you ever
forget where you come from?
A. It's not so much that I will forget it, it's just that each time you
remind yourself it gives you that strength and lifts you up. Once I
remember where I am from, I start from zero again. I'm back home in that
little village. Once I'm there, I feel empowered because I feel like I'm
again facing this monumental challenge. . . . Remembering where I come
from gets me to revisit all those dreams, and that's the powerful part.
Q. Was it difficult to learn how to write?
A. I cherish that opportunity because I studied English, first of all,
as a form of signs. You know, "I--am--Da--Chen--from--the--province--of
. . ."--that sort of thing. The English language, to me, is just sort of
calling. It's very much like in an opera. I'm learning how to sing an
opera, and it gives me great satisfaction when I can pronounce certain
words right. It sets me free.
It sounds like such a cliche, but I think it's the most musical and most
romantic language. Of course, it's the language that I fell in love with
my wife with and that I wrote many love letters to her with too.
I would not have become a writer had I not written in English, because I
was just really composing these sad, sad but happy memories with this
musical language called English. I think English itself, the language,
is very generous, as well. I mean, I enjoy reading people like Arundhati
Roy, the Indian writer, and I enjoy reading Frank and Malachy McCourt.
And I enjoy reading South African writers who write in English. I enjoy
reading British English. And everybody can contribute to it. It's very
much like an ocean that is the power. People just become sources adding
to it.
Q. Are there any memoirs that you particularly admire?
A. "Speak, Memory," by Nabokov, I admire greatly. I admire Jack London.
I relate to him because he always uses phrases like, "I labor for 18
hours." That country boy, that boy who knows nothing but labor, I think
there are times I feel like that too. I relate to him. And I love James
Michener, his exuberance. Nothing is too little for him to be happy
about. It gives me hope just to read his books. . . .
These are the kinds of things that inspire you to write.
Copyright © 2002, Chicago Tribune
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Memoirs that you particularly admire ...
Date: Sun, 31 Mar 2002 17:42:41 -0500
From: "Sandy P. Klein" <spklein52@hotmail.com>
To:
CC:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/books/chi-0203290369mar31.story
[chicagotribune.com] Composing in the music of English
Chinese immigrant Da Chen uses the `most romantic language' to tell his
life story Elizabeth Taylor, Tribune literary editor
Published March 31, 2002
Writer Da Chen was born in China in 1962, referred to by some as the
Year of Great Starvation, to a family that was part of the despised
landlord class. With eloquence and humor, Chen recalled his childhood of
poverty and pain in his critically acclaimed 2000 memoir, "Colors of the
Mountain." The book closes as Chen heads to Beijing for college. In the
second installment of his life story, "Sounds of the River" (see
accompanying review), Chen tells of that time and of his determination
to reach America. He arrived with $30 and a bamboo flute in Lincoln,
Neb., before heading to New York, Columbia Law School and, eventually,
Wall Street. Returning to the Midwest recently, he spoke with Tribune
literary editor Elizabeth Taylor about his journeys:
Q. How did you start writing?
A. First of all, I write in English. At the very beginning of my writing
career I looked at my legal pad and just stared at the first few words I
wrote. I think I got stuck with the word "the" for a long time. Then I
usually locked myself into this one little spare bedroom at night. In
that nightly solitude I was visited and joined by laughter and cheers,
and of course, tears of the past. That was when the memories began to
come, and I think that really propelled me into this cause of writing.
I think my first book really taught me how to write, and that was a book
that . . . just leapt out of me. It gave me the chronological structure
and the colors, the density, richness, all the cast of people that I
adore. It seems that these two books, as I reflect now over the course
of writing them, I just really begin to realize there's only one word
that really captures the spirit of writing both of them, which is the
word "love." And I think these works are really for those who love me
and for those who I love. And in doing so I want to remember them.
The thing about having poverty and humiliation in your childhood, as you
recall the stories I told in "Colors of the Mountain," is that you have
a lot of bad memories, but through writing this I realized that good
people who helped me during that time now look extraordinarily good.
They became giants in my head.
Q. So writing about the pain of your childhood eased the pain?
A. Not only that, it gives you joy. And now I begin to understand why
["Angela's Ashes" author] Frank McCourt thanks his father for poverty;
not just that he was writing about poverty and became well-known and all
that, but because that writing gives you a sort of a joy and almost a
privilege that nobody would ever have. I think that was the point.
Q. How do you write so vividly in English about China?
A. I just see this unique opportunity to be able to combine both
literary traditions within me, if I may say so. I grew up in these two
cultures. It usually takes a second generation to make that happen, but
I feel so blessed that I'm able to stand on the verge of both cultures
and try to take the best from them, to tell the tales from that distant,
that faraway land.
People tell me, "You know, Da, I really really love what you write about
China. You have a China that is political, and you have an inner China
that you love, that we share the love with you. That you bring us to
really see the China that is not quite seen through some other
writings." There are people who write about China and they hate it.
Q. You describe China as a colorful place, so how did it feel to be on
Wall Street?
A. Still a country man, a country boy. I tell you, my first day on Wall
Street, at Rothchild's Inc., . . . I bought a pair of nice leather
shoes. And it rained on me. So the first thing I did was I took off my
shoes and I hid them under my jacket because I really don't want the
rain to rain on my shoes, on my new shoes. That was my first day on Wall
Street.
Wall Street was a strange place, very. [E]verybody dressed so
beautifully and so wonderfully, but it's a strange world for me. You
know, the distance, the journey I have taken from the muddy field in
Yellow Stone and then to arrive in the hallways in Wall Street, in a
hallway that was basically a field with all those Rothchild brothers
staring at you, is strange. It's like: "Mmm. What are you doing here?
Aren't you supposed to be doing some plowing somewhere?" So it was a
journey.
Q. You did take a detour through the Midwest, stopping in Lincoln, Neb.
A. That was my first stop [in America]. . . . I instantly connected with
the land, that prairie. It just opens you right up. The sweet air. I was
so glad when I arrived that the airport was not like Denver, you know
sprawling and with so many planes, but it was just like a bus station.
And that, to me, looked like a destiny, like a destination. There's
something final about it, the smallness. You know it's a very little,
small station. And you say, "Honey, this is home." When you are in the
middle of New York, you say: "This is not home. This is something still
happening."
And I remember my first trip to a Supersavers in Lincoln, a big
superstore, looking at the food and wondering why they have to have so
many types of beef. And instantly I realized I had arrived in a food
heaven. There were so many foods--watermelons, fruits, all kinds of
them, begging for you to have them. When someone took me--realize I was
still quite skinny then--to a Kentucky Fried Chicken for a treat, they
bought me a bucket of drumsticks. I, of course, gobbled them up. The
first question I asked was, "How many legs do American chickens have?"
because in China, legs are very precious; all those chicken drumsticks
are very precious, and here I have a bucket of legs.
I saw the miracle of college girls, my classmates, in Lincoln wearing
matching earrings with matching scarves, all the way to the socks. And
those are just melodies. You know, I'd be happy in China to have a shirt
on my back, but here there's this music that flows through, that
something makes sense, nicely tossed together, but it's there. And boys
wearing matching ties with their socks and everything, sometimes
boyfriends and girlfriends. You know, little miracles that we don't
notice so much, like that road that connects all the way from the
network of highways all the way to that dot of a farmhouse in the middle
of Nebraska where an old farmer lives and they have a refrigerator, big
TVs. Those are miracles. And you could really live a very secluded life
but be connected with the world.
Q. As an artist, how does your calligraphy and flute music fit together
with your writing?
A. I'm known for playing a soulful mountain song on my bamboo flute, a
Chinese melody that I [learned] through my father, who taught me.
I talk about learning how to play flute in "Colors of the Mountain." The
music that took me away from the misery, bounced off the river and
hitting--eventually echoing against--the mountain. It brings me back to
where I was.
I just really enjoy sharing this message of love, of unconditional
family affection, that beauty of China. In my [book tour] talk, I speak
again and again about the soul, about redemption, about fate and the
significance of being a son and being a father.
Q. There's a line that you're told, "Don't forget where you come from
little brother." And as I hear you talk I wonder, how could you ever
forget where you come from?
A. It's not so much that I will forget it, it's just that each time you
remind yourself it gives you that strength and lifts you up. Once I
remember where I am from, I start from zero again. I'm back home in that
little village. Once I'm there, I feel empowered because I feel like I'm
again facing this monumental challenge. . . . Remembering where I come
from gets me to revisit all those dreams, and that's the powerful part.
Q. Was it difficult to learn how to write?
A. I cherish that opportunity because I studied English, first of all,
as a form of signs. You know, "I--am--Da--Chen--from--the--province--of
. . ."--that sort of thing. The English language, to me, is just sort of
calling. It's very much like in an opera. I'm learning how to sing an
opera, and it gives me great satisfaction when I can pronounce certain
words right. It sets me free.
It sounds like such a cliche, but I think it's the most musical and most
romantic language. Of course, it's the language that I fell in love with
my wife with and that I wrote many love letters to her with too.
I would not have become a writer had I not written in English, because I
was just really composing these sad, sad but happy memories with this
musical language called English. I think English itself, the language,
is very generous, as well. I mean, I enjoy reading people like Arundhati
Roy, the Indian writer, and I enjoy reading Frank and Malachy McCourt.
And I enjoy reading South African writers who write in English. I enjoy
reading British English. And everybody can contribute to it. It's very
much like an ocean that is the power. People just become sources adding
to it.
Q. Are there any memoirs that you particularly admire?
A. "Speak, Memory," by Nabokov, I admire greatly. I admire Jack London.
I relate to him because he always uses phrases like, "I labor for 18
hours." That country boy, that boy who knows nothing but labor, I think
there are times I feel like that too. I relate to him. And I love James
Michener, his exuberance. Nothing is too little for him to be happy
about. It gives me hope just to read his books. . . .
These are the kinds of things that inspire you to write.
Copyright © 2002, Chicago Tribune
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com.
